A Necessary End

I

Eastvale General Infirmary stood on King Street, about half a mile west of the police station, not far from the comprehensive school. Because the day was warming up nicely, Banks decided to walk. As he left the station, he turned on his Walkman and listened to Muddy Waters sing "Louisiana Blues" as he made his way through the warren of narrow streets with their cracked stone walls, gift shops and overpriced pubs.

The hospital itself was an austere Victorian brick building. About its high draughty corridors hung an air of fatalistic gloom. Not quite the hospital I'd choose if I were ill, Banks thought, fiddling with the Walkman's off-switch in his overcoat pocket.

The mortuary was in the basement, which, like the police station's cell area, was the most modern part of the building. The autopsy room had white-tiled walls and a central metal table with guttering around its edges to channel off the blood. A long lab bench, complete with Bunsen burners and microscopes, stretched along one wall, with shelving above it for jars of organs, tissue samples and prepared chemical solutions.

Fortunately, the table was empty when Banks entered. A lab assistant was in the process of scrubbing it down, while Glendenning stood at the bench, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Everyone smoked in the mortuary; they did it to keep the stench of death at bay.

The lab assistant dropped a surgical instrument into a metal kidney bowl. Banks winced at the sound.

"Let's go into the office," Glendenning said. "I can see you're a bit pink around the gills."

Glendenning's office was small and cluttered, hardly befitting a man of his stature and status, Banks thought. But this wasn't America; health care was hardly big business, despite private insurance plans. Glendenning took his white lab coat off, smoothed his shirt and sat down. Banks shifted some old medical journals from the only remaining chair and placed himself opposite the doctor.

"Coffee?"

Banks nodded. "Yes, please."

Glendenning picked up his phone and pressed a button. "Molly, dear, do you think you could scrape up two cups of coffee?" He covered the mouthpiece and asked Banks how he liked his. "One black no sugar, and the usual for me. Yes, three sugars, that's right. What diet? And don't bring that vile muck they drink at reception. What? Yes. I know you'd run out yesterday, but that's no excuse. I haven't paid my coffee money for three weeks? What is this, woman, the bloody Inquisition?" He hung up roughly, ran a hand through his white hair and sighed.

"Good help is hard to find these days. Now, Mr Banks, let's see what we have here." He riffled through the stack of papers on his desk.

He probably knew it all off by heart, Banks thought, but needed the security of his files and sheets of paper in front of him just as Richmond always liked to read from his notebook what he knew perfectly well in the first place.

"Seth Cotton, aye, poor chappie." Glendenning took a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his top pocket and held the report at arm's length as he peered down his nose at it. Having done with that, he put it aside, took off his glasses and sat back in his chair with his large but delicate hands folded on his lap. The coffee arrived, and Molly, giving her boss a disapproving glance on the way, departed.

"Last meal about three hours before death," Glendenning said. "And a good one, too, if I may say so. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding. What better meal could a condemned man wish for?"

"Haggis?"

Glendenning wagged his finger. "Dinna extract the urine, Mr Banks."

Banks sipped some coffee. It was piping hot and tasted good. Clearly it wasn't the "vile muck" from reception.

"No evidence of poisoning, or indeed of any other wounds bar the external. Mr Cotton was in perfectly good health until the blood drained out of his body."

"Was that the cause of death?"

"Aye. Loss of about five pints of blood usually does cause death."

"What about the blow to the head? Was it delivered before or after the cuts to the ankles?"

Glendenning scratched his head. "That I can't tell you. The vital reaction was quite consistent with a wound caused before death. As you saw for yourself, there was plenty of blood. And the leucocyte count was high — that's white blood cells to you, the body's little repairmen. Had the blow to the head occurred some time after death, then of course there would have been clear evidence to that effect, but the two wounds happened so closely together that it's impossible to say which came first. Cotton was certainly alive when he hit his head — or when someone hit it for him. But how long he survived after the blow, I can't tell. Of course, the head wound may have caused loss of consciousness, and it's very difficult to slash your ankles when you're unconscious, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Could he have hit his head while bending down to make the cuts?"

Glendenning pursed his lips. "I wouldn't say so, no. You saw the blood on the bench. None of it had trickled onto the floor. I'd say by the angle of the wound and the sharp edges of the vice that his head was resting exactly where it landed after the blow."

"Could someone have come up behind him and pushed his head down onto the vice?"

"Now you're asking me to speculate, Mr Banks. All I can tell you is that I found no signs of scratching or bruising at the back of the neck or the head."

"Does that mean no?"

"Not necessarily. If you come up behind someone and give his head a quick push before he has time to react, then I doubt it would show."

"So that means it must have been someone he knew. He'd have noticed anyone else creeping up on him. Whoever did it must have been in the workshop already, someone he didn't mind having around while he carried on working."

"Theories, theories," Glendenning said. "I don't know why you're not satisfied with suicide. There's absolutely no evidence to the contrary."

"No medical evidence, perhaps."

"I'm sorry," said Glendenning. "I'd like to be able to help you more, but those are the facts. While the blow to the head may well have caused complications had Mr Cotton lived, it was in no way responsible for his death."

"Complications? What complications?"

Glendenning frowned and reached for another cigarette from the box on his desk.

