A Necessary End

I

Sunday morning dawned clear and cold. A brisk March wind blew, restoring the sun and the delicate colours of early spring to the lower hillsides. Women hung on to their hats and men clutched the lapels of their best suits as they struggled to church along Mortsett Lane in Relton. The police car, a white Fiesta Popular, with the official red and blue stripes on its sides, turned and made its way up the bumpy Roman road to Maggie's Farm. PC McDonald drove, with Craig silent beside him and Banks cramped in the back.

The view across the dale was superb. Banks could see Fortford on the valley bottom and Devraulx Abbey below Lyndgarth on the opposite slope. Behind them all, the northern daleside rose, baring along its snowy heights scars of exposed limestone that looked like rows of teeth gleaming in the light. Banks felt refreshed after an evening at home reading Madame Bovary, followed by a good night's sleep. Luckily, Dirty Dick had phoned to cancel their pub crawl, claiming tiredness. Banks suspected he had decided to drop in at the Queen's Arms-just around the corner from his hotel — to work on Glenys, but Burgess looked relatively unscathed the next morning. He seemed tired, though, and his grey eyes were dull, like champagne that had lost its fizz. Banks wondered how he was getting on with Dorothy Wycombe.

As the car pulled onto the gravel outside the farmhouse, someone glanced through the window. When Banks got out, he could hear the wind chimes jingling like a piece of experimental music, harmonizing strangely with the wind that whistled around his ears. He had forgotten how high on the moorland Maggie's Farm was. His knock was answered by a tall, slender woman in her mid — to late-thirties wearing jeans and a rust-coloured jumper. Banks thought he remembered her from his previous visit. Her wavy chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a pale, heart-shaped face, free of make-up. Perhaps her chin was a little too pointed and her nose a bit too long, but the whole effect was pleasing. Her clear brown eyes looked both innocent and knowing at once. Banks presented his warrant and the woman moved aside wearily. They knew we were coming sometime, he thought; they've just been waiting to get it over with.

"They'd better not damage anything," she said, nodding towards McDonald and Craig.

"Don't worry, they won't. You won't even know they've been here."

Mara sniffed. "I'll get the others."

The two uniformed men started their search, and Banks sat in the rocking chair by the window. Turning his head sideways, he scanned the titles in the pine bookcase beside him. They were mostly novels — Hardy, the Brontes, John Cowper Powys, Fay Weldon, Graham Greene — mixed in with a few more esoteric works, such as an introduction to Jung's psychology and a survey of the occult. On the lower shelves rested a number of older, well-thumbed paperbacks — The Teachings of Don Juan, Naked Lunch, The Lord of the Rings. In addition, there were the obligatory political texts: Marcuse, Fanon, Marx and Engels. On the floor beside Banks lay a copy of George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. He picked it up. The bookmark stood at the second page; that was about as far as he'd ever got with George Eliot himself.

Mara came back from the barn with the others, three of them vaguely familiar to Banks from eighteen months ago: Zoe Hardacre, a slight, freckle-faced woman with frizzy ginger hair and dark roots; Rick Trelawney, a big bear of a man in a baggy paint-smeared T-shirt and torn jeans; and Seth Cotton, in from his workshop, wearing a sand-coloured lab coat, tall and thin with mournful brown eyes and neatly trimmed dark hair and beard framing a dark-complexioned face. Finally came a skinny, hostile-looking youth Banks hadn't seen before.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Paul's not been here long," Mara said quickly.

"What's your last name?"

Paul said nothing.

"He doesn't have to say," Mara argued. "He's done nothing."

Seth shook his head. "Might as well tell him," he said to Paul. "He'll find out anyway."

"He's right, you know," Banks said.

"It's Boyd, Paul Boyd."

"Ever been in trouble, Paul?"

Paul smiled. It was either that or a scowl, Banks couldn't decide. "So what if I have? I'm not on probation or parole. I don't have to register at the local nick everywhere I go, do I?" He fished for a cigarette in a grubby ten-pack of Players. Banks noticed that his stubby fingers were trembling slightly.

"Just like to know who we've got living among us," Banks said pleasantly. He didn't need to pursue the matter. If Boyd had a record, the Police National Computer would provide all the information he wanted.

"So what's all this in aid of?" Rick said, leaning against the mantelpiece. "As if I need ask."

"You know what happened on Friday night. You were arrested for obstructing a police officer." Rick laughed. Banks ignored him and went on. "You also know that a policeman was killed at that demonstration."

"Are you saying you think one of us did it?"

Banks shook his head. "Come on," he said, "you know the rules as well as I do. A situation like this comes up, we check out all political groups."

"We're not political," Mara said.

Banks looked around the room. "Don't be so naive. Everything you have here, everything you say and do, makes a political statement. It doesn't matter whether or not any of you belong to an official party. You know that as well as I do. Besides, we've got to act on tips we get."

"What tip?" Rick asked. "Who's been talking?"

"Never mind that. We just heard you were involved, that's all." Burgess's trick seemed at least worth a try.

"So we were there," Rick said, "Seth and me. You already know that. We gave statements. We told you all we knew. Why come back pestering us now? What are you looking for?"

"Anything we can find."

