A Necessary End

I

The wind chimes tinkled and rain hissed on the rough moorland grass. Mara Delacey had just put the children to bed and read them Beatrix Potter's Tale of Squirrel Nut kin. Now it was time for her to relax, to enjoy the stillness and isolation, the play of silence and natural sound. It reminded her of the old days when she used to meditate on her mantra.

As usual, it had been a tiring day: washing to do, meals to cook, children to take care of. But it had also been satisfying. She had managed to fit in a couple of hours throwing pots in the back of Elspeth's craft shop in Relton. If it was her lot in life to be an earth mother, she thought with a smile, better to be one here, away from the rigid rules and self-righteous spirituality of the ashram, where she hadn't even been able to sneak a cigarette after dinner. She was glad she'd left all that rubbish behind.

Now she could enjoy some time to herself without feeling she ought to be out chasing after converts or singing the praises of the guru — not that many did now he was serving his stretch in jail for fraud and tax evasion. The devotees had scattered: some, lost and lonely, had gone to look for new leaders; others, like Mara, had moved on to something else.

She had met Seth Cotton a year after he had bought the place near Relton, which he had christened Maggie's Farm.

As soon as he showed it to her, she knew it had to be her home. It was a typical eighteenth-century Dales farmhouse set in a couple of acres of land on the moors above the dale. The walls were built of limestone, with gritstone corners and a flagstone roof. Recessed windows looked north over the dale, and the heavy door-head, supported on stacked quoins, bore the initials T.J.H. - standing for the original owner — and the date 1765. The only addition apart from Seth's workshop, a shed at the far end of the back garden, was a limestone porch with a slate roof. Beyond the back-garden fence, about fifty yards east of the main house, stood an old barn, which Seth had been busy renovating when she met him.

He had split it into an upper studio-apartment, where Rick Trelawney, an artist, lived with his son, and a one-bedroom flat on the ground floor, occupied by Zoe Hardacre and her daughter. Paul, their most recent tenant, had a room in the main house.

Although the barn was more modern inside, Mara preferred the farmhouse. Its front door led directly into the spacious living-room, a clean and tidy place furnished with a collection of odds and sods: an imitation Persian carpet, a reupholstered fifties sofa, and a large table and four chairs made of white pine by Seth himself. Large beanbag cushions lay scattered against the walls for comfort.

On the wall opposite the stone fireplace hung a huge tapestry of a Chinese scene. It showed enormous mountains, their snow-streaked peaks sharp as needles above the pine forests. In the middle-distance, a straggling line of tiny human figures moved up a winding path. Mara looked at it a lot. There was no overhead light in the room. She kept the shaded lamps dim and supplemented them with fat red candles because she liked the shadows the flames cast on the tapestry and the whitewashed stone walls. Her favourite place to curl up was near the window in an old rocking chair Seth had restored. There, she could hear the wind chimes clearly as she sipped wine and read.

In her early days, she had devoured Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Carlos

Castaneda and the rest, but at thirty-eight she found their works embarrassingly adolescent, and her tastes had reverted to the classics she remembered from her university days. There was something about those long Victorian novels that suited a place as isolated and slow-moving as Maggie's Farm.

Now she decided to settle down and lose herself in The Mill on the Floss. A hand-rolled Old Holborn and a glass of Barsac would also go down nicely. And maybe some music. She walked to the stereo, selected Hoist's The Planets, the side with "Saturn", "Uranus" and "Neptune," then nestled in the chair to read by candlelight. The others were all at the demo, and they'd be sure to stop off for a pint or two at the Black Sheep in Relton on the way back. The kids were sleeping in the spare room upstairs, so she wouldn't have to keep nipping out to the barn to check on them. It was half-past nine now. She could probably count on at least a couple of hours to herself.

But she couldn't seem to concentrate. The hissing outside stopped. It was replaced by the steady dripping of rain from the eaves-troughs, the porch and the trees that protected Maggie's Farm from the harsh west winds. The chimes began to sound like warning bells. There was something in the air. If Zoe were home, she'd no doubt have plenty to say about psychic forces-probably the moon.

Shrugging off her feeling of unease, Mara returned to her reading: "And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon…." It was no good; she couldn't get into it. George Eliot's spell just wasn't working tonight. Mara put down the book and concentrated on the music.