It looked antique, and Banks noticed some words engraved in ornate italics on the top: "To Dr C.W.S. Glendenning, on Successful Completion of…" He couldn't read the rest. He assumed it was some kind of graduation present.

"All kinds," Glendenning answered. "We don't know a great deal about the human brain, Mr Banks. A lot more than we used to, of course, but still not enough. Certain head wounds can result in effects far beyond the power of the blow and the extent of the apparent damage. Bone chips can lodge in the tissue, and even bruising can cause problems."

"What problems?"

"Almost anything. Memory loss-temporary or permanent-hearing and vision problems, vertigo, personality change, temporary lapses of consciousness. Need I go on?"

Banks shook his head.

"But in the case of Mr Cotton, of course, that's something we'll never know."

"No." Banks got to his feet. "Anyway, thank you very much, doctor."

Glendenning inclined his head regally.

On the way back to the station, Banks hardly heard Muddy Waters. According to Glendenning, Cotton could have been murdered, and that was enough for Banks. Of course, the doctor wouldn't commit himself — he never did — but even an admission of the possibility was a long way for him to go. If Burgess was right, there was a good chance Boyd had done it, and that left Banks with Seth's blood on his hands.

As if that weren't enough, something else nagged at him: one of those frustrating little feelings you can't quite define, like having a name at the tip of your tongue, or an itch you can't scratch. He didn't want to be premature, but it felt like the familiar glimmer of an idea. Disparate facts were coming together, and with a lot of hard thinking, a bit of help from the subconscious and a touch of luck, they might actually lead to the answer. He was still a long way from that as yet, and when Muddy Waters started singing "Still a Fool," Banks believed him.

It was after eleven o'clock, according to the church clock, and Burgess would be out questioning Osmond and the students. In his office, Banks called the forensic lab and asked for Vic Manson. He had to wait a few minutes, but finally Vic came on the line.

"The prints?" Banks asked.

"Yes. Four sets. At least four identifiable sets. One belongs to the deceased, of course, another to that Boyd character — the same as the ones we found on the knife — and two more."

"They'll probably be Mara's and one of the others'." Banks said. "Look, thanks a lot, Vic. I'll try and arrange to get the others fingerprinted for comparison. Is Geoff Tingley around?"

"Yep. Just a sec, I'll get him for you."

Banks could hear distant voices at the end of the line, then someone picked up the receiver and spoke. "Tingley here. Is it about those letters?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm almost positive they weren't typed by the same person. You can make a few allowances for changes in pressure, but these were so wildly different I'd say that's almost conclusive. I could do with a few more samples of at least one of the writers, though. It'll give me more variables and a broader scope for comparison."

"I'll see what I can do," Banks said. There were probably other examples of Seth's typing in the filing cabinet. "Would it do any good if we got a suspect to type us a sample?" he asked.

"Hmmm. It might do. Problem is if he knew what we were after it wouldn't be too difficult to fake it. I'd say this chap's a plodder, though. You can tell it's been pecked out by the overall high pressure, each letter very deliberately sought and pounced on, so to speak. Hunt-and-peck, as I believe they call the technique. The other chap was a better typist, still two fingers, I'd say, but fairly quick and accurate. Probably had a lot more practice. And there's another thing, too. Did you notice the writing styles of the letters were—"

"Yes," Banks said. "We spotted that. Good of you to point it out, though."Tingley sounded disappointed. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Thanks very much. I'll be in touch about the samples and testing. Could you put Vic on again? I've just remembered something."

"Will do."

"Are you still there?" Manson asked a few seconds later.

"Yes. Look, Vic, there's a couple more points. The typewriter for a start."

"Nothing clear on that, just a lot of blurs."

"Was it wiped?"

"Could have been."

"There was a cloth on that table, wasn't there? One of those yellow dusters."

"Yes, there was," said Manson. "Do you want me to check for fibres?"

"If you would. And the paper?"

"Same, nothing readable."

"What about that pen, or whatever it was we found on the floor. Have you had time to get around to that yet?"

"Yes. It's just an ordinary ball-point, a Bic. No prints of course, just a sweaty blur."

"Hmmm."

The pen had been found in the puddle of blood, just below Seth's dangling right arm. If he was right-handed, as Banks thought he was, he could have used the pen to write a note before he died. It could have just fallen there earlier, of course, but Seth had been very tidy, especially in his final moments. Perhaps he had written his own note, and whoever killed him took it and replaced it with the second version. Why? Because Seth hadn't murdered Gill and had said so clearly in his note? That meant he had committed suicide for some other reason entirely. Had he even named the killer, or was it an identity he had died trying to protect?

Too many questions, again. Maybe Burgess and Glendenning were right and he was a fool not to accept the easy solutions. After all, he had a choice: either Seth Cotton was guilty as the note indicated and had really killed himself, or Paul Boyd, fearing discovery, had killed him and faked the note. Banks leaned closer towards the second of these, but for some reason he still couldn't convince himself that Boyd had done it — and not only because he took the responsibility for letting the kid out of jail. Boyd certainly had a record, and he had taken off when the knife was discovered. He could be a lot tougher and more clever than anyone realized. If he was faking his claustrophobia, for example, so that even Burgess was more inclined to believe him because of his fear of incarceration, then anything was possible. But so far they had nothing but circumstantial evidence, and Banks still felt that the picture was incomplete.

