A Necessary End

I

Banks and Burgess rushed through the dark garden to Seth's workshop, where a bare bulb shone inside the half-open door. Normally, they would have been more careful on their approach to the scene, but the weather was dry and a stone path led between the vegetable beds to the shed, so there was no likelihood of footprints.

Burgess pushed the door open slowly and they walked in. Mixed with the scents of shaved wood and varnish was the sickly metallic smell of blood. Both men had come across it often enough before to recognize it immediately.

At first, they stood in the doorway to take in the whole scene. Seth was just in front of them, wearing his sand-coloured smock, slumped over his work-bench. His head lay on the surface in a small pool of blood, and his arms dangled at his side. From where Banks was standing, it looked as if he had hit his head on the vice clamped to the bench slightly to his left. On the concrete floor over in the right-hand corner stood a small bureau in the Queen Anne style, its finish still wet, a rich, glistening nut-brown. At the far end of the workshop, another bare light bulb shone over the area Seth used for office work.

It was only when Banks moved forward a pace that he noticed he had stepped in something sticky and slippery. The light wasn't very strong and most of the floor space around

Seth was in semi-darkness. Kneeling, Banks saw that what he had first taken for shadow was, in fact, more blood. Seth's feet stood at the centre of a large puddle of blood. It hadn't come from the head wound, though, Banks realized, examining the bench again. There hadn't been much bleeding and none of the blood seemed to have dribbled off the edge. Bending again, he caught sight of a thin tubular object, a pen or a pencil, perhaps, half-submerged in the pool. He decided to leave it for the forensic team to deal with. They were on their way from Wetherby and should arrive shortly after Dr Glendenning and Peter Darby, the young photographer, neither of whom had as far to travel.

Leaving the body, Banks walked cautiously to the back of the workshop where the old Remington stood on its desk beside the filing cabinet. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. Leaning forward, Banks was able to read the message: "I did it. I killed the policeman Gill. It was wrong of me. I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused. This is the best way. Seth."

He called Burgess over and pointed out the note to him.

Burgess raised his eyebrows and whistled softly between his teeth. "Suicide, then?"

"Looks like it. Glendenning should be able to give us a better idea."

"Where the hell is this bloody doctor, anyway?" Burgess complained, looking at his watch. "It can't take him that long to get here. Everywhere's within pissing distance in this part of the country."

Burgess and Glendenning hadn't met yet, and Banks was looking forward to seeing Dirty Dick try out his aggressive arrogance on the doctor. "Come on," he said, "there's nothing more to do in here till the others arrive. We'll only mess up the scene. Let's go outside for a smoke."

The two of them left the workshop and stood in the cool evening air.

Glendenning, Banks knew, would smoke wherever he wanted and nobody had ever dared say a word to him, but then he was one of the top pathologists in the country, not a lowly chief inspector or superintendent.

From the doorway of the shed, they could see the kitchen light in the house. Someone-Zoe, it looked like — was filling a kettle. Mara had taken the news very badly, and Rick had called the local doctor for her. He had also phoned the Eastvale station, which surprised Banks, given Rick's usual hostility. Still, Seth Cotton was dead, there was no doubting that, and Rick probably knew there would be no way of avoiding an investigation. It made more sense to start out on the right foot rather than have to explain omissions or evasions later. Banks wondered whether to go inside and have a chat with them, but decided to give them a bit longer. They would have probably got over the immediate shock by the time Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team had finished.

At last, the back door opened and the tall, white-haired doctor crossed the garden, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was closely followed by a fresh-faced lad with a camera bag slung over his shoulder.

"About bloody time," Burgess said.

Glendenning gave him a dismissive glance and stood in the doorway while Darby did his work. Banks and Burgess went back into the workshop to make sure he photographed everything, including the blood on the floor, the pen or pencil, the Queen Anne bureau and the typewriter. When Darby had finished, Glendenning went in. He was so tall he had to duck to get through the door.

"Watch out for the blood," Banks warned him.

"And there's no smoking at the scene," Burgess added. He got no answer.

