A Necessary End

I

A sudden, heavy shower drove the merchants from the market square. It was almost time to pack up and leave anyway; market days in winter and early spring were often cold and miserable affairs. But the rain stopped as quickly as it started, and in no time the sun was out again. Wet cobblestones reflected the muted bronze light, which slid into the small puddles and danced as the wind ruffled them.

The gold hands on the blue face of the church clock stood at four-twenty. Burgess hadn't returned from the lab yet. Banks sat waiting by his window, the awkward Venetian blind drawn up, and looked down on the scene as he smoked and drank black coffee. People crossed the square and splashed through the puddles that had gathered where cobbles had been worn or broken away. Everyone wore grey plastic macs or brightly coloured slickers, as if they didn't trust the sun to stay out, and many carried umbrellas. It would soon be dark. Already the sun cast the long shadow of the Tudor — fronted police headquarters over the square.

At a quarter to five, Banks heard a flurry of activity outside his office, and Burgess bounded in carrying a buff folder.

"They came through," he said. "Took them long enough, but they did it — a clear set of prints and a match with Gill's blood type. No doubt about it, that was the knife. I've already got DC Richmond running a check on the prints. If they're on record we're in business."

He lit a Tom Thumb and smoked, tapping it frequently on the edge of the ashtray whether or not a column of ash had built up. Banks went back to the window. The shadow had lengthened; across the square, secretaries and clerks on their way home dropped in at Joplin's newsagent's for their evening papers, and young couples walked hand in hand into the El Toro coffee bar to tell one another about the ups and downs of their day at the office.

When Richmond knocked and entered, Burgess jumped to his feet. "Well?"

Richmond stroked his moustache. He could barely keep the grin of triumph from his face. "It's Boyd," he said, holding out the charts. "Paul Boyd. Eighteen points of comparison. Enough to stand up in court."

Burgess clapped his hands. "Right! Just as I thought. Let's go. You might as well come along, Constable. Where's Sergeant Hatchley?"

"I don't know, sir. I think he's still checking some of the witness reports."

"Never mind. Three's enough. Let's bring Boyd in for a chat."

They piled into Banks's Cortina and headed for Maggie's Farm. Banks played no music this time; the three of them sat in tense silence as the river-meadows rolled by, eerie in the misty twilight. Gravel popped under the wheels as they approached the farm, and the front curtain twitched when they drew up outside the building.

Mara Delacey opened the door before Burgess had finished knocking. "What do you want this time?" she asked angrily, but stood aside to let them in. They followed her through to the kitchen, where the others sat at the table eating dinner. Mara went back to her half-finished meal. Julian and Luna shifted closer to her.

"How convenient," Burgess said, leaning against the humming refrigerator. "You're all here together, except one. We're looking for Paul Boyd. Is he around?"

Seth shook his head. "No. I've no idea where he is."

"When did you last see him?"

"Last night, I suppose. I've been out most of the day. He wasn't here when I came back."

Burgess looked at Mara. Nobody said anything. "One of you must know where he is. What's it to be — now or down at the station?"

Still silence.

Burgess walked forward to pat Julian on the head, but the boy pulled a face and buried his head in Rick's side. "It'd be a shame," Burgess said, "if things got so that you couldn't look after the kids here and they had to be taken away."

"You'd never dare!" Mara said, her face flushed. "Even you can't be as much of a bastard as that."

Burgess raised his left eyebrow. "Can't I, love? Are you sure you want to find out? Where's Boyd?"

Rick got to his feet. He was as tall as Burgess and a good thirty pounds heavier. "Pick on someone your own size," he said. "If you start messing with my kid's life, you'll bloody well have me to answer to."

Burgess sneered and turned away. "I'm quaking in my boots. Where's Boyd?"

"We don't know," Seth said quietly. "He wasn't a prisoner here, you know. He pays his board, he's free to do what he wants and to come and go as he pleases."

"Not any more he isn't," Burgess said. "Maybe you'd better get Gypsy Rose Lee here to ask the stars where he is, because if we don't find him soon it's going to be very hard on you lot." He turned to Banks and Richmond. "Let's have a look around. Where's his room?"

"First on the left at the top of the stairs," Seth said. "But you're wasting your time. He's not there."

The three policemen climbed the narrow staircase. Richmond checked the other rooms while Banks and Burgess went into Paul's. There was only room for a single mattress on the floor and a small dresser at the far end, where a narrow window looked towards Eastvale. Sheets and blankets lay rumpled and creased on the unmade bed; dirty socks and underwear had been left in a pile on the floor. A stale smell of dead skin and unwashed clothes hung in the air. A couple of jackets, including a parka, hung in the tiny cupboard, and a pair of scuffed loafers lay on the floor. There was nothing much in the dresser drawers besides some clean underwear, T-shirts and a couple of moth-eaten pullovers. A grubby paperback copy of H.P. Lovecraft's The Shadow over Innsmouth lay open, face down on the pillow. On the cover was a picture of a semi-transparent, frog-faced monster dressed in what looked like an evening suit. Out of habit, Banks picked the book up and flipped through the pages to see if Boyd had written anything interesting in the margins or on the blank pages at the back. He found nothing. Richmond came in and joined them.

