A Necessary End

I

The funeral procession wound its way from Gordon Street, where Edwin Gill had lived, along Manor Road to the cemetery. Somehow, Banks thought, the funeral of a fellow officer was always more solemn and grim than any other. Every policeman there knew that it could just as easily have been him in the coffin; every copper's wife lived with the fear that her husband, too, might end up stabbed, beaten or, these days, shot; and the public at large felt the tremor and momentary weakness in the order of things.

For the second time in less than a week, Banks found himself uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He listened to the vicar's eulogy, the obligatory verses from the Book of Common Prayer, and stared at the bristly necks in front of him. At the front, Gill's immediate family — mother, two sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces — snuffled and slipped each other wads of Kleenex.

When it was over, everyone filed out and waited for the cars to take them to the funeral lunch. The oaks and beeches lining the cemetery drive shook in the brisk wind. One moment the sun popped out from behind the clouds, and the next, a five-minute shower took everyone by surprise. It was that kind of day: chameleon, unpredictable.

Banks stood with DC Richmond by the unmarked black police Rover — his own white Cortina was hardly the thing for a funeral — and waited for someone to lead the way. He wore a light grey raincoat over his navy-blue suit, but his head was bare. With his close-cropped black hair, scar beside the right eye, and lean, angular features, he thought he must look a suspicious figure as he held his raincoat collar tight around his throat to keep out the cold wind. Richmond, rangy and athletic, wearing a camel-hair overcoat and trilby, stood beside him.

It was early Tuesday afternoon. Banks had spent the morning reading over the records Richmond had managed to gather on Osmond and the Maggie's Farm crowd. There wasn't much. Seth Cotton had once been arrested for carrying an offensive weapon (a bicycle chain) at a modsandrockers debacle in Brighton in the early sixties. After that, he had one marijuana bust to his credit — only a quid deal, nothing serious — for which he had been fined. Rick Trelawney had been in trouble only once, in St Ives, Cornwall. A tourist had taken exception to his drunken pronouncements on the perfidy of collecting art, and a rowdy argument turned into a punch-up. It had taken three men to drag Rick off, and the tourist had ended up with a broken jaw and one permanently deaf ear.

The only other skeleton in Rick's cupboard was the wife from whom he had recently separated. She was an alcoholic, which made it easy enough for Rick to get custody of Julian. But she was now staying with her sister in London while undergoing treatment, and there was a legal battle brewing. Things had got so bad at one point that Rick had applied for a court order to prevent her from coming near their son.

There was nothing on Zoe, but Richmond had checked the birth registry and discovered that the father of her child, Luna, was one Lyle Greenberg, an American student who had since returned to his home in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

On Mara there was even less. Immigration identified her as Moira Delacey, originally from Dublin. With her parents, she had come to England at the age of six, and they had settled in Manchester. No known Republican connections.

Most interesting and disturbing of all was Dennis Osmond's criminal record. In addition to arrests for his part in anti-government demonstrations — with charges ranging from breach of the peace to theft of a police officer's helmet — he had also been accused of assault by a live — in girlfriend called Ellen Ventner four years ago. At the woman's insistence, the charges had later been dropped, but Ventner's injuries — two broken ribs, a broken nose, three teeth knocked out and concussion — had been clearly documented by the hospital, and Osmond came out of the affair looking far from clean. Banks wasn't sure whether to bring up the subject when he met Jenny for dinner that evening. He wondered if she already knew. If she didn't she might not take kindly to his interference. Somehow, he doubted that Osmond had told her.

They were still waiting for the information from Special Branch, who had files on Osmond, Tim Fenton, the student leader, and five others known to have been at the demo. Apparently, the Branch needed Burgess's personal access code, password, voice-print and genetic fingerprint, or some equally ludicrous sequence of identification. Banks didn't expect much from them, anyway. In his own experience, Special Branch kept files on everyone who had ever bought a copy of Socialist Weekly.

