A Necessary End

I

South of Skipton, the landscape changes dramatically. The limestone dales give way to millstone grit country, rough moorland for the most part, bleaker and wilder than anything in Swainsdale. Even the dry-stone walls are made of the dark purplish gritstone. The landscape is like the people it breeds: stubborn, guarded, long of memory.

Banks drove through Keighley and Haworth into open country, with Haworth Moor on his right and Oxenhope Moor on his left. Even in the bright sun of that springlike day, the landscape looked sinister and brooding. Sandra hated it; it was too spooky and barren for her. But Banks found something magical about the area, with its legends of witches, mad Methodist preachers, and the tales the Bronte sisters had spun.

Banks slipped a cassette in the stereo and Robert Johnson sang "Hellhound on My Trail." West Yorkshire was a long way from the Mississippi delta, but the dark, jagged edges of Johnson's guitar seemed to limn the landscape, and his haunted, doom-laden lyrics captured its mood.

Dominated by mill-towns at the valley bottoms and weaving communities on the heights, the place is a product of the Industrial Revolution. Majestic old mills with their tall chimneys of dark, grainy millstone grit still remain. Many have now been scoured of two hundred years' soot and set up as craft and antiques markets.

Hebden Bridge is a mill-town turned tourist trap, full of bookshops and antique shops. Not so long ago, it was a centre of trouser and corduroy manufacturing, but since the seventies, when the hippies from Leeds and Manchester invaded, it has been more of a place for arts festivals, poetry readings in pubs and other cultural activities.

Banks drove down the steep hill from the moors into the town itself. Rows of tall terraced houses run at angles diagonally along the hillside and overlook the mills at the valley bottom. They look like four-storey houses, but are actually rows of two-storey houses built one on top of the other. You enter the lower house from a street or ginnel at one level, and the upper from a higher one at the back. All of which made it very difficult for Banks to find Reginald Lee's house.

Lee, Banks had discovered from his phone call to PC Brooks of the Hebden Bridge police, was a retired shop owner living in one of the town's two-tiered buildings. Just over three years ago he had been involved in an accident on the town's busy main street — a direct artery along the Calder valley from east to west — which had resulted in the death of Alison, Seth Cotton's wife.

Banks had also discovered from the police that there had been nothing suspicious about her death, and that Mr Lee had not been at fault. But he wanted to know more about Seth Cotton's background, and it seemed that the death of his wife was a good place to start. He was still convinced that the number written so boldly in the old notebook was PC Gill's and not just part of a coincidentally similar calculation. Whether Seth himself had written it down was another matter.

Lee, a small man in a baggy, threadbare pullover, answered the door and frowned at Banks. He clearly didn't get many visitors. His thinning grey hair was uncombed, sticking up on end in places as if he'd had an electric shock, and the room he finally showed Banks into was untidy but clean. It was also chilly. Banks kept his jacket on.

"Sorry about the mess," Lee said in a high-pitched, whining voice. "Wife died two years back and I just can't seem to get the hang of housework."

"I know what you mean." Banks moved some newspapers from a hard-backed chair. "My wife's been away at her mother's for two weeks now and the house feels like it's falling apart. Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all." Lee shuffled to the sideboard and brought an ashtray. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm sorry to bring all this up again," Banks said. "I know it must be painful for you, but it's about that accident you were involved in about three years ago."

Lee's eyes seemed to glaze over at the mention. "Ah, yes," he said. "I blame that for Elsie's death, too, you know. She was with me at the time, and she never got over it. I retired early myself. Couldn't seem to…" He lost his train of thought and stared at the empty fireplace.

"Mr Lee?"

"What? Oh, sorry, Inspector. It is Inspector, isn't it?"

"It'll do," Banks said. "The accident."

"Ah, yes. What is it you want to know?"

"Just what happened, in as much detail as you can remember."

"Oh, I can remember it all." He tapped his forehead. "It's all engraved there in slow motion. Just let me get my pipe. It seems to help me concentrate. I have a bit of trouble keeping my mind on track these days." He fetched a briar from a rack by the fireplace, filled it with rubbed twist and put a match to it. The tobacco flamed up and blue smoke curled from the bowl. A child's skipping rhyme drifted in from the street: Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, Kiss the girls and make them cry.

