A Necessary End

I

Banks turned up the track to Gristhorpe's old farmhouse above Lyndgarth, wondering what the superintendent was doing at home on a Wednesday morning. The message, placed on his desk by Sergeant Rowe, had offered no explanation, just an invitation to visit.

Pulling up in front of the squat, solid house, he stubbed out his cigarette and ejected the Lightning Hopkins cassette he'd been listening to. Breathing in the fresh, cold air, he looked down over Swainsdale and was struck by the way Relton and Maggie's Farm, directly opposite on the south side of the dale, formed almost a mirror image of Lyndgarth and Gristhorpe's house. Like the latter, Maggie's Farm stood higher up the hillside than the village it was close to — so high it was on the verge of the moorland that spread for miles on the heights between dales.

Looking down the slope from the farmhouse, Banks could see the grey-brown ruins of Devraulx Abbey, just west of Lyndgarth. On the valley bottom, Fortford marked the western boundary of the river-meadows. Swainsdale was at its broadest there, where the River Swain meandered through the flats until it veered south-east to Eastvale and finally joined the Ouse outside York.

In summer, the lush green meadows were speckled with golden buttercups. Bluebells, forget-me-nots and wild garlic grew by the riverside under the shade of ash and willow. The Leas, as they were called locally, were a favourite spot for family picnics. Artists set up their easels there, too, and fishermen spent idle afternoons on the riverbank and waded in the shallows at dusk. Now, although the promise of spring showed in the grass and clung like a green haze around the branches of the trees, the meadows seemed a haunted and desolate spot. The snaking river sparkled between the trees, and a brisk wind chased clouds over from the west. Shadows flitted across the steep green slopes with a speed that was almost dizzying to watch.

Gristhorpe answered the door and led Banks into the living-room, where a peat fire burned in the hearth, then disappeared into the kitchen. Banks took off his sheepskin-lined car-coat and rubbed his hands by the flames. Outside the back window, a pile of stones stood by the unfinished dry-stone wall that the superintendent worked on in his spare time. It fenced in nothing and went nowhere, but Banks had enjoyed many hours placing stones there with Gristhorpe in companionable silence. Today, though, it was too cold for such outdoors activity.

Carrying a tray of tea and scones, Gristhorpe returned and sat down in his favourite armchair to pour. After small talk about the wall and the possibility of yet more snow, the superintendent told Banks his news: the enquiry into the demo had been suspended.

"I'm on ice, as our American cousins would put it," he said. "The Assistant Chief Commissioner's been talking to the PCA about getting an outsider to finish the report. Maybe someone from Avon and Somerset division."

"Because we're too biased?"

"Aye, partly. I expected it. They only set me on it in the first place to make it look like we were acting quickly."

"Did you find anything out?"

"It looks like some of our lads overreacted." Banks told him what he'd heard from Jenny and Tim and Abha.

Gristhorpe nodded. "The ACC doesn't like it. If you ask me, I don't think there'll be an official inquiry. It'll be postponed till it's no longer an issue. What he's hoping is that Superintendent Burgess will come up with the killer fast. That'll satisfy everyone, and people will just forget about the rest."

"Where does that leave you?"

"I'm taking a few days' leave, on the ACC's advice. Unless anything else comes up — something unconnected to Gill's death — then that's how I'll stay. He's right, of course. I'd only get in the way. Burgess is in charge of that investigation, and it wouldn't do to have the two of us treading on each other's toes. But don't let the bugger near my office with those foul cigars of his! How are you getting on with him?"

"All right, I suppose. He's got plenty of go, and he's certainly not stupid. Trouble is, he's got a bee in his bonnet about terrorists and lefties in general."

"And you see things differently?"

"Yes." Banks told him about the meeting with Tony Grant and the possibilities it had opened up for him. "And," he added, "you'd think Special Branch would have known if there'd been some kind of terrorist action planned, wouldn't you?"

Gristhorpe digested the information and mulled it over for a few moments, then turned his light-blue eyes on Banks and rubbed his chin. "I'll not deny you might be right," he said, "but for Christ's sake keep your feet on the ground. Don't go off half-cocked on this or you could bring down a lot of trouble on yourself — and on me. I appreciate you want to follow your own nose — you'd be a poor copper if you didn't — and maybe you'd like to show Dirty Dick a thing or two. But be careful. Just because Gill turned out to be a bastard, it doesn't follow that's why he was killed. Burgess could be right."

"I know that. It's just a theory. But thanks for the warning."