Banks smiled to himself. "Ease up," he said. "The doc's a law unto himself."

Burgess grunted but kept quiet while Glendenning felt for a pulse and busied himself with his stethoscope and thermometer.

About fifteen minutes later, while Glendenning was still making calculations in his little red notebook, the forensic team arrived, headed by Vic Manson, the fingerprints man. Manson was a slight, academic-looking man in his early forties. Almost bald, he plastered the few remaining hairs over the dome of his skull, creating an effect of bars shadowed on an egg. He greeted the two detectives and went inside with the team. As soon as he saw the workshop, he turned to Banks. "Bloody awful place to look for prints," he said.

"Too many rough surfaces. And tools. Have you any idea how hard it is to get prints from well-used tools?"

"I know you'll do your best, Vic," Banks said. He guessed that Manson was annoyed at being disturbed on a Sunday evening. Manson snarled and got to work alongside the others, there to take blood samples and anything else they could find.

Banks and Burgess went back outside and lit up again. A few minutes later, Glendenning joined them.

"What's the news, doc?" Burgess asked.

Glendenning ignored him and spoke directly to Banks. "He's dead, and that's about the only fact I can give you so far."

"Come on, doc!" said Burgess. "Surely you can tell us more than that."

"Can you ask your pushy friend here to shut up, just for a wee while?"

Glendenning said to Banks in a quiet, nicotine-ravaged voice redolent of Edinburgh. "And tell him not to call me doc."

"For Christ's sake." Burgess flicked the stub of his cigar into the vegetable patch and stuck his hands deep in his pockets. He was wearing his leather jacket over an open-necked shirt, as usual. The only concession he had made to the cold was a V-necked sweater. Now that darkness had come, their breath plumed in the air, lit by the eerie glow of the bare bulb inside the workshop.

Glendenning lit another cigarette and turned back to Banks, who knew better than to rush him. "It doesn't look to me," the doctor said slowly, "as if that head wound was serious enough to cause death. Don't quote me on it, but I don't think it fractured the skull."

Banks nodded. "What do you think was the cause?" he asked.

"Loss of blood. And he lost it from his ankles."

"His ankles?"

"Aye," Glendenning went on. "The veins on the insides of each ankle were cut. I found a blade-most likely from a plane-lying in the blood, and it looks like it might have been used for the job. I'll have to make sure, of course."

"So was it suicide?" Burgess asked.

Glendenning ignored him and went on speaking to Banks. "Most suicides with a penchant for gory death," he said, "slit their wrists. The ankles are just as effective, though, if not more so. But whether he inflicted the wounds himself or not, I canna say."

"He's tried that way before," Banks said. "And there was a note."

"Aye, well, that's your department, isn't it?"

"Which came first," Banks asked, "the head wound or the cut ankles?"

"That I can't say, either. He could have hit his head as he lost consciousness, or someone could have hit it for him and slit his ankles. If the two things happened closely in succession, it won't be possible to tell which came first, either. It looks like the head wound was caused by the vice. There's blood on it. But of course it'll have to be matched and the vice compared with the shape of the wound."

"How long has he been dead?" Banks asked. "At a guess."

Glendenning smiled. "Aye, you're learning, laddie," he said. "It's always a guess." He consulted his notebook. "Well, rigor's not much farther than the neck, and the body temperature's down 2.5 degrees. I'd say he's not been dead more than two or three hours."

Banks looked at his watch. It was six o'clock. So Cotton had probably died between three and four in the afternoon.

"The ambulance should be here soon," Glendenning said. "I called them before I set off. I'd better just bag the head and feet before they get here. We don't want some gormless young ambulance driver spoiling the evidence, do we?"

"Can you do the post-mortem tonight?" Banks asked.

"Sorry, laddie. We've the daughter and son-in-law down for the weekend. First thing in the morning?"

Banks nodded. He knew they'd been spoiled in the past by Glendenning's eagerness to get down to the autopsy immediately. It was more usual to be asked to wait until the next day. And to Glendenning, first thing in the morning was probably very early indeed.