Today, while Banks and Richmond were attending Gill's funeral, Burgess was taking Sergeant Hatchley to do the rounds again. They intended to revisit Osmond, Dorothy Wycombe, Tim Fenton and Maggie's Farm. Banks wanted to talk to the students himself, so he decided to call on them when he got back that evening — if Burgess hadn't alienated them beyond all communication by then. Burgess had been practically salivating at the prospect of more interrogations, and even Hatchley had seemed more excited about work than usual. Perhaps it was the chance to work with a superstar that thrilled him, Banks thought. The sergeant had always found "The Sweeney" much more interesting than the real thing. Or maybe he was going to suck up to Dirty Dick in the hope of being chosen for some special Scotland Yard squad. And the devil of it was, perhaps he would be, too.

Banks had mixed feelings about that possibility. He had got used to Sergeant Hatchley sooner than he'd expected to, and they had worked quite well together.

But Banks had no real feeling for him. He couldn't even bring himself to call Hatchley by his first name, Jim.

In Banks's mind, Hatchley was a sergeant and always would be. He didn't have that extra keen edge needed to make inspector. Phil Richmond did, but unfortunately there wasn't anywhere for him to move up to locally unless Hatchley was promoted, too. Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn't have that, and Banks didn't blame him. If Burgess liked Hatchley enough to suggest a job in London, that would solve all their problems. Richmond had already passed his sergeant's exams — the first stage on the long road to promotion — and perhaps PC Susan Gay, who had shown remarkable aptitude for detective work, could be transferred in from the uniformed branch as a new detective constable. PC Craig would be opposed, of course. He still called policewomen "wopsies," even though the gender-specific designation, WPC, had been dropped in favour of the neutral PC as far back as 1975. But that was Craig's problem; Hatchley was everyone's cross to bear.

Finally, the glossy black cars set off. Banks and Richmond followed them through the dull, deserted streets of Scarborough to the reception. There was nowhere quite as gloomy as a coastal resort in the off-season. If it hadn't been for the vague whiff of sea and fish in the air, nobody would have guessed they were at the seaside.

"Fancy a walk on the prom after lunch?" Banks asked.

Richmond sniffed. "Hardly the weather for that, is it?"

"Bracing, I'd say."

"Maybe I'll wait for you in a nice cosy pub, if you don't mind, sir."

Banks smiled. "And put your notes in order?" He knew how fussy Richmond was about notes and reports.

"I'll have to, won't I? It'll not stick in my memory that long."

On the way to Scarborough, Banks had put forward his theory about Gill's murder not being quite what it seemed. While Richmond had expressed reservations, he had agreed that it was at least worth pursuing. They had decided to chat up Gill's colleagues at the reception and see what they could pick up about the man. Burgess, of course, was to know nothing about this. Richmond had argued that even if there was something odd about Gill, none of his mates would say so at his funeral. Banks disagreed. He thought funerals worked wonders on the conscience. The phony platitudes often stuck in people's craws and made them want to tell someone the truth. After all, it wasn't as if they were trying to prove corruption or anything like that against Gill; they just wanted to know what kind of man he was and whether he might have made enemies.

The procession pulled into the car park of the Crown and Anchor, where a buffet had been arranged in the banquet room, and the guests hurried through a heavy shower to the front doors.

II

"Bloody hell! What stone did you crawl out from under?" Burgess said when Paul Boyd walked into the front room to see what was going on. Paul scowled. "Piss off."

Burgess strode forward and clipped him around the ear. Paul flinched and stumbled back. "Less of your cheek, sonny," Burgess said. "Show a bit of respect for your elders and betters."

"Why should I? You didn't show any fucking respect for me, did you?"

"Respect? For you?" Burgess narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think you deserve any respect? You're an ugly little pillock with a record as long as my arm. And that includes assaulting a police officer. And while we're at it, mind your tongue. There's ladies present. At least, I think there are."

Mara felt cold as Burgess ran his eyes up and down her body. Burgess turned back to Paul, who stood in the doorway holding his hand to his ear. "Come on, who put you up to it?"

"Up to what?"

"Killing a police officer."

"I never. I wasn't even there."

"It's true, he wasn't," Mara burst out. "He was here with me all evening. Somebody had to stay home and look after the children."

She had held her tongue so far, trying to figure Burgess out. He didn't seem as mild-mannered as Banks, and she was afraid of attracting his attention. Even as she spoke, her stomach muscles tensed.

Burgess looked at her again and shook his head. His eyes were as sharp as chipped slate. "Very touching, love. Very touching. Didn't your mother and father teach you not to tell lies? He was spotted in the crowd. We know he was there."