"Where was I?"

"The accident."

"Ah, yes. Well, it happened on a lovely summer's day. The sixteenth of July. One of those days when you can smell the moorland heather and the wild flowers even here in town. Not a cloud in the sky and everyone in that relaxed, dozy mood you get in summer. Elsie and I were going for a ride to Hardcastle Crags. We used to do a lot of our courting up there when we were youngsters, like. So whenever the weather was good, off we went. I wasn't doing more than thirty — and I hadn't a drop of drink in me, never touch the stuff — when I came upon this lass riding along on her bicycle on my inside." He faltered, sucked at his pipe as if it were an oxygen mask, and carried on. "She was a bit wobbly, but then a lot of cyclists are. I always took special care when there were cyclists around. Then it happened. My front wheels were a foot or two away from her back. She was over by the kerb, like, not directly in front of me, and she just keeled over."

"Just like that?"

"Aye." He seemed amazed, even though he must have told the story dozens of times to the police. "As if she'd hit a jutting stone. But there wasn't one. She might have bounced off the kerb or something. And she fell right in front of the car. I'd no time to stop. Even if I'd only been going five miles an hour I wouldn't have had time. She went right under the wheels. Keeled over, just like that."

Banks let the silence stretch. Tobacco crackled in the pipe bowl and the repetitive chant continued outside. "You said she was wobbling a bit," he asked finally. "Did she seem drunk or anything?"

"Not especially. Just like she was a learner, maybe."

"Have you ever come across a policeman by the name of Edwin Gill. PC 1139?"

"Eh? Pardon me. No, the name and number aren't familiar. It was PC Brooks I dealt with at first. Then Inspector Cummings. I don't remember any Gill. Is he from around here?"

"Did you ever meet Seth Cotton?"

"Yes," Lee said, relighting his pipe. "I plucked up the courage to go and see him in the hospital. He knew all the details and said he didn't blame me. He was very forgiving. Of course, he was in a shocking state, still beside himself with grief and anger. But not at me. I only went the once."

"In hospital? What was he doing there?"

Lee looked surprised. "I thought you'd have known. He tried to kill himself a couple of days after the hospital phoned him about the accident. Slit his ankles. And they say he smashed the phone to bits. But someone found him before it was too late. Have you seen the lad lately?"

"Yes."

"And how is he?"

"He seems to be doing all right." Banks told him about the farm and the carpentry.

"Aye," Lee said. "He mentioned he were a carpenter." He shook his head slowly.

"Terrible state he were in. Bad enough losing the lass, but the baby as well…."

"Baby?"

"Aye. Didn't you know? She were pregnant. Five months. The police said she might have fainted, like, had a turn, because of her condition…."

Lee seemed to drift off again, letting his pipe go out. Banks couldn't think of any more questions, so he stood up to leave. Lee noticed and snapped out of his daze.

"Off, are you?" he said. "Sure you won't stay for a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you, Mr Lee. You've been very helpful. I'm sorry I had to put you through it all again."

"There's hardly a day goes by when I don't think on it," Lee said.

"You shouldn't keep torturing yourself that way," Banks told him. "Whichever way you look at it, no blame can possibly attach itself to you."

"Aye, no blame," Lee repeated. And his piercing inward gaze put Banks in mind of the actor Trevor Howard at his conscience-stricken best. There was nothing more to say. Feeling depressed, Banks walked back out to the street in the chilly spring sunshine. The children paused and stared as he passed by.

It was after five o'clock and the people down in the town were hurrying home from work. All Banks had to look forward to was a tin of ravioli on toast — which he would no doubt burn — and another evening alone.

Looking up the hillside to the west, he thought of Heptonstall, a village at the summit. He'd heard that the pub there served Timothy Taylor's beer, something he'd never tried. It had been a wasted and depressing afternoon as far as information was concerned, so he might as well salvage it somehow.

Alison Cotton's death had obviously been a tragic accident, and that was all there was to it. She had either rubbed against the kerb and lost her balance, or she had fainted, perhaps due to the effects of her pregnancy. Banks could hardly blame Seth for not wanting to talk about it.

He got in his car and drove up the steep hill to Heptonstall. It was a quiet village at that time of day: narrow winding terraces of small dark cottages, many with the tell-tale rows of upper windows where weavers had once worked.