The doctor went back inside, where Manson and his team were finishing up. A short while later, the ambulance arrived, and two white-coated men bearing a stretcher crossed to the workshop. Seth looked oddly comical now, with his head in a plastic bag. Like some creature out of a fifties horror film, Banks thought. The ambulance men tagged him, zipped him into a body bag and laid him on the stretcher.

"Can you leave by the side exit?" Banks asked, pointing to the large gate in the garden wall. "They're shook up enough in the house without having to see this."

The ambulance men nodded and left.

Manson came out five minutes later. "Lots of prints," he grumbled, "but most of them a mess, just as I thought. At first glance, though, I'd say they belong to only two or three people, not dozens."

"You'll get Seth's, of course," Banks said, "and probably Boyd's and some of the others. Could you get anything from the blade?"

Manson shook his head. "Sorry. It was completely covered in blood. And the blood had mixed to a paste with the sawdust on the floor. Very sticky. You'd have to wipe it all off to get anywhere, and if you do that…" He shrugged. "Anyway, the doc's taken it with him to match to the wounds."

"What about the typewriter?"

"Pretty smudged, but we might get something. The paper, too. We can treat it with graphite."

"Look, there's a handwriting expert down at the lab, isn't there?"

"Sure. Geoff Tingley. He's good."

"And he knows about typewriting, too?"

"Of course."

Banks led Manson back into the workshop and over to the old Remington. The suicide note was now lying beside it. Also on the desk was a business letter Seth had recently written and not posted. "Dear Mr Spelling," it read, "I am most grateful for your compliments on the quality of my work, and would certainly have no objection to your spreading the word in the Wharfedale area. Whilst I always endeavour to meet both deadlines and quality standards, I am sure you realize that, this being a one-man operation, I must therefore limit the amount of work I take on." It went on to imply that Mr Spelling should seek out only the best jobs for Seth and not bother him with stacks of minor repairs and commissions for matchbox-holders or lamp stands.

"Can you get Mr Tingley to compare these two and let us know if they were typed by the same person?"

"Sure." Manson looked at the letters side by side. "At a pinch I'd say they weren't. Those old manual typewriters have all kinds of eccentricities, it's true, but so do typists. Look at those 'e's, for a start."

Banks looked. The 'e's in Seth's business letter had imprinted more heavily than those in his suicide note.

"Still," Manson went on, "better get an expert opinion. I don't suppose his state of mind could be called normal, if he killed himself." He placed each sheet of paper in an envelope. "I'll see Geoff gets these first thing in the morning."

"Thanks, Vic." Banks led the way outside again.

Burgess stood with his hands still in his pockets in the doorway beside Peter Darby, who was showing him the polaroids he'd taken before getting down to the real work. He raised his eyebrows as Banks and Manson joined him. "Finished?"

"Just about," Banks said.

"Time for a chat with the inmates, then." Burgess nodded towards the house.

"Let's take it easy with them," Banks said. "They've had a hell of a shock."

"One of them might not have had, if Cotton was murdered. But don't worry, I won't eat them."

In the front room, Zoe, Rick, Paul and the children sat drinking tea with the doctor, a young female GP from Relton. A fire blazed in the hearth and candles threw shadows on the whitewashed walls. Music played quietly in the background. Banks thought he recognized Bach's Third Brandenburg Concerto.

"Mara's under sedation," Rick said. "You can't talk to her."

"That's right," the doctor agreed, picking up her bag and reaching for her coat. "I just thought I'd wait and let you know. She took it very badly, so I've given her a sedative and put her to bed. I'll be back in the morning to check."

Banks nodded, and the doctor left.

"How about some tea?" Burgess said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. "It's real brass-monkey weather out there."

Rick scowled at him, but Zoe brought two cups and poured the steaming liquid.

Burgess smiled down at her. "Three lumps and a splash of milk, love, please."

"What happened?" Zoe asked, stirring in the sugar. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

"That's for you to tell us, isn't it?" Burgess said. He really was being quite polite, Banks noticed. "All we know is that Seth Cotton is dead and it looks like suicide. Has he been depressed lately?" He took a sip of tea and spluttered. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's Red Zinger," Zoe said. "No caffeine. You shouldn't really have milk and sugar with it."