"You must have been mistaken."

Burgess glanced at Paul, then looked at Mara again. "Mistaken! How could anyone mistake this piece of garbage for someone else? You need your mouth washing out with soap and water, you do, love."

"And don't call me love."

Burgess threw up his arms in mock despair. "What's wrong with you lot? I thought everyone called each other love up north. Anyway, I can't for the life of me see why you're defending him. He's got a limited vocabulary, and with a body like that, I doubt if he's much good in bed."

"Bastard," Mara said between clenched teeth. There was going to be no reasoning with this one, that was certain. Best just stick it out.

"That's right, love," Burgess said. "Get it off your chest. You'll feel all the better for it." He eyed her chest, as if to prove his point, and turned to Paul again. "What did you do with the knife?"

"What knife?"

"The one you used to stab PC Gill. The flick-knife. Just your kind of weapon, I'd say."

"I didn't stab anyone."

"Oh, come on! What did you do with it?"

"I didn't have no fucking knife."

Burgess wagged a finger at him. "I warned you, watch your tongue. Are you getting all this, Sergeant Hatchley? The kid's denying everything."

"Yes, sir." Hatchley was sitting on the beanbag cushions, looking, Mara thought, rather like a beached whale.

"All we need is the knife," Burgess said. "Once we trace it back to you, you'll be in the nick before your feet can touch the ground. With your record, you won't have a chance. We've already placed you at the scene."

"There were about a hundred other people there, too," Paul said.

"Count them, did you? I thought you said you weren't there."

"I wasn't."

"Then how did you know?"

"Read it in the papers."

"Read? You? I doubt you'd get past the comics."

"Very funny," Paul said. "But you can't prove nothing."

"You might just be right about that," Burgess said. "But remember, if I can't prove nothing, it means I can prove something. And when I do… when I do…"

He left the threat hanging and turned to the room at large. They were all gathered in the house except Rick, who had taken the children to town for new clothes. "The rest of you are just as guilty," he went on. "When we build a case against dick-head here, you'll all get done for withholding information and for being accessories. So if any of you know anything, you'd best tell us now. Think about it."

"We don't know anything," Seth said quietly.

"Well, there we are then." Burgess sighed and ran his free hand through his hair. "Stalemate."

"And don't think we won't complain about the way you've treated us and how you hit Paul," Mara said.

"Do it, love. See if I care. Want me to tell you what'll happen? If you're lucky, it'll get passed down the line back to my boss at the Yard. And do you know what? He's an even bigger bastard than I am. No, your best bet's to come clean, tell the truth."

"I told you," Paul said. "I don't know anything about it."

"All right." Burgess dropped his cigar stub into a teacup balanced on the arm of a chair. The hot ash sizzled as it hit the dregs. "But don't say I didn't warn you. Come on, Sergeant. We'll leave these people to think about it a bit more. Maybe one of them'll come to his senses and get in touch with us."

Hatchley struggled to his feet and joined Burgess by the door. "We'll be back, don't worry," Burgess said. As they walked out of the small porch, he reached up, slapped the wind chimes and snarled, "Bloody tuneless racket."

III

Banks waited, glass of sherry in hand, until the crowd around the buffet had dwindled before he collected his own paper plateful of cold cuts and salad.

"Ee, it's a bit of all right, this, i'n't it," a grey-haired woman in a powder-blue crepe dress was saying to her friend.

"Aye," the other said. "Better'n old Ida Latham's do. Nobbut them little sarnies wi' t'crusts cut off. No bigger'n a postage stamp they weren't. Cucumber, too. It allus gives me gas, cucumber does."

"Chief Inspector Banks?"

The man who suddenly materialized beside Banks was about six-two with a shiny bald head, fuzzy white hair above the ears, and a grey RAF moustache. He wore a black armband over his dark grey suit, and a black tie. Even the rims of his glasses were black. Banks nodded.

"Thought it must be you," the man went on. "You don't look like a relation, and I've never seen you around here before. Superintendent Gristhorpe sent word you were coming." He stretched out his hand. "Detective Chief Inspector Blake, Scarborough CID."

Banks managed to balance his sherry glass on his plate and shake hands."Pleased to meet you," he said. "Shame it has to be at something like this."

