A Necessary End

I

Maybe it was the spring weather, but the toasted teacakes in the Golden Grill tasted exceptionally good to Banks on Sunday morning. Burgess chose a doughnut filled with raspberry puree and dusted with icing sugar, which he dipped into his coffee. "A taste I developed in America," he explained, as Banks watched, horrified. "They've got a place there called Dunkin' Donuts. Great."

"What's happening with Boyd?" Banks asked.

"I had another chat with him. Got nowhere. Like you said, I let him go this morning, so we'll see what turns up now."

"What did you do? Torture him again?"

"Well, there's not many can keep on lying when faced with their greatest fear. The way things stand now, I think we could get a conviction on Boyd, no problem, but we'd probably get chucked out of court if we tried to fit one of the others up — Osmond, for example. I say if we turn up nothing more in a couple of days, let's just charge Boyd with murder and I'll bugger off back to the Smoke a happy man."

"What about the truth?"

Burgess treated Banks to a slit-eyed glance. "We don't know Boyd didn't do it, do we? The Burgess Test notwithstanding. It's not infallible, you know. Anyway, I'm getting a bit sick of your moralizing about the truth all the bloody time. The truth's relative. It depends on your perspective. Remember, we're not judge and jury. It's up to them to decide who's guilty and who's not. We just present the evidence."

"Fair enough, but it's up to us to make a charge that sticks, if only to stop us looking like prize berks in court."

"I think we're solid on Boyd if we need to be. Like I say, give it a couple of days. Find anything interesting on the funny — farm lot?"

"No."

"Those students puzzled me. They're only bloody kids — cheeky bastards, mind you — but their little minds are crammed full of Marx, Trotsky, Marcuse and the rest. They even have a poster of Che Guevara on the wall. I ask you — Che fucking Guevara, a vicious, murdering, mercenary thug got up to look like Jesus Christ. I can't understand what they're on about half the time, honest I can't. And I don't think they've got a clue, either. Pretty gutless pair, though. I can't see either of them having the bottle to stick a knife between Gill's ribs. Still, the girl's not bad. Bit chubby around the waist, but a lovely set of knockers."

"Osmond's place was broken into yesterday evening," Banks said.

"Oh?"

"He didn't report it officially."

"He should have done. You talked to him?"

"Yes."

"Then you should have made a report. You know the rules." He grinned. "Unless, of course, you think rules are only for people like me to follow and for Jack-the-lads like you to ignore?"

"Listen," Banks said, leaning forward, "I don't like your methods. I don't like violence. I'll use it if I have to, but there are plenty more subtle and effective ways of getting answers from people." He sat back and reached for a cigarette. "That aside, I never said I was any less ruthless than you are."

Burgess laughed and spluttered over a mouthful of recently dunked doughnut.

"Anyway," Banks went on, "Osmond didn't seem to give a damn. Well, maybe that's too strong. At least, he didn't think we would do anything about it."

"He's probably right. What did you do?"

"Told him to change his lock. Nothing was stolen."

"Nothing?"

"Only a book. They'd searched the place, but apparently they didn't find what they were looking for."

"What was that?"

"Osmond thinks they might have been after some papers, files to do with his CND stuff. He's got a touch of the cloak-and-dagger about him. Anyway, he keeps most of his files at the local office, and Tim and Abha have all the stuff on the demo. It seems they're having a meeting up at the farm this afternoon to plan their complaint strategy. It looks like the thieves wasted their time, whoever they were."

"Who does he think it was? KGB? MI5? CIA?"

Banks laughed. "Something along those lines, yes. Thinks he's a very important fellow does Mr Osmond."

"He's a pain in the ass," Burgess said, getting up. "But I'll trip the bastard up before I'm done. Right now I'm off to catch up on some paperwork. They want everything in bloody quadruplicate down at the Yard."

Banks sat over the rest of his coffee wondering why so many people came back from America, where Burgess had been to a conference a few years ago, full of strange eating habits and odd turns of phrase — "pain in the ass" indeed!

Outside on Market Street tourists browsed outside shop windows full of polished antiques and knitted woollen wear. The bell of the Golden Grill jangled as people dropped in for a quick cup of tea.

Banks had arranged to meet Jenny for lunch in the Queen's Arms at one o'clock, which left him well over an hour to kill. He finished his drink and nipped over to the station. First, he had to enlist Richmond's aid on a very delicate matter.