"Look," Rick went on, "I still don't see why you're persecuting us. I can't imagine who's been telling you things or what they've been saying, but you're misinformed. Just because we employed our right to demonstrate for a cause we happen to believe in, it doesn't give you the right to come around with these Gestapo tactics and harass us."

"The Gestapo didn't need a search warrant."

Rick sneered and scratched his straggly beard. "With a JP like the one you've got in your pocket, I'd hardly consider that a valid argument."

"Besides," Banks went on, "we're not persecuting you or harassing you. Believe me, if we were, you'd know it. Do any of you remember anything else about Friday night?"

Seth and Rick shook their heads. Banks looked around at the others. "Come on, I'm assuming you were all there. Don't worry, I can't prove it. I'm not going to arrest you if you admit it. It's just that one of you might have seen something important. This is a murder investigation."

Still silence. Banks sighed. "Fine. Don't blame me if things do get rough. We've got a man up from London. A specialist. Dirty Dick, his friends call him. He's a hell of a lot nastier than I am."

"Is that some kind of threat?" Mara asked.

Banks shook his head. "I'm just letting you know your options, that's all."

"How can we tell you we saw something if we didn't?" Paul said angrily. "You say you know we were there. Okay. Maybe we were. I'm not saying we were, but maybe. That doesn't mean we saw anything or did anything wrong. It's like Rick says, we had a right to be there. It's not a fucking police state yet." He turned away sullenly and drew on his cigarette.

"Nobody's denying your right to be there," Banks said. "I just want to know if you saw anything that could help us solve this murder."

Silence.

"Does anyone here own a flick-knife?"

Rick said no and the others shook their heads.

"Ever seen one around? Know anyone who does have one?"

Again nothing. Banks thought he saw an expression of surprise flit across Mara's face, but it could have been a trick of the light.

In the following silence, Craig and McDonald came downstairs, shook their heads and went to search the outbuildings. Two small children walked in from the kitchen and hurried over to Mara, each taking a hand. Banks smiled at them, but they just stared at him, sucking their thumbs.

He tried to imagine Brian and Tracy, his own children, growing up under such conditions, isolated from other children. For one thing, there didn't seem to be a television in the place. Banks disapproved of TV in general, and he always tried to make sure that Brian and Tracy didn't watch too much, but if children saw none at all, they would have nothing to talk to their pals about. There had to be a compromise somewhere; you couldn't just ignore the blasted idiot-box in this day and age, much as you might wish you could.

On the other hand, these children certainly showed no signs of neglect, and there was no reason to assume that Rick and the rest weren't good parents. Seth Cotton, Banks knew, had a reputation as a fine carpenter, and Mara's pottery sold well locally. Sandra even had a piece, a shapely vase glazed in a mixture of shades: green, ultramarine and the like. He didn't know much about Rick Trelawney's paintings, but if the local landscape propped up by the fireplace was his, then he was good, too. No, he had no call to impose his own limited perspective on them. If the children grew up into creative, free-thinking adults, their minds unpolluted by TV and mass culture, what could be so wrong about that?

Apart from the sounds of the wind chimes, they sat in silence until Rick finally spoke. "Do you know," he said to Banks, "how many children come down with leukaemia and rare forms of cancer in areas around Sellafield and other nuclear-power stations? Do you have any idea?"

"Look," said Banks. "I'm not here to attack your views. You're entitled to them. I might even agree. The thing is, what happened on Friday night goes beyond all that. I'm not here to argue politics or philosophy; I'm investigating a murder. Why can't you get that into your heads?"

"Maybe they can't be as neatly separated as you think," Rick argued. "Politics, philosophy, murder — they're all connected. Look at Latin America, Israel, Nicaragua, South Africa. Besides, the police started it. They kept us penned in like animals, then they charged with their truncheons out, just like some Chilean goon squad. If some of them got hurt, too, they bloody well deserved it."

"One of them got killed. Is that all right?"

Rick turned away in disgust. "I never said I was a pacifist," he muttered, looking at Seth. "There'll be a local police inquiry," he went on, "and the whole thing'll be rigged. You can't expect us to believe there's going to be any objectivity about all this. When it comes to the crunch you bastards always stick together."

"Believe what you like," Banks said.

Craig and McDonald came back in through the kitchen. They'd found nothing. It was eleven o'clock. At twelve Banks was to meet Burgess, Hatchley and Richmond in the Queen's Arms to compare notes. There was nothing to be gained by staying to discuss nuclear ethics with Rick, so he stood up and walked over to the door.

As he held his jacket closed and pushed against the wind to the car, he felt someone staring at his back through the window. He knew he had sensed fear in the house. Not just fear of a police raid they'd been expecting, but something different. All was not as harmonious as it should have been. He filed away his uneasiness to be mulled over later along with the thousand other things — concrete or nebulous — that lodged themselves in his mind during an investigation.

II

"Nothing," Burgess growled, grinding out his cigar viciously in the ashtray at the centre of the copper-topped table. "Absolutely bugger all. And that woman's crazy. I'll swear I thought she was going to bite me."

For the first time ever, Banks felt a sudden rush of affection for Dorothy Wycombe.

All in all, though, the morning had been disappointing for everyone. Not surprisingly, the searches had produced no murder weapon or documents attesting to the terrorist plot that Burgess suspected; none of the witnesses had changed their statements; and the reaction to Burgess's divide-and-conquer tactic had been negligible.