Gristhorpe smiled. "Think nothing of it. But keep it under your hat. If Burgess finds out you've been pursuing a private investigation, he'll have your guts for garters. And it won't be just him. The ACC11 have your balls for billiards."

"I don't know as I've got enough body parts to go around," Banks said, grinning.

"And this conversation hasn't taken place. I know nothing about what you're up to, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"But keep me posted. God, how I hate bloody politics."

Banks knew that the superintendent came from a background of Yorkshire radicals — Chartists, the anti-Corn Laws crowd — and there was even a Luddite lurking in the family tree. But Gristhorpe himself was conservative with a small "c." He was, however, concerned with the preservation of human rights that had been fought for and won over the centuries. That was how he saw his job — as a defender of the people, not an attacker. Banks agreed, and that was one reason they got along so well.

Banks finished his tea and looked at his watch. "Talking of Dirty Dick, I'd better be off. He's called a conference in the Queen's Arms for one o'clock."

"Seems like he's taken up residence there."

"You're not far wrong." Banks explained about Glenys and put on his car-coat. "Besides that," he added, "he drinks like a bloody fish."

"So it's not only Glenys and her charms?"

"No."

"Ever seen him pissed?"

"Not yet."

"Well, watch him. Drinking's an occupational hazard with us, but it can get beyond a joke. The last thing you need is a piss-artist to rely on in a tight spot."

"I don't think there's anything to worry about," Banks said, walking to the car.

"He's always been a boozer. And he's usually sharp as a whippet. Anyway, what can I do if I think he is overdoing it? I can just see his face if I suggest a visit to AA."

Gristhorpe stood by the car. Banks rolled the window down, slipped Lightning Hopkins back in the slot, and lit a cigarette.

The superintendent shook his head. "It's about time you stopped that filthy habit, too," he said. "And as for that racket you call music…"

Banks smiled and turned the key in the ignition. "Do you know something?" he said. "I do believe you're becoming an insufferable old fogey. I know you're tone-deaf and wouldn't know Mozart from the Beatles, but don't forget, it wasn't that long ago you gave up smoking yourself. Have you no bad habits left?"

Gristhorpe laughed. "I gave them all up years ago. Are you suggesting I should take some up again?"

"Wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Where do you suggest I start?"

Banks rolled up the window before he said, "Try sheep-shagging." But judging by the raised eyebrows and the startled smile, Gristhorpe could obviously read lips. Grinning, Banks set off down the track, the still, deserted river-meadows spread out below him, and headed for the Eastvale road.

II

Jenny was already five minutes late. Mara nursed her half of mild and rolled a cigarette. It was Wednesday lunchtime, and the Black Sheep was almost empty. Apart from the landlord reading his Sun, and two old men playing dominoes, she was the only other customer in the cosy lounge.

Now that the time was close, she was beginning to feel nervous and foolish.

After all, she didn't know Jenny that well, and her story did sound a bit thin. She couldn't put the real problem into words. How could she say that she suspected Paul had killed the policeman and that she was even beginning to be afraid living in the same house, but despite it all she wouldn't give him away and still wanted to keep him there? It sounded insane without the feelings that went with it. And to tell Jenny that she just wanted information for a story she was writing hardly ranked as the important reason for the meeting she had claimed on the telephone. Perhaps Jenny wasn't going to come. Maybe Mara hadn't responded to the answering machine properly and she hadn't even got the message.

All she could hear was the sound of asthmatic breathing from one of the old men, the occasional rustling of the newspaper, and the click of dominoes as they were laid on the hard surface. She swirled the beer in the bottom of her half-pint glass and peered at her watch again. Quarter past one.

"Another drink, love?" Larry Grafton called out.

Mara flashed a smile and shook her head. Why was it that she didn't mind so much being called "love" by the locals, but when Burgess had said it, her every nerve had bristled with resentment? It must be something in the tone, she decided. The old Yorkshiremen who used the word were probably as chauvinistic as the rest — in fact, sex roles in Dales family life were as traditional as anywhere in England — but when the men called women "love," it carried at least overtones of affection. With Burgess, though, the word was a weapon, a way of demeaning the woman, of dominating her.

Jenny arrived and interrupted her train of thought.

"Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly. "Class went on longer than I expected."

"It's all right," Mara said. "I haven't been here long. Drink?"

"Let me get them."

Jenny went to the bar, and Mara watched her, a little intimidated, as usual, by her poise. Jenny always seemed to wear the right, expensive-looking clothes.

