A Necessary End (10 page)

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

“What about yours?”

“Too small for two.”

“I was meaning for one. Me.”

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

“Hmmm. Still . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Liverpool.”

“Any IRA connections?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“Still . . .”

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

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

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

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

“Police,” Osmond said. But Jenny had already turned back and shut the door behind her.

Burgess, who had watched all this, made no comment. “Can we sit down?” he asked.

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

Banks fumbled for a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. “I'd rather you didn't,” Osmond said. “Second-hand smoke can kill, you know.” He paused and looked Banks over. “So you're Chief Inspector Banks, are you? I've heard a lot about you.”

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

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

“My, my. How word travels.” Dirty Dick smiled. He had the kind of smile that made most people feel nervous, but it seemed to have no effect on Osmond. As Banks settled into the chair, he could picture Jenny dressing in the other room. It was probably the bedroom, he thought gloomily, and the double bed would be rumpled and stained, the
Sunday Times
review section spread out over the creased sheets. He took out his notebook and settled down as best he could for the interrogation.

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

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

“So what if I was?”

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

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

“Don't be so touchy.”

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

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

“You've no right—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Osmond shrugged.

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

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

“I seriously believe a lot of things that might surprise you,” Burgess cut in. “And you can spare me the fucking lecture. Who gave you your orders?”

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

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

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

“Listen to him,” Burgess said. “He's right.”

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

“Do you own a flick-knife?” Burgess asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever owned one?”

“No.”

“Know anybody who does?”

Osmond shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you two know each other?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“What were you charged with on Friday?” Burgess asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Osmond scowled and kept silent.

“I said, do you know why not?”

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

“Because I don't give a flying fuck for you or for others like you,”

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