A Necessary End

I

COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning. As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn't gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a "k."

He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shellshocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off.

The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.

Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick's Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary's Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.

He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.

At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette — the super didn't approve of smoking — and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe's huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.

"I've been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable," Gristhorpe said. "He's been on the phone to London and they're sending a man up this morning. I'm to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority." He rubbed his eyes. "Of course, someone'll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly."

"This man they're sending," Banks asked, "what's he going to do?"

"Handle the murder investigation. You'll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond."

"Do you know who he is?"

Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. "Yes… let me see…. It's a Superintendent Burgess. He's attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I'm not even sure we're allowed to know what he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose."

"Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?" Banks asked.

"Yes. Why? Know him?"

"Bloody hell."

"Alan, you've gone pale. What's up?"

"Yes, I know him," Banks said. "Not well, but I worked with him a couple of times in London. He's about my age, but he's always been a step ahead."

"Ambitious?"

"Very. But it's not his ambition I mind so much," Banks went on. "He's slightly to the right of… Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right."

"Is he good, though?"

"He gets results."

"Isn't that what we need?"

"I suppose so. But he's a real bastard to work with."

"How?"

"Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn't let the right hand know what the left hand's doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt."

"You make him sound like he doesn't even have a left hand," Gristhorpe said.

Banks smiled. "We used to call him Dirty Dick Burgess."

"Why?"

"You'll find out. It's nothing to do with his sexual activities, I can tell you that. Though he did have a reputation as a fairly active stud-about-town."

"Anyway," Gristhorpe said, "he should be here around midday. He's taking the early Intercity to York. There's too long a wait between connections, so I'm sending Craig to meet him at the station there."

"Lucky Craig."

Gristhorpe frowned. Banks noticed the bags under his eyes. "Yes, well, make the best of it, Alan. If Superintendent Burgess steps out of line, I won't be far away. It's still our patch. By the way, Honoria Winstanley called before she left — at least one of her escorts did. Said all's well, apologized for his brusqueness last night and thanked you for handling things so smoothly."

"Wonders never cease."

"I've booked Burgess into the Castle Hotel on York Road. It's not quite as fancy or expensive as the Riverview, but then Burgess isn't an MP, is he?"

Banks nodded. "What about office space?"

"We're putting him in an interview room for the time being. At least there's a desk and a chair."

"He'll probably complain. People like Burgess get finicky about offices and titles."

"Let him," Gristhorpe said, gesturing around the room. "He's not getting this place."

"Any news from the hospital?"

"Nothing serious. Most of the injured have been sent home. Susan Gay's on sick-leave for the rest of the week."

"When you were going through the statements," Banks asked, "did you come across anything on a chap called Dennis Osmond?"

"The name rings a bell. Let me have a look." Gristhorpe leafed through the pile.

"Yes, I thought so. Interviewed him myself. One of the last. Why?"

Banks explained about Jenny's visit.

"I took his statement and sent him home." Gristhorpe read through the sheet.

"That's him. Belligerent young devil. Threatened to bring charges against the police, start an enquiry of his own. Hadn't seen anything, though. Or at least he didn't admit to it. According to records he's a CND member, active in the local anti-nuclear group. Amnesty International, too — and you know what Mrs Thatcher thinks of them these days. He's got connections with various other groups as well, including the International Socialists. I should imagine Superintendent Burgess will certainly want to talk to him."

"Hmmm." Banks wondered how Jenny would take that. Knowing both her and Burgess as he did, he could guarantee sparks would fly. "Did anything turn up in the statements?"

"Nobody witnessed the stabbing. Three people said they thought they glimpsed a knife on the road during the scuffles. It must have got kicked about quite a bit. Nothing I've heard so far brings order out of chaos. The poor lighting didn't help, either. You know how badly that street is lit. Dorothy Wycombe's been pestering us about it for weeks. I keep putting her onto the council, but to no avail. She says it's an invitation to rape, especially with all those unlit side alleys, but the council says the gaslamps are good for the tourist business. Anyway, PC Gill was found just at the bottom of the Community Centre steps, for what that's worth. Maybe if we can find out the names of the people on the front line we'll get somewhere."