"You're telling me." Burgess pushed the tea aside. "Well, was he?

"He was upset when Paul was in jail," Zoe answered. "But he cheered up this morning. He seemed so happy today."

"And he never said anything about ending it all?"

"Never." Zoe shook her head.

"I gather you had some kind of meeting this afternoon," Banks said. "Who was here?"

Rick eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.

"Just Dennis Osmond, Tim and Abha, that's all," Zoe answered.

"What time were they here?"

"They arrived about half-two and left around five."

"Were you all present?"

Zoe shook her head. "Seth stayed for a few minutes then went to… to work."

"And I went for a walk," Paul said defiantly. "I needed some fresh air after being cooped up in your bloody jail for so long."

"Not half as long as you will be if you don't knock off the cheek, sonny," said Burgess.

"Was it you who found the body?" Banks asked.

"Yes."

"Don't be shy. Tell us about it," Burgess prompted him.

"Nothing to tell, really. I just got back from my walk and decided to look in on Seth and see how he was doing. I helped him, you know. I was sort of an apprentice. When I opened the door—"

"The door was closed?" Burgess asked.

"Yes. But it wasn't locked. Seth never locked it."

"And what did you see?"

"You know what I saw. He was sprawled out on the bench, dead."

"How did you know he was dead? Did you feel his heart?"

"No, of course I didn't. I saw the blood. I called his name and he didn't answer. I just knew."

"Did you touch anything?" Banks asked.

"No. I ran in here and told the others."

"Did you go near the typewriter?"

"Why should I? I didn't even notice the bloody thing. All I saw was Seth, dead."

It was hard to know whether or not he was telling the truth. The shock of what he'd seen made his responses vague and defensive.

"So you left everything just as you found it?" Banks said.

"Yes."

"This afternoon, during the meeting," Burgess asked, "did anyone leave the room for any length of time?"

"We all left at one time or another," said Zoe. "You know, to go to the toilet, stretch our legs, whatever."

"Was anyone gone for a long time?"

"I don't know. We were talking. I don't remember."

"So someone could have been away for, say, ten minutes?"

"I suppose so."

"I know you were all busy playing at being concerned citizens," Burgess said, "but surely one of you must have noticed if anyone was gone too long?"

"Look," Rick cut in, "I thought you said it was suicide. What are you asking these questions for?"

"I said it looked like suicide," Burgess answered coldly. "And I'll ask whatever bloody questions I think necessary, without any comments from you, Leonardo, thank you very much."

"Did any of you hear the typewriter at any time this afternoon?" Banks asked.

"No," Zoe answered. "But we wouldn't anyway. The walls are thick and the workshop's right at the far end of the garden. Well… you've seen where it is. We were all here in the front room. We could never even hear Seth sawing or using his drill from here."

Banks glanced at Burgess. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of right now," the superintendent said, subdued again after his exchange with Rick. "I don't want any of you buggering off anywhere, hear me?" he added, wagging his finger and giving Paul a particularly menacing look. "There'll be more questions when we've got the results of the post-mortem tomorrow, so be available, all of you."

Banks and Burgess left them to their grief. Down the valley side, the lights of Relton looked inviting in the chilly darkness.

"Pint?" Burgess suggested.

"Just what I had in mind," said Banks. They got into the Cortina and bumped away down the track towards the Black Sheep.

II

The pillow felt like a cloud, the bed like cotton wool. Mara lay on her back, drifting, but not quite asleep. When she had first heard the news, she had lost control completely. The tears seemed to spurt from her eyes, her heart began to beat wildly, and the breath clogged in her throat. But the doctor's injection had taken care of all that, trading spasms and panic for clouds and cotton wool.

She could hear the muffled voices downstairs, as if from a great distance, and they made her think of those times when Seth and Liz Dale had stayed up late talking. How jealous she had been then, how insecure. But Liz was long gone, and Seth, they told her, was dead.