He lit a cigarette and walked over to look down on the market square. It brought no inspiration today.

Finally, he decided it was time to tidy his desk before lunch. Almost every available square inch was littered with little yellow Post — it notes, most of which he had acted on ages ago. He screwed them all up and dropped them in the waste basket. Next came the files, statements and records he'd read to refresh his memory of the people involved. Most information was stored in the records department, but Banks had developed the habit of keeping brief files on all the cases he had a hand in. At the top was his file on Elizabeth Dale. Picking it up again, he remembered that he had just pulled it out of the cabinet, after some difficulty in locating it, when Sergeant Rowe had called with the news of Seth Cotton's death.

He opened the folder and brought back to mind the facts of the case — not even a case, really, just a minor incident that had occurred some eighteen months ago. Elizabeth Dale had checked herself into a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Huddersfield, complaining of depression, apathy and general inability to cope with the outside world. After a couple of days' observation and treatment, she had decided she didn't like the service and ran off to Maggie's Farm, where she knew that Seth Cotton, an old friend from Hebden Bridge, was living. The hospital authorities informed Eastvale that she had spoken about her friend with the house near Relton, and they asked the local social services to please check up and see if she was there.

She was. Dennis Osmond had been sent to the farm to try to convince her to return to the hospital for her own good, but Ms Dale remained adamant: she was staying at the farm. Osmond also had the nerve to agree that the place would probably do her good. In anger and desperation, the hospital sent out two men of its own, who persuaded Elizabeth to return with them. They had browbeaten her and threatened her with committal, or so Seth Cotton and Osmond had complained at the time.

Because Elizabeth Dale also had a history of drug addiction, the police were called out when the hospital employees said they suspected the people at the farm were using drugs.

Banks had gone out there with Sergeant Hatchley and a uniformed constable, but they had found nothing. Ms Dale went back to the hospital, and as far as Banks knew, everything returned to normal.

In the light of recent events, though, it became a more intriguing tale. For one thing, both Elizabeth Dale and Dennis Osmond were connected with PC Gill via the complaints they had made independently. And now it appeared there was yet another link between Osmond and Dale.

Where was Elizabeth Dale now? He would have to go to Huddersfield and find her himself. He'd learned from experience that it was absolutely no use at all dealing with doctors over the phone. But that would have to wait until tomorrow.

First, he wanted to talk to Mara again, if she was well enough. Before setting off, he considered phoning Jenny to try to make up the row they'd had on Sunday lunchtime.

Just as he was about to call her, the phone rang.

"Chief Inspector Banks?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Lawrence Courtney, of Courtney, Courtney and Courtney, Solicitors."

"Yes, I've heard of the firm. What can I do for you?"

"It's what I might be able to do for you," Courtney said. "I read in this morning's newspaper that a certain Seth Cotton has died. Is that correct?"

"That's right, yes."

"Well, it might interest you to know, Chief Inspector, that we are the holders of Mr Cotton's will."

"Will?"

"Yes, will." He sounded faintly irritated. "Are you interested?"

"Indeed I am."

"Would it be convenient for you to call by our office after lunch?"

"Yes, certainly. But look, can't you tell me—"

"Good. I'll see you then. About two-thirty, shall we say? Goodbye, Chief

Inspector."

Banks slammed the phone down. Bloody pompous solicitor. He cursed and reached for a cigarette. But a will? That was unexpected. Banks wouldn't have thought such a nonconformist as Seth would have bothered making a will. Still, he did own property, and a business. But how could he have had any idea that he was going to die in the near future?

Banks jotted down the solicitor's name and the time of the meeting and stuck the note to his desk. Then he took a deep breath, phoned Jenny at her university office in York, and plunged right in. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I know what it must have sounded like, but I couldn't think of a better way of telling you."

"I over-reacted." Jenny said. "I feel like an idiot. I suppose you were only doing your job."

"I wasn't going to tell you, not until I realized that being around Osmond really might be dangerous."

"And I shouldn't have mistaken your warning for interference. It's just that I get so bloody frustrated. Damn men! Why do I never seem able to choose the right one?"

"Does it matter to you, what he did?"

"Of course it matters."

"Are you going to go on seeing him?"

"I don't know." She affected a bored tone. "I was getting rather tired of him, anyway. Have there been any developments?"

"What in? The break-in or the Gill murder?"

"Well, both, seeing as you ask. What's wrong? You sound a bit tense."

"Oh, nothing. It's been a busy morning, that's all. And I was nervous about calling you. Have you read about Seth Cotton?"

"No. I didn't have time to look at the paper this morning. Why, what's happened?" Banks told her.

"Oh God. Poor Mara. Do you think there's anything I can do?"

"I don't know. I've no idea what state she's in. I'm calling on her later this afternoon. I'll mention your name if you like."

"Please do. Tell her how sorry I am. And if she needs to talk… What do you think happened, or can't you say?"

"I wish I could." Banks summed up his thoughts for her.

"And I suppose you're feeling responsible? Is that why you don't really want to consider that Boyd did it?"

"You're right about the guilt. Burgess would never have let him go if I hadn't pressed him."

"Burgess hardly seems like the kind of man to bow to pressure. I can't see him consenting to do anything he didn't want to."