Sergeant Hatchley reported that the Church for Peace group seemed stunned by the murder and had even offered prayers for PC Gill in their service that morning.

The Students Union, according to DC Richmond, who had visited the leaders — Tim Fenton and Abha Sutton — at their flat, thought it typical of the others to blame them for what happened, but insisted that assassination was not part of their programme for a peaceful revolution. While Burgess thought Dorothy Wycombe quite capable of murder — especially of a member of the male species — she had stuck to her guns and ridiculed any such suggestion.

"So it's back to square one," Hatchley said. "A hundred suspects and not one scrap of evidence."

"I did find out from one of the lads on duty," said Richmond, "that Dorothy Wycombe, Dennis Osmond and some of the people from Maggie's Farm were close to the front at one time. But he said everything went haywire when the fighting started. He also said he noticed a punkish looking kid with them."

"That'd be Paul Boyd," Banks said. "He seems to live up at the farm, too. Run him through the computer, will you, Phil, and see what comes up. I wouldn't be surprised if he's done time. While you're at it, find out what you can about the lot of them up there. I've got a funny feeling that something's not quite right about that place."

He glanced at Burgess, who seemed to be staring abstractedly over at Glenys. Her husband was nowhere in sight.

"Maybe we should have a look into Gill's background," Banks suggested.

Burgess turned. "Why?"

"Someone might have had a reason for wanting him dead. We'll get nowhere on means and opportunity unless the knife turns up, but if we could find a motive—"

Burgess shook his head. "Not in a crime like this. Whether it was planned or spur-of-the-moment, the victim was random. It could have happened to any of the coppers on duty that night. It was just poor Gill's bad luck, that's all."

"But still," Banks insisted, "it's something we can do. Maybe the demo was just used as a cover."

"No. It'll look bad, for a start. What if the papers find out we're investigating one of our own? We've got enough trouble already with an enquiry into the whole bloody mess. That'd give the press enough ammo to take a few cheap shots at us without us making things easier for them. Jesus, there's enough weirdos and commies to investigate already without bringing a good copper into it. What about this Osmond character? Anyone talked to him yet?"

"No," said Banks. "Not since Friday night."

"Right, this is what we'll do. Get another round in, Constable, would you?" Burgess handed Richmond a fiver.

Richmond nodded and went to the bar. Burgess had switched from Double Diamond to double Scotch, claiming it was easier on his stomach, but Banks thought he was just trying to impress Glenys with his largesse. And now he was showing her he was too important to leave the conference and that he had the power to order others to do things for him. Good tactics, but would they work on her?

"You and I, Banks," he said, "will pay this Osmond fellow a visit this afternoon. DC Richmond can check up on those drop-outs you went to see and feed a few more names into the PNC. Sergeant Hatchley here can start making files on the leaders of the various groups involved. We want every statement cross-checked with the others for inaccuracies, and all further statements checked against the originals. Someone's going to slip up at some point, and we're going to catch the bugger at it. Bottoms up." He drank his Scotch and turned to wink at Glenys. "By the way," he said to Banks, "that bloody office you gave me isn't big enough to swing a dead cat in. Any chance of another?"

Banks shook his head. "Sorry, we're pushed for space. It's either that or the cells."

"What about yours?"

"Too small for two."

"I was meaning for one. Me."

"Forget it. I've got all my files and records in there. Besides, it's cold and the blind doesn't work."

"Hmmm. Still…"

"You could do most of the paperwork in your hotel room," Banks suggested. "It's close enough, big enough, and there's a phone." And you'll be out of my way, too, he thought.

Burgess nodded slowly. "All right. It'll do for now. Come on!" He jumped into action and clapped Banks on the back. "Let's see if anything's turned up at the station first, then we'll set off and have a chat with Mr Dennis Osmond, CND."

Nothing had turned up, and as soon as Richmond had located Paul Boyd's record and Banks had had a quick look at it, the pair set off for Osmond's flat in Banks's white Cortina.

"Tell me about this Boyd character," Burgess asked as Banks drove.

"Nasty piece of work." Banks slipped a Billie Holiday cassette in the stereo and turned the volume down low. "He started as a juvenile-gang fights, assault, that kind of thing — skipping school and hanging around the streets with the rest of the dead-beats. He's been nicked four times, and he drew eighteen months on the last one. First it was drunk and disorderly, underage, then assaulting a police officer trying to disperse a bunch of punks frightening shoppers in Liverpool city centre. After that it was a drugs charge, possession of a small amount of amphetamines. Then he got nicked breaking into a chemist's to steal pills. He's been clean for just over a year now."

Burgess rubbed his chin. "Everything short of soccer hooliganism, eh? Maybe he's not the sporting type. Assaulting a police officer, you say?"

"Yes. Him and a couple of others. They didn't do any real damage, so they got off lightly."

"That's the bloody trouble," Burgess said. "Most of them do. Any political connections?"

"None that we know of so far. Richmond hasn't been onto the Branch yet, so we haven't been able to check on his friends and acquaintances."

"Anything else?"

"Not really. Most of his probation officers and social workers seemed to give up on him."

"My heart bleeds for the poor bastard. It looks like we've got a likely candidate. This Osmond is a social worker, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Maybe he'll know something about the kid. Let's remember to ask him. Where's Boyd from?"

"Liverpool."