Today it was a waist-length fur jacket (fake, of course — Jenny wouldn't be caught dead wearing real animal fur), a green silk blouse, close-fitting rust cords, and well-polished knee-length boots. Not that Mara would want to dress like that — it wouldn't suit her personality — but she did feel shabby in her moth-eaten sweater and muddy Wellingtons. Her jeans hadn't been artificially aged like the ones teenagers wore, either; they had earned each stain and every faded patch.

"Quiet, isn't it?" Jenny said, setting the drinks down. "You looked thoughtful when I came in. What was it?"

Mara told her her feelings about being called "love."

"I know what you mean. I could have throttled Burgess when he did it to me." She laughed. "Dorothy Wycombe once chucked her drink at a stable-lad for calling her 'love.'"

"Dorothy doesn't have much to do with us," Mara said. "I think we're too traditional for her tastes."

Jenny laughed. "You should count yourself lucky, then." She took off her fur jacket and made herself comfortable. "I heard she made mincemeat of Burgess. She gave Alan a hard time once, too. He gives her a wide berth now."

"Alan? Is that the policeman you know? Chief Inspector Banks?"

Jenny nodded. "He's all right. Why? Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be so cagey. I know you've come in for a lot of police attention since the demo. I just wondered if that was what was on your mind. Your message wasn't exactly specific, you know."

Mara smiled. "I'm not used to answering machines, that's all. Sorry."

"No need. You just came across as frightfully worried and serious. Are you?"

A domino clicked loudly on the board, obviously a winning move. "Not as much as I probably sounded, no," Mara said. "But it is about the demo. Partly, anyway."

She had decided that, as Jenny had mentioned Banks, she might as well begin by seeing if she could find anything out about the investigation, what the police were thinking.

"Go ahead, then."

Mara took a deep breath and told Jenny about recent events at the farm, especially Burgess's visit.

"You ought to complain," Jenny advised her.

Mara sniffed. "Complain? Who to? He told us what would happen if we did. Apparently his boss is a bigger bastard than he is."

"Try complaining locally. Superintendent Gristhorpe isn't bad."

Mara shook her head. "You don't understand. The police would never listen to a complaint from people like us."

"Don't be too sure about that, Mara. Alan wants to understand. It's only the truth he's after."

"Yes, but… I can't really explain. What do they really think about us, Jenny? Do they believe that one of us killed that policeman?"

"I don't know. Really I don't. They're interested in you, yes. I'd be a liar if I denied that. But as far as actually suspecting anyone… I don't think so. Not yet."

"Then why do they keep pestering us? When's it going to stop?"

"When they find out who the killer is. It's not just you, it's everyone involved. They've been at Dennis, too, and Dorothy Wycombe and the students. You'll just have to put up with it for the time being."

"I suppose so." The old men shuffled dominoes for another game, and a lump of coal shifted in the fire, sending out a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke. Flames rose up again, licking at the black chimney-back. "Look," Mara went on, "do you mind if I ask you a professional question, something about psychology? It's for a story I'm working on."

"I didn't know you wrote."

"Oh, it's just for my own pleasure really. I mean, I haven't tried to get anything published yet." Even as she spoke, Mara knew that her excuse didn't ring true.

"Okay," Jenny said. "Let me get another round in first."

"Oh no, it's my turn." Mara went to the bar and bought another half for herself and a vodka-and-tonic for Jenny. If only she could get away with some of her fears about Paul allayed — without giving them away, of course — then she knew she would feel a lot better.

"What is it?" Jenny asked when they'd settled down with their drinks again.

"It's just something I'd like to know, a term I've heard that puzzles me. What's a sociopath?"

"A sociopath? Good Lord, this is like an exam question. Let me think for a bit. I'll have to give you a watered-down answer, I'm afraid. I don't have the textbook with me."

"That's all right."

"Well… I suppose basically it's someone who's constantly at war with society. A rebel without a cause, if you like."

"Why, though? I mean, what makes people like that?"

"It's far from cut and dried," Jenny said, "but the thinking is that it has a lot to do with family background. Usually people we call sociopaths suffered abuse, cruelty and rejection from their parents, or at least from one parent, from an early age. They respond by rejecting society and becoming cruel themselves."

"What are the signs?"

"Antisocial acts: stealing, doing reckless things, cruelty to animals. It's hard to say."

"What kind of people are they?"

"They don't feel anything about what they do. They can always justify acts of cruelty — even murder — to themselves. They don't really see that they've done anything wrong."

"Can anyone help them?"