He lingered over his food and beer in the window seat of the Cross Inn, planning what to do next. The Timothy Taylor's bitter was good, smooth as liquid gold.

Shadows lengthened and the fronts of the gritstone houses over the narrow street turned even darker.

It was late when he got home — almost ten — and he'd hardly had time to put his slippers on and sit down before the phone rang.

"Alan, thank God you're back. I've been trying to call you all evening." It was Jenny.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"It's Dennis. His flat has been broken into."

"Has he reported it?"

"No. He wants to see you."

"He should report it."

"I know, but he won't. Will you go and see him? Please?"

"Was he hurt?"

"No, he was out when it happened. It must have been sometime earlier this evening."

"Was anything taken?"

"He's not clear about that. Nothing important, I don't think. Will you see him? Please?"

Banks could hardly refuse. In the first place, Jenny was clearly distraught on Osmond's behalf, and in the second, it might have a bearing on the case. If Osmond refused to come to him, then he would have to go to Osmond. Sighing, he said, "Tell him I'll be right over."

II

"You don't like me very much, do you, Chief Inspector?" said Osmond as soon as

Banks had made himself comfortable."I'm not bowled over, no."

Osmond leaned back in his armchair and smiled. "You're not jealous, are you? Jenny told me how close you two got during that Peeping Tom business."

She did, did she? Banks thought angrily. Just how much had she told him? "Could you just get on with it, please?" he said. "I'm here, at Jenny's request, to investigate a breakin you haven't reported officially. The least you can do is stop trying to be so fucking clever."

The smile disappeared. "Yes, all right. For what good it'll do me."

"First off, why didn't you report it?"

"I don't trust the police, certainly not the way I've been treated since the demonstration. Burgess was around here again this afternoon tossing insults and accusations about. And I don't want my apartment done over by a bunch of coppers, either."

"Why not? What have you got to hide?"

"Nothing to hide, not in the way you mean it. But I value my privacy."

"So why am I here?"

Osmond crossed his legs and paused before answering. "Jenny persuaded me."

"But you don't really want to talk about it?"

"What's the point? What can you do?"

"We could do our job if you'd let us. Check for fingerprints, interview neighbours, try to get a description. Was anything stolen?"

"A book."

"What?"

"A book. Most of my books were pulled off the shelves, scattered on the floor, and I noticed when I put them back that one was missing."

"Just one?"

"That's right. Marcuse's One Dimensional Man. Do you know it?"

"No."

Osmond smiled smugly. "I didn't think you would. It doesn't matter. Anyway, that's all."

"That's all that was taken?"

"Yes."

"How did they get in? The lock doesn't seem broken."

"It's easy enough to open. They probably used a credit card or something. I've had to do that myself more than once."

"And it works?"

"Yes. Unless the catch is on from the inside. Obviously, as I was out at the time, it wasn't."

"Then I'd suggest the first thing you do is get a new lock. Preferably a deadlock."

"I've already called the locksmith. He's coming on Monday."

"Did you get the impression that they were looking for something? Or was it just vandalism?" Banks had his cigarette packet in his hand without thinking before he realized Osmond was a rabid nonsmoker.

"Oh, go on, Chief Inspector." Osmond allowed himself another superior smile. "Pollute the atmosphere if you must. You're doing me a favour; it's the least I can do in return."

"Thanks, I will." Banks lit up. "What might they have been looking for? Money?"

"I don't think so. There was a little cash in the dresser drawer, but they left it. There was also some quite valuable jewellery — it used to be my mother's — and they left that, too. The only things disturbed were the books and some papers — nothing important — but there was no damage. I don't think it was vandalism."

"But it was clear they'd seen the money and jewellery?"

"Oh, yes. The drawer was open and the contents of the jewellery box were spilled on the bed."

"What do you think they were looking for?"

Osmond scratched his cheek and frowned. Noticing Banks's half inch of ash, he fetched an ashtray from the kitchen. "In case of emergencies," he said. "Stolen property, I'm afraid. Courtesy of the Bridge, Helmthorpe."