Dead. The thought didn't register fully through the layers of sedative. She thought she should still be crying and gasping for breath, but instead her body felt as heavy as iron and she could hardly move. Her mind seemed to have a life of its own, wandering over events and picking them out like those miniature mechanical cranes that dipped into piles of cheap trinkets and sweets at seaside arcades. You put your penny in — a real penny, large and heavy — and off the crane went, with its articulated grip, inside the glass case. You held down a button to make it swing over and pressed another to make it drop onto the heap of prizes. If you were lucky, you got a chocolate bar, a cigarette lighter or a cheap ring; if not, the metal claw came up empty and you'd wasted your money.

Mara had never won anything. Just as well, her father had always said: chocolate is bad for teeth; you're too young to smoke; and those rings will turn your finger green inside a week.

But her mind felt like one of those machines now, one she could not control. It circled her life, then swooped and snatched up the memory of the first time she and Seth had met. Just out of the ashram and eager to escape London, Mara had taken on a friend's flat in Eastvale when the friend emigrated to Canada.

She needed a job and decided to seek craft-work before falling back on her secretarial skills, which were pretty rusty by then. Luckily, she heard of Elspeth's shop in Relton and went out to see her. Dottie had just become too ill to work — the pottery workshop was hers — and Mara got the job of helping out in the shop and the use of the facilities. It didn't bring in much money, but it was enough, along with the commission on the pottery. Her rent wasn't very high and she lived cheaply. But she was lonely.

Then one day after work, she had dropped in at the Black Sheep. It was pay-day and she had decided to treat herself to a glass of lager and a cheese-and-onion sandwich. No sooner had she started to eat than Seth walked in. He stood at the bar, tall and slim, his neatly trimmed dark hair and beard frosted with grey at the edges. And when he turned around, she noticed how deep and sad his eyes were, how serious he looked. Something passed between them-Seth admitted later that he'd noticed it, too — and Mara felt shy like a teenager again. He smiled at her and she remembered blushing. But when he came over to say hello, there was no phoney coyness on her part; there were never any silly games between them.

He was the first person she'd met in the area with a background similar to her own. They shared tastes in music and ideas about self-sufficiency and the way the world should be run; they had been to the same rock festivals years ago, and had read the same books. She went back with him to the farm that night — he was the only one living there at that time — and she never really left, except to give her notice to her landlord and move her meagre belongings.

It was a blissful time, a homecoming of the spirit for Mara, and she thought she had made Seth happy, too, though she was always aware that there was a part of him she could never touch.

And now he was dead. She didn't know how, or what had killed him, just that his body had ceased to exist. Her spiritual beliefs, which she still held to some extent, told her that death was merely a beginning. There would be other worlds, other lives perhaps, for Seth's spirit, which was immortal. But they would never again drink wine together in bed after making love, he would never kiss her forehead the way he did before going to the workshop, or hold her hand like a boy on his first date on the way down to the Black Sheep. And that was what hurt: the absence of living flesh. The spirit was all very well, but it was far too nebulous an idea to bring Mara much comfort. The miniature crane withdrew from the heap of prizes and held nothing in its metal claw.

Downstairs, the voices droned on, more like music, a raga, than words with meaning. Mara felt as if her blood had thickened to treacle and darkened to the colour of ink. Her body was getting heavier and the lights in the glass case were going out; it was half in shadows now, the prizes indistinguishable from one another. And what happens when the lights go out in the fun-house? Mara began to dream.

She was alone on the moors. A huge full moon shone high up, but the landscape was still dark and bleak. She stumbled over heather and tussocks of grass, looking for something.

At last she came to a village and went into the pub. It was the Black Sheep, but the place was all modern, with video games, carpets and bare concrete walls. A jukebox was playing some music she didn't understand. She asked for the farm, but everyone turned and laughed at her, so she ran out. This time it was daylight outside, and she was no longer in Swainsdale. The landscape was unfamiliar, softer and more green, and she could smell a whiff of the ocean nearby.