As the ethereal choir entered towards the end of "Neptune," the front door rattled open and Paul rushed in. His combat jacket was dark with rain and his tight jeans stuck to his stick-insect legs.

Mara frowned. "You're back early," she said. "Where are the others?"

"I don't know." Paul was out of breath and his voice sounded shaky. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. "I ran back by myself over the moors."

"But that's more than four miles. What's wrong, Paul? Why didn't you wait for Seth and the others? You could have come back in the van."

"There was some trouble," Paul said. "Things got nasty." He took a cigarette from his pack of Players and lit it, cupping it in his hands the way soldiers do in old war films. His hands were trembling. Mara noticed again how short and stubby his fingers were, nails bitten to the quick. She rolled another cigarette. Paul started to pace the room.

"What's that?" Mara asked, pointing in alarm to the fleshy spot at the base of his left thumb. "It looks like blood. You've hurt yourself."

"It's nothing."

Mara reached out, but he pulled his hand away.

"At least let me put something on it."

"I told you, it's nothing. I'll see to it later. Don't you want to hear what happened?"

Mara knew better than to persist. "Sit down, then," she said. "You're driving me crazy pacing around like that."

Paul flopped onto the cushions by the wall, taking care to keep his bloodied hand out of sight.

"Well?" Mara said.

"The police set on us, that's what. Fucking bastards."

"Why?"

"They just laid into us, that's all. Don't ask me why. I don't know how cops think. Can I have some wine?"

Mara poured him a glass of Barsac. He took a sip and pulled a face.

"Sorry," she said. "I forgot you don't like the sweet stuff. There's some beer in the fridge."

"Great." Paul hauled himself up and went through to the kitchen. When he came back he was carrying a can of Carlsberg lager and he'd stuck an Elastoplast on his hand.

"What happened to the others?" Mara asked.

"I don't know. A lot of people got arrested. The police just charged into the crowd and dragged them off left, right and centre. There'll be plenty in hospital, too."

"Weren't you all together?"

"We were at first, right up at the front, but we got separated when the fighting broke out. I managed to sneak by some cops and slip down the alley, then I ran all the way through the back streets and over the moor. I'm bloody knackered."

His Liverpudlian accent grew thicker as he became more excited.

"So people did get away?"

"Some, yes. But I don't know how many. I didn't hang around to wait for the others. It was every man for himself, Mara. The last I saw of Rick he was trying to make his way to the market square. I couldn't see Zoe. You know how small she is. It was a bleeding massacre. They'd everything short of water cannons and rubber bullets. I've seen some bother in my time, but I never expected anything like this, not in Eastvale."

"What about Seth?"

"Sorry, Mara. I've no idea what became of him. Don't worry, though, they'll be all right."

"Yes." Mara turned and looked out of the window. She could see her own reflection against the dark glass streaked with rain. It looked like a candle flame was burning from her right shoulder.

"Maybe they got away," Paul added. "They might be on their way back right now."

Mara nodded. "Maybe."

But she knew there'd be trouble. The police would soon be round, bullying and searching, just like when Seth's old friend Liz Dale ran away from the nut-house and hid out with them for a few days. They'd been looking for heroin then — Liz had a history of drug abuse — but as far as Mara remembered they'd just made a bloody mess of everything in the place. She resented that kind of intrusion into her world and didn't look forward to another one.

She reached for the wine bottle, but before she started pouring, the front door burst open again.

II

When Banks went downstairs, things were considerably quieter than they had been earlier. Richmond had helped the uniformed men to usher all the prisoners down to the cellar until they could be questioned, charged and released. Eastvale station didn't have many cells, but there was plenty of unused storage space down there.

Sergeant Hatchley had also arrived. Straw-haired, head and shoulders above the others, he looked like a rugby prop-forward gone to seed. He leaned on the reception desk looking bewildered and put out as Richmond explained what had happened.

Banks walked up to them. "Super here yet?"

"On his way, sir," Richmond answered.

"Can you get everyone together while we're waiting?" Banks asked. "There's a few things I want to tell them right now."

Richmond went into the open-plan office area, the domain of the uniformed police at Eastvale, and rounded up everyone he could. The men and women sat on desks or leaned against partitions and waited for instructions. Some of them still showed signs of the recent battle: a bruised cheekbone, torn uniform, black eye, cauliflower ear.