Banks smiled. Having got over his initial nervousness that, as with so many people, manifested itself in the form of rudeness, Osmond was making an attempt at least to smooth the waters. He still wasn't comfortable around the police, but he was trying.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Scotch, if you've got it." Osmond was prevaricating, making time to think. That meant his answer would be at best a blend of truth and falsehood, and it would be damn difficult for Banks to sort out which was which. But there was no point pushing him. Osmond liked being in control, and any challenge at this point would just make him clam up. Best wait for a gap in his defences and leap right through. Let him take his own sweet time.

Finally, drink in hand, Banks repeated his question.

"I don't want to appear unduly paranoid, Chief Inspector," Osmond began slowly, "but I've been involved with the CND and a number of other organizations for some years now, so I think I can speak from experience. I take it you know, of course, that I once made a complaint against the policeman who was killed?"

Banks nodded. "You'd have saved us a lot of trouble if you hadn't lied in the first place."

"That's easy for you to say. Anyway, your charming superintendent knew. He wouldn't let it drop. So I assume you know about it, too. Anyway, we come to expect that kind of thing. The CND doesn't take sides, Chief Inspector. Believe it or not, all we want is a nuclear-free world. But some members bring along strong political beliefs, too, I won't deny it. I'm a socialist, yes, but that doesn't have anything to do with the CND or its aims."

He paused and fingered his small gold crucifix. As Banks looked at him slouching on the sofa with his long legs crossed and his arms spread out along the back, the word languid came to mind.

"Have you noticed how things seem to come in packages?" Osmond went on. "If you're anti-nuclear, people also expect you to be pro-choice, pro-union, pro-gays, anti-American, anti-apartheid and generally left wing. Most people don't realize that it's perfectly possible to be, say, anti-nuclear and anti-apartheid without being pro-gay and prochoice — especially if you're a Catholic. Oh, the permutations might differ a bit — some packages are more extreme and dangerous than others, for example — but you can pretty well predict the kind of things our members value. The point is that what we stand for is politically hot, and that draws attention to us from all sides. The government thinks we're in league with the Russians, so they raid our offices periodically and go over our files. The communists think we're allies in overthrowing a decadent capitalist government, so they woo us and infiltrate us with their own. It's a bloody mess, but we manage, through it all, to stick to our aims."

"Are you saying you think the break-in was politically motivated?"

"That's about it." Osmond lifted the Scotch bottle and raised his eyebrows.

Banks held out his glass. "And the theft of the book was a sort of calling card, or warning. So do you see what I mean about not expecting much help from the police? If Special Branch or MI5 or whoever are involved, you'd get your wrists slapped, and if it's the other side, you'd never catch them anyway."

"But what were they looking for?"

"I don't know. Anyway, I don't keep my files here. Most of the important ones are at the CND office, and some of the stuff is at work."

"The Social Services Centre?"

"Yes. I've got an office there. It's convenient."

"So they didn't find what they were looking for because they didn't look in the right place."

"I suppose so. The only current thing is the inquiry I'm making into the demo. I've already told you about that — and Superintendent Burgess, too. I've talked to quite a lot of people involved, trying to establish exactly what happened and how it could have been avoided. Tim and Abha are helping, too. They've got most of the info at their place. We're having a meeting up at the farm tomorrow to decide what to do about it all. Ever since your boss was taken off the job, we've been carrying on for him, and our results will be a hell of a lot less biased."

"You're wrong," Banks said, lighting another cigarette. "The trouble with people like you, despite all your talk about packages, is that you tar everyone with the same brush. To you, all police are pigs. Superintendent Gristhorpe would have done a good job. He wouldn't have swept it all under the carpet."

"Maybe that's why he was taken off," Osmond said. "I read in the paper that they were going to appoint an impartial investigating commission — which, I suppose, means a bunch of high-ranking policemen from somewhere other than Eastvale — but most of us think they're just going to forget about the whole embarrassing affair. Once the killer is convicted — and it looks like you're well on your way to doing that — the anti-nuke lefties will be shown up for exactly what you all think we are — a gang of murderous anarchists — and the police will gain a lot of very useful public sympathy."

Banks put his empty glass down and walked over to the window. "Tell me about Ellen Ventner."

Osmond paled. "You certainly do your homework, don't you?"

"Ellen Ventner."

"If you think I'm going to admit to those ludicrous charges against me, you must be crazy."