"Perhaps you're right. Still… it's not just that. At least, I don't think so. There's something much more complex behind all this. And don't accuse me of overcomplicating matters — I've had enough of that already."

"Oh, we are touchy today, aren't we? I had no such thing in mind."

"Sorry. I suppose it's getting to me. About the breakin. I've got something in the works and we'll probably know by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest."

"What's it all about?"

"I'd rather not say yet. But don't worry, I don't think Osmond's in any kind of danger."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"If you're right?"

"Am I ever wrong? Look, before you choke, I've got to go now. I'll be in touch later."

Though where he had to go he wasn't quite certain. There was the solicitor, but that wasn't until two-thirty. Feeling vaguely depressed, he lit another cigarette and went over to the window. The Queen's Arms, that was it. A pie and a pint would soon cheer him up. And Burgess had made a tentative arrangement to meet there around one-thirty and compare notes.

II

Banks found the offices of Courtney, Courtney and Courtney on Market Street, quite close to the police station. Too close, in fact, to make it worthwhile turning on the Walkman for the journey.

The firm of solicitors was situated in what had once been a tea-shop, and the new name curved in a semicircle of gold lettering on the plate-glass window. Banks asked the young receptionist for Mr Lawrence Courtney, and after a brief exchange on the intercom, was shown through to a large office stacked with legal papers.

Lawrence Courtney himself, wedged behind a large executive desk, was not the prim figure Banks had expected from their phone conversation-three-piece suit, gold watch chain, pince-nez, nose raised as if perpetually exposed to a bad smell-instead he was a relaxed, plump man of about fifty with over-long fair hair, a broad, ruddy face and a fairly pleasant expression. His jacket hung behind the door. He wore a white shirt, a red and green striped tie and plain black braces. Banks noticed that the top button of the shirt was undone and the tie had been loosened, just like his own.

"Seth Cotton's will," Banks said, sitting down after a brisk damp handshake.

"Yes. I thought you'd be interested," said Courtney. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his pink, rubbery lips.

"When did he make it?"

"Let me see…. About a year ago, I think." Courtney found the document and read off the date.

"Why did he come to you? I'm not sure how well you knew him, but he didn't seem to me the kind of person to deal with a solicitor."

"We handled the house purchase," Courtney said, "and when the conveyance was completed we suggested a will. We often do. It's not so much a matter of touting for business as making things easier. So many people die intestate, and you've no idea what complications that leads to if there is no immediate family. The house itself, for example. As far as I know, Mr Cotton wasn't married, even under common law."

"What was his reaction to your suggestion?"

"He said he'd think about it."

"And he thought about it for two years?"

"It would appear so, yes. If you don't mind my asking, Chief Inspector, why all this interest in his reason for making a will? People do, you know."

"It's the timing, that's all. I was just wondering why then rather than any other time."

"Hmmm. I imagine that's the kind of thing you people have to think about. Are you interested in the contents at all?"

"Of course."

Courtney unfolded the paper fully, peered at it, then put it aside again and hooked his thumbs in his braces. "Not much to it, really," he said. "He left the house and what little money he had-somewhere in the region of two thousand pounds, I believe, though you'll have to check with the bank — to one Mara Delacey."

"Mara? And that's it?"

"Not quite. Oddly enough he added a codicil just a few months ago. Shortly before Christmas, in fact. It doesn't affect the original bequest, but merely specifies that all materials, monies and goodwill relating to his carpentry business be left to Paul Boyd, in the hope that he uses them wisely."

"Bloody hell!"

"Is something wrong?"

"It's nothing. Sorry. Mind if I smoke?"

"If you must." Courtney took a clean ashtray from his drawer and pushed it disapprovingly towards Banks. Undeterred, Banks lit up.

"The way I see things, then," Banks said, "is that he left the house and the money to Mara after he'd only known her for a year or so, and the carpentry business to Paul after the kid had only been at the farm for a couple of months."

"If you say so, Chief Inspector. It would indicate that Mr Cotton was quick to trust people."

"It would indeed. Or that there was nobody else he could even consider. I doubt that he'd have wanted his goods and chattels to go to the state. But who knows where Boyd might have got to by the time Cotton died of natural causes? Or Mara. Could he have had some idea that he was in danger?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that," Courtney said. "Our business ends with the legal formalities, and Mr Cotton certainly made no mention of an imminent demise. If there's anything else I can help you with, of course, I'd be more than willing."

"Thank you," said Banks. "I think that's all. Will you be informing Mara Delacey?"

"We will take steps to get in touch with beneficiaries in due course, yes."

"Is it all right if I tell her this afternoon?"

"I can't see any objection. And you might ask her — both of them, if possible — to drop by the office. I'll be happy to explain the procedure to them. If you have any trouble with the bank, Chief Inspector, please refer them to me. It's the National Westminster — or NatWest, as I believe they call themselves these days — the branch in the market square. The manager is a most valued client."

"I know the place." Know it, Banks thought, I practically stare at it for hours on end every day.

"Then goodbye, Chief Inspector. It's been a pleasure."

Banks walked out into the street more confused than ever. Before he got back to the station, however, he'd managed to put some check on his wild imaginings. The will probably didn't come into the case at all. Seth Cotton had simply had more foresight than many would have credited him with. What was wrong with that? And it was perfectly natural that, with his parents both dead and no close family, he would leave the house to Mara. And Paul Boyd was, after all, his apprentice. It was a gesture of faith and confidence on Seth's part.

