A Necessary End (18 page)

“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 every-one 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 singlehanded.”

“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.