"Does anyone know exactly how many we've got in custody?" Banks asked first.

"Thirty-six, sir." It was a constable with a split lip and the top button torn off his jacket who answered. "And I've heard there's ten more at the hospital."

"Any serious injuries?"

"No, sir. Except, well, Constable Gill."

"Yes. So if there were about a hundred at the demo, there's almost a fifty-fifty chance we've already caught our killer. First, I want everyone searched, fingerprinted and examined for Gill's bloodstains. Constable Reynolds, will you act as liaison with the hospital?"

"Yes, sir."

"The same procedure applies there. Ask the doctor to check the ten patients for blood. Next we've got to find the murder weapon. All we know so far is that PC Gill was stabbed. We don't know what kind of knife was used, so anything with a blade is suspicious, from a kitchen knife to a stiletto. There's some extra men on the way from York, but I want a couple of you to start searching the street thoroughly right away, and that includes having a good look down the grates, too. Clear so far?"

Some muttered, "Yes, sir." Others nodded.

"Right. Now we get to the hard work. We'll need a list of names: everyone we've got and anyone else we can get them to name. Remember, about sixty people got away, and we have to know who they were. If any of you recall seeing a familiar face we don't have here or at the hospital, make a note of it. I don't suppose the people we question will want to give their friends away, but lean on them a bit, do what you can. Be on the look-out for any slips. Use whatever cunning you have. We also want to know who the organizers were and what action groups were represented.

"I want statements from everyone, even if they've nothing to say. We're going to have to divide up the interrogations, so just do the best you can. Stick to the murder; ask about anyone with a knife. Find out if we've got any recorded troublemakers in the cells; look up their files and see what you come up with. If you think someone's lying or being evasive, push them as far as you can, then make a note of your reservations on the statement. I realize we're going to be swamped with paperwork, but there's no avoiding it. Any questions?"

Nobody said a word.

"Fine. One last thing: we want statements from all witnesses, too, not just the demonstrators. There must have been some people watching from those flats overlooking the street. Do the rounds. Find out if anyone saw anything. And rack your own brains. You know there'll be some kind of official enquiry into why all this happened in the first place, so all of you who were there might as well make a statement now, while the events are fresh in your minds. I want all statements typed and on Superintendent Gristhorpe's desk first thing in the morning."

Banks looked at his watch. "It's nine-thirty now. We'd better get cracking. Anything I've overlooked?"

Several officers shook their heads; others stood silent. Finally a policewoman put her hand up. "What are we to do with the prisoners, sir, after we've got all the statements?"

"Follow normal procedure," Banks said. "Just charge them and let them go unless you've got any reason to think they're involved in PC Gill's death. They'll appear before the magistrate as soon as possible. Is that all?" He paused, but nobody said anything. "Right. Off you go then. I want to know about any leads as soon as they come up. With a bit of luck we could get this wrapped up by morning. And would someone take some of the prisoners upstairs? There'll be three of us interviewing up there when the super arrives." He turned to Richmond. "We'll want you on the computer, Phil. There'll be a lot of records to check."

"The super's here now, sir." PC Telford pointed to the door, which was out of Banks's line of vision.

Superintendent Gristhorpe, a bulky man in his late fifties with bushy grey hair and eyebrows, a red pock-marked face and a bristly moustache, walked over to where the three CID men were standing by the stairs. His eyes, usually as guileless as a baby's, were clouded with concern, but his presence still brought an aura of calm and unhurried common sense.

"You've heard?" Banks asked.

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "Not all the details, but enough. Let's go upstairs and you can tell me about it over a cup of coffee." He put his hand on Banks's arm gently.

Banks turned to Sergeant Hatchley. "You might as well get started on the interviews," he said. "We'll help you out in a minute when I've filled the super in."

Then the four CID men trudged upstairs and PC Telford ushered a brace of wet, frightened demonstrators up after them.

III

"Zoe! Thank God you're all right!"

Paul and Mara stared at the slight figure in the glistening red anorak. Her ginger hair was stuck to her skull, and the dark roots showed. Rain dripped onto the straw mat just inside the doorway. She slipped off her jacket, hung it next to Paul's and walked over to hug them both.

"You've told her what happened?" she asked Paul.

"Yes."

Zoe looked at Mara. "How was Luna?"

"No trouble. She fell asleep when Squirrel Nutkin started tickling Mr Brown with a nettle."