Even if Mara and Paul had known what they had coming to them, neither, Banks was positive, would have murdered Seth to get it. Life for Mara was clearly better with Seth than without him, and whatever ugliness might be lurking in Boyd's character, he was neither stupid nor petty enough to kill for a set of carpenter's tools. So forget the will, Banks told himself. Nice gesture though it was, it is irrelevant. Except, perhaps, for the date. Why wait till two years after Courtney had suggested it before actually getting the business done? Procrastination?

It also raised a more serious question: had Seth felt that his life was in danger a year ago? If so, why had it taken so long for the danger to manifest itself? And had that fear somehow also renewed itself around Christmas time?

Before returning to his office, he nipped into the National Westminster and had no problem in getting details of Seth's financial affairs, such as they were: he had a savings account at £2343.64, and a current account, which stood at £421.33.

It was after three-thirty when he got back to the station, and there was a message from Vic Manson to the effect that, yes, fibres matching those from the duster had been found on the typewriter keys. But, Manson had added with typical forensic caution, there was no way of proving whether the machine had been wiped before or after the message had been typed. The pressure of fingers on the keys often blurs prints.

Banks's brief chat with Burgess over lunch had revealed nothing new, either. Dirty Dick had seen Osmond and got nowhere with him. Early in the afternoon he was off to see Tim and Abha, and he was quite happy to leave Mara Delacey to Banks. As far as Burgess was concerned, it was all over bar the shouting, but he wanted more evidence to implicate Boyd or Cotton with extremist politics. Most of the time he'd had his eye on Glenys, and he'd kept reminding Banks that it was her night off that night. Cyril, fortunately, had been nowhere in sight.

Banks left a message for Burgess at the front desk summarizing what Lawrence Courtney had said about Seth's will. Then he called Sergeant Hatchley, as Richmond was busy on another matter, to accompany him and to bring along the fingerprinting kit. He slipped the Muddy Waters cassette from his Walkman and hurried out to the car with it, a huffing and puffing Hatchley in tow. It was time to see if Mara Delacey was ready to talk.

"What do you think of Superintendent Burgess?" Banks asked Hatchley on the way. They hadn't really had a chance to talk much over the past few days.

"Off the record?"

"Yes."

"Well…" Hatchley rubbed his face with a hamlike hand. "He seemed all right at first. Bit of zip about him. You know, get up and go. But I'd have thought a whiz-kid like him would have got a bit further by now."

"None of us have got any further," Banks said. "What do you mean? The man's only flesh and blood after all."

"I suppose that's it. He dazzles you a bit at first, then…"

"Don't underestimate him," Banks said. "He's out of his element up here. He's getting frustrated because we don't have raving anarchists crawling out of every nook and cranny in the town."

"Aye," said Hatchley. "And you thought I was right wing."

"You are." Hatchley grunted.

"When we get to the farm, I want you to have a look in Seth's filing cabinet in the workshop," Banks went on, pulling onto the Roman road, "and see if you can find more samples of his typing. And I'd like you to fingerprint everyone. Ask for their consent, and tell them we can get a magistrate's order if they refuse. Also make sure you tell them that the prints will be destroyed if no charges are brought." Banks paused and scratched the edge of his scar. "I'd like to have them all type a few lines on Seth's typewriter, too, but we'll have to wait till it comes back from forensic. All clear?"

"Fine," Hatchley said.

Zoe answered the door, looking tired and drawn.

"Mara's not here," she said in response to Banks's question, opening the door only an inch or two.

"I thought she was under sedation."

"That was last night. She had a good long sleep. She said she felt like going to the shop to work on some pots, and the doctor agreed it might be good therapy. Elspeth's there in case… just in case."

"I'll go down to the village, then," Banks said to Hatchley. "You'll have to manage up here. Will you let the sergeant in, Zoe?"

Zoe sighed and opened the door.

"Are you coming back up?" Hatchley asked.

Banks looked at his watch. "Why not meet in the Black Sheep?"

Hatchley smiled at the prospect of a pint of Black Sheep bitter, then his face fell. "How do I get there?"

"Walk."

"Walk?"

"Yes. It's just a mile down the track. Do you good. Give you a thirst."

Hatchley wasn't convinced — he had never had any problems working up a thirst without exercise before — but Banks left him to his fate and drove down to Relton. Mara was in the back bent over her wheel, gently turning the lip of a vase. Elspeth led him through, muttered, "A policeman to see you," with barely controlled distaste, then went back into the shop itself.

Mara glanced up. "Let me finish," she said. "If I stop now, I'll ruin it." Banks leaned against the doorway and kept quiet. The room smelled of wet clay. It was also hot. The kiln in the back generated a lot of heat. Mara's long brown hair was tied back, accentuating the sharpness of her nose and chin as she concentrated. Her white smock was stained with splashed clay. Finally, she drenched the wheel-head with water, sliced off the vase with a length of cheese-wire, then slid it carefully onto her hand before transferring it to a board.

"What now?" Banks asked.

"It has to dry." She put it away in a large cupboard at the back of the room.

"Then it goes in the kiln."

"I thought the kiln dried it."