In a hollow, she saw an old farmer holding wind chimes out in front of him. They made the same music as the jukebox and it frightened her this time. She found her voice and asked him where Maggie's Farm was. "Are you the marrying maiden?" he asked her, smiling toothlessly. "The basket is empty," he went on, shaking the wind chimes. "The man stabs the sheep. No blood flows. Misfortune."

Terrified, Mara ran off and found herself in an urban landscape at night. Some of the buildings had burned out and fires raged in the gutted shells; flames licked around broken windows and flared up high through fallen roofs. Small creatures scuttled in dark corners. And she was being followed, she knew it. She hadn't been able to see anyone, just sensed darting movements and heard rustling sounds behind her. For some reason, she was sure it was a woman, someone she should know but didn't.

Before the dream possessed her completely and turned her into one of the scavengers among the ruins, before the shadow behind tapped her on the shoulder, she struggled to wake up, to scream.

When she opened her eyes, she became conscious of someone sitting on the bedside pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. She thought it must be Seth, but when she turned and looked closely it was Zoe.

"Is it morning?" she asked in a weak voice.

"No," said Zoe, "it's only half-past nine."

"He really is dead, isn't he, Zoe?"

Zoe nodded. "You were having a nightmare. Go to sleep now." Mara closed her eyes again. The cool cloth smoothed her brow, and she began to drift. This time there was only darkness ahead, and the last thing she felt before she fell asleep was Zoe's hand gripping hers tightly.

III

"Anything wrong?" Larry Grafton asked, pulling Banks a pint of Black Sheep bitter.

Banks glanced at Burgess, who nodded.

"Seth Cotton's dead," he answered, and felt ears prick up behind him in the public bar, where most of the tables were occupied.

Grafton turned pale. "Oh no, not Seth," he said. "He was only in here this lunch-time. Not Seth?"

"How did he seem?" Banks asked.

"He was happy as a pig in clover," Grafton said. "That young lad was back and they all seemed to be celebrating. You're not telling me he killed himself, are you?"

"We don't know yet," Burgess said, picking up his pint of Watney's. "Anywhere quiet the chief inspector and I can have a little chat? Police business."

"Aye, you can use the snug. There's no one in there."

The snug was aptly named. Hidden away behind a partition of smoked glass and dark wood, there was room for about four people, and even that would be a tight squeeze.

Banks and Burgess made themselves comfortable, both of them practically draining their drinks before even reaching for smokes.

"Have a cigar," Burgess said, offering his tin.

"Thanks." Banks took one. He didn't enjoy cigars as a rule, but thought that if he tried them often enough he might eventually come to like them.

"And I think I'd better get a couple more drinks in before we start," Burgess said. "Thirsty work, this."

He was back in a moment carrying another pint of bitter for Banks and, this time, a pint of draught Guinness for himself.

"Right," he said, "I can tell you're not happy about this. Don't clam up on me, Banks. What's bothering you?"

"Let's take it at face value, for a start," Banks suggested. "Then maybe we can see what's wrong."

"Suicide?"

"Yes."

"But you don't think so?"

"No. But I'd like to play it through and see if I can pin down my ideas."

"All right. Cotton murdered Gill, then he was overcome with remorse and slit his ankles. Case closed. Can I go back to London now?"

Banks smiled. "But it's not as simple as that, is it? Why would Cotton murder PC Gill?"

Burgess ran a hand through his greying, Brylcreemed hair. "Bloody hell, I thought we'd been through all this before. We're talking about a political crime; call it an act of terrorism. Motive as such doesn't apply."

"But Seth Cotton was perhaps the least political of the lot of them," Banks argued. "Except maybe for Mara, or Zoe Hardacre. Sure, he was anti-nuclear, and he no doubt believed in social equality and the evils of apartheid. But so do I."

Burgess sniffed. "You might be the murder expert around here, but I know about terrorism. Believe me, anyone can get involved. Terrorists play on people's ideals and warp them to their own ends. It's like the brainwashing religious cults do."

"Do you think Gill's death was calmly planned and executed, or was it a crime of passion?" Banks asked.