Zoe's face twitched in a brief smile. She went over to the bookcase. "I threw an I Ching this morning," she said, "and it came up 'Conflict.' I should have known what would happen." She opened the book and read from the text: "'Conflict. You are being sincere and are being obstructed. A cautious halt halfway brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man. It does not further one to cross the great water.'"

"You can't take it so literally," Mara said. "That's the problem. It didn't tell you what would happen, or how." Though she was certainly interested in the I Ching and tarot cards, herself, Mara often thought that Zoe went too far.

"It's clear enough to me. I should have known something like this would happen: 'Going through to the end brings misfortune.' You can't get any more specific than that."

"What if you had known?" Paul said. "You couldn't call it off, could you? You'd still have gone. Things would still have worked out the same."

"Yes," Zoe muttered, "but I should have been prepared."

"How?" asked Mara. "Do you mean you should have gone armed or something?"

Zoe sighed. "I don't know. I just should have been prepared."

"It's easy to say that now," Paul said. "The truth is nobody had the slightest idea the demo would turn nasty, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it when it did. There were a lot of people involved, Zoe, and if they'd've all done the I Ching this morning they'd've all got different answers. It's a load of cobblers, if you ask me."

"Sit down," said Mara. "Have a glass of wine. Did you see what happened to the others?"

"I'm not sure." Zoe sat cross-legged on the carpet and accepted Paul's glass. "I think Rick got arrested. I saw him struggling with some police at the edge of the crowd."

"And Seth?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see." Zoe smiled sadly. "Most people were bigger than me. All I could see was shoulders and necks. That's how I managed to get away, because I'm so little. That and the rain. One cop grabbed my anorak, but his hand slipped off because it was wet. I'm a Pisces, a slippery fish." She paused to sip her Barsac. "What'll happen to them, Mara, the ones who got caught?"

Mara shrugged. "I should imagine they'll be charged and let go. That's what usually happens. Then the magistrate decides what to fine them or whether to send them to jail. Mostly they just get fined or let off with a caution."

Mara wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Her uneasiness had nothing to do with the message Zoe had got from the I Ching, but the words of the oracle somehow emphasized it and gave her disquietude a deeper dimension of credibility: "Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man." Who was the great man?

"Shouldn't we do something?" Paul asked.

"Like what?"

"Go down there, down to the police station and find out what's happened. Try and get them out."

Mara shook her head. "If we do that, it's more likely they'll take us in for obstructing justice or something."

"I just feel so bloody powerless, so useless, not being able to do a damn thing." Paul's fists clenched, and Mara could read the words jaggedly tattooed just below his knuckles. Instead of the more common combination, LOVE on one hand and HATE on the other, his read HATE on both hands. Seeing the capitalized word so ineptly tattooed there reminded Mara how hard and violent Paul's past had been and how far he had come since they'd found him sleeping in the open, early the past winter on their way to a craft fair in Wensleydale.

"If we had a phone we could at least call the hospital," Zoe said. "Maybe one of us should walk down to Relton and do it anyway."

"I'll go," Mara said. "You two have had enough for. one night. Besides, the exercise will do me good."

She got to her feet before either of the others could offer to go instead. It was only a mile down to Relton, a village high on the southern slope of Swainsdale, and the walk should be a pleasant one. Mara looked out of the window. It was drizzling lightly again. She took her yellow cyclist's cape and matching rainhat out of the cupboard and opened the door. As she left, Paul was on his way to the fridge for another beer, and Zoe was reaching for her tarot cards.

Zoe worried Mara sometimes. Not that she wasn't a good mother, but she did seem too offhand. True, she had asked about Luna, but she hadn't wanted to go and look in on her. Instead she had turned immediately to her occult aids. Mara doted on both children: Luna, aged four, and Julian, five. Even Paul, just out of his teens, seemed more like a son than anything else at times. She knew she felt especially close to them because she had no children of her own. Many of her old schoolfriends would probably have kids Paul's age. What an irony, she thought, heading for the track — a barren earth mother!

The rain was hardly worth covering up for, but it gave an edge to the chill already present in the March air, and Mara was glad for the sweater she wore under her cape. The straight narrow track she followed was part of an old Roman road that ran diagonally across the moors above the dale right down to Fortford. Just wide enough for the van, it was dry-walled on both sides and covered with gravel and small chips of stone that crunched and crackled underfoot. Mara could see the lights of Relton at the bottom of the slope. Behind her the candle glowed in the window, and Maggie's Farm looked like an ark adrift on a dark sea.