Banks went on to tell Gristhorpe what he'd discovered from Jenny about the other organizers.

"The Church for Peace group was involved, too," Gristhorpe added. "Did I hear you mention Maggie's Farm, that place near Relton?"

Banks nodded.

"Didn't we have some trouble with them a year or so ago?"

"Yes," Banks said. "But it was a storm in a teacup. They seemed a harmless enough bunch to me."

"What was it? A drug raid?"

"That's right. Nothing turned up, though. They must have had the foresight to hide it, if they had anything. We were acting on a tip from some hospital social workers. I think they were overreacting."

"Anyway," Gristhorpe said, "that's about it. The rest of the people we picked up were just private citizens who were there because they feel strongly about nuclear power, or about government policy in general."

"So what do we do now?"

"You'd better look over these statements," Gristhorpe said, shoving the tower of paper towards Banks, "and wait for the great man. Sergeant Hatchley's still questioning those people in the flats overlooking the street. Not that there's much chance of anything there. They can't have seen more than a sea of heads. If only the bloody TV cameras had been there we'd have had it on video. Those buggers in the media are never around when you need them."

"Like policemen," Banks said with a grin.

The phone rang. Gristhorpe picked it up, listened to the message and turned back to Banks. "Sergeant Rowe says Dr Glendenning's on his way up. He's finished his preliminary examination. I think you'd better stay for this."

Banks smiled. "It's a rare honour indeed, the good doctor setting foot in here. I didn't know he paid house-calls."

"I heard that," said a gruff voice with a distinct Edinburgh accent behind him. "I hope it wasn't meant to be sarcastic."

The tall, white-haired doctor looked down sternly at Banks, blue eyes twinkling. His moustache was stained yellow with nicotine, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was wheezing after climbing the stairs.

"There's no smoking in here," Gristhorpe said. "You ought to know better; you're a doctor."

Glendenning grunted. "Then I'll go elsewhere."

"Come to my office," Banks said. "I could do with a fag myself."

"Fine, laddie. Lead the way."

"Bloody traitor." Gristhorpe sighed and followed them.

After they'd got coffee and an extra chair, the doctor began. "To put it in layman's terms," he said, "PC Gill was stabbed. The knife entered under the rib-cage and did enough damage to cause death from internal bleeding. The blade was at least five inches long, and it looks like it went in to the hilt. It was a single-edged blade with a very sharp point. Judging by the wound, I'd say it was some kind of flick-knife."

"Flick-knife?" echoed Banks.

"Aye, laddie. You know what a flick-knife is, don't you? They come in all shapes and sizes. Illegal here, of course, but easy enough to pick up on the continent. The cutting edge was extremely sharp, as was the point."

"What about blood?" Gristhorpe asked. "Nobody conveniently covered in Gill's type, I suppose?"

Dr Glendenning lit another Senior Service and shook his head. "No. I've checked the tests. And I'd have been very surprised if there had been," he said. "What most people don't realize is that unless you open a major artery — the carotid or the jugular, for example — there's often very little external bleeding with knife wounds. I'd say in this case that there was hardly any, and what there was would've been mostly absorbed by the man's clothing. The slit closes behind the blade, you see — especially a thin one — and most of the bleeding is internal."

"Can you tell if it was a professional job?" Gristhorpe asked.

"I wouldn't care to speculate. It could have been, but it could just as easily have been a lucky strike. It was a right-handed up-thrust wound. With a blow like that on a dark night, I doubt that anybody would have noticed, unless they saw the blade flash, and there's not enough light for that on North Market Street. It would have looked more like a punch to the solar plexus than anything else, and from what I hear, there was plenty of that going on. Now if he'd raised his hand above his head and thrust downwards…"

"People aren't usually so obliging," Banks said.

"If we take into account the kind of knife used," Gristhorpe speculated, "it could easily have been a spontaneous act. Pros don't usually use flick-knives-they're street weapons."