"No. That bakes it. First it has to be dried to the consistency of old cheddar."

"These are good," Banks said, pointing to some finished mugs glazed in shades of orange and brown.

"Thanks." Mara's eyes were puffy and slightly unfocussed, her movements slow and zombie-like. Even her voice, Banks noticed, was flatter than usual, drained of emotion and vitality.

"I have to ask you some questions," he said.

"I suppose you do."

"Do you mind?"

Mara shook her head. "Let's get it over with."

She perched at the edge of her stool and Banks sat on a packing crate just inside the doorway. He could hear Elspeth humming as she busied herself checking on stock in the shop.

"Did you notice anyone gone for an unusually long time during the meeting yesterday afternoon?" Banks asked.

"Was it only yesterday? Lord, it seems like months. No, I didn't notice. People came and went, but I don't think anyone was gone for long. I'm not sure I would have noticed, though."

"Did Seth ever say anything to you before about suicide? Did he ever mention the subject?"

Mara's lips tightened and the blood seemed to drain from them. "No. Never."

"He'd tried once before, you know."

Mara raised her thin eyebrows. "It seems you knew him better than I did."

"Nobody knew him, as far as I can tell. There was a will, Mara."

"I know."

"Do you remember when he made it?"

"Yes. He joked about it. Said it made him feel like an old man."

"Is that all?"

"That's all I remember."

"Did he say why he was making it at that time?"

"No. He just told me that the solicitor who handled the house, Courtney, said he should, and he'd been thinking about it for a long time."

"Do you know what was in the will?"

"Yes. He said he was leaving me the house. Does that make me a suspect?"

"Did you know about the codicil?"

"Codicil? No."

"He left his tools and things to Paul."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he. Paul was keen, and I've got no use for them."

"Did Paul know?"

"I've no idea."

"This would be around last Christmas."

"Maybe it was his idea of a present."

"But what made him think he was going to die? Seth was what age-forty? By all rights he could expect to live to seventy or so. Was he worried about anything?"

"Seth always seemed… well, not worried, but preoccupied. He'd got even more morbid of late. It was just his way."

"But there was nothing in particular?"

Mara shook her head. "I don't believe he killed himself, Mr Banks. He had lots to live for. He wouldn't just leave us like that. Everyone depended on Seth. We looked up to him. And he cared about me, about us. I think somebody must have killed him."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

Banks shifted position on the packing crate. Its surface was hard and he felt a nail dig into the back of his right thigh. "Do you remember Elizabeth Dale?"

"Liz. Yes, of course. Funny, I was just thinking about her last night."

"What about her?"

"Oh, nothing really. How jealous I was, I suppose, when she came to the farm that time. I'd only known Seth six months then. We were happy but, I don't know, I guess I was insecure. Am."

"Why did you feel jealous?"

"Maybe that's not the right word. I just felt cut out, that's all. Seth and Liz had known each other for a long time, and I didn't share their memories. They used to sit up late talking after I went to bed."

"Did you hear what they were talking about?"

"No. It was muffled. Do smoke if you want."

"Thanks." She must have noticed him fidgeting and looking around for an ashtray. He took out his pack and offered one to Mara.

"I think I will," she said. "I can't be bothered to roll my own today."

"What did you think about Liz Dale?"

Mara lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "I didn't like her, really. I don't know why, just a feeling. She was messed up, of course, but even so, she seemed like someone who used people, leaned on them too much, maybe a manipulator." She shrugged wearily and blew smoke out through her nose. "She was Seth's friend, though. I wasn't going to say anything."

"So you put up with her?"

"It was easy enough. She was only with us three days before those SS men from the hospital took her back."

"Dennis Osmond came up first, didn't he?"

"Yes. But he was too soft, they said. He didn't see why she shouldn't stay where she was, especially as she hadn't been committed or anything, just checked herself in. He argued with the hospital people, but it was no good."

"How did Osmond and Liz get along?"

"I don't know really. I mean, he stuck up for her, that's all."

"There wasn't anything between them?"

"What do you mean? Sexual?"

"Anything."

"I doubt it. They only met twice, and I wouldn't say she was his type."

"And that was the first time Seth met Osmond?"

"As far as I know."

"Did you get the impression that Osmond had known Liz before?"

"No, I didn't. But impressions can be wrong. What are you getting at?"

"I'm not sure myself. Just following my nose."

"Mr Banks," Mara whispered suddenly, "do you think Dennis Osmond killed Seth? Is that it? I know Seth couldn't have done it himself, and I… I can't seem to think straight"

"Steady on." Banks caught her in his arms as she slid forward from the stool. Her hair smelled of apples. He sat her on a stiff-backed chair in the corner, and her eyes filled with tears. "All right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. That sedative takes most of the feeling out of me, but…"

"It's still there?"

"Yes. Just below the surface."

"We can continue this later if you like. I'll drive you home." He thought how pleased Hatchley would be to see the Cortina turning up again.

Mara shook her head. "No, it's all right. I can handle it. I'm just confused. Maybe some water."

Banks brought her a glass from the tap at the stained porcelain sink in the corner.

"So are we," he said. "Confused. It looked like a suicide in some ways, but there were contradictions."

"He wouldn't kill himself, I'm sure of it. Paul was back again. Seth was happy. He had the farm, friends, the children…."