"Any IRA connections?"

"Not as far as we know."

"Still.. "

Dennis Osmond lived in a one-bedroom flat in northeast Eastvale. It had originally been council-owned, but the tenants had seized their chance and bought their units cheaply when the government started selling them off.

A shirtless Osmond answered the door and led Banks and Burgess inside. He was tall and slim with a hairy chest and a small tattoo of a butterfly on his upper right arm. He wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. With his shaggy dark hair and Mediterranean good looks, he looked the kind of man who would be attractive to women. He moved slowly and calmly, and didn't seem at all surprised by their arrival.

The flat had a spacious living-room with a large plate-glass window that overlooked the fertile plain to the east of Swainsdale: a checkerboard of ploughed fields, bordered by hedgerows, rich brown, ready for spring. The furniture was modern — tubes and cushions — and a large framed painting hung on the wall over the fake fireplace. Banks had to look very closely to make sure the canvas wasn't blank; it was scored with faint red and black lines.

"Who is it?" A woman's voice came from behind them. Banks turned and saw Jenny Fuller poking her head around a door. From what he could tell, she was wearing a loose dressing-gown, and her hair was in disarray. His eyes caught hers and he felt his stomach tense up and his chest tighten. Meeting her in a situation like this was something he hadn't expected. He was surprised how hard it hit.

"Police," Osmond said. But Jenny had already turned back and shut the door behind her. Burgess, who had watched all this, made no comment. "Can we sit down?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Osmond gestured to the armchairs and pulled a black T-shirt over his head while they made themselves as comfortable as possible. The decal on the front showed the CND symbol — a circle with a wide — spread, inverted Y inside it, each branch touching the circumference — with NO NUKES written in a crescent under it.

Banks fumbled for a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray.

"I'd rather you didn't," Osmond said. "Secondhand smoke can kill, you know." He paused and looked Banks over. "So you're Chief Inspector Banks, are you? I've heard a lot about you."

"Hope it was good," Banks said, with more equilibrium than he felt. What had Jenny been telling him? "It'll save us time getting acquainted, won't it?"

"And you're the whiz-kid they sent up from London," Osmond said to Burgess.

"My, my. How word travels." Dirty Dick smiled. He had the kind of smile that made most people feel nervous, but it seemed to have no effect on Osmond. As Banks settled into the chair, he could picture Jenny dressing in the other room.

It was probably the bedroom, he thought gloomily, and the double bed would be rumpled and stained, the Sunday Times review section spread out over the creased sheets. He took out his notebook and settled down as best he could for the interrogation.

"What do you want?" Osmond asked, perching at the edge of the sofa and leaning forward.

"I hear you were one of the organizers of Friday's demonstration," Burgess opened.

"So what if I was?"

"And you're a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and the International Socialists, if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm in Amnesty International, as well, in case you don't have that in your file. And as far as I'm aware it's not a crime yet."

"Don't be so touchy."

"Look, can you get to the point? I haven't got all day."

"Oh yes, you have," Burgess said. "And you've got all night, too, if I want it like that."

"You've no right—"

"I've every right. One of your lot — maybe even you — killed a good, honest copper on Friday night, and we don't like that; we don't like it at all. I'm sorry if we're keeping you from your fancy woman, but that's the way it is. Whose idea was it?"

Osmond frowned. "Whose idea was what? And I don't like you calling Jenny names like that."

"You don't?" Burgess narrowed his eyes. "There'll be a lot worse names than that flying around, sonny, if you don't start to co-operate. Whose idea was the demonstration?"

"I don't know. It just sort of came together."

Burgess sighed. "'It just sort of came together,'" he repeated mockingly, looking at Banks. "Now what's that supposed to mean? Men and women come together, if they're lucky, but not political demonstrations — they're planned. What are you trying to tell me?"

"Exactly what I said. There are plenty of people around here opposed to nuclear arms, you know."

"Are you telling me that you all just happened to meet outside the Community Centre that night? Is that what you're trying to say? 'Hello, Fred, fancy meeting you here. Let's have a demo.' Is that what you're saying?"

Osmond shrugged.

"Well, balls is what I say, Osmond. Balls to that. This was an organized demonstration, and that means somebody organized it. That somebody might have also arranged for a little killing to spice things up a bit. Now, so far the only somebody we know about for sure is you. Maybe you did it all by yourself, but I'm betting you had some help. Whose tune do you dance to, Mr Osmond? Moscow's? Peking's? Or is it Belfast?"

Osmond laughed. "You've got your politics a bit mixed up, haven't you? A socialist is hardly the same as a Maoist. Besides, the Chairman's out of favour these days. And as for the IRA, you can't seriously believe—"

"I seriously believe a lot of things that might surprise you," Burgess cut in.

"And you can spare me the fucking lecture. Who gave you your orders?"

"You're wrong," Osmond said. "It wasn't like that at all. And even if there was somebody else involved, do you think I'm going to tell you who it was?"

"Yes, I do," Burgess said. "There's nothing more certain. The only question is when you're going to tell me, and where."

"Look," Banks said, "we'll find out anyway. There's no need to take it on yourself to carry the burden and get done for withholding information in a murder investigation. If you didn't do it and you don't think your mates did, either, then you've nothing to worry about, have you?" Banks found it easy to play the nice guy to Burgess's heavy, even though he felt a strong, instinctive dislike for Osmond. When he questioned suspects with Sergeant Hatchley, the two of them switched roles. But Burgess only had one method of approach: head on.