They walked over to a quieter and less crowded part of the hall. Banks put down his plate on a table — after all, he couldn't eat while talking — and took out a cigarette.

"How's the investigation going?" Blake asked.

"Nothing yet. Too many suspects. Anything could have happened in a situation like that." He looked around the hall. "Lot of people here. PC Gill must have been a popular bloke."

"Hmmm. Didn't know him well, myself. It's a big station."

"Keen, though," Banks said. "Volunteering for overtime on a Friday night. Most of our lads would've rather been at the pub."

"It's more likely he needed the money. You know how half the bloody country lives on overtime. Has to, the wages we get paid."

"True. Fond of money, was he?"

Chief Inspector Blake frowned. "Are you digging?"

"We don't know anything about Gill," Banks admitted. "He wasn't one of ours. Every little bit helps. I'm sure you know that."

"Yes. But this is hardly a normal case, is it?"

"Still…"

"As I said, I didn't really know him. I hear you've got a whiz-kid from the Yard in charge."

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and picked up his plate. He knew he wasn't going to get anything out of Blake, so he ate his lunch while exchanging small talk.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Richmond talking to one of the uniformed pallbearers, probably one of the locals who had been bussed in with Gill to the demo. They had all given statements, of course, but none had seen Gill get stabbed. He hoped that Richmond was doing better than he was. Chief Inspector Blake drifted away after about five minutes, and Banks took the opportunity to refill his sherry glass. At the bar, he found himself standing next to another pallbearer.

Banks introduced himself. "Sad occasion," he said.

"Aye," PC Childers replied. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties. Banks felt irritated by his habit of looking in another direction while speaking.

"Popular bloke, PC Gill, by the look of it," Banks said.

"Oh, aye. A right card, old Eddie was."

"That right? Keen on his work?"

"You could say that. Certain parts of it, anyway."

"I'll bet the overtime came in handy."

"It's always good to have a bit extra," Childers said slowly. Banks could tell he was holding back; whether out of friendship, a sense of occasion, or out of simple duty, he couldn't be sure. But something was wrong. Childers was getting edgier, staring at the far wall. Finally, he excused himself abruptly and went to talk to his sergeant.

Banks was beginning to feel his mission had been wasted. He was also aware that very soon he would become an unwelcome guest if Childers and Blake mentioned his probings to others. Christ, he thought, they were a bloody sensitive lot here. It made him wonder if they'd got something to hide. Back at the table for a helping of trifle, Banks manoeuvred himself next to a third pallbearer, a moon-faced lad with bright blue eyes and fine, thinning hair the colour of wheat. Taking a deep breath, he smiled and introduced himself.

"I know who you are, sir," the PC said. "Ernie Childers told me. I'm PC Grant, Tony Grant. Ernie warned me. Said you were asking questions about Eddie Gill."

"Just routine," Banks said. "Like we do in all murder investigations."

Grant glanced over his shoulder. "Look, sir," he said, "I can't talk to you here."

"Where, then?" Banks felt his heart speed up.

"Do you know the Angel's Trumpet?"

Banks shook his head. "Don't know the place well. Only been here once before."

'it'll take too long to explain," Grant said. They finished helping themselves to dessert and turned around just in time to spot one of Grant's colleagues walking towards them.

"Marine Drive, then, just round from the fun-fair," Banks said quickly out of the corner of his mouth. It was the only place he could think of offhand. "About an hour."

"Fine," Grant said as a uniformed sergeant joined them.

"Good of you to come, Chief Inspector," the sergeant said, holding out his hand. "We appreciate it."

Grant had merged back into the crowd, and as Banks exchanged trivialities with the sergeant, his mind was on the meeting ahead, and the nervous, covert way in which it had been arranged.

IV

"He made me feel dirty," Mara said to Seth. "The way he looked at me."

"Don't let it get to you. That's just his technique. He's trying to goad you into saying something you'll regret."

"But what about Paul? You saw the way he was picking on him. What can we do?"

Paul had taken off as soon as Burgess and Hatchley left. He had said he was feeling claustrophobic and needed a walk on the moors to calm down after the onslaught. He hadn't objected to Zoe's company, so Seth and Mara were left alone.