She shoved her hands through the slits in her cape, deep into the pockets of her cords, and marched the way she imagined an ancient Roman would have done. Beyond the clouds, she could make out the pearly sheen of a half moon.

The great silence all around magnified the little sounds — the clatter of small stones, the rhythmic crunch of gravel, the swishing of her cords against the cape — and Mara felt the strain on her weak left knee that she always got going downhill. She raised her head and let the thin, cool rain fall on her closed eyelids and breathed in the wet-dog smell of the air. When she opened her eyes, she saw the black bulk of distant fells against a dark grey sky.

At the end of the track, Mara walked into Relton. The change from gravel to the smooth tarmac of Mortsett Lane felt strange at first. The village shops were all closed. Television sets flickered behind drawn curtains.

Just to be sure, Mara first popped her head inside the Black Sheep, but neither Seth nor Rick was there. A log fire crackled in the corner of the cosy public bar, but the place was half-empty. The landlord, Larry Grafton, smiled and said hello. Like many of the locals, he had come to accept the incomers from Maggie's Farm. At least, he had once told Mara, they weren't like those London yuppies who seemed to be buying up all the vacant property in the Dales these days..

"Can I get you anything?" Grafton called out.

"No. No, thanks," Mara said. "I was looking for Seth. You haven't seen him, have you?"

Two old men looked up from their game of dominoes, and a trio of young farm labourers paused in their argument over subsidies and glanced at Mara with faintly curious expressions on their faces.

"No, lass," Grafton said. "They've not been in since lunchtime. Said they were off to that there demonstration in Eastvale."

Mara nodded. "That's right. There's been some trouble and they haven't come back yet. I was just wondering—"

"Is it right, then?" one of the farm labourers asked. "Tommy Exton dropped in half an hour sin' and said there'd been some fighting in Market Street."

Mara told him what little she knew, and he shook his head. "It don't pay to get involved in things like that. Best left well alone," he said, and returned to his pint.

Mara left the Black Sheep and headed for the public telephone-box on Mortsett Lane. Why they didn't have a phone installed at the farm she didn't know. Seth had once said he wouldn't have one of the things in the house, but he never explained why. Every time he needed to make a few calls he went down to the village, and he never once complained. At least in the country you could usually be sure the telephones hadn't been vandalized.

The receptionist at Eastvale General Infirmary answered and asked her what she wanted. Mara explained that she was interested in news of a friend of hers who hadn't come home from the demonstration. The receptionist said, "Just a minute," and the phone hiccupped and burped a few times. Finally a man's voice came on.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"Yes. I'd like to know if you have a patient called Seth Cotton and one called Rick Trelawney."

"Who is this calling?"

"I… I'd rather not say," Mara answered, suddenly afraid that if she gave her name she would be inviting trouble.

"Are you a relation?"

"I'm a friend. A very close friend."

"I see. Well, unless you identify yourself, miss, I'm afraid I can't give out any information."

"Look," Mara said, getting angry, "this is ridiculous. It's not as if I'm asking you to break the Official Secrets Act or anything. I just want to know if my friends are there and, if so, how badly they're injured. Who are you, anyway?"

"Constable Parker, miss. If you've any complaints you'd better take them up with Chief Inspector Banks at Eastvale CID Headquarters."

"Chief Inspector Banks? CID?" Mara repeated slowly. She remembered the name. He was the one who had visited the farm before, when Liz was there. "Why? I don't understand. What's going on? I only want to know if my friends are hurt."

"Sorry, miss. Orders. Tell me your name and I'll see what I can do."

Mara hung up. Something was very wrong. She'd done enough damage already by mentioning Seth and Rick. The police would surely take special note of their names and push them even harder than the rest. There was nothing to do but wait and worry. Frowning, she opened the door and walked back into the rain.

IV

"Feel like a broke-down engine, ain't got no drivin' wheel," sang Blind Willie McTell.

"I know exactly what you mean, mate," Banks mumbled to himself as he poured a shot of Laphroaig single-malt, an indulgence he could scarcely afford. It was almost two in the morning and the interrogations had produced no results so far.