"Aye, well," said Glendenning, standing to leave, "that's for you fellows to work out. I'll let you know if I find anything more at the postmortem."

"Who identified the body?" Banks asked him.

"Sister. Pretty upset about it, too. A couple of your lads did the paperwork. Luckily, Gill didn't have a wife and kids." A quarter inch of ash fell onto the linoleum. Glendenning shook his head slowly. "Nasty business all round. Be seeing you."

When the doctor had left, Gristhorpe stood up and flapped his hand theatrically in front of his face. "Filthy bloody habit. I'm off back to my office where the air's clean. Does this Burgess fellow smoke, too?"

Banks smiled. "Cigars, if I remember right."

Gristhorpe swore.

II

Over the valley from Maggie's Farm, mist clung to the hillsides and limestone scars, draining them of all colour.

Soon after breakfast, Seth disappeared into his workshop to finish restoring Jack Lippett's Welsh dresser; Rick did some shopping in Helmthorpe, then went to his studio in the converted barn to daub away at his latest painting; Zoe busied herself in her flat with Elsie Goodbody's natal chart; and Paul went for a long walk on the moors.

In the living-room, Mara kept an eye on Luna and Julian while she mended the tears in Seth's jacket. The children were playing with Lego bricks and she often glanced over, awed by the look of pure concentration on their faces as they built. Occasionally, an argument would break out, and Julian would complain that the slightly younger Luna wasn't doing things right. Then Luna would accuse him of being bossy. Mara would step in and give them her advice, healing the rift temporarily.

There was nothing to worry about really, Mara told herself as she sewed, but after what Seth and Rick had said about the dead policeman, she knew they could expect to come under close scrutiny. After all, they were different. While not political in the sense of belonging to any party, they certainly believed in protection of the environment. They had even allowed their house to be used as a base for planning the demo. It would only be a matter of time before the knock at the door. There was something else bothering Mara, too, hovering at the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite figure out what it was. Seth and Rick had been tired and hungry when they got back just after two in the morning. Seth had been charged with threatening behaviour and Rick with obstructing a police officer. They hadn't much to add to what Mara had heard earlier except for the news of PC Gill's murder, which had soon spread around the police station.

In bed, Mara had tried to cheer Seth up, but he had been difficult to reach.

Finally, he said he was tired and went to sleep. Mara had stayed awake listening to the rain for a long time and thinking just how often Seth seemed remote. She'd been living with him for two years now, but she hardly felt she knew him.

She didn't even know if he really was asleep now or just pretending. He was a man of deep silences, as if he were carrying a great weight of sadness within him. Mara knew that his wife, Alison, had died tragically just before he bought the farm, but really she knew nothing else of his past.

How different from Rick he was, she thought. Rick had tragedy in his life, too — he was involved in a nasty custody suit with his ex-wife over Julian — but he was open and he let his feelings show, whereas Seth never said much. But Seth was strong, Mara thought — the kind of person everyone else looked up to as being really in command. And he loved her. She knew she had been foolish to feel such jealousy when Liz Dale had run away from the psychiatric hospital and come to stay. But Liz had been a close friend of Alison's and had known Seth for years; she was a part of his life that was shut off from Mara, and that hurt. Night after night Mara had lain awake listening to their muffled voices downstairs until the small hours, gripping the pillow tightly. It had been a difficult time, what with Liz, the plague of social workers and the police raid, but she could look back and laugh at the memory of her jealousy now.

As she sat and sewed, watching the children, Mara felt lucky to be alive. Most of the time these days she was happy; she wouldn't change things for the world.

It had been a good life so far, though a confusing one at times. After her student days, she had thrown herself into life — travel, communal living, love affairs, drugs — all without a care in the world.

Then she had spent four years with the Resplendent Light Organization, culminating in nine long months in one of their ashrams, where all earnings were turned over to the group and freedom was severely limited. There were no movies, no evenings in the pub, no frivolous, chatty gatherings around the fire; there was very little laughter. Mara had soon come to feel trapped, and the whole episode had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. She felt she had been cheated into wasting her time. There had been no love there, no special person to share life with. But that was all over now. She had Seth — a solid dependable man, however distant he could be — Paul, Zoe, Rick and, most important of all, the children. After wandering and searching for so long, she seemed at last to have found the stability she needed. She had come home.