"Listen to him," Burgess said. "He's right."

"Why don't you find out from someone else, then?" Osmond said to Banks. "I'm damned if I'm telling you anything."

"Do you own a flick-knife?" Burgess asked.

"No."

"Have you ever owned one?"

"No."

"Know anybody who does?"

Osmond shook his head.

"Did you know PC Gill?" Banks asked. "Had you any contact with him before last Friday?"

Osmond looked puzzled by the question, and when he finally answered no, it didn't ring true. Or maybe he was just thrown off balance. Burgess didn't seem to notice anything, but Banks made a mental note to check into the possibility that Osmond and Gill had somehow come into contact.

The bedroom door opened and Jenny walked out. She'd brushed her hair and put on a pair of jeans and an oversized plaid shirt. Banks bet it belonged to Osmond and tried not to think about what had been going on earlier in the bedroom.

"Hello, love," Burgess said, patting an empty chair beside him. "Come to join us? What's your name?"

"In the first place," Jenny said stiffly, "I'm not 'love,' and in the second, I don't see as my name's any of your damn business. I wasn't even there on Friday."

"As you like," Burgess said. "Just trying to be friendly."

Jenny glanced at Banks as if to ask, "Who is this bastard?" and Burgess caught the exchange.

"Do you two know each other?" he asked.

Banks cursed inwardly and felt himself turning red. There was no way out. "This is Dr Fuller," he said. "She helped us on a case here a year or so back."

Burgess beamed at Jenny. "I see. Well, maybe you can help us again, Dr Fuller. Your boy-friend here doesn't want to talk to us, but if you've helped the police before—"

"Leave her alone," Osmond said. "She had nothing to do with it." Banks had felt the same thing — he didn't want Burgess getting his claws into Jenny — and he resented Osmond for being able to defend her.

"Very prickly today, aren't we?" Burgess said. "All right, sonny, we'll get back to you, if that's the way you want it." But he kept looking at Jenny, and Banks knew he was filing her away for future use. Banks now found it hard to look her in the eye himself. He was only a chief inspector and Burgess was a superintendent. When things were going his way, Burgess wouldn't pull rank, but if Banks let any of his special feeling for Jenny show, or tried in any way to protect her, then Burgess would certainly want to humiliate him. Besides, she had her knight in shining armour in the form of Osmond. Let him take the flack.

"What were you charged with on Friday?" Burgess asked.

"You know damn well what I was charged with. It was a trumped-up charge."

"But what was it? Tell me. Say it. Just to humour me." Burgess reached into his pocket and took out his tin of Tom Thumbs. Holding Osmond's eyes with his own all the time, he slowly took out a cigar and lit it.

"I said I don't want you smoking in here," Osmond protested on cue. "It's my home and—"

"Shut up," Burgess said, just loudly enough to stop him in his tracks. "What was the charge?"

"Breach of the peace," Osmond mumbled. "But I told you, it was trumped up. If anyone broke the peace, it was the police."

"Ever heard of a lad by the name of Paul Boyd?" Banks asked.

"No." It was a foolish lie. Osmond had answered before he'd had time to register the question. Banks would have known he was lying even if he hadn't already learned, via Jenny, that Osmond was acquainted with the people at Maggie's Farm.

"Look," Osmond went on, "I'm starting an inquiry of my own into what happened on Friday. I'll be taking statements, and believe me, I'll make sure your behaviour here today goes into the final report."

"Bully for you," said Burgess. Then he shook his head slowly. "You don't get it, do you, sonny? You might be able to pull those outraged-citizen tactics with the locals, but they won't wash with me. Do you know why not?"

Osmond scowled and kept silent.

"I said, do you know why not?"

"All right, no, I don't bloody well know why not!"

"Because I don't give a flying fuck for you or for others like you," Burgess said, stabbing the air with his cigar. "As far as I'm concerned, you're shit, and we'd all be a hell of a lot better off without you. And the people I work with, they feel the same way. It doesn't matter if Chief Inspector Banks here has the hots for your Dr Fuller and wants to go easy on her. It doesn't matter that he's got a social conscience and respects people's rights, either. I don't, and my bosses don't. We don't piss around, we get things done, and you'd do well to remember that, both of you."

Jenny was flushed and speechless with rage; Banks himself felt pale and impotent. He should have known that nothing would slip by Burgess.

"I can't tell you anything," Osmond repeated wearily. "Why can't you believe me? I don't know who killed that policeman. I didn't see it, I didn't do it, and I don't know who did."

A long silence followed. At least it seemed long to Banks, who was aware only of the pounding of his heart. Finally Burgess stood up and walked over to the window, where he stubbed out his cigar on the white sill. Then he turned and smiled. Osmond gripped the tubular arms of his chair tightly.

"Okay," Burgess said, turning to Banks. "We'll be off, then, for the moment.

Sorry to spoil your afternoon in bed. You can get back to it now, if you like."

He looked at Jenny and licked his lips. "That's a fetching shirt you've got on, love," he said to her. "But you didn't need to leave it half-unbuttoned just for me. I've got plenty of imagination."