"What is there to do?" Seth said.

"But you saw the way that bastard went at him. I wouldn't put it past him to frame Paul if it came down to it. He has got a record."

"They'd still need evidence."

"He could plant it."

"He couldn't just plant any old knife. It'd have to be the one that fitted the wound. They have scientists working for them. You can't put things across on that lot so easily, you know."

"I suppose not." Mara bit her lip and decided to take the plunge. "Seth? Have you noticed that the knife's missing? That old flick-knife from the mantelpiece."

Seth looked at her in silence for a while. His brown eyes were sad, and the bags under them indicated lack of sleep. "Yes," he said, "I have. But I didn't say anything. I didn't want to cause any alarm. It'll probably turn up."

"But what if… what if that was the knife?"

"Oh come on, Mara, surely you can't believe that. There are plenty of flick-knives in the country. Why should it be that one? Somebody's probably borrowed it. It'll turn up."

"Yes. But what if? I mean, Paul could have taken it, couldn't he?"

Seth drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "You know how many people were around on Friday afternoon," he said. "Any one of them could have taken it. When did you last notice it, for example?"

"I don't remember."

"See? And it still doesn't mean it was the knife that was used. Someone might just have borrowed it and forgot to say anything."

"I suppose so." But Mara wasn't convinced. It seemed too much of a coincidence that a flick-knife had been used to kill the policeman and the flick-knife from the mantelpiece was missing. She thought Seth was grasping for straws in trying to explain it away as he was, but she wanted to believe him.

"There you are, then," he said. "Why assume it's Paul just because he has a violent past? He's changed. You're thinking like the police."

Mara wanted to, but she couldn't bring herself to tell Seth about the blood.

Somehow, along with everything else, that information seemed so final, so damning.

She had decided to get in touch with that friend of Dennis Osmond's, Jenny. Mara liked her, though she wasn't too sure about Osmond himself. And Jenny was a professional psychologist. Mara could put her a theoretical case, using Paul's background, and ask if such a person was likely to be dangerous. She could say it was a part of some research she was doing for a story or something. Jenny would believe her.

"Maybe he should go away," Seth said after a while.

"Paul? But why?"

"It might be best for him. For all of us. Till it's over. You can see how all this is getting to him."

"It's getting to all of us," Mara said. "You, too."

"Yes, but—"

"Where would he go? You know he hasn't got anybody else to turn to." Despite her fears, Mara couldn't help but want to protect Paul. She didn't understand her feelings, but as much as she suspected him, she couldn't just give up and send him away.

Seth stared at the floor.

"It could look bad, too," Mara argued. "The police would think he was running away because he was guilty."

"Let him stay, then. Just make up your mind."

"Don't you care about him?"

"Of course I care about him. That's why I suggested he get away. Come on, Mara, which way do you want it? If I suggest he goes, I'm being cruel, and if he stays he might have to put up with a hell of a lot more from that fascist bastard we had around this afternoon. What do you want? Do you think he can take it? Look how he reacted to today's little chat. That was a picnic compared to what'll happen if they decide to take him in for questioning. And we can't protect him. Well? How much do you think he can take?"

"I don't know." Things had suddenly got even more complicated for Mara, "I want what's best for Paul."

"Let's ask him, then. We can't make his decisions for him."

"No! We've got to stand by him. If we approach him, he might think we believe he's guilty and want him out of the way."

"But we'd have to approach him to ask if he'd like to go away for a while, until things settle down."

"So we do nothing. If he wants to stay, he stays, and we stand by him, whatever. If he goes, then it's his decision. We don't force him out. He's not stupid, Seth, I'm sure he knows he's in for a lot of police harassment. The last thing he needs is to feel that we're against him, too."

"Okay." Seth nodded and stood up. "We'll leave it at that. I've got to go and do some work on that old sideboard now. I'm already late. You all right?"

Mara looked up at him and smiled. "I'll manage."

"Good." He bent and kissed her, then went out back to his workshop.