Banks didn't know what to say to make her feel better.

"When he tried before," she said, "was it because of Alison?"

"Yes."

"I can understand that. It makes sense. But not now. Someone must have killed him." Mara sipped at her water. "Anyone could have come in through the side gate and sneaked up on him."

"It didn't happen like that, Mara. Take my word for it, he had to know the person. It was someone he felt comfortable with. Have you seen or heard anything from Liz Dale since she left?"

"I haven't, no. Seth went to visit her in the hospital a couple of times, but then he lost touch."

"Any letters?"

"Not that he told me about."

"Christmas card?"

"No."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No. Is it important?"

"It could be. Do you know anything about her background?"

Mara frowned and rubbed her temple. "As far as I know she's from down south somewhere. She used to be a nurse until… Well, she fell in with a bad crowd, got involved with drugs and lost her job. Since then she just sort of drifted."

"And ended up in Hebden Bridge?"

"Yes."

"Did you see her do any drugs at the farm?"

"No. And I'm not just saying that. She was off heroin. That was part of the problem, why she was unable to cope."

"Was Seth ever an addict?"

"I don't think so. I think he'd have told me about that. We talked about drugs, how we felt about them and how they weren't really important, so I think he'd have told me."

"And you've no idea where Liz is now?"

"None at all."

"What about Alison?"

"What about her? She's dead."

A hint of bitterness had crept into her tone, and Banks wondered why. Jealousy?

It could happen. Plenty of people were jealous of previous lovers, even dead ones. Or was he angry at Seth for not making her fully a part of his life, for not sharing all his feelings? She unfastened her hair and shook her head, allowing the chestnut tresses to cascade over her shoulders.

"Can I have another cigarette?"

"Of course." Banks gave her one. "Surely Seth must have told you something," he said. "You don't live with someone for two years and find out nothing about their past."

"Don't you? And how would you know?"

Banks didn't know. When he had met Sandra, they had been young and had little past to talk about, none of it very interesting. "It just doesn't make sense," he said.

The shop bell clanged and broke the silence. They heard Elspeth welcoming a customer, an American by the sound of his drawl.

"What are you going to do now?" Banks asked.

Mara rubbed her eyes. "I don't know. I'm too tired to throw another pot. I think I'll just go home and go to bed early."

"Do you want a ride?"

"No. Really. A bit of fresh air and exercise will do me good."

Banks smiled. "I wish my sergeant felt the same way."

"What?"

Banks explained and Mara managed a weak smile.

They walked out together, Banks collecting a sour look from Elspeth on the way. Outside the Black Sheep, Mara turned away.

"I am sorry, you know, about your loss," Banks said awkwardly to her back. Mara turned around and stared at him for a long time. He couldn't make out what she was thinking or feeling.

"I do believe you are," she said finally.

"And Jenny sends her condolences. She says to give her a call if you ever need anything… a friend."

Mara said nothing.

"She didn't betray your confidence, you know. She was worried about you. And you went to her because you were worried about Paul, didn't you?"

Mara nodded slowly.

"Well, give her a call. All right?"

"All right." And tall though she was, Mara seemed a slight figure walking up the lane in the dark toward the Roman road. Banks stood and watched till she was out of sight.

Hatchley was already in the Black Sheep-halfway through his second pint, judging by the empty glass next to the half-full one in front of him. Banks went to the bar first, bought two more and sat down. As far as he was concerned, Hatchley could drink as much as he wanted. He was a lousy driver even when sober, and Banks had no intention of letting him anywhere near the Cortina's driving seat.

"Anything?" the sergeant asked.

"No, not really. You?"

"That big bloke with the shaggy beard put up a bit of an argument at first, but the little lass with the red hair told him it was best to cooperate."

"Damn," Banks said. "I knew there was something I'd forgotten. Mara's prints. Never mind, I'll get them later."

"Anyway," Hatchley went on, "most of the letters in the cabinet were carbons, but I managed to rescue a couple of drafts from the waste bin."

"Good."

"You don't sound so pleased," Hatchley complained.

"What? Oh, sorry. Thinking of something else. Let's drink up and get your findings sent over to the lab."

Hatchley drained his third pint with astonishing speed and looked at his watch.

"It's going on for six-thirty," he said. "No point rushing now; they'll all have buggered off home for the night." He glanced over at the bar. "Might as well have another."

Banks smiled. "Unassailable logic, Sergeant. All right. Better make it a quick one, though. And it's your round."

III

At home, Banks managed to warm up a frozen dinner — peas, mashed potatoes and veal cutlet — without ruining it. After washing the dishes — or, rather, rinsing his knife and fork and coffee cup and throwing the metal tray into the rubbish bin, he called Sandra.

"So when do I get my wife back?" he asked.

"Wednesday morning. Early train," Sandra said. "We should be home around lunch-time. Dad's a lot better now and Mum's coping better than I'd imagined."

"Good. I'll try and be in," Banks said. "It depends."

"How are things going?"

"They're getting more complicated."

"You sound grouchy, too. It's a good sign. The more complicated things seem and the more bad-tempered you get, the closer the end is."

"Is that right?"

"Of course it is. I haven't lived with you this long without learning to recognize the signs."

"Sometimes I wonder what people do learn about one another."

"What's this? Philosophy?"

"No. Just frustration. Brian and Tracy well?"