II

Mara was busy making scones for the afternoon meeting when Paul walked into the kitchen. Her hands were covered with flour and she waved them about to show she'd embrace him if she could. Seth immediately threw his arms around Paul and hugged him. Mara could see his face over Paul's shoulder, and noticed tears in his eyes. Rick slapped Paul on the back and Zoe kissed his cheek. "I did the cards," she told him. "I knew you were innocent and they'd have to let you go." Even Julian and Luna, caught up in the adults' excitement, did a little dance around him and chanted his name.

"Sit down," Seth said. "Tell us about it."

"Hey! Let me finish this first." Mara gestured at the half-made scones. "It won't take a minute. And it was your idea in the first place."

"I tell you what," Paul said. "I could do with a cup of tea. That prison stuffs piss-awful."

"I'll make it." Seth reached for the kettle. "Then we'll all go in the front room."

Mara carried on with the scones, readying them for the oven, and Seth put the kettle on. The others all wandered into the front room except for Paul, who stood nervously behind Mara.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You know…"

She turned and smiled at him. "Forget it. I'm just glad you're back. I should never have doubted you in the first place."

"I was a bit… well, I did lie. Thanks for tipping me off, anyway. At least I had a chance."

The kettle started boiling, and Seth hurried back in to make tea. Mara put the tray of scones in the oven and washed her hands.

"Right," she said, drying them on her apron. "I'm ready."

They sat down in the living-room and Seth poured tea.

"Come on, then," he urged Paul.

"Come on, what?"

"Tell us what happened."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Where did you go?"

Paul lit a Players and spat a strand of loose tobacco from his upper lip. "Edinburgh," he said. "Went to see an old mate, didn't I?"

"Did he help you?" Mara asked.

Paul snorted. "Did he fuck. Bastard's changed a lot. I found the building easy enough. It used to be one of those grotty old tenements, but it's all been tarted up now. Potted plants in the stairwell and all that. Anyway, Ray answers the door, and he doesn't recognize me at first — at least he pretends he doesn't. I hardly knew him, either. Wearing a bloody suit, he was. We say hello and then this bird comes out — hair piled up on top of her head and a black dress slit right down the front to her belly button. She's carrying one of those long-stemmed wineglasses full of white wine, just for the effect. 'Who's this, Raymond?' she says, right lahdedah, like, and I head for the stairs."

"You didn't stay?" Mara said.

"Are you joking?"

"Do you mean your old friend wouldn't let you in?"

"Gone up in the world has old Raymond. Seems he was entertaining the boss and the wife — he's in computers — and he didn't want any reminders of his past. Used to be a real wild boy, but… Anyway, I left. Oh, I reckon he might have let me in if I'd pushed hard enough, stuck me in the cupboard or somewhere out of the way. But I wasn't having any."

"So where did you go?" Seth asked.

"Just walked around for a while till I found a pub."

"You didn't walk the streets all night, did you?" Mara asked.

"Like hell. It was colder than a witch's tit up there. This is bloody Scotland we're talking about. First thing the next morning I bought myself a duffle coat just to keep from freezing to death."

"What did you do then, after you left the pub?"

"I met this bloke there," Paul said, reddening. "He said I could go back to his place with him. Look, I know what you're thinking. I'm not a fucking queer. But when you're on the streets, just trying to survive, you do what you have to, right? He was a nice enough bloke, anyway, and he didn't ask no awkward questions. Careful, he was, too, if you know what I mean. Next day I was going to head for Glasgow and look up another old mate, but I thought fuck that for a lark, best thing to do is get straight to Ireland. I've got mates there, and I don't think they've changed. If I'd got to Belfast, nobody would have found me."

"So what went wrong?" Seth asked.

Paul laughed harshly. "Bloody ferry dock. I goes up to this shop — bloke to buy some fags and when I walk away he shouts after me. I can't understand a bleeding word he's saying on account of the Jock accent, like, but this copper sees us and gives me the look. I get nervous and take off and the bastards catch me."

"Did the shopkeeper recognize you?" Mara asked. "Your picture was in the papers, you know."

"Nan. I'd just given him too much bloody money, that's all. He was shouting he wanted to give me my fucking change." Paul laughed and the others laughed with him. "It wasn't so funny at the time," he added.

"What did the police do?" asked Rick.

"They've charged me with being an accessory. I'll have to go to court."

"Then what?" Mara asked.

Paul shrugged. "With my record I'll probably end up doing porridge again. That copper with the scar seems to think I might get off if they get a sympathetic jury. I mean, sometimes you respect people for standing by their mates, right?