"Much as it saddens me to say so, I'm not here to investigate those old charges. So you like to beat up women. That's your privilege."

"You bastard. Are you going to tell Jenny?"

"I honestly don't know. Ellen Ventner didn't pursue the charges. God knows why, but a lot of women don't. Maybe she thought you were still a really sweet fellow underneath it all. But that doesn't alter what happened. You might think you're a very important man in the political scheme of things, but personally I doubt it. On the other hand, a woman you once assaulted might bear a grudge."

"After four years?"

"It's possible."

"Forget it. She wouldn't. Besides, she emigrated not long after we split up."

"I can understand why she might have wanted to get as far away from you as possible. Just checking all the angles."

Osmond glared, then looked into his glass and started to fiddle with his crucifix again. "Look, it was only the once She… I was drunk. I didn't mean to"

Banks sat down opposite him again and leaned forward. "When you made your complaint about PC Gill," he asked, "how did you do it?"

Osmond floundered. It was so easy, Banks thought. Stir up a man's emotions, then change the subject and you're in control again. He'd had enough of Osmond's lectures and his arrogance.

"What do you mean, how did I do it? I wrote a letter."

"How did you refer to him?"

"By his number. How else?"

"1139?"

"Yes, that's it."

"You still remember it?"

"Obviously."

"So how did you know his name?"

"Look, I don't—"

"When I first asked you if you knew Gill, you said no. I didn't use his number, I used his name, and you recognized it when you lied to me."

"He told me," Osmond said. "When I tried to stop him from hitting a woman at a demo once, he pulled me aside and told me to keep out of it. I told him I'd report him, and he said go ahead. When I looked at his number, he told me his name, as well. Spelled it out, in fact. The bastard was proud of what he was doing."

So Osmond defended women in public and only hit them in private. Nice guy, Banks thought, but he kept his questions factual and direct. "When you were up at Maggie's Farm on the afternoon of the demonstration, did you mention that number to anyone?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"Think. Did you write it in a notebook, or see it written in a notebook?"

"No, I'd remember something like that. But I might have mentioned it. Really, I can't say."

"How might you have mentioned it? Just give me a sense of context."

"I might have said, 'I wonder if that bastard PC 1139 will be out tonight.' I suppose I'd have warned people about him. Christ, you can't be involved in demos around this part of the world and not know about PC bloody 1139."

"So I gather." Banks remembered what Tim and Abha had told him.

There was nothing more to ask. Banks said good night and Osmond slammed the door behind him. In the corridor, he decided to try the flats on that floor to see if anyone had noticed the housebreaker. There were only ten-five on each side. At the third door, a man who had been nipping out to the off — licence at about a quarter to eight said he'd seen two men walking along the corridor on his way back. They had seen him, too, but had made no move to run off or turn away. The description was average — most people are about as observant as a brick wall, Banks had discovered over the years — but it helped.

They were both tall and burly, and they both wore dark — blue pants, a bit shiny, probably the bottom part of a suit; one had on a black overcoat, fake leather, while the other wore a light trench coat; one had black hair, the other none at all; and neither wore a hat or glasses. About facial features, the man remembered nothing except that both men had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and two ears. They had walked confidently and purposefully, as if they knew where they were going and what they were about, not furtively, as he imagined criminals would have done. So, no, he hadn't seen any need to call the police. He was sorry now, of course. His speech was slurred, as if he'd already drunk most of what he'd bought at the off-licence. Banks thanked him and left.

Over the next four doors, Banks found himself told to piss off by a writer whose concentration he had disturbed and asked in for a cup of tea by a lonely military — type who wanted to show off his medals. As yet, there had been no temptress in a neglige.

It wasn't until the ninth door that he found anyone else who knew anything. Beth Cameron wore tight, checked slacks, which hardly flattered her plump hips and thighs, and a maroon cardigan over a shiny white blouse. Her curly brown hair showed traces of a recent perm, and she had the most animated face that Banks had ever seen. Every comment, every word, was accompanied by a curled lip, a raised eyebrow, a wrinkled nose, a deep frown or a mock pout. She was like one of those sponge hand — puppets he remembered from his childhood. When you put your hand inside it, you could wrench the face into the most remarkable contortions.

