A Necessary End (21 page)

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 con trol. 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 got one.”

“'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 flyer 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 behav
ing 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.”