"There's nothing here," Burgess said. "It doesn't look like he's scarpered, though, unless he had a lot more clothes than this. I'd have taken a parka and a couple of sweaters if I'd been him. What was the weather like on the night Gill was stabbed?"

"Cool and wet," Banks answered.

"Parka weather?"

"I'd say so, yes."

Burgess took the coat from the closet and examined it. He pulled the inside of each pocket out in turn, and when he got to the right one, he pointed out a faint discoloured patch to Banks. "Your men must have missed this the other day. Could be blood. He must have put the knife back in his pocket after he killed Gill. Hang on to this, Richmond. We'll get it to the lab. Why don't you two go have a look in the outbuildings? You never know, he might be hiding in the woodpile. I'll poke around a bit more up here."

Downstairs, Banks and Richmond went back into the kitchen and got Mara to accompany them with the keys. They left by the back door and found themselves in a large rectangular garden with a low fence. Most of the place was given over to rows of vegetables-dark empty furrows at that time of year — but there was also a small square sand-box, on which a plastic lorry with big red wheels and a yellow bucket and spade lay abandoned. At the far end of the garden stood a brick building with an asphalt roof, just a little larger than a garage, and to their left was a gate that led to the barn.

"We'll have a look over there first," Banks said to Mara, who fiddled with the key-ring as she followed them to the converted barn. It wasn't a big place, nowhere the size of many that had been converted into bunk barns for tourists, but it followed the traditional Dales design, on the outside at least, in that it was built of stone.

Mara opened the door to the downstairs unit first, Zoe's flat. Banks was surprised at the transformation from humble barn into comfortable living-quarters; Seth had done a really good job. The woodwork was mostly unpainted, and if it looked a little makeshift, it was certainly sturdy and attractive in its simplicity. Not only, he gathered, did each unit have its own entrance, but there were cooking and bathing facilities, too, as well as a large, sparsely furnished living-room, one master bedroom, and a smaller one for Luna. But there was no sign of Paul Boyd.

The places were perfectly self-contained, Banks noticed, and if Rick and Zoe hadn't become friendly with Seth and Mara, they could easily have led quite separate lives there. Noting Mara's reaction to Burgess's threat, and remembering what Jenny had said at dinner, Banks guessed that Mara's fondness for the children was one unifying factor — anyone would be glad of a built-in baby-sitter — and perhaps another was their shared politics.

Upstairs, the layout was different. Both bedrooms were quite small, and most of the space was taken up by Rick's studio, which was much less tidy than Zoe's large worktable downstairs, with books and charts spread out on its surface.

Seth had added three skylights along the length of the roof to provide plenty of light, and canvases, palettes and odd tubes of paint littered the place. From what Banks could see, Rick Trelawney's paintings were, as Tim Fenton had said, unmarketable, being mostly haphazard splashes of colour, or collages of found objects. Sandra knew quite a bit about art, and Banks had learned from her that many paintings he wouldn't even store in the attic were regarded by experts as works of genius.

But these were different, even he could tell; they made Jackson Pollock's angry explosions look as comprehensible as Constable's landscapes.

As he poked around among the stuff, though, Banks discovered a stack of small water-colour landscapes covered with an old sack. They resembled the one he'd noticed in the front room on his last visit, and he realized that they were, after all, Rick's work. So that was how he made his money! Selling pretty local scenes to tourists and little old ladies to support his revolutionary art.

Mara, who all the time had remained quiet, watching them with her arms folded, locked up as they left and led the way back to the house.

"You two go ahead," Banks said when he had closed the gate behind them. "I'm off to take a peek in the shed. It's not locked, is it?"

Mara shook her head and went back into the house with Richmond.

Banks opened the door. The shed was dark inside and smelled of wood shavings, sawdust, oiled metal, linseed oil and varnish. He tugged the chain dangling in front of him, and a naked bulb lit up, revealing Seth's workshop. Planks, boards and pieces of furniture at various stages of incompletion leaned against the walls. Spider webs hung in the dark corners. Seth had a lathe and a full set of well-kept tools — planes, saws, hammers, bevels — and boxes of nails and screws rested on makeshift wooden shelves around the walls. There was no room for anyone to hide.

At the far end of the workshop, an old Remington office typewriter sat on a desk beside an open filing cabinet. Inside, Banks found only correspondence connected with Seth's carpentry business: estimates, invoices, receipts, orders. Close by was a small bookcase. Most of the books were about antique furniture and cabinet-making techniques, but there were a couple of old paperback novels and two books on the human brain, one of which was called The Tip of the Iceberg.