Back in the car, Banks was fuming. "You were way out of line in there," he said. "There was no reason to insult Jenny, and there was especially no need to bring me into it the way you did. What the hell were you trying to achieve?"

"Just trying to stir them up a bit, that's all."

"So how does making me out to be a bloody lecher stir them up?"

"You're not thinking clearly, Banks. We make Osmond jealous, maybe he lets his guard down." Burgess grinned. "Anyway, there's nothing in it, is there, you and her?"

"Of course there isn't."

"Methinks this fellow doth protest too much."

"Fuck off."

"Oh, come on," Burgess said calmly. "Don't take it so seriously. You use what you need to get results. Christ, I don't blame you. I wouldn't mind tumbling her, myself. Lovely pair of tits under that shirt. Did you see?"

Banks took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. There was no point, he realized, in going on. Burgess was an unstoppable force. However angry and disoriented Banks felt, it would do no good to let more of it show. Instead, he put his emotions in check, something he knew he should have done right from the start. But the feelings still rankled as they knotted up below the surface. He was mad at Burgess, he was mad at Osmond, he was mad at Jenny, and he was mad, most of all, at himself.

Starting the car with a lurch, he shoved the cassette back in and turned up the volume. Billie Holiday sang "God Bless the Child," and Burgess whistled blithely along as they sped through the bright, blustery March day back to the market square.

III

They were all a bit drunk, and that was unusual at Maggie's Farm. Mara certainly hadn't been so tipsy for a long time. Rick was sketching them as they sat around the living-room. Paul drank lager from the can, and even Zoe had turned giggly on white wine. But Seth was the worst. His speech was slurred, his eyes were watery, and his co-ordination was askew. He was also getting maudlin about the sixties, something he never did when he was sober. Mara had seen him drunk only once before, the time he had let slip about the death of his wife. Mostly, he was well-guarded and got on with life without moaning.

Things had begun well enough. After the police visit, they had all walked down to the Black Sheep for a drink. Perhaps the feeling of relief, of celebration, had encouraged them to drink more than usual, and they had splurged on a few cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, some white wine and a bottle of Scotch to take home. Most of the afternoon Seth and Mara had lounged about over the papers or dozed by the fire, while Paul messed about in the shed, Rick painted in his studio, and Zoe amused the children. Early in the evening they all got together, and the whisky and wine started making the rounds.

Seth stumbled over to the stereo and sought out a scratchy old Grateful Dead record from his collection. "Those were the days," he said. "All gone now. All people care about today is money. Bloody yuppies."

Rick looked up from his sketch-pad and laughed. "When was it ever any different?"

"Isle of Wight, Knebworth…" Seth went on, listing the rock festivals he'd been to. "People really shared back then…."

Mara listened to him ramble. They had been under a lot of stress since the demo, she thought, and this was clearly Seth's way of getting it out of his system. It was easy to fall under the spell of nostalgia. She remembered the sixties, too — or more accurately the late sixties, when the hippie era had really got going in England. Things had seemed better back then. Simpler. More clear-cut. There was us and them, and you knew them by the shortness of their hair.

"… Santana, Janis, Hendrix, the Doors. Jesus, even the Hare Krishnas were fun back then. Now they all wear bloody business suits and wigs. I remember one time—"

"It's all crap!" Paul shouted, banging his empty can on the floor. "It was never like that. It's just a load of cobblers you're talking, Seth."

"How would you know?" Seth sat up and balanced unsteadily on his elbow. "You weren't there, were you? You were nought but a twinkle in your old man's eye."

"My mum and dad were hippies," Paul said scornfully. "Fucking flower children. She OD'd, and he was too bloody stoned to take care of me, so he gave me away."

Mara was stunned. Paul had never spoken about his true ' parents before, only about the way he had been badly treated in his foster home. If it was true, she thought, did he really see Seth and her in the same light? They were about the right age. Did he hate them, too?

But she couldn't believe that. There was another side to the coin. Maybe Paul was looking for what he had lost, and he had found at least some of it at Maggie's Farm. They didn't take drugs and, while she and Seth might have grown up in the sixties and tried to cling on to some of its ideals, they neither looked nor acted like hippies any longer.

"We're not like that," she protested, looking over at Zoe for support. "You know it, Paul. We care about you. We'd never desert you. It was fun back then for a lot of people. Seth's only reminiscing about his youth."

"I know," Paul said grudgingly. "I can't say I had one worth reminiscing about, myself. Anyway, I'm only saying, Mara, that's all. It wasn't all peace and love like Seth tells it. He's full of shit."

"You're right about that, mate," Rick agreed, putting down his sketch-pad and pouring another shot of Scotch. "I never did have much time for hippies myself. Nothing but a moaning, whining bunch of little kids, if you ask me. Seth's just pissed, that's all. Look at him now, anyway — he's a bloody landowner, a landlord even. Pretty soon it'll be baggy tweeds and out shooting pheasant every afternoon. Sir Seth Cotton, Squire of Maggie's Farm."

But Seth had slumped back against a beanbag and seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. His eyes were closed, and Mara guessed that he was either asleep or absorbed in the soaring Jerry Garcia guitar solo.

"Where's your father now?" Mara asked Paul.

"I don't fucking know. Don't fucking care, either." Paul ripped open another can of lager.

"But didn't he ever get in touch?"

