Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"What do you think?" she asked Rick, as they went back inside. The evening was cool. She hugged herself, then pulled on a sweater and sat in the rocking chair.

Rick's knees cracked as he knelt at the grate to start the fire. "I think it'll work," he said. "We're bound to get the newspapers interested, maybe even TV. The police might try and discredit us, but people will get the message."

Mara rolled a cigarette. "I'll be glad when it's all over," she said. "The whole business seems to have brought us nothing but trouble."

"Look on the bright side," Rick said, turning to look at her. "It's a blow against the police and their heavy — handed tactics. Even that woman from the Church for Peace group has started calling them pigs."

"Still," Mara said firmly, "it would have been better for all of us if none of it had ever happened."

"Everything's all right now," Zoe said. "Paul's back, we're all together again."

"I know, but…"

Mara couldn't help feeling uneasy. True, Paul's return had cheered them up no end, especially Seth, who had been moping around with a long face the whole time he'd been away. But it wasn't the end. The police weren't going to rest until they'd arrested someone for the murder, and they had their eyes on the farm.

Paul might still end up in jail as an accessory, a serious charge, Mara now realized. She wondered if Banks was going to charge her, too. He wasn't stupid; he must know she had warned Paul about Crocker's finding the knife. Everything felt fragile. There was a chance she might lose it all, all the peace of mind and stability she had sought for so long. And the children, too. That didn't bear thinking about.

"Cheer up." Rick crawled over and tilted her chin up. "We'll have a party to celebrate Paul's release. Invite everyone we can think of and fill the place with music and laughter, eh?"

Mara smiled. "I hope you're right."

"Where is Paul, anyway?" Zoe asked.

"He went walking on the moors," said Mara. "I suppose he's just enjoying his freedom." She almost added "while it lasts," but decided that Rick was right; she at least ought to try to enjoy herself while things were going well.

"Seth didn't want much to do with us this afternoon, either," Rick complained.

"Don't be like that, Rick," Mara said. "He's been getting behind in his work. This business with the police has been bothering him, too. Haven't you noticed how upset he's been? And you know what a perfectionist he is, what he's like about deadlines. Besides, I think he's just relieved Paul's back. He's as fed up with the aftermath of this bloody demonstration as I am."

"We have to try and bring some good out of it," Rick argued, placing the coal on top of the layered newspaper and wood chips. "Don't you see that?"

"Yes, I do. I just think we all need a rest from it, that's all."

"The struggle goes on. There is no rest." Rick lit the fire in several places and stood the piece of plywood in front of the fireplace to make it draw. Behind the board the flames began to roar like a hurricane, and Mara could see red around the edges.

"Be careful," she said. "You know how wildly it burns with the wind up here."

"Seriously," Rick said, keeping an eye on the plywood shield, "we can't stop now. I can understand your lack of enthusiasm, but you'll just have to shake yourself. Seth and Paul, too. You don't get anywhere against the oppressors by packing it in because you're fed up."

"I sometimes wonder if you ever get anywhere," Mara muttered.

She was aware that now she had found her home, Maggie's Farm, she was less concerned about the woes of the world. Not that she didn't care — she would be quite happy to write letters for Amnesty International and sign petitions — but she didn't want to make it her whole life, attending rallies, meetings and demonstrations. Compared to the farm, the children and her pottery, it all seemed so distant and pointless. People were going to go on being as cruel to one another as they always had been. But here was a place where she could make room for love. Why should it be contaminated by the sordid world of politics and violence?

"Penny for them?"

"What? Oh, sorry, Zoe. Just dreaming."

"It's okay to dream."

"As long as you don't expect them to come true without hard work," Rick added.

"Oh, shut up!" Mara said. "Just give it a rest, can't you, Rick? Let's pretend everything's all right for a few hours at least."

Rick's jaw dropped. "Isn't that what I said at first?" Then he shook his head and muttered something about women. Mara couldn't be bothered to take him to task for it.

Just then, the kitchen door flew open and Paul stood there, white and trembling.

Mara jumped to her feet. "Paul! What is it? What's wrong?"

At first he couldn't speak. He just leaned against the door jamb and tried to force the words out. Rick was beside him by then, and Zoe had reached for his hand.

"What is it, Paul?" she asked him softly. "Take a deep breath. You must try to tell us."

Paul followed her advice and went to slump down on the cushions. "It's Seth," he said finally, pointing towards the back garden. "I think he's dead."

Banks and Burgess rushed through the dark garden to Seth's workshop, where a bare bulb shone inside the half-open door. Normally, they would have been more careful on their approach to the scene, but the weather was dry and a stone path led between the vegetable beds to the shed, so there was no likelihood of footprints.

Burgess pushed the door open slowly and they walked in. Mixed with the scents of shaved wood and varnish was the sickly metallic smell of blood. Both men had come across it often enough before to recognize it immediately.

At first, they stood in the doorway to take in the whole scene. Seth was just in front of them, wearing his sand-coloured smock, slumped over his work-bench. His head lay on the surface in a small pool of blood, and his arms dangled at his side. From where Banks was standing, it looked as if he had hit his head on the vice clamped to the bench slightly to his left. On the concrete floor over in the right-hand corner stood a small bureau in the Queen Anne style, its finish still wet, a rich, glistening nut-brown. At the far end of the workshop, another bare light bulb shone over the area Seth used for office work.

It was only when Banks moved forward a pace that he noticed he had stepped in something sticky and slippery. The light wasn't very strong and most of the floor space around

Seth was in semi-darkness. Kneeling, Banks saw that what he had first taken for shadow was, in fact, more blood. Seth's feet stood at the centre of a large puddle of blood. It hadn't come from the head wound, though, Banks realized, examining the bench again. There hadn't been much bleeding and none of the blood seemed to have dribbled off the edge. Bending again, he caught sight of a thin tubular object, a pen or a pencil, perhaps, half-submerged in the pool. He decided to leave it for the forensic team to deal with. They were on their way from Wetherby and should arrive shortly after Dr Glendenning and Peter Darby, the young photographer, neither of whom had as far to travel.

Leaving the body, Banks walked cautiously to the back of the workshop where the old Remington stood on its desk beside the filing cabinet. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. Leaning forward, Banks was able to read the message: "I did it. I killed the policeman Gill. It was wrong of me. I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused. This is the best way. Seth."

He called Burgess over and pointed out the note to him.

Burgess raised his eyebrows and whistled softly between his teeth. "Suicide, then?"

"Looks like it. Glendenning should be able to give us a better idea."