He says he might be able to get the charge reduced to giving false information and wasting police time. I'd only get six months max, then. But the other bloke tells me I'm looking at ten years. Who do you believe?"

"If you're lucky," Mara said, "Burgess might be gone by then and Banks'll take it easy on you."

"What's wrong with him? He soft or something?"

Seth shook his head. "Somehow I don't think so, no. He just has a different technique."

"They're all bastards when you get right down to it," Rick added.

Paul agreed. "So what's been happening here?" he asked. Seth filled him in on the police visits. "Apart from that, not much really. We've all been worrying about you most of the time." He ruffled Paul's hair. "Glad you're back, kid. Nice new haircut, too."

Paul blushed. "Fuck off. Anyway, nothing's changed, has it?"

"What do you mean?" Mara asked.

"Well, they still don't have their killer and they're not going to stop till they do. And if they don't get someone else, I'm still their best bet. That Burgess bastard made that quite clear."

"Don't worry about it," Seth said. "We won't let them blame it on you."

Paul looked at his watch. "Nearly opening time," he said. "I could do with a pint and some nosh."

"We'll have to eat at the pub today, anyway," Mara said. "I've not made any dinner. What with that meeting and all…."

"What meeting?" Paul asked.

"We're getting together to talk about the demo this afternoon," Rick said.

"Dennis is bringing Tim and Abha up about three. We want to look over statements and stuff to prove police brutality."

"Well you can count me out," Paul said. "I've had enough of that bleeding demo, and those fucking do — gooders. Sod 'em all."

"You don't have to stick around," Mara told him. "Not if you don't want."

"I think I'll go for a walk," Paul said, calming down. "Being cooped up in that cell hasn't done my head much good."

"And I've got work to do," Seth said. "I've got to finish that bureau today. It's already overdue."

"What's this?" Rick said. "Is everybody copping out on us?"

"I'll put my two penn'orth in, first, don't worry," Seth said. "Then I'll get some work done. As for now, I think Paul's right. They do a nice Sunday lunch at the Black Sheep and I'm starving."

Seth put his arm around Paul. The others stood up and went for their coats. In the fresh spring air, the seven of them walked down the track to Relton, happy together for the last time. Except for Mara. The others might realize it, too, she thought, but nobody's saying anything. If Paul isn't guilty, then someone else here is.

III

Jenny was already waiting when Banks came into the Queen's Arms at lunch-time. Hungry, he arranged with Cyril for a few slices of roast leg of lamb. Glenys wasn't around, and Cyril, though he said nothing, seemed distracted.

"So," Jenny said, resting her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands, "what's new? Dennis told me you dropped by. Thanks for going."

"He didn't thank me."

Jenny smiled. "Well, he wouldn't, would he?"

"You didn't tell me it was you who persuaded him to talk to me in the first place."

The lines around her eyes crinkled. "Didn't I? Sorry. But did you find anything out?"

"Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"It means no, I suppose. Have you ever noticed a blue Escort with two burly men in it hanging around Osmond's place?"

"No. Haven't you got any ideas, Alan?"

"Maybe one. It seems a bit far-fetched, but if I'm right… "

"Right about what?"

"Just an idea, that's all."

"Can you tell me?"

"I'd rather not. Best wait and see. Richmond's working on it."

"When will you know?"

"Tomorrow, I hope."

The food arrived. "I'm starving," Jenny said, and the two ate in silence.

When he'd finished, Banks bought another round of drinks and lit a cigarette. Then he explained his doubts about Paul Boyd's guilt.

"Are you any closer to catching the real killer?" Jenny asked.

"It doesn't look like it. Boyd's still the closest we've got."

"I can't believe that Dennis is a murderer, you know."

"Are you speaking as a psychologist?"

"No. As a woman."

"I think I'd trust that opinion more if it came from a professional."

Jenny arched her eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

"Don't bristle, it doesn't suit you. I mean that people — men and women — tend to be very protective about whoever they get involved with. It's only natural — you know that as well as I do. And not only that, but they deliberately blinker themselves sometimes, even lie. Look what Boyd did. If he really is innocent of murder, then he sure as hell risked a lot. And think about how Mara behaved. Whichever way you look at it now, it comes down to Seth, Rick or Zoe — with Mara, Tim and Abha, and your Dennis running close behind."

"All right. As a professional, I don't think Dennis did it."

"Just how much do you know about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind."

"What? Come on. Out with it. If there's something I should know, tell me."

Banks took a deep breath. "Would you say Osmond is the kind of person to hit women?"

"What?"