Sometimes, though, she wondered what things would be like if her life had been more normal. She'd heard of business executives dropping out in the sixties: they took off their suits and ties, dropped LSD and headed for Woodstock. But sometimes Mara dreamed of dropping in. She had a good brain; she had got a first in English Literature at the University of Essex. At moments, she could see herself all crisp and efficient in a business suit, perhaps working in advertising, or standing in front of a blackboard reading Keats or Coleridge to a class of spellbound children. But the fantasies never lasted long. She was thirty-eight years old, and jobs were hard to come by even for the qualified and experienced. All those opportunities had passed her by. She knew also that she would no more be able to work in the everyday world, with its furious pace, its petty demands and its money-grubbing mentality, than she would be able to join the armed forces. Her years on the fringes of society had distanced her from life inside the system.

She didn't even know what people talked about at work these days. The new BMW? Holidays in the Caribbean? All she knew was what she read in the papers, where it seemed that people no longer lived their lives but had "life-styles" instead. The closest she came to a normal middle-class existence was working in Elspeth's craft shop in Relton three days a week in exchange for the use of the pottery wheel and kiln in the back. But Elspeth was hardly an ordinary person; she was a kindly old silver-haired lesbian who had been living in Relton with her companion, Dottie, for over thirty years. She affected the tweedy look of a country matron, but the twinkle in her eyes told a different story. Mara loved both of them very much, but Dottie was rarely to be seen these days. She was ill — dying of cancer, Mara suspected — and Elspeth bore the burden with her typical gruff stoicism.

At twelve o'clock, Rick knocked and came in through the back door, interrupting Mara's wandering thoughts. He looked every inch the artist: beard, paint-stained smock and jeans, beer belly. His whole appearance cried out that he believed in himself and didn't give a damn what other people thought about him.

"All quiet on the western front?" he asked.

Mara nodded. She'd been half listening for the sound of a police car above the wind chimes. "They'll be here, though."

"It'll probably take them a while," Rick said. "There were a lot of others involved. We might not be as important as we think we are."

He picked up Julian and whirled him around in the air. The child squealed with delight and wriggled as Rick rubbed his beard against his face. Zoe tapped at the door and came in from the barn to join them.

"Stop it, Daddy!" Julian screamed. "It tickles. Stop it!"

Rick put him down and mussed his hair. "What are you two building?" he asked.

"A space station," answered Luna seriously.

Mara looked at the jumble of Lego and smiled to herself. It didn't look like much of anything to her, but it was remarkable what children could do with their imaginations.

Rick laughed and turned to Zoe. "All right, kiddo?" he asked, slipping his arm around her thin shoulder. "What do the stars have to say today?"

Zoe smiled. She obviously adored Rick, Mara thought; otherwise she would never put up with being teased and treated like a youngster at the age of thirty-two. Could there be any chance of them getting together? she wondered. It would be good for the children.

"Elsie Goodbody's wasted as a housewife," said Zoe. "By the looks of her chart she should be in politics."

"She's in domestic politics," Rick said, "and that's even worse. Anyone for the pub?"

They usually all walked down to the Black Sheep on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes. The landlord was good about the children as long as they kept quiet, and Zoe took along colouring books to occupy them. Mara fetched Seth from his workshop, Julian got up on his father's shoulders, and Luna held Zoe's hand as they walked out to the track.

"Just a minute, I'll catch you up," Mara said, dashing back into the house. She wanted to leave a note for Paul to tell him where they were: a formality, really, an affectionate gesture. But as she wrote and her mind turned back to him, she suddenly realized what had been nagging her all morning.

Last night, Paul's hand had been bleeding and he had put an Elastoplast on it. This morning, when he came down, the plaster had slipped off, probably when he was washing, and the base of his thumb was as smooth as ever. There was no sign of a cut at all. Mara's heart beat fast as she hurried to catch up with the others.

