Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

"How are things going?"

"They're getting more complicated."

"You sound grouchy, too. It's a good sign. The more complicated things seem and the more bad-tempered you get, the closer the end is."

"Is that right?"

"Of course it is. I haven't lived with you this long without learning to recognize the signs."

"Sometimes I wonder what people do learn about one another."

"What's this? Philosophy?"

"No. Just frustration. Brian and Tracy well?"

"Fine. Just restless. Brian especially. You know Tracy, she's happy enough with her head buried in a history book. But with him it's all sports and pop music now. American football is the latest craze, apparently."

"Good God."

Brian had changed a lot over the past year. He even seemed to have lost interest in the electric train that Banks had set up in the spare room. Banks played with it himself more than Brian did, but then, he had to admit, he always had done.

To keep the emptiness after the conversation at bay, he poured out a glass of Bell's and listened to Leroy Carr and Scrapper Blackwell while he tried to let the information that filled his mind drift and form itself into new patterns.

Bizarre as it all seemed, a number of things began to come together. The problem was that one theory seemed to cancel out the other.

The doorbell woke him from a light nap just before ten o'clock. The tape had long since ended and the ice had melted in his second Scotch.

"Sorry I'm so late, sir," Richmond said, "but I've just finished."

"Come in." Banks rubbed his eyes. "Sit down. A drink?"

"If you don't mind, sir. Though I suppose I am still on duty. Technically."

"Scotch do? Or there's beer in the fridge."

"Scotch will do fine, sir. No ice, if you don't mind."

Banks grinned. "I'm getting as bad as the Americans, aren't I, putting ice in good Scotch. Soon I'll be complaining my beer is too warm."

Richmond fitted his long athletic body into an armchair and stroked his moustache.

"By the way you're playing with that bit of face fungus there," Banks said, "I gather you've succeeded."

"What? Oh, yes, sir. Didn't know I was so obvious."

"Most of us are, it seems. You'd not make a good poker player — and you'd better watch it in interrogations. Come on then, what did you find?"

"Well," Richmond began, consulting his notebook, "I did exactly as you said, sir. Hung around discreetly near Tim and Abha's place. They stayed in all afternoon."

"Then what?"

"They went out about eight, to the pub I'd guess. And about half an hour later that blue Escort pulled up and two men got out and disappeared into the building. They looked like the ones you described. They must have been waiting and watching somewhere nearby, because they seemed to know when to come, allowing a bit of a safety margin in case Tim and Abha had just gone to the shop or something."

"You didn't try to stop them from getting in, did you?"

Richmond seemed shocked. "I did exactly as you instructed me, sir, though it felt a bit odd to sit there and watch a crime taking place. The front door is usually left on the latch, so they just walked in. The individual flats are kept locked, though, so they must have broken in. Anyway, they came out about fifteen minutes later carrying what looked like a number of buff folders."

"And then what?"

"I followed them at a good distance, and they pulled into the car-park of the Castle Hotel and went inside. I didn't follow, sir — they might have noticed me. And they didn't come out. After they'd been gone about ten minutes, I went in and asked the desk clerk about them and got him to show me the register. They'd booked in as James Smith and Thomas Brown."

"How imaginative. Sorry, carry on."

"Well, I rather thought that myself, sir, so I went back to the office and checked on the number of the car. It was rented by a firm in York to a Mr Cranby, Mr Keith J. Cranby, if that means anything to you. He had to show his licence, of course, so that's likely to be his right name."

"Cranby? No, it doesn't ring any bells. What happened next?"

"Nothing, sir. It was getting late by then so I thought I'd better come and report. By the way, I saw that barmaid, Glenys, going into the hotel while I was waiting outside. Looked a bit sheepish, she did, too."

"Was Cyril anywhere in sight?"

"No. I didn't see him."

"You've done a fine job, Phil," Banks said. "I owe you for this one."

"What's it all about?"

"I'd rather not say yet, in case I'm wrong. But you'll be the second to find out, I promise. Have you eaten at all?"

"I packed some sandwiches." He looked at his watch. "I could do with a pint, though."

"There's still beer in the fridge."

"I don't like bottled beer." Richmond patted his flat stomach. "Too gassy."

"And too cold?"

Richmond nodded.

"Come on, then. We should make it in time for a jar or two before closing. My treat. Queen's Arms do you?"

"Fine, sir."

The pub was busy and noisy with locals and farm lads in from the villages. Banks glanced at the bar staff and saw neither Glenys nor Cyril in evidence. Pushing his way to the bar, he asked one of the usual stand — in barmaids where the boss was.

"Took the evening off, Mr Banks. Just like that." She snapped her fingers. "Said there'd be three of us so we should be able to cope. Dead cagey, he was too. Still, he's the boss, isn't he? He can do what he likes."

"True enough, Rosie," Banks said. "I'll have two pints of your best bitter, please."

"Right you are, Mr Banks."

They stood at the bar and chatted with the regulars, who knew better than to ask too many questions about their work. Banks was beginning to feel unusually pleased with himself, considering he still hadn't found the answer. Whether it was the chat with Sandra, the nap, Richmond's success or the drink, he didn't know. Perhaps it was a combination of all four. He was close to the end of the case, though, he knew that. If he could solve the problem of two mutually exclusive explanations for Gill's and Seth's deaths, then he would be home and dry. Tomorrow should be an interesting day. First he would track down Liz Dale and discover what she knew; then there was the other business… Yes, tomorrow should be very interesting indeed. And the day after that, Sandra was due home.

"Last orders, please!" Rosie shouted. "Shall we?" Richmond asked.

"Go on. Why not," said Banks. He felt curiously like celebrating.

Dirty Dick was conspicuous by his absence the following morning. Banks took the opportunity to make a couple of important phone calls before getting an early start.

Just south of Bradford, it started to rain. Banks turned on the wipers and lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter. On the car stereo, Walter Davis sang, "You got bad blood, baby, / I believe you need a shot."

It was so easy to get lost in the conurbation of old West Yorkshire woollen towns. Built in valleys on the eastern edges of the Pennines, they seemed to overlap one another, and it was hard to tell exactly where you were. The huge old textile factories, where all the processes of clothes — making had been gathered together under one roof in the last century, looked grim in the failing light. They were five or six storeys high, with flat roofs, rows of windows close together, and tall chimneys you could see for miles.

Cleckheaton, Liversedge, Heckmondwike, Brighouse, Rastrick, Mirfield — the strange names Banks usually associated only with brass bands and rugby teams — flew by on road signs. As he drew nearer to Huddersfield, he slowed and peered out through his rain-spattered windscreen for the turnoff.

Luckily the psychiatric hospital was at the northern end of the town, so he didn't have to cross the centre. When he saw the signpost, he followed directions to the left, down a street between two derelict warehouses.