"Did you see anyone coming in or out of Mr Osmond's flat this evening?" Banks asked.

"No, no, I can't say I did. Wait a minute, though, I did notice something odd. Not up here but down in the garage. It struck me as a bit strange at the time, you know, but I just brushed it off. You do, don't you?"

"What did you see?"

"A blue Escort. And it was parked in Mr Handley's spot. He's often out during the evening — he's the entertainment reporter for the Eastvale Gazette — but still, I thought, that's no reason to steal the man's parking spot, is it? See, there's places for visitors outside. We don't encourage nonresidents to park underground. It could lead to all sorts of trouble, couldn't it?"

"What time was this?" Banks asked.

"Oh, about eight o'clock. I was just bringing Lesley — that's my daughter — back from her piano lesson."

"Did you see if there was anyone in the car?"

"Two men, I think. Sitting in the front."

"Did you get a good look at them?"

"No, I'm sorry. They looked big, but I mean, you just don't look at people, do you? Especially not in places like that. It doesn't do to make eye contact with strangers in an underground garage, does it?"

"No," Banks said, "I don't suppose it does. You didn't recognize either of the men, then?"

"No. Whatever happened, anyway?" Mrs Cameron suddenly frowned. "There wasn't nobody assaulted, was there? I've been saying all along that place is too dark. Just asking for trouble it is."

"Nobody was hurt," Banks assured her. "I'm just interested in that Escort. Have you ever noticed it before?"

"No, never. I did think of calling the police, you know. It did cross my mind they might be up to no good. But you don't want to cause a fuss, do you? It might all be perfectly innocent and there you'd be with egg on your face looking a proper fool. But I'd never forgive myself if someone got hurt."

"Don't worry, it's nothing like that. You didn't get the number, by any chance?"

"No." She laughed, then put her hand to her mouth. Her fingernails were painted pale green. "I'm sorry, Mr Banks, but I always think it's so funny when the police go asking people that on telly. I mean, you don't go around collecting car numbers, do you? I don't think I even know my own."

"Is there anything else you can think of?" Banks asked, without much hope.

Beth Cameron chewed her lower lip and frowned for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Not a sausage. I didn't pay it much mind, really. They weren't doing nothing. Just sitting there like they were waiting to leave Wait a minute!" Her eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. "I think one of them was bald. There was a light on the pillar by the car, you see. Dim as can be, but I could swear I saw a bald head reflecting the light." Then her lips curved down at the edges. "I don't suppose that's much help, though, is it?"

"Everything helps." Banks closed his notebook and put it back into his inside pocket. At least he was certain now that the two men in the blue Escort were the same two who had been seen in the corridor near Osmond's flat. "If you see the car again," he said, handing her a card, "would you please let me know?"

"Yes, of course I will, Mr Banks," she said. "Glad to be of use. Good night."

At the last door Banks turned up nothing new. It had been a long time since he'd made door-to-door enquiries himself, and he had enjoyed it, but now it was going on for half — past eleven and he was tired. Outside, the crisp, cold air woke him up a bit. He stood by his car for a few moments and smoked a cigarette, thinking over what had happened that evening.

However much he had ridiculed the man's pretensions, he had to admit that Osmond was the type who made waves politically. Banks had a lot of sympathy for the CND and its goals, but he knew that, like so many peace — loving, well-meaning groups, it sometimes acted as a magnet for dangerous opportunists. Where there was organization there was politics, and where there was politics there was the aphrodisiac of power. Maybe Osmond had been involved in a plot to do with the demonstration. Perhaps his masters didn't trust him to keep his trap shut, and what had happened this evening had been intended as a kind of warning.

Banks found it hard to swallow all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but the mere possibility of it was enough to send a shiver of apprehension up his spine. If there really was anything in the conspiracy theory, then it looked like these people — Russian spies, agents provocateurs, or whoever they were — meant business.

If that was true, Osmond might get hurt. That didn't concern Banks very much, but it did cause him to worry about Jenny. It was bad enough her being involved with a man who had beat up a previous girl-friend, but much worse now there was a strong possibility that some very dangerous and cold — blooded people were after him too. None of it concerned Jenny directly, of course; she was merely an innocent bystander. But since when did governments or terrorists ever give a damn about innocent bystanders?