"A bit of both. Things aren't so clear-cut in this kind of crime. Terrorists are very emotional about their beliefs, but they're cold and deadly when it comes to action."

"The only thing Seth Cotton cared passionately about was his carpentry, and perhaps Mara. If he did commit suicide, I doubt it was anything to do with politics."

"We have his note, don't forget. It's a confession."

"Let's leave that for later. Why did he kill himself? If he's the kind of person you're trying to make out he is, why would he feel remorse after succeeding in his aim? Why would he kill himself?"

Burgess doodled in the foam of his Guinness. "You expect too many answers, Banks. As often as not, there just aren't any. Can't you leave it at that?"

Banks shook his head and stubbed out the cigar. It tasted like last week's tea-leaves. He swigged some more Black Sheep bitter to get rid of the taste and lit a Silk Cut. "It's because there's too many questions," he said. "We still don't know much about Cotton's political background before he came to the farm, though if there'd been any subversive activity I'm sure Special Branch would have a record of it. And what about his behaviour over the last few days? How do you read that?"

"They said he seemed happy when Boyd was released. Is that what you mean?"

"Partly."

"Well, of course he'd be happy," Burgess said. "If he knew the kid wasn't guilty."

"Why should he care? It'd be better for a coldblooded terrorist to let someone else go down for what he'd done. So why kill himself?"

Burgess shrugged. "Because he knew we'd get to him soon."

"So why didn't he just disappear? Surely his masters would have taken care of him in Moscow or Prague or wherever."

"More likely Belfast. But I don't know. It's not unusual for suicides to appear happy once they've decided to end it all."

"I know that. I'm just not sure that he was happy because he'd decided to kill himself."

Burgess grunted. "What's your theory, then?"

"That he was killed, and it was made to look like a suicide."

"Killed by who?"

Banks ignored the question. "We won't know anything for certain until the doc does his post-mortem," he said, "but there's a few things that bother me about the note."

"Go on."

"It just doesn't ring true. The damn thing's neither here nor there, is it? Cotton confesses to killing Gill, but doesn't say why. All he says is, 'I don't know what came over me.' It doesn't square with what we know of him."

"Which is?"

"Precious little, I admit. He was a closed book. But I'd say he was the kind who'd either not bother with a note at all, or maybe he'd explain everything fully. He wouldn't come out with such a wishy-washy effort as the one we saw. I think he'd have used Gill's number, too, not his name. And I don't know if you had a good look, but it seemed very different from that business letter on the desk. The pressure on the characters was different, for a start."

"Yes," Burgess said, "but don't forget the state of mind he must have been in when he typed it."

"I'll grant you that. Still… and the style. Whoever wrote that suicide note had only very basic writing skills. But the business letter was more than competent and grammatically correct."

Burgess slapped the table. "Oh, come on Banks! What's the problem? Is it too easy for you? Business letters are always written in a different style; they're always a bit stuffy and wordy. You wouldn't write to a friend the same way you would in a business letter, would you, let alone a suicide note. A man writing his last words doesn't worry about grammar or how much pressure he puts on each letter."

"But that's just it. Those things are unconscious. Someone used to writing well doesn't immediately become sloppy just because he's under pressure. If anything, I'd have expected a more carefully composed message. And you don't think about how each finger hits the keys when you're typing. It's something you just do, and it doesn't vary much. Why leave it over in the typewriter, too? Why didn't he put it on the bench in front of him?"

"And what I'm saying," Burgess argued, "is that his state of mind could account for all your objections. He must have been disturbed. Contemplation of suicide has an odd effect on a man's character. You can't expect everything to be the same as usual when a bloke's on the verge of slitting his bloody ankles. And remember, you said he'd tried that before."

"That is a problem," Banks agreed. "Whoever did it must have known about the previous attempt and copied it to make it look more like a genuine suicide."

"That's assuming somebody else did it. I'm not sure I agree."

Banks shrugged. "Well see what forensic says about the note. But I'm not happy with it at all."

"What about the bureau?"

"What about it?"