"Sometimes. The trouble is, they're detached, cut off from the rest of us through what's happened to them. They rarely have any friends and they don't feel any sense of loyalty."

"Isn't it possible to help them, then?"

"They find it very hard to give love and to trust people, or to respond to such feelings in others. If you don't give your love, then you save yourself from feeling bad if it's rejected. That's the real problem: they need someone to trust them and have some feeling for them, but those are the things they find it hardest to accept."

"So it's hopeless."

"Often it's too late," Jenny said. "If they're treated early, they can be helped, but sometimes by the time they reach their teens the pattern is so deeply ingrained it's almost irreversible. But it's never hopeless." She leaned forward and put her hand on Mara's. "It's Paul you're asking about, isn't it?"

Mara withdrew sharply. "What makes you say that?"

"Your expression, the tone of your voice. This isn't just for some story you're writing. It's for real, isn't it?"

"What if it is?"

"I can't tell you if Paul's a sociopath or not, Mara. I don't know enough about him. He seems to be responding to life at the farm."

"Oh, he is," Mara said. "Responding, I mean. He's got a lot more outgoing and cheerful since he's been with us. Until these past few days."

"Well, it's bound to get to him, all the police attention. But it doesn't mean anything. You don't think he might have killed the policeman, do you?"

"You mustn't tell anyone we've been talking like this," Mara said quickly. "Especially not Inspector Banks. All they need is an excuse to bring Paul in, then I'm sure that Burgess could force him to confess."

"They won't do that," Jenny said. "You don't have any concrete reason for thinking Paul might be guilty, do you?"

"No." Mara wasn't sure she sounded convincing. Things had gone too far for her, but it seemed impossible to steer back to neutral ground. "I'm just worried about him, that's all," she went on. "He's had a hard life. His parents rejected him and his foster parents were cold towards him."

"Well that doesn't mean a lot," Jenny said. "If that's all you're worried about, I shouldn't bother yourself. Plenty of people come from broken homes and survive. It takes very special circumstances to create a sociopath. Not every ache and pain means you've got cancer, you know."

Mara nodded. "I'm sorry I tried to con you," she said. "It wasn't fair of me. But I feel better now. Let's just forget all about it, shall we?"

"Okay, if you want. But be careful, Mara. I'm not saying Paul isn't dangerous, just that I don't know. If you do have any real suspicions…"

But Mara didn't hear any more. The door opened and a strange-looking man walked in. It wasn't his odd appearance that bothered her, though; it was the knife that he carried carefully in his hand. Pale and trembling, she got to her feet.

"I've got to go now," she said. "Something's come up…. I'm sorry." And she was off like a shot, leaving Jenny to sit and gape behind her.

III

"Bollocks!" said Burgess. "They're shit-disturbers. You ought to know that by now. Why do you think they're interested in a nuclear-free Britain? Because they love peace? Dream on, Constable."

"I don't know," Richmond said, stroking his moustache. "They're just students, they don't know—"

"Just students, my arse! Who is it tries to bring down governments in places like Korea and South Africa? Bloody students, that's who. Just students! Grow up. Look at the chaos students created in America over the Vietnam war — they almost won it for the commies single-handed."

"What I was saying, sir," Richmond went on, "is that none of them are known to be militant. They just sit around and talk politics, that's all."

"But Special Branch has a file on Tim Fenton."

"I know, sir. But he's not actually done anything."

"Not until now, perhaps."

"But what could he gain from killing PC Gill, sir?"

"Anarchy, that's what."

"With all due respect," Banks cut in, "that's hardly consistent. The students support disarmament, yes, but Marxists aren't anarchists. They believe in the class—"

"I know what bloody Marxists believe in," Burgess said. "They'll believe in anything if it furthers their cause."

Banks gave up. "Better have another try, Phil," he said. "See if you can tie any of them into more extreme groups, or to any previous acts of political violence. I doubt you'll come up with anything Special Branch doesn't know about already, but give it a try."

"Yes, sir."

"I need another drink," Burgess said.

Sergeant Hatchley volunteered to go for a round. The Queen's Arms was busy. Wednesday was farmers' market day in Eastvale, and the whole town bustled with buyers and sellers. Glenys was too busy to exchange glances with Burgess even if she wanted to.

Burgess turned to Banks. "And I'm still not happy about Osmond. He's on file, too, and I got the distinct impression he's been lying every time I've talked to him."

Banks agreed.

"We'll have another go at him," said Burgess. "You can come with me again. Who knows, that bird of his might be there. If I put a bit of pressure on her, he might appeal to you for help and let something slip."