"Why should he? I told you, he was too zonked out to notice me even when I was there."

"It's still no reason to say everyone was like that," Mara said. "All Seth was saying was that the spirit of love was strong back then. All that talk about the Age of Aquarius meant something."

"Yeah, and what's happened to it now? Two thousand years of this crap I can do without, thanks very much. Let's just forget the fucking past and get on with life." With that, Paul got up and left the room.

Jerry Garcia played on. Seth stirred, opened one bloodshot eye, then closed it again. Mara poured herself and Zoe some more white wine, then her mind wandered back to Paul. As if she weren't confused enough already, the hostility he'd shown tonight and the new information about his feelings for his parents muddied the waters even more. She was scared of approaching him about the blood on his hand, and she was beginning to feel frightened to go on living in the same house as someone she suspected of murder. But she hated herself for feeling that way about him, for not being able to trust him completely and believe in him. What she needed was somebody to talk to, somebody she could trust from outside the house. She felt like a woman with a breast lump who was afraid to go to the doctor and find out if it really was cancer.

And what made it worse was that she'd noticed the knife was missing: the flick-knife Seth said he had bought in France years ago. Everybody else must have noticed, too, but no one had mentioned it. The knife had been lying on the mantelpiece for anyone to use ever since she'd been at Maggie's Farm, and now it was gone.

IV

Banks ate the fish and chips he had bought on the way home, then went into the living-room. Screw gourmet cooking, he thought. If that irritating neighbour, Selena Harcourt, didn't turn up with some sticky dessert to feed him up "while the little woman's away," he'd have the evening to relax instead of mixing up sauces that never turned out anyway. He had calmed down soon after leaving Burgess at the station. The bastard had been right. What had happened at Osmond's, he realized, had not been particularly serious, but his shock at finding Jenny there had made him exaggerate things. His reaction had been extreme, and for a few moments, he'd lost his detachment. That was all. It had happened before and it would happen again. Not the end of the world.

He poured a drink, put his feet up and turned on the television. There was a special about the Peak District on Yorkshire TV. Half-watching, he flipped through Tracy's latest copy of History Today and read an interesting article on Sir Titus Salt, who had built a Utopian community called Saltaire, near Bradford, for the workers in his textile mills. It would be a good place to visit with Sandra and the kids, he thought. Sandra could take photographs; Tracy would be fascinated; and surely even Brian would find something of interest. The problem was that Sir Titus had been a firm teetotaller. There were no pubs in Saltaire. Obviously one man's Utopia is another man's Hell.

The article made him think of Maggie's Farm. He liked the place and respected Seth and Mara. They had shown antagonism towards him, but that was only to be expected. In his job, he was used to much worse. He didn't take it personally. Being a policeman was like being a vicar in some ways; people could never be really comfortable with you, even when you dropped into the local for a pint. The TV programme finished, and he decided there was no point putting off the inevitable. Picking up the phone, he dialled Jenny's number. He was in luck; she answered on the third ring.

"Jenny? It's Alan."

There was a pause at the other end. "I'm not sure I want to talk to you," she said finally.

"Could you be persuaded to?"

"Try."

"I just wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I hadn't expected to see you there."

Only the slight crackle of the line filled the silence. "It surprised me, too," Jenny said. "You keep some pretty bad company."

I could say the same for you, too, Banks thought. "Yes," he said, "I know."

"I do think you should keep him on a leash in future. You could maybe try a muzzle on him as well." She was obviously warming to him again, he could tell.

"Love to. But he's the boss. How did Osmond take it?" The name almost stuck in his throat.

"He was pissed off, all right. But it didn't last. Dennis is resilient. He's used to police harassment."

There was silence again, more awkward this time.

"Well," Banks said, "I just wanted to say I was sorry."

"Yes. You've said that already. It wasn't your fault. I'm not used to seeing you in a supporting role. You're not at your best like that, you know."

"What did you expect me to do? Jump up and hit him?"

"No, I didn't mean anything like that. But when he said what he did about us I could see you were ready to."

"Was it so obvious?"

"It was to me."

"I blew up at him in the car."

"I thought you would. What did he say?"

"Just laughed it off."

"Charming. I could have killed him when he said that about my shirt being undone."

"It was, though."

"I dressed in a hurry. I wanted to know what was going on."

"I know. I'm not trying to make out you did it on purpose or anything. It's just that, well, with a bloke like him around you've got to be extra careful."

"Now I know. Though I hope I won't have the pleasure again."

"He doesn't give up easily," Banks said gloomily.

"Nor do I. Where are you? What are you doing?"

"At home. Relaxing."

"Me, too. Is Sandra back?"

"No." The silence crackled again. Banks cleared his throat. "Look," he said, "when I mentioned dinner the other day, before all this, I meant it. How about tomorrow?"

"Can't tomorrow. I've got an evening class to teach."

"Tuesday?"

Jenny paused. "I suppose I can break my date," she said. "It had better be worth it, though."

"The Royal Oak is always worth it. My treat. I need to talk to you."

"Business?"

"I'm hoping you can help me get a handle on some of those Maggie's Farm people. Seth and Mara are about my age. It's funny how we all grew up in the sixties and turned out so different."

"Not really. Everybody's different."

"I liked the music. I just never felt I fit in with the longhaired crowd. Mind you, I did try pot once or twice."