Maybe, Banks thought, Seth harboured a secret ambition to become a brain surgeon. Already a carpenter, he probably had a better start than most.

He walked back to the door and was about to turn off the light when he noticed a tattered notebook on a ledge by the door. It was full of measurements, addresses and phone numbers-obviously Seth's workbook. When he flipped through it, he noticed that one leaf had been torn out roughly. The following page still showed the faint impression of heavily scored numbers. Banks took a sheet from his own notebook, placed it on top and rubbed over it with a pencil. He could just make out the number in relief: 1139. It was hard to tell if it was in the same handwriting as the rest because the numbers were so much larger and more exaggerated.

Picking up the workbook, he turned to leave and almost bumped into Seth standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

"This book," Banks said. "What do you use it for?"

"Work notes. When I need to order new materials, make measurements, note customers' addresses. That kind of thing."

"There's a page missing." Banks showed him. "What does that mean — 1139?"

"Surely you can't expect me to remember that," Seth said. "It must have been a long time ago. It was probably some measurement or other."

"Why did you tear it out?"

Seth looked at him, deep-set brown eyes wary and resentful. "I don't know. Maybe it wasn't important. Maybe I'd written something on the back that I had to take with me somewhere. It's just an old notebook."

"But there's only one page missing. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"I've already said it doesn't."

"Did you tear out the page to give to Paul Boyd? Is it a number for him to call?

Part of an address?"

"No. I've told you, I don't remember why I tore it out. It obviously wasn't very important."

"I'll have to take this notebook away with me."

"Why?"

"There are names and addresses in it. We'll have to check and see if Boyd's gone to any of them. As I understand it, he did spend quite a bit of time working with you in here."

"But it's my notebook. Why would he be at any of those places? They're just people who live in the dale, people I've done work for. I don't want the police bothering them. It could lose me business."

"We still have to check."

Seth swore under his breath. "Please yourself. You'd better give me a receipt, though."

Banks wrote him one, then pulled the chain to turn off the light. They walked back to the house in silence.

Seth sat down again to finish his meal and Mara followed Banks towards the front of the room. They could hear Burgess and Richmond still poking about upstairs.

"Mr Banks?" Mara said quietly, standing close to him near the window.

Banks lit a cigarette. "Yes?"

"What he said about the children… It's not true, is it? Surely he can't…?"

Banks sat in the rocking chair and Mara pulled up a small three-legged stool opposite him. One of Zoe's tarot decks, open at "The Moon," lay on the table beside him. The moon seemed to be shedding drops of blood onto a path that led off into the distance, between two towers. In the foreground, a crab was crawling up onto land from a pool, and a dog and a wolf stood howling at the moon. It was a disturbing and hypnotic design. Banks shivered, as if someone had just walked over his grave, and turned his attention to Mara.

"They're not your children, are they?" he said.

"You know they're not. But I love them as if they were. Jenny Fuller told me she knows you. She said you're not as bad as the rest. Tell me they can't make us give the children up."

Banks smiled to himself. Not as bad as the rest, eh? He'd have to remember to tease Jenny about that backhanded compliment.

He turned to face Mara. "Superintendent Burgess will do whatever he has to to get to the bottom of things. I don't think it'll come to taking the children away, but bear in mind that he doesn't make idle threats. If you know anything, you should tell us."

Mara sucked on her bottom lip. She looked close to tears. "I don't know where Paul is," she said finally. "You can't really think he did it?"

"We've got some evidence that points that way. Have you ever seen him with a flick-knife?"

"No."

Banks thought she was lying, but he knew it was no good pushing her. She might offer him a titbit of information in the hope that it would ease the pressure, but she wasn't going to tell the full truth.

"He's gone," she said finally. "I know that. But I don't know where."

"How do you know he's gone?"

Mara hesitated, and her voice sounded too casual to be telling the truth. Before starting, she tucked her long chestnut hair behind her ears. It made her face look thinner and more haggard. "He's been upset these past few days, especially after your Superintendent Burgess came and bullied him. He thought you'd end up framing him because he's been in jail and because he… he looks different. He didn't want to bring trouble down on the rest of us, so he left."

Banks turned over the next tarot card: "The Star." A beautiful naked woman was pouring water from two vases into a pool on the ground. Behind her, trees and shrubs were blossoming, and in the sky one large, bright central star was surrounded by seven smaller ones. For some reason, the woman reminded him of Sandra, which was odd because there was no strong physical resemblance.

"How do you know why he went?" Banks asked. "Did he leave a note?"

"No, he just told me. He said last night he was thinking of leaving. He didn't say when."

"Or where?"

"No."