Haltingly, Banks told her about Ellen Ventner. The more he said, the paler she became. Even as he told her, Banks wasn't sure of his motives. Was he doing it because he was worried about her association with Osmond, or was it out of pure vindictive jealousy?

"I don't believe it," she whispered.

"Believe it. It's true."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I didn't want to tell you. You pushed me into it."

"It was you who made me push you. You must have known how bloody humiliated it would make me feel."

Banks shrugged. He could feel her starting to turn her anger against him. "I'm sorry, that's not what I intended. He could be dangerous, Jenny. And I don't know about you, but I have problems understanding a person who rescues defenceless women from police brutality in public and beats them up in private."

"You said it only happened once. There's no need to go making him into a monster. What do you expect me to do? Chuck him over just because he made a mistake?"

"I expect you to be careful, that's all. Osmond hit a woman once, put her in hospital, and he's also a suspect in a murder investigation. In addition, he seems to think the CIA, the KGB and MI5 are all after him. I'd say that merits a little caution, wouldn't you?"

Jenny's eyes glittered. "You've never liked Dennis right from the start, have you? You've never even given him a chance. And now as soon as you find a bit of dirt on him, you sling it at me. Just what the bloody hell do you hope to achieve, Alan? You're not my keeper. I can take care of myself. I don't need a big brother to look out for me."

She picked up her coat and swept out of the pub, knocking over her glass as she went. Faces turned to stare and Banks felt himself flush. Good one, Alan, he said to himself, you handled that really well.

He followed her outside, but she was nowhere in sight. Cursing, he went back to his office and tried to occupy his mind with work.

After a couple of false starts, he finally got through to Rick's wife's sister at her home in Camden Town. She sounded cagey and Banks first had to assure her that his call had nothing at all to do with the custody battle. Even then, she didn't sound as if she believed him.

"I just need some information about Rick's wife, that's all," he said. "Were you always good friends?"

"Yes," the sister answered. "Our ages are close, so we always supported one another, even after she married Rick. I don't want you to think I've anything against him, by the way. He's selfish and egotistical, but then most men are. Artists even more so. And I'm sure he's a good father. Pam certainly wasn't capable of taking care of Julian when they split up."

"And now?"

"She's getting there. It's a long road, though, alcoholism."

"Did Pam ever have any connections up north?"

"Up north? Good Lord, no. I don't think she's ever been farther north than Hendon."

"Not even for a visit?"

"No. What's there to visit, anyway? It's all canals and slag heaps, isn't it?"

"So she's spent most of her life in either London or Cornwall?"

"Yes. They had a few months in France some years ago. Most painters seem to gravitate towards France at one time or another. But that's all."

"Have you ever heard her mention a policeman called Gill — PC Edwin Gill, number 1139?"

"I've never heard her mention any policemen. No, I tell a lie. She said the local pub in Cornwall stayed open till all hours when the bobby was there. But I don't think that'd be your PC Gill."

"No," Banks said, "it wouldn't. Did she ever attend political demonstrations — Greenham Common, the Aldermaston march, that kind of thing?"

"Pam's never been very political. Wisely so, if you ask me. What's the point? You can't trust one lot more than the other. Is that all, Chief Inspector?"

"Is she there? Can I talk to her?"

There was a short pause and Banks heard muffled sounds from the other end of the line. Finally, he could hear the phone changing hands and another voice came on — husky and weary, as if doped or ill.

"Yes?"

Banks asked her the same questions he'd asked her sister, and the answers were the same. She spoke hesitantly, with long pauses between each sentence.

"Are the police involved in this custody battle?" Banks asked.

"Uh, no," she answered. "Just… you know… lawyers."

Naturally, Banks thought. "And you've never heard of PC Gill?"

"Never."

"Has your sister visited Yorkshire recently?" Banks asked the question as soon as it came to him. After all, the sister might have got herself involved somehow.

"No. Here… looking after me. Can I go now? I've got to… I don't know anything."

"Yes," Banks said. "That's all. Thanks for your time."

He hung up and made notes on the conversation while it was fresh in his mind. The one thing that struck him as odd was that neither of the women had asked about Julian, about how he was. Why, he wondered, did Rick's wife want custody if she didn't even care that much about the child? Spite? Revenge? Julian would probably be better off where he was.

Next he called the Hebden Bridge police and asked for PC Brooks.

"Sorry to bother you again, Constable," he said. "I should probably have asked you all this before, but there's been rather too much going on here. Can you tell me anything about Alison Cotton, the woman who was killed in the car accident?"