Banks reached for a cigarette to mask his anger. The last thing he felt like was facing Osmond and Jenny together again. But in a way Burgess was right. They were looking for a cop killer, and they needed results. As each day went by, the media outcry became more strident.

When PC Craig came in and walked over to their table, he seemed unsure whom to address. After looking first to Banks and then to Burgess, like a spectator following the ball at Wimbledon, he settled on Banks.

"We've just had a call, sir, from Relton. There's a bloke in the pub there says he's found a knife. I just thought… you know… it might be the one we're looking for."

"What are we waiting for?" Burgess jumped to his feet so quickly he knocked the table and spilt the rest of his beer. He pointed at Hatchley and Richmond. "You two get back to the station and wait till you hear from us."

They picked up Banks's white Cortina from the lot behind the police station.

Market Street and the square were so busy that Banks took the back streets to the main Swainsdale road.

Automatically, he reached forward and slipped a cassette into the player. "Do you mind?" he asked Burgess, turning the volume down. "Hello Central" came on.

"No. That's Lightning Hopkins, isn't it? I quite like blues myself. I enjoyed that Billie Holiday the other day, too." He leaned back in the seat and lit a cigar from the dashboard lighter. "My father bunked with a squadron of Yanks in the last war. Got quite interested in jazz and blues. Of course, you couldn't get much of the real stuff over here at that time, but after the war he kept in touch and the Yanks used to send him seventy-eights. I grew up on that kind of music and it just seemed to stick."

Banks drove fast but kept an eye open for walkers on the verges. Even in March, the backpack brigade often took to the hills. As they approached Fortford,

Burgess looked out at the river-meadows. "Very nice," he said. "Wouldn't be a bad place to retire to if it wasn't for the bloody weather."

They turned sharp left in Fortford, followed the unfenced minor road up the daleside to Relton and parked outside the pub. Banks had been to the Black Sheep before; it was famous in the dale because the landlord brewed his own beer on the premises, and you couldn't get it anywhere else. Black Sheep bitter had won prizes in national competitions.

If beer wasn't the first thing on Banks's mind when they entered, he certainly couldn't refuse the landlord's offer of a pint. Burgess declined the local brew and asked for a pint of Watney's.

Banks knew there were shepherds in the area, but they were an elusive breed, and he'd never seen one before. Farmers who tended their own sheep were common enough, but on the south Swainsdale commons, they banded together to hire three shepherds. Most of the sheep were heughed; they grew up on the farms and never strayed far. But not all of them; winter was a hard time, and many animals got buried under drifts. The shepherds know the moors, every gully and sink-hole, better than anyone else, and to them, sheep are as different from one another as people.

Jack Crocker's face had as many lines as a tough teacher gives out in a week, and its texture looked as hard as tanned leather. He had a misshapen blob of a nose, and his eyes were so deeply hooded they looked as if they had been perpetually screwed up against the wind. His cloth cap and old, flapping greatcoat set the final touches. His crook, a long hazel shaft with a metal hook, leaned against the wall.

"Christ," Banks heard Burgess mutter behind him. "A bloody shepherd!"

"I don't mind if I do," Crocker said, accepting a drink. "I were just fetching some ewes in for lambing, like, and I kicked that there knife." He placed the knife on the table. It was a flick-knife with a five-inch blade and a worn bone handle. "I didn't touch it, tha knows," he went on, putting a surprisingly smooth and slender forefinger to the side of his nose. "I've seen telly."

"How did you pick it up?" Burgess asked. Banks noticed that his tone was respectful, not hectoring as usual. Maybe he had a soft spot for shepherds.

"Like this." Crocker held the ends of the handle between thumb and second finger. He really did have beautiful hands, Banks noticed, the kind you'd picture on a concert pianist.

Burgess nodded and took a sip of his Watney's. "Good. You did the right thing, Mr Crocker." Banks took an envelope from his pocket, dropped the knife in, and sealed it.

"Is it fright one, then? T'one as killed that bobby?"

"We can't say yet," Banks told him. "We'll have to get some tests done. But if it is, you've done us a great service."

"T'weren't owt. It's not as if I were looking fer it." Crocker looked away, embarrassed, and raised his pint to his lips. Banks offered him a cigarette.

"Nay, lad," he said. "In my job you need all t'breath you can muster."

"Where did you find the knife?" Burgess asked.

"Up on t'moor, Eastvale way."

"Can you show us?"

"Aye." Crocker's face creased into a sly smile. "It's a bit on a hike, though. And tha can't take thy car."