"Did he say anything about PC Gill's murder?"

"No, nothing. He didn't say he was running away because he was guilty, if that's what you mean."

"And you didn't think to let us know he was running off, even though there's a chance he might be a killer?"

"He's no killer." Mara spoke too quickly. "I'd no reason to think so, anyway. If he wanted to go he was quite free as far as we were concerned."

"What did he take with him?"

"What do you mean?"

Banks glanced towards the window. "It's brass-monkey weather out there; rains a lot, too. What was he wearing? Was he carrying a suitcase or a rucksack?"

Mara shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't see him go."

"Did you see him this morning?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"About eleven or half-past. He always sleeps late."

"What time did he leave? Approximately."

"I don't know. I was out at lunch-time. I left at twenty to one and got back at about two. He'd gone by then."

"Was anyone else in the house during that time?"

"No. Seth was out in the van. He took Zoe with him because she had to deliver some charts. And Rick took the children into Eastvale."

"And you don't know what Boyd was wearing or what he took with him?"

"No. I told you, I didn't see him go."

"Come upstairs."

"What?"

Banks headed towards the staircase. "Come upstairs with me. Now."

Mara followed him up to Paul's room. Banks opened the cupboard and the dresser drawers. "What's missing?"

Mara put her hand to her forehead. Burgess and Richmond looked in at the doorway and carried on downstairs.

"I… I don't know," Mara said. "I don't know what clothes he had."

"Who does the washing around here?"

"Well, I do. Mostly. Zoe does some, too."

"So you must know what clothes Boyd had. What's missing?"

"He didn't have much."

"He must have had another overcoat. He's left his parka."

"No, he didn't. He had an anorak, though. A blue anorak."

Banks wrote it down. "What else?"

"Jeans, I suppose. He never wore much else."

"Footwear."

Mara looked in the closet and saw the scuffed loafers. "Just a pair of old slip-ons. Hush Puppies, I think."

"Colour?"

"Black."

"And that's it?"

"As far as I know."

Banks closed his notebook and smiled at Mara. "Look, try not to worry about the children too much. As soon as Superintendent Burgess catches Paul Boyd, he'll forget all about the threats he made. If we catch him soon, that is."

"I really don't know where he's gone."

"Okay. But if you come up with any ideas…. Think about it."

"People like Burgess shouldn't be allowed to run free," Mara said. She folded her arms tightly and stared at the floor.

"Oh? What do you suggest we should do with him? Lock him up?"

She looked at Banks. Her jaw was clenched tight and her eyes burned with tears.

"Or should we have him put down?"

Mara brushed past him and hurried down the stairs. Banks followed slowly.

Burgess and Richmond stood in the front room ready to leave."Come on, let's go," Burgess said. "There's nothing more here." Then he turned to Seth, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "If I find out you've been helping Boyd in any way, believe me, I'll be back. And you lot'll be in more trouble than you ever dared imagine. Give my love to the kids."

II

Mara watched the car disappear down the track. She felt reassured by Banks, but wondered just how much he could do if Burgess had made his mind up about something. If the children were taken away, she thought, she could well be driven to murder the superintendent with her bare hands.

She became aware of the others behind her in the room. She hadn't told them anything about what had happened with Paul, and none of them knew yet that he had run off for good. For one thing, she'd hardly had time to say anything. They had all drifted back close to meal-time anyway; when she was busy in the kitchen; then the police had arrived.

"What's going on, Mara?" Seth asked, coming up to her and resting his hand on her shoulder. "Do you know?"

Mara nodded. She was trying to keep the tears from her eyes.

"Come on." Seth took her hand and led her to a chair. "Tell us."

Seeing them all watching her, expectant, Mara regained her control. She reached for her tin of Old Holborn and rolled a cigarette."He's gone, that's all there is to it," she said, and told them about seeing old Crocker carrying the knife into the Black Sheep. "I ran back here to warn him. I didn't want the police to get him, and I thought if they'd got the knife they might find his fingerprints or something. He's been in jail, so they must be on record."

"But what made you think of Paul?" Zoe asked. "That knife was just lying around on the mantelpiece as usual, I suppose. Nobody ever paid it any mind. Any of the people here on Friday afternoon could have taken it."

Mara drew on her cigarette and finally told them about the blood she'd seen on Paul's hand when he got back from the demo. The hand that turned out to be unmarked the following morning.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Seth asked. "I don't suppose you approached Paul about it, either. There might have been a simple explanation."

"I know that," Mara said. "Don't you think I've been over it time and again in my mind? I was frightened of him. I mean, if he had done it…. But I wanted to stand by him. If I'd told you all, you might have asked him to leave or something."

"How did he react when you came and told him the knife had been found?" Rick asked.

"He went pale. He couldn't look me in the eye. He looked like a frightened animal."

"So you gave him money and clothes?"