"He'd obviously just finished it, hadn't he? The coat of varnish was still fresh. And he'd moved it to the corner of the workshop. Doesn't that imply anything?"

"That he was tidying things up behind him, you mean? Tying up loose ends?"

"Exactly. Just like a man on the point of suicide. He finished his last piece of work, put it carefully aside so he wouldn't get blood all over it, then he slit his fucking ankles. When he got weak and passed out, he hit his head on the vice, accounting for the head wound."

Banks stared into the bottom of his glass. "It could have happened that way," he said slowly. "But I don't think so."

"Which brings us back to the big question again," Burgess said. "If we're to follow your line of reasoning, if you are right, then who killed him?"

"It could have been any of them, couldn't it? Zoe said as much."

"Yes, but she might have said that to get herself and her mates off the hook. I'm thinking of one of them in particular."

"Who?"

"Boyd."

Banks sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."

"I'll bet you bloody were." Burgess leaned forward so suddenly that the glasses rattled on the table. Banks could smell the Guinness and cigar smoke on his breath. "If we play it your way, there's no getting around the facts. Boyd was missing all afternoon, unaccounted for. We only have his word that he was walking on the moors. I shouldn't think anybody saw him. It would have been easy for him to get in by the side gate and visit Seth while everyone in the house was wrapped up in their own little games. Nothing odd about that. He helped Seth a lot, and the shed would be full of his fingerprints anyway. They talk, and he kills Seth-pushes his head forward to knock him out on the vice, then slits his ankles." Burgess leaned back again, satisfied, and folded his arms.

"All right," Banks said. "I agree. It fits. But why? Why would Boyd kill Seth Cotton?"

Burgess shrugged. "Because he knew something to link Boyd to Gill's murder. It makes sense, Banks, you know it does. Why you're defending that obnoxious little prick is beyond me."

"Why was Cotton so miserable when Boyd was in jail," Banks asked, "and so happy when he came out?"

Burgess lit another Tom Thumb. "Loyalty, perhaps? He knew something and was worried he might be called on to give evidence. He wasn't sure he could carry on with his lies and evasions under pressure. Boyd gets out, so Cotton feels immediate elation. They talk. Cotton tells Boyd what he knows and how glad he is he won't have to testify under oath, so Boyd gets worried and kills him. Remember, Boyd knew he wasn't quite off the hook, whatever Cotton might have made of his release. And you know how terrified the kid is of enclosed spaces. He'd do anything to avoid a life sentence."

"And the note?"

"Let's say you're right about that. Boyd typed it to clear himself, put the blame on someone who isn't able to defend himself. It's a cowardly kind of act typical of someone like him. That explains the pressure on the keys and the literacy level. Boyd wasn't very well educated. He was spending most of his time on the streets by the time he was thirteen. And he couldn't explain anything about Cotton's motives because he killed Gill himself. So," Burgess went on, "even if we see it your way, I still come out right. Personally, I don't give a damn whether it was Boyd or Cotton. Either way, we've cracked it. Which way do you want to go? Toss a coin."

"I'm still not convinced."

"That's because you don't want to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know damn well what I mean. You've argued yourself into a corner. It was your idea to let Boyd out and see what happened. Well, now you've seen what's happened. No sooner is he out than there's another death. That makes you responsible."

Banks took a deep breath. There was too much truth for comfort in what Burgess was saying. He shook his head. "Somebody killed Seth," he said, "but I don't think it was Boyd. For all the kid's problems, I believe he genuinely cared. The people at Maggie's Farm are the only ones who have ever done anything for him, gone out on a limb."

"Come off it! That sentimental bullshit doesn't work on me. The kid's a survivor, an opportunist. He's nothing more than a street punk."

"And Cotton?"

Burgess sat back and reached for his glass. The chair creaked. "Good actor, accomplice, innocent bystander, conscience-stricken idealist? I don't bloody know. But it doesn't matter now, does it? He's dead. It's all over."

But Banks felt that it did matter. Somehow, after what had happened that afternoon, it seemed to matter more now than it ever had before.

"Is it?" he said. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and drained his glass. "Come on, let's go."