Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

"What do you want me to do?" Banks asked. "Why did you come?"

"I… I just wanted to find out what happened."

"Are you sure you're not trying to get him special treatment?"

Jenny sighed. "Alan, we're friends, aren't we?"

Banks nodded.

"Well," she went on, "I know you can't help being a policeman, but if you don't know where your job ends and your friendships begin… Need I go on?"

Banks rubbed his bristly chin. "No. I'm sorry. It's been a rough night. But you still haven't answered my question."

"I'd just hoped to get some idea of what might have happened to him, that's all. I got the impression that if I'd lingered a moment longer down at the station they'd have had me in for questioning, too. I didn't know about the death. I suppose that changes things?"

"Of course it does. It means we've got a cop killer on the loose. I'm sure it's nothing to do with your Dennis, but he'll have to answer the same questions as the rest. I can't say exactly how long he'll be. At least you know he's not in hospital. Plenty of people are."

"I can't believe it, Alan. I can understand tempers getting frayed, fists flying, but not a killing. What happened?"

"He was stabbed. It was deliberate; there's no getting around that."

Jenny shook her head.

"Sorry I can't be any more help," Banks said. "What was Dennis's involvement with the demo?"

"He was one of the organizers, along with the Students Union and those people from Maggie's Farm."

"That place up near Relton?"

"That's it. The local women's group was involved, too."

"WEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?"

Jenny nodded. Banks had come up against the Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom before — Dorothy Wycombe in particular — and it gave him a sinking feeling to realize that he might have to deal with them again.

"I still can't believe it," Jenny went on. "Dennis told me time and time again that the last thing they wanted was a violent confrontation."

"I don't suppose anybody wanted it, but these things have a way of getting out of hand. Look, why don't you go home? I'm sure he'll be back soon. He won't be mistreated. We don't suddenly turn into vicious goons when things like this happen."

"You might not," said Jenny. "But I've heard how you close ranks."

"Don't worry."

Jenny finished her drink. "All right. I can see you're trying to get rid of me."

"Not at all. Have another Scotch if you want."

Jenny hesitated. "No," she said finally. "I was only teasing. You're right. It's late. I'd better get back home." She picked up her scarf. "It was good, though. The Scotch. So rich you could chew it."

Banks walked her to the door. "If there are any problems," he said, "let me know. And I could do with your help, too. You seem to know a bit about what went on behind the scenes."

Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.

"Maybe you could come to dinner?" Banks suggested on impulse. "Try my gourmet cooking?"

Jenny smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Why not? It's not that bad. At least—"

"It's just… it wouldn't seem right with Sandra away, that's all. The neighbours…"

"Okay. We'll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?"

"It'll do fine," Jenny said. "Give me a call."

"I will."

She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.

COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning. As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn't gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a "k."

He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shellshocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off.

The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.

Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick's Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary's Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.

He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.

At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette — the super didn't approve of smoking — and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe's huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.

"I've been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable," Gristhorpe said. "He's been on the phone to London and they're sending a man up this morning. I'm to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority." He rubbed his eyes. "Of course, someone'll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly."

"This man they're sending," Banks asked, "what's he going to do?"

"Handle the murder investigation. You'll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond."

"Do you know who he is?"

Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. "Yes… let me see…. It's a Superintendent Burgess. He's attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I'm not even sure we're allowed to know what he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose."

"Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?" Banks asked.

"Yes. Why? Know him?"

"Bloody hell."

"Alan, you've gone pale. What's up?"

"Yes, I know him," Banks said. "Not well, but I worked with him a couple of times in London. He's about my age, but he's always been a step ahead."

"Ambitious?"

"Very. But it's not his ambition I mind so much," Banks went on. "He's slightly to the right of… Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right."

"Is he good, though?"

"He gets results."

"Isn't that what we need?"

"I suppose so. But he's a real bastard to work with."

"How?"

"Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn't let the right hand know what the left hand's doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt."

"You make him sound like he doesn't even have a left hand," Gristhorpe said.

Banks smiled. "We used to call him Dirty Dick Burgess."

"Why?"

"You'll find out. It's nothing to do with his sexual activities, I can tell you that. Though he did have a reputation as a fairly active stud-about-town."

"Anyway," Gristhorpe said, "he should be here around midday. He's taking the early Intercity to York. There's too long a wait between connections, so I'm sending Craig to meet him at the station there."