"I remember her all right, sir," Brooks said. "It was my first accident and I… well… I, er…"

"I know what you mean. It happens to us all. Did you know her before the accident?"

"Oh, aye. She'd been here a few years, like, ever since the artsy types discovered us, you might say."

"And Alison was artsy?"

"Aye. Helped organize the festival, poetry readings, that kind of thing. She ran the bookshop. I suppose you already know that."

"What kind of a person was she?"

"She were a right spirited lass. Proper bonny, too. She wrote things. You know, poems, stories, stuff like that. I tried reading some in the local paper but I couldn't make head nor tail of it. Give me 'Miami Vice' or 'Dynasty' any day."

"Was she ever involved in political matters — marches, demos, things like that?"

"Well," PC Brooks said, "we never had many things like that here. A few, but nowt much. Mostly 'Save the Whales' and 'Ban the Bomb.' I don't know as she was involved, though she did sometimes write bits for the paper about not killing animals for their fur and not making laboratory mice smoke five hundred fags a day. And about them women outside that missile base."

"Greenham Common?"

"That's the one. When it comes down to it, I dare say she was like the rest, though. If some bandwagon came along, they jumped on it."

"Ever heard of a PC Gill, 1139, from Scarborough?"

"Only what I've read in the papers, sir. I hope you catch the bastard who did it."

"So do I. What about a friend of Cotton's called Elizabeth Dale? Heard of her?"

"Oh, aye. Liz Dale hung around with the Cotton crowd all right. Thick as thieves. I felt sorry for her, myself. I mean it's like a sickness, isn't it, when you get so you need something all the time."

"Was she a registered addict?"

"Aye. She never really gave us any trouble. We just like to keep an eye on them, that's all, make sure they're not selling off half their prescriptions."

"What kind of person is she?"

"Moody," Brooks said. "She got off drugs, but she were never really right afterwards. One day she'd be up, the next down. Right bloody yo-yo. But there was a lass with strong political opinions."

"Liz Dale was political?"

"Aye. For a while, at least. Till she got it out of her system. Like I said, bandwagon."

"But she was keener than the rest?"

"I'd say so, yes. Now Seth, he was never much more than partly interested. Rather be slicing up a piece of wood. And Alison, like I said, well, she had a lot of energy and she had to put it somewhere, but she was more your private, artistic type. But Liz Dale, she was up to her neck in everything at one time."

"Were Liz Dale and Alison Cotton especially close?"

"Like sisters."

Banks thought of the complaint Dale had made against PC Gill. From that, he already knew she had attended at least one demonstration and come across him. Perhaps there had been others, too. Alison Cotton could have been with her. Perhaps this was the link he was looking for. But so what? Alison was dead; Reginald Lee had run her over by accident. It still didn't add up, unless everyone was lying and Liz Dale had been at Maggie's Farm and at the Eastvale demonstration. Banks didn't know her, but if she did have a history of drug abuse, there was a chance she might be unbalanced.

"Thanks a lot," Banks said. "You've been a great help."

"I have? Oh, well—"

"Just one more thing. Do you know where Liz Dale lives?"

"Sorry, I can't help you there, sir. She's been away from here a few years now. I've no idea at all."

"Never mind. Thanks anyway."

Banks broke the connection and walked over to the window. At the far side of the square, just outside the National Westminster bank, a rusty blue Mini had slammed into the back of a BMW, and the two drivers were arguing. Automatically, Banks phoned downstairs and asked Sergeant Rowe to send someone over. Then he lit a cigarette and started thinking.

He certainly needed to know more about Liz Dale. If he could prove that she had been in the area at the time of the demo, then he had someone else with a motive for wanting to harm Gill. The Dale woman could easily have visited the farm one day earlier that week and taken the knife — Mara said that no one paid it any mind as a rule. If nobody had seen her, perhaps she had walked in and taken it while everyone was out. But was she at the demo? And why use Seth's knife? Did she have some reason other than revenge for wanting Gill dead? Obviously the best way to get the answer to that was to find Dale herself. Surely that couldn't prove too difficult.

As PC Craig approached the two drivers in the market square, Banks walked over to his filing cabinet.

IV

Mara stood inside the porch with Rick and Zoe and waved goodbye to Dennis Osmond and the others as they drove off. The sky was darkening in the west, and that early — evening glow she loved so much held the dale in its spell, spreading a blanket of silence over the landscape. Flocks of birds crossed the sky and lights flicked on in cottages down in Relton and over the valley in Lyndgarth.

"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."