But Mara wasn't all right. Left to herself, she began to imagine all kinds of terrible things. The world of Maggie's Farm had seemed at first to offer the stability, love and freedom she had always been searching for, but now it had broken adrift. The feeling was like that she remembered having during a mild earthquake in California, when she'd travelled around the States, with Matthew, eons ago. Suddenly, the floor of the room, the house's foundations, the solid earth on which they were built, had seemed no more stable than water. A ripple had passed fleetingly under her, and what she had always thought durable turned out to be flimsy, untrustworthy and transient. The quake had only lasted for ten seconds and hadn't registered above five on the Richter scale, but the impression had remained with her ever since. Now it was coming back stronger than ever.

On the mantelpiece, among the clutter of sea shells, pebbles, fossils and feathers, she could see the faint outline of dust around where the knife had been. As she wiped the surface clean, she thanked her lucky stars that the police had been looking for material things, not absences.

Banks drove along Foreshore Road and Sandside by the Old Harbour. The amusement arcades and gift shops were all closed. In season, crowds of holiday-makers always gathered around the racks of cheeky postcards, teenagers queued for the Ghost Train, and children dragged their parents to the booths that sold candy-floss and Scarborough rock. But now the prom was deserted. Even on the seaward side, there were no stalls selling cockles, winkles and boiled shrimp. A thick, high cloud-cover had set in, and the sea sloshed at the barnacle-crusted harbour walls like molten metal. Fishing boats rocked at their moorings, and stacks of lobster-pots teetered on the quayside. Towering over the scene, high on its promontory, the ruined castle looked like something out of a black-and-white horror film.

Banks dropped Richmond off at a pub near the West Pier and carried on along Marine Drive, parking just beyond the closed fun-fair. He buttoned up his raincoat tight and walked along the road that curved around the headland between the high cliff and the sea. Signs on the hillside warned of falling rocks. Waves hit the sea-wall and threw up spray onto the road.

Tony Grant was already there, leaning on the railing and staring out to the point where sea and sky merged in a uniform grey. He wore a navy duffle coat with the hood down, and his baby — fine hair fluttered in the wind. A solitary oil tanker was moving slowly across the horizon.

"I like it best like this," he said as Banks joined him. "If you don't mind getting a bit wet."

They both looked out over the ruffled water. Salt spray filled the air and Banks felt the ozone freshen his lungs as he breathed deep. He shivered and asked, "What is it you want to tell me?"

Grant hesitated. "Look, sir," he said after staring at the oil tanker for half a minute, "I don't want you to get me wrong. I'm not a grass or anything. I've not been long on the force, and mostly I like it. I didn't think I would, not at first, but I do now. I want to make a career out of it." He looked at Banks intensely. "I'd like to join the CID. I'm not stupid; I've got brains. I've been to university, and I could maybe have got into teaching — that's what I thought I wanted to do — but, well, you know the job situation. Seems all that's going these days is the police force. So I joined. Anyway, as I said, I like it. It's challenging."

Banks took out a cigarette and cupped his hand around his blue Bic lighter. It took him four attempts to get a flame going long enough. He wished Grant would get to the point, but he knew he had to be patient and listen. The kid was about to go against his peers and squeal on a colleague.

Listening to the justification, as he had listened to so many before, was the price Banks had to pay.

"It's just that," Grant went on, "well… it's not as clean as I expected."

Naive bugger, Banks thought. "It's like anything else," he said, encouraging the lad. "There's a lot of bastards out there, whatever you do. Maybe our line of work attracts more than — the usual quota of bullies, lazy sods, sadists and the like. But that doesn't mean we're all like that." Banks sucked on his cigarette. It tasted different, mixed with the sea air. A wave broke below them and the spray wet their feet.

"I know what you're saying," Grant said, "and I think you're right. I just wanted you to know what side I'm on. I don't believe that the end justifies the means. With me they're innocent until proven guilty, as the saying goes. I treat people with respect, no matter what colour they are or how they dress or wear their hair. I'm not saying I approve of some of the types we get, but I'm not a thug."

"And Gill was?"

"Yes." A big wave started to peak as it approached the wall, and they both stepped back quickly to avoid the spray. Even so, they couldn't dodge a mild soaking, and Banks's cigarette got soggy. He threw it away.

"Was this common knowledge?"

"Oh, aye. He made no bones about it. See, with Gill it wasn't just the overtime, the money. He liked it well enough, but he liked the job more, if you see what I mean."

"I think I do. Go on."