III

"Detective Superintendent Burgess, sir," PC Craig said, then left. The man who stood before them in Gristhorpe's office looked little different from the Burgess that Banks remembered. He wore a scuffed black leather sports jacket over an open-necked white shirt, and close-fitting navy-blue cords. The handsome face with its square determined jaw hadn't changed much, even if his slightly crooked teeth were a little more tobacco-stained. The pouches under his cynical grey eyes still suited him. His dark hair, short and combed back, was touched with grey at the temples, and by the look of it he still used Brylcreem.

He was about six feet tall, well-built but filling out a bit, and looked as if he still played squash twice a week. The most striking thing about his appearance was his deep tan.

"Barbados," he said, catching their surprise. "I'd recommend it highly, especially at this time of year. Just got back when this business came up."

Gristhorpe introduced himself, then Burgess looked over at Banks and narrowed his eyes. "Banks, isn't it? I heard you'd been transferred. Looking a bit pasty-faced, aren't you? Not feeding you well up here?"

Banks forced a smile. It was typical of Burgess to make the transfer sound like a punishment and a demotion.

"We don't get much sun," he said.

Burgess looked towards the window.

"So I see. If it's any consolation, it was pissing down in London when I left." He clapped his hands together sharply. "Where's the boozer, then? I'm starving. Didn't dare risk British Rail food. I could do with a pint, as well."

Gristhorpe excused himself, claiming a meeting with the Assistant Chief Commissioner, and Banks led Burgess over to the Queen's Arms.

"Not a bad-looking place," Burgess said, glancing around and taking in the spacious lounge with its dimpled copper-topped tables with black wrought-iron legs, and deep armchairs by the blazing fire. Then his eyes rested on the barmaid. "Yes. Not bad at all. Let's sit at the bar."

Some of the locals paused in their conversations to stare at them. They knew Banks already, and Burgess's accent still bore traces of his East End background. As right-wing as he was, he didn't come from the privileged school of Tories, Banks remembered. His father had been a barrow-boy, and Burgess had fought his way up from the bottom. Banks also knew that he felt little solidarity with those of his class who hadn't managed to do likewise. To the locals, he was obviously the London big-wig they'd been expecting after the previous night's events.

Banks and Burgess perched on the high stools. "What'll you have?" Burgess asked, taking a shiny black leather wallet from his inside pocket. "I'm buying."

"Thanks very much. I'll have a pint of Theakston's bitter."

"Food?"

"The hot-pot is usually good."

"I think I'll stick to plaice and chips," Burgess said. He ordered the food and drinks from the barmaid. "And a pint of Double Diamond for me, please, love." He lit a Tom Thumb cigar and poked it at Banks's glass. "Can't stand that real ale stuff," he said, rubbing his stomach and grimacing. "Always gives me the runs. Ah, thank you, love. What's your name?"

"Glenys," the barmaid said. She gave him a coy smile with his change and turned to serve another customer.

"Nice," Burgess said. "Not exactly your buxonbarmaid type, but nice nonetheless. Lovely bum. A fiver says I'll bonk her before this business is over."

Banks wished he would try. The muscular man drying glasses at the far end of the bar was Glenys's husband, Cyril. "You're on," he said, shaking hands. Though how Burgess would prove it if he won, Banks had no idea. Perhaps he'd persuade Glenys to part with a pair of panties as a trophy? The most likely outcome, though, would be a black eye for Burgess and a fiver in Banks's pocket.

"So, I hear you had a riot on your hands last night."

"Not quite a riot," Banks said, "but bad enough."

"It shouldn't have been allowed."

"Sure. It's easy to say that from hindsight, but we'd no reason to expect trouble. A lot of people around here have sympathy with the cause and they don't usually kill policemen."

Burgess's eyes narrowed. "Including you? Sympathy with the cause?"

Banks shrugged. "Nobody wants any more air-base activity in the Dales, and I'm no great fan of nuclear power."