"Yes. I gave him your red anorak, Zoe. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Zoe said. "I'd have done the same."

"And I told the police he was probably wearing a blue one. He took his blue one with him, but he wasn't wearing it."

"Where's he heading?" asked Rick.

"I don't know. I didn't want him to tell me. He's a survivor; he can live out on the streets. I gave him some money, some I'd saved from working at the shop and selling my pottery. He'll have enough to get wherever he wants."

Later that evening, when the others had drifted off back to the barn and Seth had settled down with a book, Mara began to think about the few months that Paul had been around, and how alive he had made her feel. At first, he had been sullen and unresponsive, and there had come a point when Seth had considered asking him to leave. But Paul hadn't been long out of jail then; he wasn't used to dealing with people. Time and care had worked wonders. Soon, he was taking long walks alone on the moors, and the claustrophobia that had so often made his nights unbearable in jail became easier to control. Nobody forced him to, but he really took to working with Seth.

When she thought about his progress and what it had all come to, Mara couldn't help but feel sad. It would all be for nothing if he got caught and sent to prison again. When she pictured him cold and alone in the strange and frightening world beyond Swainsdale, it made her want to cry. But she told herself again that he was strong, resourceful, a survivor. It wouldn't feel the same to him as it would to her. Besides, imagined horrors were always far worse than the reality.

"I hope Paul makes it far away," Seth said in the silence that followed their love-making that night. "I hope they never catch him."

"How will we know where he is, what's happening to him?" Mara asked.

"He'll let us know one way or another. Don't you worry about it." He put his arm around her and she rested her head against his chest. "You did the right thing."

But she couldn't help but worry. She didn't think they'd hear from Paul again, not after all that had happened. She didn't know what else she could have done, but she wasn't sure she had done the right thing. As she tried to sleep, she remembered the expression on his face just before he left. There had been gratitude, yes, for the warning, the money and the clothes, but there had also been resentment and disappointment. He'd looked as if he was being sent into exile. She didn't know if he'd expected her to ask him to stay no matter what — she certainly hadn't told him he had to go away — but there had been a hint of accusation in his actions, as if to say, "You think I did it, don't you? You don't want me here causing trouble. You didn't trust me in the first place. I'm an outcast, and I always will be." She hadn't told Seth and the others about that.

III

Banks waited his turn at the busy bar of the Queen's Arms while Burgess sat at a round table by the Market Street entrance. It was eight-thirty. Hatchley had just left to keep a date with Carol Ellis, and Richmond had gone to a do at the Rugby Club.

Dirty Dick was clearly pleased with himself. He leaned back in his chair and positively beamed goodwill at everyone who looked his way. Nobody gave him much more than a scowl in return, though." 'Ey, Mr Banks," said Cyril. "A minute, if you've gotone."

'Course. For you, Cyril, anything. And you might as well pull me a pint of bitter and a pint of Double Diamond while you're talking."

"It's about that there mate of yours." Cyril nodded his head aggressively in the direction of Burgess.

"He's not really a mate," Banks said. "More like a boss."

"Aye. Well, anyways, tell him to stop pestering my Glenys. She's got too much work to do without passing the time of day with the likes of him." Cyril leaned forward and lowered his voice. The muscles bulged above his rolled-up shirt sleeves. "And you can tell him I don't care if he is a copper — no disrespect, Mr Banks. If he doesn't keep out of my way I'll give him a bloody knuckle sandwich, so help me I will."

Glenys, who seemed to have grasped the tenor of the conversation, blushed and busied herself pulling a pint at the other end of the bar.

"I'd be delighted to pass on your message," Banks said, paying for the drinks.

"Don't forget his lordship's Double Diamond," Cyril said, his voice edged with contempt.

"You can wipe that bloody grin off your face," Burgess said after Banks had passed on Cyril's warning. "You're a long way from collecting that fiver yet. She fancies me, does young Glenys, there's no doubt about it. And there's nothing like a bit of danger, a touch of risk, to get the old hormones flowing. Look at her." True enough, Glenys was flashing Burgess a flush-cheeked smile while Cyril was looking the other way. "If we could only get that oaf out of the way…. Anyway, it's her night off next Monday. She usually goes to the pictures with her mates."

"I'd be careful if I were you," Banks said.

"Yes, but you're not me, are you?" He gulped down about half of his pint. "Ah, that's good. So, we've got the bastard. Or will have soon."

Banks nodded. That, he assumed, was why they were celebrating. Burgess was on his fourth pint already and Banks on his third. They had done everything they could. Boyd had certainly done a bunk, though Banks had no idea how he knew about the discovery of the knife. It was likely he had headed for Eastvale and taken a bus. The number forty-three ran along Cardigan Drive, on the town's western edge. He would simply have had to walk across the moors and up Gallows View to get there. Also, buses to York and Ripon passed along the same road. Somebody must have seen him. Banks had circulated his description to the bus companies and sent out his mug-shot to police around the country, paying particular attention to Leeds, Liverpool and London. As Burgess said, it was simply a matter of time before he was caught.