"He was handy with his truncheon, Gill was. And he enjoyed it. Every time we got requests for manpower at demos, pickets, and the like, he'd be first to sign up. Got a real taste for it during the miners' strike, when they bussed police in from all over the place. He was the kind of bloke who'd wave a roll of fivers at the striking miners to taunt them before he clobbered them. He trained with the Tactical Aid Group."

The TAG, Banks knew, was a kind of force within a force. Its members trained together in a military fashion and learned how to use guns, rubber bullets and tear-gas. When their training was over, they went back to normal duties and remained on call for special situations — like demos and picket lines. The official term for them had been changed to PSU — Police Support Unit — as the TAGs got a lot of bad publicity and sounded too obviously martial. But it was about as effective as changing the name of Windscale to Sellafield; a nuclear-power station by another name….

"Is that how he behaved in Eastvale?" Banks asked.

"I wouldn't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure it was Gill who led the charge. See, things were getting a bit hairy. We were all hemmed in so tight. Gill was at the top of the steps with a few others, just looking down at people pushing and shoving — not that you could see much, it was so bloody dark with those old-fashioned streetlamps. Anyway, one of the demonstrators chucked a bottle, and someone up there, behind me, yelled, 'Let's clobber the bastards.' I think I recognized Gill's voice. Then they charged down and… well, you know what happened. It needn't have — that's what I'm saying. Sure, there was a bit of aggro going on, but we could have sat on it if someone had given the order to loosen up a bit, give people room to breathe. Instead, Gill led a fucking truncheon charge. I know we coppers are all supposed to stick together, but…" Grant looked out to sea and shivered.

"There's a time to stick together," Banks said, "and this isn't it. Gill got himself killed, remember that."

"But I couldn't swear to anything. I mean, officially…."

"Don't worry. This is off the record." At least it is for now, he told himself. If anything came of their discussion, young Grant might find himself with a few serious decisions to make. "How did the others feel about Gill?" he asked.

"Oh, most of them thought it was all a bit of a joke, a lark. I mean, there'd be Gill going on about clobbering queers and commies. I don't think they really took him seriously."

"But it wasn't just talk? You say he liked smashing skulls."

"Yes. He was a right bastard."

"Surely they knew it?"

"Yes, but…"

"Did they approve?"

"Well, no, I wouldn't say that. Some, maybe… but I didn't, for one."

"But nobody warned him, told him to knock it off?"

Grant pulled up his collar. "No."

"Were they scared of him?"

"Some of the lads were, yes. He was a bit of a hard case."

"What about you?"

"Me? Well, I wouldn't have taken him up on anything, that's for sure. I'm scarcely above regulation height, myself, and Gill was a big bugger."

A seagull screeched by them, a flash of white against the grey, and began circling over the water for fish. The tanker had moved far over to the right of the horizon. Banks felt the chill getting to him. He put his hands deep in his pockets and tensed up against the cold, wet wind.

"Did any of the others actually like him?" he asked. "Did he have any real mates at the station?"

"I wouldn't say so, no. He wasn't a very likeable bloke. Too big-headed, too full of himself. I mean, you couldn't have a conversation with him; you just had to listen. He had views on everything, but he was thick. I mean, he never really thought anything out. It was all down to Pakis and Rastas and students and skinheads and unemployed yobbos with him."

"So he wasn't popular around the station?"

"Not really, no. But you know what it's like. A few of the lads get together in the squad room — especially if they've had TAG training — and you get all that macho, tough-guy talk, just like American cop shows. He was good at that, Gill was, telling stories about fights and taking risks."

"Are there any more like him in your station?"

"Not as bad, no. There's a few that don't mind a good punch-up now and then, and some blokes like to pull kids in on a sus just to liven up a boring night. But nobody went as far as Gill."

"Did he have any friends outside the station?"

"I don't know who he went about with off duty."

"Did he have a girlfriend?"

"I don't know. He never mentioned anyone."

"So he didn't brag about having women like he did about thumping people?"

"No. I never heard him. Whenever he did talk about women it was always like they were whores and bitches. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He'd hit them, too, at demos. It was all the same to him."

"Do you think he could have been the type to mess around with someone else's girl-friend or wife?"

Grant shook his head. "Not that I know of."

The seagull flew up towards the cliffs behind them, a fish flapping in its beak.