"A bloody Bolshy on the force, eh? No wonder they sent you up here. Like getting sent to Siberia, I'll bet?" He chuckled at his own joke, then sank about half a pint in one gulp. "What have you got so far, then?"

Banks told him about the statements they'd taken and the main groups involved in organizing the protest, including the people at Maggie's Farm. As he listened, Burgess sucked on his lower lip and tapped his cigar on the side of the blue ashtray. Every time Glenys walked by, his restless eyes followed her.

"Seventy-one names," he commented when Banks had finished. "And you think there were over a hundred there. That's not a lot, is it?"

"It is in a murder investigation."

"Hmmm. Got anyone marked out for it?"

"Pardon?"

"Local trouble-maker, shit-stirrer. Let's be honest about this, Banks. It doesn't look like we'll get any physical evidence unless someone finds the knife. The odds are that whoever did it was one of the ones who got away. You might not even have his name on your list. I was just wondering who's your most likely suspect."

"We don't have any suspects yet."

"Oh, come on! No one with a record of political violence?"

"Only the local Conservative member."

"Very good," Burgess said, grinning. "Very good. It seems to me," he went on, "that there are two possibilities. One: it happened in the heat of the moment; someone lost his temper and lashed out with a knife. Or, two: it was a planned deliberate act to kill a copper, an act of terrorism calculated to cause chaos, to disrupt society."

"What about the knife?" Banks said. "The killer couldn't be sure of getting away, and we've found no traces of it in the area. I'd say that points more towards your first theory. Someone lost his temper and didn't stop to think of the consequences, then just got lucky."

Burgess finished his pint. "Not necessarily," he said. "They're kamikaze merchants, these bloody terrorists. They don't care if they get caught or not. Like you said, whoever it was just got lucky this time."

"It's possible, I suppose."

"But unlikely?"

"In Eastvale, yes. I told you, most of the people involved were fairly harmless; even the groups they belonged to have never been violent before."

"But you don't have everyone's name."

"No."

"Then that's something to work on. Sweat the ones you've got and get a full list."

"DC Richmond's working on it," Banks said, though he could hardly see Philip Richmond sweating anyone.

"Good." Burgess gestured to the barmaid. "Another two pints, Gladys, love," he called out.

"It's Glenys," she said, then she blushed and lowered her head to keep an eye on the pint she was pulling.

"Sorry, love, I'm still train-lagged. Have one for yourself, too, Glenys."

"Thank you very much." Glenys smiled shyly at him and took the money for a gin and tonic. "I'll have it later when we're not so busy, if you don't mind."

"As you will." Burgess treated her to a broad smile and winked. "Where were we?" he asked, returning to Banks.

"Names."

"Yes. You must have a list of local reds and what not? You know the kind I mean — anarchists, skinheads, bum-punchers, women's libbers, uppity niggers."

"Of course. We keep it on the back of a postage stamp."

"You mentioned three organizations earlier. What's WEEF?"

"Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom."

"Oh, very impressive. Touch of the Greenham Common women, eh?"

"Not really. They mostly stick to local issues like poor streetlighting and sexual discrimination in jobs."

"Still," Burgess said, "it's a start. Get your man — Richmond, is it? — to liaise with Special Branch on this. They've got extensive files on Bolshies everywhere. He can do it through the computer, if you've got one up here."

"We've got one."

"Good. Tell him to see me about access." Their food arrived, and Burgess poured salt and vinegar on his fish and chips. "We can set them against each other, for openers," he said. "Simple divide-and-conquer tactics. We tell those WEEF people that the Students Union has fingered them for the murder, and vice versa. That way if anyone does know anything they'll likely tell us out of anger at being dropped right in it. We need results, and we need them quick. This business can give us a chance to look good for once. We're always looking like the bad guys these days-especially since that bloody miners' strike. We need some good press for a change, and here's our chance. A copper's been killed — that gets us plenty of public sympathy for a start. If we can come up with some pinko terrorist we've got it made."

"I don't think setting the groups against each other will get us anywhere," Banks said. "They're just not that aggressive."