"Where did you get that bloody scar?" Burgess asked.

"This?" Banks fingered the white crescent by his right eye. "Got it in Heidelberg. It's a duelling scar."

"Ha bloody ha! You're a funny man, aren't you? Have you heard the one about the—" Burgess stopped and looked up at the person standing over them. "Well, well," he said, scraping his chair aside to make room. "If it isn't—"

"Dr Fuller," Jenny said. She glanced at Banks and pulled up a chair next to his.

"Of course. How could I forget? Drink, love?"

Jenny smiled sweetly. "Yes, please. I'll have a half of lager."

"Oh, come on, have a pint," Burgess insisted.

"All right. A pint."

"Good." Burgess rubbed his hands together and set off for the bar. His thigh caught the edge of the table as he stood up. Beer rippled in the glasses but didn't spill.

Jenny pulled a face at Banks. "What's with him?"

Banks grinned. "Celebrating."

"So I see." She leaned closer. "Look, I've got something to ask you—"

Banks put a finger to his lips. "Not now," he said. "He's getting served. He'll be back soon." True enough, in no time Burgess was on his way back, trying to carry three pints in his hands and slopping beer over the rims onto his shoes.

"What are you celebrating, anyway?" Jenny asked after Burgess had managed to set the drinks on the table without spilling much. Banks told her about Paul Boyd.

"That's a shame."

"A shame! You said he gave you the creeps."

"He does. I'm just thinking of the others, that's all. It'll be a hell of a blow for Seth and Mara. They've done so much for him. Especially Mara." Jenny seemed unusually distracted at the thought of Mara Delacey, and Banks wondered why.

"You know," Burgess said, "I'm a bit sorry it turned out to be Boyd myself."

Jenny looked surprised: "You are? Why?"

"Well…" He moved closer. "I was hoping it might be that boy-friend of yours. Then we could get him locked up for a good long while, and you and me could… you know."

To Banks's surprise, Jenny laughed. "You've got some imagination, I'll say that for you, Superintendent Burgess."

"Call me Dick. Most of my friends do."

Jenny stifled a laugh. "I really don't think I could do that. Honest."

"Aren't you relieved it's all over?" Banks asked her. "I'll bet Osmond is."

"Of course. Especially if it means we won't have to put up with any more visits from him." She nodded at Burgess.

"I could still visit," Dirty Dick said, and winked.

"Oh, put another record on. So where do you think Paul is?" she asked Banks.

"We've no idea. He took off early this afternoon, before we got a positive identification. Could be anywhere."

"But you're confident you'll get him?"

"I think so."

Jenny turned to Burgess. "So your job's over, then? I don't suppose you'll want to stick around this god-forsaken place much longer, will you?"

"Oh, I don't know." Burgess lit a cigar and leered at her. "It has its compensations."

Jenny coughed and waved the smoke away.

"Seriously," he went on, "I'll stay around till he's brought in. There's a lot I want to ask him."

"But that could take days, weeks."

Burgess shrugged. "It's the taxpayers' money, love. Your round again, Banks."

"Nothing for me this time," Jenny said. "I'll have to be off soon." She still had over half her drink left.

Feeling a little light-headed, Banks went to the bar.

" 'Ave you told him?" Cyril asked.

"Yes."

"Good. I just hope he knows what's best for him. Look at the bugger, he can't keep his hands off them."

Banks looked around. Dirty Dick seemed to have edged closer to Jenny, and his elbow rested on the back of her chair. She was behaving very calmly, Banks thought. It wasn't like her to take such sexist patronizing so well. Maybe she fancies him, he thought suddenly. If Glenys does, then maybe Jenny does, too. Perhaps he really does have the magic touch with women. At least he's available. And he's handsome enough, too. That casual look — the worn leather jacket, open-neck shirt — it suits him, as do the touches of grey hair at his temples.

Banks brushed the idea aside. It was ridiculous. Jenny was an intelligent, tasteful woman. A woman like her could never fall for Dirty Dick's brazen charm. But women were a mysterious lot, Banks thought glumly, carrying the drinks back.

They were always falling for worthless men. He clearly recalled the beautiful Anita Howarth, object of his adolescent lust back in the third form. She had been quite oblivious to Banks's lean good looks and taken up with that spotty, good-for-nothing Steve Naylor. And Naylor hadn't seemed to give a damn about her. He gave the impression he would rather be playing cricket or rugby than go anywhere with Anita. But that just made her more crazy about him. And Banks had had to spend all his time fending off unwelcome advances from Cheryl Wagstaff, the one with the yellow buck teeth.