Tired, Banks had left the others to it and come home for a few hours' sleep. He felt he deserved it. They hadn't had to spend the morning in court, the afternoon on a wild-goose chase after a stolen tractor, and the evening listening to the Hon Honoria, who would no doubt by now be sleeping the sleep of the truly virtuous before heading back, with great relief, down south in the morning.

Banks put his feet up, lit a cigarette and warmed the glass in his palm. Suddenly the doorbell rang. He jumped to his feet and cursed as he spilled a little valuable Scotch on his shirt front. Rubbing it with the heel of his hand, he walked into the hall and opened the door a few inches on the chain. It was Jenny Fuller, the psychologist he had met and worked with on his first case in Eastvale. More than that, he had to admit; there had been a mutual attraction between them. Nothing had come of it, of course, and Jenny had even become good friends with Sandra. The three of them had often been out together. But the attraction remained, unresolved. Things like that didn't seem to go away as easily as they arrived.

"Jenny?" He slipped off the chain and opened the door wider.

"I know. It's two o'clock in the morning and you're wondering what I'm doing at your door."

"Something like that. I assume it's not just my irresistible charm?"

Jenny smiled. The laugh lines around her green eyes crinkled. But the smile was forced and shortlived.

"What is it?" Banks asked.

"Dennis Osmond."

"Who?"

"A friend. He's in trouble."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yes, boy-friend." Jenny blushed. "Or would you prefer beau? Lover? Significant other? Look, can I come in? It's cold and raining out here."

Banks moved aside. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Have a drink?"

"I will, if you don't mind." Jenny walked into the front room, took off her green silk scarf and shook her red hair. The muted trumpet wailed and Sara Martin sang "Death Sting Me Blues."

"What happened to opera?" Jenny asked.

Banks poured her a shot of Laphroaig. "There's a lot of music in the world," he said. "I want to listen to as much as I can before I shuffle off this mortal coil."

"Does that include heavy metal and middle-of-the-road?"

Banks scowled. "Dennis Osmond. What about him?"

"Ooh, touchy, aren't we?" Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling and lowered her voice. "By the way, I hope I haven't disturbed Sandra or the children?"

Banks explained their absence. "It was all a bit sudden," he added, to fill the silence that followed, which seemed somehow more weighty than it should. Jenny expressed her sympathy and shifted in her seat. She took a deep breath. "Dennis was arrested during that demonstration tonight. He managed to get in a phone call to me from the police station. He's not come back yet. I've just been there and the man on the desk told me you'd left. They wouldn't tell me anything about the prisoners at all. What's going on?"

"Where hasn't he come back to?"

"My place."

"Do you live together?"

Jenny's eyes hardened and drilled into him like emerald laser beams. "That's none of your damn business." She drank some more Scotch. "As a matter of fact, no, we don't. He was going to come round and tell me about the demonstration. It should have been all over hours ago."

"You weren't there yourself?"

"Are you interrogating me?"

"No. Just asking."

"I believe in the cause — I mean, I'm against nuclear power and American missile bases — but I don't see any point standing in the rain in front of Eastvale Community Centre."

"I see." Banks smiled. "It was a nasty night, wasn't it?"

"And there's no need to be such a cynic. I had work to do."

"It was a pretty bad night inside, too."

Jenny raised her eyebrows. "The Hon Hon?"

"Indeed."

"You were there?"

"I had that dubious honour, yes. Duty."

"You poor man. It might have been worth a black eye to get out of that."

"I take it you haven't heard the news, then?"

"What news?"

"A policeman was killed at that peaceful little demonstration tonight. Not a local chap, but one of us, nonetheless."

"Is that why Dennis is still at the station?"

"We're still questioning people, yes. It's serious, Jenny. I haven't seen Dennis Osmond, never even heard of him. But they won't let him go till they've got his statement, and we're not giving out any information to members of the public yet. It doesn't mean he's under suspicion or anything, just that he hasn't been questioned yet."

"And then?"

"They'll let him go. If all's well you'll still have some of the night left together."

Jenny lowered her head for a moment, then glared at him again. "You're being a bastard, you know," she said. "I don't like being teased that way."

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

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

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

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

Banks nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jenny shook her head.

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

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

"That place up near Relton?"

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

"WEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?"

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

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

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

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

"Don't worry."

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

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

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

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

Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will."

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