Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

"But let me remind you that I'm in charge of this case."

"That still doesn't give you the right to do what you did. Can't you bloody understand? You with all your talk about police image. This vigilante stuff only makes us end up looking like the bad guys, and bloody stupid ones at that."

Burgess sat back and lit a cigar. "Only if people find out. Which brings us back to my question. What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. But you're going to make sure those files are returned and that the people involved are left alone from now on."

"Am I? What makes you so sure?"

"Because if you don't, I'll pass on what I know to Superintendent Gristhorpe. The ACC respects his opinion."

Burgess laughed. "You're not very well-connected, you know. I don't think that'll do much good."

"There's always the press, too. They'd love a juicy story like this. Dennis Osmond has a right to know what was done to him, too. Whatever you think, I don't believe it would do your future promotion prospects much good."

Burgess tapped his cigar on the rim of the ashtray. "You're so bloody pure of heart, aren't you, Banks? A real crusader. Better than the rest of us."

"Don't come that. You were out of line and you know it. You just thought you could get away with it."

"I still can."

Banks shook his head."You're forgetting that I'm your superior officer. I can order you to hand over whatever evidence you've got."

"Balls," said Banks. "Why don't you send Cranby and Stickley in to steal it?"

"Look," Burgess said, reddening with anger, "you don't want to cross me. I can be a very nasty enemy. Do you really think anyone's going to take any notice of your accusations? What do you think they'll do? Kick me off the force? Dream on."

"I don't really care what they do to you. All I know is that the press will make a field-day of it."

"You'd be sawing off the branch you're sitting on. Think about where your loyalty lies. We do a difficult enough job as it is without taking an opportunity to set everyone against us. Have you considered that? What effect it would have on you lot up here if it did get out? I don't have to live here, thank God, but you do."

"Damn right I do," said Banks. "And that's the point. You can come here and make a bloody mess then bugger off back to London. I have to live and work with these people. And I like it. It took me long enough to get accepted as far as I have been, and you come along and set back relations by years. Take it or leave it. Give back the files, call off your goons, and it's forgotten, another unsolved breakin."

"Oh, what a bleeding hero we are! And what if I put on a bit more pressure, got a couple of higher-ups to order you to hand over your evidence? What then, big man?"

"I've already told you," Banks said. "It's not me you need to worry about, it's the press, Osmond and the students."

"I can handle them."

"It's up to you."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Take your pick."

"Who's going to believe a couple of loony lefties anyway? And everyone knows the press is biased."

Banks shrugged. "Maybe nobody. We'll see."

Burgess jerked to his feet. "I won't forget this, Banks," he snarled. "When I make my report on this investigation — "

"It's over," Banks said wearily.

"What is?"

"The investigation." Banks told him briefly about his conversation with Elizabeth Dale.

"So what happens now?"

"Nothing. Except maybe you piss off back home."

"You're not going to go blabbing the whole bloody story to the press?"

"No point, no. But I think Mara and the others have a right to know."

"Yes, you would." Burgess strode over to the door. "And don't think you've won, because you haven't. You won't get out of it as easily as all that."

And he left, the threat hanging in the air.

Banks stretched out his hands in front of him and noticed they were shaking. Even though the office was cool, his neck felt sweaty under the collar. His legs were weak, too, as he found out when he grabbed another cigarette and walked over to the window. It wasn't every day you got the chance to be high-handed with a senior officer, especially a whiz-kid like Dirty Dick Burgess. And it was the first time Banks had ever seen him ruffled.

Maybe he had made a dangerous enemy for life. Perhaps Burgess had even been right and he was overplaying the crusader role. After all, he played it a bit close to the edge himself sometimes. But to hell with it, he thought. It wasn't worth dwelling on. He picked up his coat, pocketed his cigarettes and set off for the car-park.

The rain had stopped and the afternoon sun was charming wraiths of mist from the river-meadows and valleysides. Banks's Cortina crackled up the track and pulled up outside the farmhouse.

Mara answered the door on his second knock and let him in."I suppose you want to sit down?" she asked.

"It might take a while." Banks made himself comfortable in the rocking chair. The children sat at the table colouring, and Paul slouched on the beanbag cushions reading a science-fiction book.

"Where are Rick and Zoe?" Banks asked.

"Working."

"Can you go get them, please? I'd like to talk to all of you. And would it be too much to ask for some tea?"

Mara put the kettle on first, then went out to the barn to fetch the others. When she came back, she saw to the tea while Rick and Zoe sat down.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Rick demanded. "Haven't we had enough? Where's your friend?"

"He's packing."

"Packing?" Mara said, walking in slowly with the teapot and mugs on a tray.

"But—"

"It's all over, Mara. Almost over, anyway."

Banks poured himself some tea, lit a cigarette and turned to Paul. "You wrote that suicide note, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come off it, the time for messing around is over. The pressure on the keys was different from that on the letters Seth typed, and his style was a hell of a lot better than yours. Why did you do it?"

"I've told you, I didn't do anything." They were all staring at him now and he began to turn red.

"Shall I tell you why you did it?" Banks went on. "You did it to deflect the blame from yourself."

"Wait a minute," Mara said. "Are you accusing Paul of killing Seth?"

"Nobody killed Seth," Banks said quietly. "He did it himself."

"But you said—"

"I know. And that's what we thought. It was the note that confused me. Seth didn't write it; Paul did. But he didn't kill anyone. When Paul found him, Seth was already dead. Paul just took the opportunity to type out a note of confession, hoping it would get him off the hook. It didn't seem like such a bad thing to do, I'm sure. After all, Seth was dead. Nothing could affect him any more. Isn't that right, Paul?"

Paul said nothing.

"Paul?" Mara turned to face him sternly. "Is it true?"

"So what if it is? Seth wouldn't have minded. He wouldn't have wanted us to go on being persecuted. He was dead, Mara. I swear it. All I did was type out a note."

"Had he written anything himself?" Banks asked.

"Yes, but it said nothing." He pulled a scrap of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans and passed it over. It read, "Sorry, Mara." Just that. Banks passed it to Mara, and tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. "How could you, Paul?" she said.

Paul sat forward and hugged his knees. "It was for all of us," he said. "Can't you see? To keep the police off our backs. It's what Seth would have done."

"But he didn't," Banks said. "Seth had no idea that Paul would forge a note. As far as he was concerned, his suicide would be accepted for what it was. He'd never imagined that we'd see it as murder. If his death led us to the truth, so be it, but he wasn't going to explain. He never did while he was alive, so why should he when he was about to die?"