Burgess looked at Banks. "Well," he said, "it's your part of the country. You're the nature-boy. Why don't you go up the moor with Mr Crocker here, and I'll phone the station to send a car for me?"

Yes, Banks thought, and you'll have another pint of Watney's while you're warming your hands in front of the fire.

Banks nodded. "I'd get that knife straight to the lab if I were you," he said. "If you send it through normal channels they'll take days to get the tests done. Ask for Vic Manson. If he's got a spare moment he'll dust it for prints and persuade one of the lads to try for blood-typing. It's been exposed to the elements a bit, but we might still get something from it."

"Sounds good," Burgess said. "Where is this lab?"

"Just outside Wetherby. You can ask the driver to take you straight there."

Burgess went over to the phone while Banks and Crocker drank off their pints of Black Sheep bitter and set off.

They climbed a stile at the eastern end of Mortsett Lane and set off over open moorland. The tussocks of moor grass, interspersed with patches of heather and sphagnum, made walking difficult for Banks. Crocker, always ahead, seemed to float over the top of it like a hovercraft. The higher they climbed, the harsher and stronger the wind became.

Banks wasn't dressed for the moors, either, and his shoes were soon mud-caked and worse. At least he was wearing his warm sheepskin-lined coat. Though the slope wasn't steep, it was unrelenting, and he soon got out of breath. Despite the cold wind against his face, he was sweating.

At last, the ground flattened out into high moorland. Crocker stopped and waited with a smile for Banks to catch up.

"By heck, lad, what'd tha do if tha 'ad to chase after a villain?"

"Luckily, it doesn't happen often," Banks wheezed.

"Aye. Well, this is where I found it. Just down there in t'grass." He pointed with his crook. Banks bent and poked around among the sods. There was nothing to indicate the knife had been there.

"It looks like someone just threw it there," he said.

Crocker nodded. "It would've been easy enough to hide," he said. "Plenty of rocks to stuff it under. He could've even buried it if he'd wanted."

"But he didn't. So whoever it was must have panicked, perhaps, and just tossed it away."

"Tha should know."

Banks looked around. The spot was about two miles from Eastvale; the jagged castle battlements were just visible in the distance, down in the hollow where the town lay. In the opposite direction, also about two miles away, he could see the house and outbuildings of Maggie's Farm.

It looked like the knife had been thrown away on the wild moorland about halfway or more on a direct line between Eastvale and the farm. If someone from the farm had escaped arrest or injury at the demo, it would have been a natural direction in which to run home. That meant Paul or Zoe, as Rick and Seth had been arrested and searched. It could even have been the woman, Mara, who might have been lying about staying home all evening.

On the other hand, anyone could have come up there in the past few days and thrown the knife away. That seemed much less likely, though, as it was a poor method of disposal, more spontaneous than planned. Certainly it seemed to make mincemeat of one of Banks's theories — that a fellow policeman might have committed the murder. Again, the finger seemed to be pointing at Maggie's Farm.

Banks pulled the sheepskin collar tight around his neck and screwed up his eyes to keep the tears from forming. No wonder Crocker's eyes were hooded almost shut. There was nothing more to be done up here, he decided, but he would have to mark the spot in some way.

"Could you find this place again?" he asked.

" 'Course," the shepherd answered.

Banks couldn't see how; there was nothing to distinguish it from any other spot of moorland. Still, it was Crocker's job to be familiar with every square inch of his territory.

He nodded. "Right. We may have to get a few men up here to make a more thorough search. Where can I get in touch with you?"

"I live in Mortsett." Crocker gave him the address.

"Are you coming back down?"

"Nay. More ewes to fetch in. It's lambing season, tha knows."

"Yes, well, thanks again for your time."

Crocker nodded curtly and set off further up the slope, walking just as quickly and effortlessly as if he were on the flat. At least, Banks thought, turning around, it would be easier going down. But before he had even completed the thought, he caught his foot in a patch of heather and fell face forward. He cursed, brushed himself off and" carried on.

Fortunately, Crocker had been going the other way and hadn't seen his little accident, otherwise it would have been the talk of the dale by evening. He got back over the stile without further incident and nipped into the Black Sheep for another quick pint and a warm-up. There was nothing he could do now but wait for Burgess to finish at the lab. Even then, there might be no results.

But a nice set of sweaty fingerprints on a smooth surface could survive the most terrible weather conditions, and Banks thought he had glimpsed flecks of dried blood in the joint between blade and handle.