"I was just offering to show this lovely young lady the sights of London," Burgess said.

"I'm sure she's seen them before," Banks replied stiffly.

"Not the way I'd show her." Burgess moved his arm so that his hand rested on Jenny's shoulder.

Banks was wondering if he should act gallantly this time and defend Jenny's honour. After all, they were sort of off duty. But he remembered she was quite good at taking care of herself. Her face took on an ominously sweet expression.

"Please take your hand off my shoulder, Superintendent," she said.

"Oh, come on, love," Burgess said. "Don't be so shy. And call me Dick."

"Please?"

"Give me a chance. We've hardly even got—" Burgess stopped abruptly when Jenny calmly and slowly picked up her glass and poured the rest of her chilled lager on his lap.

"I told you I only wanted a half," she said, then picked up her coat and left.

Burgess rushed for the gents. Luckily, Jenny had acted so naturally, and everyone around them had been so engrossed in conversation, that the event had gone largely unnoticed. Cyril had seen it, though, and his face was red with laughter.

Banks caught up with Jenny outside. She was leaning against the ancient, pitted market cross in the centre of the square with her hand over her mouth. "My God," she said, letting the laughter out and patting her chest, "I haven't had as much fun in years. That man's a positive throwback. I'm surprised you seem to be enjoying his company so much."

"He's not so bad," Banks said. "Especially after a few jars."

"Yes, you'd need to be at least half-pissed. And you'd need to be a man, too. You're all locker-room adolescents when it comes down to it."

"He's got quite a reputation as a womanizer."

"They must be desperate down south, then."

Banks's faith in women was partially restored.

It was cold outside in the deserted square. The cobbles, still wet with rain, glistened in the dim gaslight. The church bells rang half-past nine. Banks turned up his jacket collar and held the lapels close together. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"It's nothing. It doesn't matter now."

"Come on, Jenny, you're hiding something. You're not good at it. Is it to do with Paul Boyd?"

"Indirectly. But I told you, it doesn't matter."

"Do you know why he ran away?"

"Of course not."

"Look, I know you're a friend of Mara's. Is this to do with her? It could be important."

"All right," Jenny said, holding up her hand. "Give it a rest. I'll tell you everything you want to know. You're getting almost as bad as your mate in there. Mara just wondered how the investigation was going, that's all. They're all a bit tense up at the farm, and they wanted to know if they could expect any more visits from God's gift to women. Will you believe me now that it doesn't matter?"

"When did you talk to her?"

"This lunchtime in the Black Sheep."

"She must have seen the knife," Banks said, almost to himself.

"What?"

"The shepherd, Jack Crocker. He found the knife. She must have seen it, recognized it as Boyd's, and dashed off to warn him. That's why he took off just in time."

"Oh, Alan, surely not?"

"I thought she was lying when I talked to her earlier. Didn't you notice any of this?"

"She did take off in rather a hurry, but I'd no idea why. I left just after. You're not going to arrest her, are you?"

Banks shook his head. "It makes her an accessory," he said, "but I doubt we'd be able to prove it. And when Burgess gets Boyd, I don't think he'll spare another thought for Mara and the rest. It was just a bloody stupid thing to do."

"Was it? Would you split on a friend, just like that? What would you do if someone accused Richmond of murder, or me?"

"That's not the point. Of course I'd do what I could to clear you. But she should have let us know. Boyd could be dangerous."

"She cares about Paul. She's hardly likely to hand him over to you just like that."

"I wonder if she's told him where to run and hide as well."

Jenny shivered. "It's cold standing about here," she said. "I should go before Dirty Dick comes out and beats me up. That's just about his level. And you'd better get back or he'll think you've deserted him. Give him my love." She kissed Banks quickly on the cheek and hurried to her car. He stood in the cold for a moment thinking about Mara and what Jenny had said, then rushed back into the Queen's Arms to see what had become of the soused superintendent.

"She's certainly got spirit, I'll say that," Burgess said, not at all upset by the incident. "Another pint?"

"I shouldn't really."

"Oh, come on Banks. Don't be a party pooper." Without waiting for a reply, Burgess went to the bar.

Banks felt that he'd had enough already, and soon he would be past the point of no return. Still, he thought, after a couple more pints he wouldn't give a damn anyway. He sensed that Burgess was lonely and in need of company in his moment of triumph, and he didn't feel he could simply desert the bastard. Besides, he had only an empty house to go home to. He could leave the Cortina in the police car-park and walk home later, no matter how much he'd drunk. It was only a mile and a bit.

And so they drank on, and on. Burgess was easy enough to talk to, Banks found, once you got used to his cocky manner and stayed off politics and police work.

He had a broad repertoire of jokes, an extensive knowledge of jazz and a store of tales about cock-ups on the job. On the Met, as Banks remembered, there were so many different departments and squads running their own operations that it wasn't unusual for the Sweeney to charge in and spoil a fraud-squad stakeout.