"Fine. Just restless. Brian especially. You know Tracy, she's happy enough with her head buried in a history book. But with him it's all sports and pop music now. American football is the latest craze, apparently."

"Good God."

Brian had changed a lot over the past year. He even seemed to have lost interest in the electric train that Banks had set up in the spare room. Banks played with it himself more than Brian did, but then, he had to admit, he always had done.

To keep the emptiness after the conversation at bay, he poured out a glass of Bell's and listened to Leroy Carr and Scrapper Blackwell while he tried to let the information that filled his mind drift and form itself into new patterns.

Bizarre as it all seemed, a number of things began to come together. The problem was that one theory seemed to cancel out the other.

The doorbell woke him from a light nap just before ten o'clock. The tape had long since ended and the ice had melted in his second Scotch.

"Sorry I'm so late, sir," Richmond said, "but I've just finished."

"Come in." Banks rubbed his eyes. "Sit down. A drink?"

"If you don't mind, sir. Though I suppose I am still on duty. Technically."

"Scotch do? Or there's beer in the fridge."

"Scotch will do fine, sir. No ice, if you don't mind."

Banks grinned. "I'm getting as bad as the Americans, aren't I, putting ice in good Scotch. Soon I'll be complaining my beer is too warm."

Richmond fitted his long athletic body into an armchair and stroked his moustache.

"By the way you're playing with that bit of face fungus there," Banks said, "I gather you've succeeded."

"What? Oh, yes, sir. Didn't know I was so obvious."

"Most of us are, it seems. You'd not make a good poker player — and you'd better watch it in interrogations. Come on then, what did you find?"

"Well," Richmond began, consulting his notebook, "I did exactly as you said, sir. Hung around discreetly near Tim and Abha's place. They stayed in all afternoon."

"Then what?"

"They went out about eight, to the pub I'd guess. And about half an hour later that blue Escort pulled up and two men got out and disappeared into the building. They looked like the ones you described. They must have been waiting and watching somewhere nearby, because they seemed to know when to come, allowing a bit of a safety margin in case Tim and Abha had just gone to the shop or something."

"You didn't try to stop them from getting in, did you?"

Richmond seemed shocked. "I did exactly as you instructed me, sir, though it felt a bit odd to sit there and watch a crime taking place. The front door is usually left on the latch, so they just walked in. The individual flats are kept locked, though, so they must have broken in. Anyway, they came out about fifteen minutes later carrying what looked like a number of buff folders."

"And then what?"

"I followed them at a good distance, and they pulled into the car-park of the Castle Hotel and went inside. I didn't follow, sir — they might have noticed me. And they didn't come out. After they'd been gone about ten minutes, I went in and asked the desk clerk about them and got him to show me the register. They'd booked in as James Smith and Thomas Brown."

"How imaginative. Sorry, carry on."

"Well, I rather thought that myself, sir, so I went back to the office and checked on the number of the car. It was rented by a firm in York to a Mr Cranby, Mr Keith J. Cranby, if that means anything to you. He had to show his licence, of course, so that's likely to be his right name."

"Cranby? No, it doesn't ring any bells. What happened next?"

"Nothing, sir. It was getting late by then so I thought I'd better come and report. By the way, I saw that barmaid, Glenys, going into the hotel while I was waiting outside. Looked a bit sheepish, she did, too."

"Was Cyril anywhere in sight?"

"No. I didn't see him."

"You've done a fine job, Phil," Banks said. "I owe you for this one."

"What's it all about?"

"I'd rather not say yet, in case I'm wrong. But you'll be the second to find out, I promise. Have you eaten at all?"

"I packed some sandwiches." He looked at his watch. "I could do with a pint, though."

"There's still beer in the fridge."

"I don't like bottled beer." Richmond patted his flat stomach. "Too gassy."

"And too cold?"

Richmond nodded.

"Come on, then. We should make it in time for a jar or two before closing. My treat. Queen's Arms do you?"

"Fine, sir."

The pub was busy and noisy with locals and farm lads in from the villages. Banks glanced at the bar staff and saw neither Glenys nor Cyril in evidence. Pushing his way to the bar, he asked one of the usual stand — in barmaids where the boss was.

"Took the evening off, Mr Banks. Just like that." She snapped her fingers. "Said there'd be three of us so we should be able to cope. Dead cagey, he was too. Still, he's the boss, isn't he? He can do what he likes."

"True enough, Rosie," Banks said. "I'll have two pints of your best bitter, please."

"Right you are, Mr Banks."

They stood at the bar and chatted with the regulars, who knew better than to ask too many questions about their work. Banks was beginning to feel unusually pleased with himself, considering he still hadn't found the answer. Whether it was the chat with Sandra, the nap, Richmond's success or the drink, he didn't know. Perhaps it was a combination of all four. He was close to the end of the case, though, he knew that. If he could solve the problem of two mutually exclusive explanations for Gill's and Seth's deaths, then he would be home and dry. Tomorrow should be an interesting day. First he would track down Liz Dale and discover what she knew; then there was the other business… Yes, tomorrow should be very interesting indeed. And the day after that, Sandra was due home.

"Last orders, please!" Rosie shouted. "Shall we?" Richmond asked.

"Go on. Why not," said Banks. He felt curiously like celebrating.