"Don't be so bloody negative, man. Remember, somebody knows who did it, even if it's only the killer. Ill get myself acclimatized this afternoon, and tomorrow" — Burgess clapped his hands and showered his plate with ash — "well swoop into action." He had a nasty habit of sitting or standing motionless for ages, then making a sudden jerky movement. Banks remembered how disconcerting it was from their previous meetings.

"Action?"

"Raids, visits, call them what you will. We're looking for documents, letters, anything that might give us a clue to what happened. Any trouble getting warrants up here?"

Banks shook his head.

Burgess speared a chip. "Nothing like a Sunday morning for a nice little raid, I always say. People have funny ideas about Sundays, you know. Especially churchy types. They're all comfortable and complacent after a nice little natter with the Almighty, and then they get pissed off as hell if something interrupts their routine. Best day for raids and interrogations, believe me. Just wait till they get their feet up with the Sunday papers. You mentioned some drop-outs at a farm earlier, didn't you?"

"They're not drop-outs," Banks said. "They just try to be self-sufficient, keep to themselves. They call the place Maggie's Farm," he added. "It's the title of an old Bob Dylan song. I suppose it's a joke about Thatcher, too."

Burgess grinned. "At least they've got a sense of humour. They'll bloody need it before we're through. We'll pay them a visit, keep them on their toes. Bound to be drugs around, if nothing else. How about dividing up the raids? Any suggestions?"

Banks had no desire to tangle with Dorothy Wycombe again, and sending Sergeant Hatchley to WEEF headquarters would be like sending a bull into a china shop, as would sending Burgess up to Maggie's Farm. On the other hand, he thought, meeting Ms Wycombe might do Dirty Dick some good.

"I'll take the farm," he said. "Let Hatchley do the church group, Richmond the students, and you can handle WEEF. We can take a couple of uniformed men to do the searches while we ask the questions."

Burgess's eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he smiled and said, "Right, we're on."

He knows I'm setting him up, Banks thought, but he's willing to go along anyway. Cocky bastard.

Burgess washed down the last of his plaice and chips. "I'd like to stay for another," he said, "and feast my eyes more on the lovely Glenys, but duty calls. Let's hope we'll have plenty of reason to celebrate tomorrow lunch-time. Why don't you catch up on a bit of paperwork this afternoon? There's not a lot we can do yet. And maybe this evening you can show me some of these quaint village pubs I've read about in the tourist brochures?"

The prospect of a pub crawl with Dirty Dick Burgess, following hot on the heels of an evening with the Hon Honoria Winstanley, appealed to Banks about as much as a slap in the face with a wet fish, but he agreed politely. It was a job, after all, and Burgess was his senior officer. They'd be working together for a few days, probably, and it would do no harm to get on as good terms as possible. Make the best of it, Gristhorpe had said. And Banks did have a vague recollection that Burgess wasn't such bad company after a few jars.

Burgess slid off his chair and strode towards the door. "Bye, Glenys, love," he called out over his shoulder as he left. Banks noticed Cyril scowl and tighten his grip on the pump he was pulling. Banks pushed his empty plate aside and lit a Silk Cut. He felt exhausted. Just listening to Burgess reminded him of everything he had hated about his days on the Met. But Burgess was right, of course: they were looking into a political murder, and the first logical step was to check out local activist groups.

It was the obvious relish with which the superintendent contemplated the task that irked Banks and reminded him so much of his London days. And he remembered Burgess's interrogation technique, probably learned from the Spanish Inquisition. There were hard times ahead for a few innocent people who simply happened to believe in nuclear disarmament and the future of the human race. Burgess was like a pit-bull terrier; he wouldn't let go until he got what he wanted.

Oh, for a nice English village murder, Banks wished, just like the ones in books: a closed group of five or six suspects, a dodgy will, and no hurry to solve the puzzle. No such luck. He drained his pint, stubbed out the cigarette and went back across the street to read more statements.