An hour and two pints later, as Burgess reached the end of a tale about a hapless drug-squad DC shooting himself in the foot, Banks suggested it was time to go.

"I suppose so," Burgess said regretfully, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. He certainly didn't seem drunk. His speech was normal and his eyes looked clear. But when they got outside, he had difficulty walking on the pavement. To keep himself steady, he put his arm around Banks's shoulder and the two of them weaved across the market square. Thank God the hotel's just around the corner, Banks thought.

"That's my only trouble, you know," Burgess said. "Mind clear as a bell, memory intact, but every time I go over the limit my motor control goes haywire. Know what my mates call me down at the Yard?"

"No."

"Bambi." He laughed. "Bloody Bambi. You know, that little whatsit in the cartoon — the way the damn thing walks. It's not my sweet and gentle nature they're referring to." He put his hand to his groin. "Bloody hell, I still feel like I've pissed myself. That damn woman!" And he laughed.

Banks declined an invitation to go up to Burgess's room and split a bottle of Scotch. No matter how sorry he felt for the lonely bugger, he wasn't that much of a masochist. Grudgingly, Burgess let him go. "I'll drink it myself, then," were his final words, delivered at full volume in front of an embarrassed desk clerk in the hotel lobby.

As he set off home, Banks wished he'd brought his Walkman. He could be listening to Blind Willie McTell or Bukka White as he walked. He was steady on his feet, though, and arrived at the front door of the empty house in about twenty minutes. He was tired and he certainly didn't want another drink, so he decided to go straight to bed. As usual, though, when things were bothering him he couldn't get to sleep immediately. And there were plenty of things about the Gill case that still puzzled him.

Motive was a problem, unless Burgess was right and Boyd had simply lashed out indiscriminately. In this case, it seemed that knowing who didn't explain why. Boyd wasn't political as far as anyone knew, and even street punks like him weren't in the habit of stabbing policemen at antinuclear demos. If someone had a private reason for wanting to do away with Gill, then there was plenty to consider in the personal lives of the other suspects: Osmond's assault charges, Trelawney's custody battle, Seth's wife's accident, Mara's religious organization, and even Zoe's seaside fortunetelling. It was hard to imagine a connection at this point, but stranger things had happened. Tony Grant's report might prove useful, if it ever arrived.

Banks was also curious about the prints on the knife. Usually when a knife is thrust into a body, the fingers holding the handle slip and any impression is blurred. Boyd's prints had been perfectly clear, just as if he had carefully applied each one. It could have happened if he'd folded up the knife and carried it in his hand before throwing it away, or if he'd just picked it up after someone else had used it. There were other prints under his, but they were too blurred to read. They could be his, too, of course, but there was no way of knowing. Boyd had certainly carried the knife in his pocket. The stains inside the parka matched PC Gill's blood type. But if he had used it, why had he been foolish enough to pick it up after dropping it? He must have let it fall at some point, because several people had seen it being kicked around by the crowd. And if he had just left it there, it was very unlikely that it could have been traced to the farm.

But if Boyd hadn't done it, why had he picked up a knife that wasn't his? To protect someone? And who would he be more likely to protect than the people at Maggie's Farm? Or had there been someone else he knew and cared about who had access to the knife? There were a lot more questions to be asked yet, Banks thought, and Burgess was being very premature in celebrating his victory tonight.

Then there was the matter of the number torn out of Seth Cotton's notebook. Banks didn't know what it meant, but there was something familiar about it, something damn familiar. Boyd was close to Seth and spent plenty of time helping him in the workshop. Could the number be something to do with him? Could it help tell them where he'd gone?

It could be a phone number, of course. There were still plenty of four-digit numbers in the Swainsdale area. On impulse, Banks got out of bed and went downstairs. It was after eleven, but he decided to try anyway. He dialled 1139 and heard a phone ring at the other end. It went on for a long time. He was just about to give up when a woman answered, "Hello. Rossghyll Guest House, bed and breakfast." The voice was polite but strained.

Banks introduced himself and some of the woman's politeness faded when it became clear that he wasn't a potential customer. "Do you know what time it is?" she said. "Couldn't this have waited till morning? Do you know what time I have to get up?"

"It's important." Banks gave a description of Paul Boyd and asked if she'd seen him.

"I wouldn't have that kind of person staying here," the woman answered angrily. "What kind of place do you think this is? This is a decent house." And with that she hung up on him.

Banks trudged back up to bed. He'd have to send a man over, of course, just to be sure, but it didn't seem a likely bet. And if it was a phone number outside the local area, it could be almost anywhere. With the dialling code missing, there was no way of telling.

Banks lay awake a while longer, then he finally drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Burgess humble in defeat.