"Alan! You didn't?"

"I did."

"And here's me thinking you're so strait-laced. What happened?"

"Nothing, the first time."

"And the second?"

"I fell asleep."

Jenny laughed.

"Still," Banks mused, "Burgess is about my age, too."

"He was probably sitting around in jackboots and a leather overcoat pulling the wings off flies."

"Probably. Anyway, dinner. Eight o'clock all right?"

"Fine."

"I'll pick you up."

Jenny said good night and hung up. Still friends. Banks breathed a sigh of relief.

He went back to his armchair and his drink, but he suddenly felt the need to call Sandra.

"How's your father?" he asked.

Sandra laughed. "Cantankerous as ever. But mother's coping better than I'd hoped." The line was poor and her voice sounded faraway.

"How much longer will you be down there?"

"A few more days should do it. Why? Are you missing us?"

"More than you know."

"Hang on a minute. We had a day in London yesterday and Tracy wants to tell you about it."

Banks talked to his daughter for a while about St Paul's and the Tower of London, then Brian cut in and told him how great the record shops were down there. There was exactly the guitar he'd been looking for…. Finally, Sandra came back on again.

"Anything happening up there?"

"You could say that." Banks told her about the demo and the killing.

Sandra whistled. "I'm glad I'm out of it. I can imagine how frantic things are."

"Thanks for the support."

"You know what I mean."

"Remember Dick Burgess? Used to be a chief inspector at the Yard?"

"Was he the one who pawed the hostess and threw up in the geraniums at Lottie's party?"

"That's the one. He's up here, in charge."

"God help you. Now I'm really glad I'm down here. He had his eyes on me, too, you know, if not his hands."

"I'd like to say it was good taste, but don't flatter yourself, love. He's like that with everyone in a skirt."

Sandra laughed. "Better go now. Brian and Tracy are at it again."

"Give them my love. Take care. See you soon."

After he'd hung up, Banks felt so depressed that he almost regretted phoning in the first place. Why, he wondered, does a phone call to a distant loved one only intensify the emptiness and loneliness you were feeling before you called?

At a loose end, he turned off the television in the middle of a pop-music special that Brian would have loved and put on the blues tape an old colleague had sent him from London. The Reverend Robert Wilkins sang "Prodigal Son" in his eerie voice, unusually thin and high-pitched for a bluesman. Banks slouched in the armchair by the gas fire and sipped his drink. He often did his best thinking while drinking Scotch and listening to music, and it was time to put some of his thoughts about Gill's murder in order.

A number of things bothered him. There were demonstrations all the time, much bigger than the one in Eastvale, and while opposing sides sometimes came to blows, policemen didn't usually get stabbed. Call it statistics, probability, or just a hunch, but he didn't believe in Burgess's view of the affair.

And that was a problem, because it didn't leave much else to choose from. He still had uneasy feelings about some of the Maggie's Farm crowd. Paul Boyd was a dangerous character if ever he'd met one, and Mara had seemed extremely keen to come to his defence. Seth and Zoe had been especially quiet, but Rick Trelawney had expressed more violent views than Banks had expected. He didn't know what it added up to, but he felt that somebody knew something, or thought they did, and didn't want to communicate their suspicions to the police. It was a stupid way to behave, but people did it all the time. Banks just hoped that none of them got hurt.

As for Dennis Osmond, putting personal antipathy aside, Banks had caught him on two lies. Osmond had said he didn't know Paul Boyd, when he clearly did, and Banks had also suspected him of lying when he denied knowing PC Gill. It was easy enough to see why he might have lied: nobody wants to admit a connection with a murdered man or a convicted criminal if he doesn't have to. But Banks had to determine if there was anything more sinister to it than that. How could Osmond have known PC Gill? Maybe they'd been to school together. Or perhaps Gill had had occasion to arrest Osmond at some previous anti-nuclear protest. If so, it should be on the files. Richmond would have the gen from Special Branch in the morning.

Nothing so far seemed much like a motive for murder, though. If he was really cautious, he might be able to get something out of Jenny on Tuesday. She didn't usually resent his trying to question her, but she was bound to be especially sensitive where Osmond was concerned.

Perhaps he had reacted unprofessionally on finding Jenny in Osmond's bedroom and to Burgess's approach to interrogation. But, he reminded himself, Dirty Dick had made him look a proper wally, and what was more, he had insulted Jenny.

Sometimes Banks thought that Burgess's technique was to badger everyone involved in a case until someone was driven to try to throttle him. At least then he could lay a charge of attempted murder.

Halfway through his third Laphroaig and the second side of the tape, Banks decided that there was only one way to get back at the bastard, and that was to solve the case himself, in his own way. Burgess wasn't the only one who could play his cards close to his chest. Let him concentrate on the reds under the bed. Banks would do a bit of discreet digging and see if he could come up with anyone who had a motive for wanting PC Edwin Gill, and not just any copper, dead.

But if Gill the person rather than Gill the policeman was the victim, it raised a number of problems. For a start, how could the killer know that Gill was going to be at the demo? Also, how could he be sure that things would turn violent enough to mask a kill? Most puzzling of all was how could he have been certain of an escape? But at least these were concrete questions, a starting point. The more Banks thought about it, the more the thick of a political demonstration seemed the ideal cover for murder.