IV

Mara sipped at her half of mild without really tasting it. She couldn't seem to relax and enjoy the company as usual. Seth sat at the bar chatting with Larry Grafton about some old furniture the landlord had inherited from his great-grandmother, and Rick and Zoe were arguing about astrology. By the window, the children sat colouring quietly. What did it mean? Mara wondered. When she had tackled Paul about the blood on his hand the previous evening, he had gone into the kitchen and put on a plaster without showing her the cut. Now, it turned out, there was no cut. So whose blood had it been?

Of course, she told herself, anything could have happened. He could have accidentally brushed against somebody who had been hurt in the demo, or even tried to help someone. But he had clearly run all the way home; when he had arrived he had been upset and out of breath. And if the explanation was an innocent one, why had he lied? Because that's what it came down to in the end. Instead of telling the simple truth, he had let her go on believing he was hurt, albeit not badly, and she couldn't come up with a convincing reason why he had done that.

"You're quiet today," Seth said, walking over with more drinks.

It's easy for you, she felt like saying. You can cover up your feelings and talk about hammers and planes and chisels and bevels and chamfering as if nothing has happened, but I don't have any small talk. Instead, she said, "It's nothing. I'm just a bit tired after last night, I suppose."

Seth took her hand. "Didn't you sleep well?"

No, Mara almost said, No I didn't bloody sleep well. I was waiting for you to are your feelings with me, but you never did. You never do. You can talk about work to any Tom, Dick and Harry, but not about anything else, not about anything important. But she didn't say any of that. She squeezed his hand, kissed him lightly and said she was all right. She knew she was just irritable, worried about Paul, and the mood would soon pass. No point starting a row.

Rick, his conversation with Zoe finished, turned to the others. Mara noticed streaks of orange and white paint in his beard. "They were all talking about the Eastvale demo," he said. "Plenty of tongues started clucking in the grocer's when I walked in."

"What did they think about it?" Mara asked.

Rick snorted. "They don't think. They're just like the sheep they raise. They're too frightened to come out with an opinion about anything for fear it'll be the wrong one. Oh, they worry about nuclear fall-out. Who doesn't? But that's about all they do, worry and whine. When push comes to shove they'll just put up with it like everything else and bury their heads in the ground. The wives are even worse. All they can do if anything upsets the nice, neat, comfortable little lives they've made for themselves is say tut-tut-tut, isn't it a shame."

The door creaked open and Paul walked in. Mara watched the emaciated figure, fists bunched in his pockets, walk over to them. With his hollow, bony face, tattooed fingers, and the scars, needle-tracks and self-inflicted cigarette burns that Mara knew stretched all the way up his arms, Paul seemed a frightening figure. The only thing that softened his appearance was his hair-style. His blond hair was short at the back and sides but long on top, and the fringe kept slipping down over his eyes. He'd brush it back impatiently and scowl but never mention having it cut.

Mara couldn't help thinking about his background. Right from childhood, Paul's life had been rough and hard. He never said much about his real parents, but he'd told Mara about the emotionally cold foster home where he had been expected to show undying gratitude for every little thing they did for him. Finally, he had run away and lived a punk life on the streets, done whatever he'd had to to survive. It had been a life of hard drugs and violence and, eventually, jail.

When they had met him, he had been lost and looking for some kind of anchor in life. She wondered just how much he really had changed since he'd been with them.

Remembering the blood on his hand, the way he had lied, and the murdered policeman, she began to feel frightened. What would he do if she were to question him? Was she living with a killer? And if she was, what should she do about it?

As the conversation went on around her, Mara began to feel herself drifting off on a chaotic spate of her own thoughts. She could hear the sounds the others were making, but not the words, the meaning. She thought of confiding in Seth, but what if he took some kind of action? He might be hard on Paul, even drive him away. He could be very stern and inflexible at times. She didn't want her new family to split apart, imperfect as she knew it was. It was all she had in the world.

No, she decided, she wouldn't tell anyone. Not yet. She wouldn't make Paul feel as if they were ganging up on him. The whole thing was probably ridiculous anyway. She was imagining things, filling her head with stupid fears. Paul would never hurt her, she told herself, never in a million years.