The sea had settled to a rhythmic slapping against the stone wall, hardly sending up any spray at all. Banks risked another cigarette.

"Did Gill have any enemies that you know of?"

"He must have made plenty over the years, given his attitude towards the

public," Grant said. "But I couldn't name any."

"Anyone on the force?"

"Eh?"

"You said nobody at the station really liked him. Had anyone got a good reason to dislike him? Did he owe money, cheat people, gamble? Any financial problems?"

"I don't think so. He just got people's backs up, that's all. He talked about betting on the horses, yes, but I don't think he did it that much. It was just the macho sort of thing that went with his image. He never tried to borrow any money off me, if that's what you mean. And I don't think he was on the take. At least he was honest on that score."

Banks turned his back to the choppy water and looked up towards the sombre bulk of the ruined castle. He couldn't see much from that angle; the steep cliff, where sea-birds made their nests, was mottled with grass, moss and bare stone.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" he asked.

"I don't think so. I just wanted you to know that all that crap at the funeral was exactly that. Crap. Gill was a vicious bastard. I'm not saying he deserved what happened to him, nobody deserves that, but those who live by the sword…."

"Did you have any particular reason to dislike Gill?" Grant seemed startled by the question.

"Me? What do you mean?"

"What I say. Did he ever do you any harm personally?"

"No. Look, if you're questioning my motives, sir, believe me, it's exactly like I told you. I heard you were asking questions about Gill, and I thought someone should tell you the truth, that's all. I'm not the kind to go around speaking ill of the dead just because they're not here to defend themselves."

Banks smiled. "Don't mind me, I'm just an old cynic. It's a long time since I've come across a young idealist like you on the force." Banks thought of Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had managed to hang on to a certain amount of idealism over the years. But he was one of the old guard; it was a rare quality in youth these days, Banks had found — especially in those who joined the police.

Even Richmond could hardly be called an idealist. Keen, yes, but as practical as the day was long.

Grant managed a thin smile. "It's nice of you to say that, but it's not exactly true. After all," he said, "I laid into them with the rest last Friday, didn't I? And do you know what?" His voice caught in his throat and he couldn't look Banks in the eye. "After a while, I even started to enjoy myself."

So, Banks thought, maybe Grant had told all because he felt ashamed of himself for acting like Gill and enjoying the battle. Getting caught up in the thrill of action was hardly unusual; the release of adrenaline often produced a sense of exhilaration in men who would normally run a mile from a violent confrontation.

But it obviously bothered Grant. Perhaps this was his way of exorcising what he saw as Gill's demon inside him. Whatever his reasons, he'd given Banks plenty to think about.

"It happens," Banks said, by way of comfort. "Don't let it worry you. Look, would you do me a favour?" They turned and started walking back to their cars.

Grant shrugged. "Depends."

"I'd like to know a bit more about Gill's overtime activities — like where he's been and when. There should be a record. It'd also be useful if I could find out about any official complaints against him, and anything at all about his private life."

Grant frowned and pushed at his left cheek with his tongue as if he had a canker. "I don't know," he said finally, fiddling in his duffle-coat pocket for his car keys. "I wouldn't want to get caught. They'd make my life a bloody misery here if they knew I'd even talked to you like this. Can't you just request his record?"

Banks shook his head. "My boss doesn't want us to be seen investigating Gill. He says it'll look bad. But if we're not seen…. Send it to my home address, just to be on the safe side." Banks scribbled his address on a card and handed it over.

Grant got into his car and opened the window. "I can't promise anything," he said slowly, "but I'll have a go." He licked his lips. "If anything important comes out of all this…" He paused.

Banks bent down, his hand resting on the wet car roof.

"Well," Grant went on, "I don't want you to think I'm after anything, but you will remember I said I wanted to join the CID, won't you?" And he smiled a big, broad, innocent, open smile.

Bloody hell, there were no flies on this kid. Banks couldn't make him out. At first he'd taken such a moral line that Banks suspected chapel had figured strongly somewhere in his background. But despite all his idealism and respect for the law, he might well be another Dirty Dick in the making. On the other hand, that damn smiling moon-face looked so bloody cherubic….

"Yes," Banks said, smiling back. "Don't worry, I won't forget you."