A Necessary End Read online

  More Acclaim for A Necessary End

  “A Necessary End is proof that Robinson has his craft well in hand … The perfect weekend escape.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Well-written, and with a rich and varied cast of believable characters, A Necessary End is Robinson’s best novel to date.”

  —The London Free Press

  “A good mystery and a contemporary variation … With the publishing of A Necessary End, I think we can now be assured that we have a series that is going to be with us for a long time to come.”

  —The Vancouver Sun

  “Thoughtful ... vivid ... challenging ... Like the region that breeds them, the people in Robinson’s mystery flaunt their colors but keep their secrets.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  Acclaim for A Dedicated Man

  “A perfect little portrait of a village in the Yorkshire dales … First-rate stuff for the detective story buff.”

  —The Province (Vancouver)

  “A first class story.”

  —Toronto Star

  “A Dedicated Man is a satisfying sequel to Robinson’s first published novel, Gallows View. The slow pace and delightful characterizations allow the narrator to expound on the lives and mores of rural Yorkshire without interrupting the flow of the story or the reader’s absorption.”

  —Quill & Quire

  Acclaim for Gallows View

  “The climax, choreographed to a furious pace, should fill the land with the sound of pages turning.”

  —Toronto Star

  “This is a first novel that will knock you over with its maturity.”

  —Howard Engel

  “Alan Banks shows promise of developing into the kind of avuncular copper that fans of Ruth Rendell’s Inspector Wexford love.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  Acclaim for The Hanging Valley

  “A terrific book with a complex plot about murder and madness in the Yorkshire dales.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “[Peter Robinson] knows how to write an extremely good mystery and keep the reader hopping from page to page.”

  —The Hamilton Spectator

  “Evocative ... Intriguing ... Emotionally rich.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  PENGUIN CANADA

  A NECESSARY END

  PETER ROBINSON grew up in Leeds, Yorkshire. He emigrated to Canada in 1974 and attended York University and the University of Windsor, where he was later writer-in-residence. His many awards include five Arthur Ellis Awards, the Edgar Award for best short story, The Crime Writers’ Association’s Dagger in the Library Award, the Torgi talking book of the year, France’s Grand Prix de Littérature Policière and Sweden’s Martin Beck Award. His books have been published internationally to great acclaim and translated into fifteen languages. Peter Robinson lives in Toronto.

  Other Inspector Banks mysteries

  Gallows View

  A Dedicated Man

  The Hanging Valley

  Past Reason Hated

  Wednesday’s Child

  Final Account

  Innocent Graves

  Dead Right

  In a Dry Season

  Cold is the Grave

  Aftermath

  The Summer That Never Was

  Playing with Fire

  Strange Affair

  Piece of My Heart

  Inspector Banks collections

  Meet Inspector Banks

  (includes Gallows View, A Dedicated Man and A Necessary End)

  Inspector Banks Investigates

  (includes The Hanging Valley, Past Reason Hated and Wednesday’s Child)

  The Return of Inspector Banks

  (includes Innocent Graves, Final Account and Dead Right)

  Also by Peter Robinson

  Caedmon’s Song

  No Cure for Love

  Not Safe After Dark

  A NECESSARY END

  Peter Robinson

  PENGUIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1989

  Published in Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1990

  Published in this edition, 2006

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © Peter Robinson, 1989

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  * * *

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Robinson, Peter, 1950–

  A necessary end : an Inspector Banks mystery / Peter Robinson.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305102-2

  ISBN-10: 0-14-305102-4

  I. Title.

  PS8585.O35176N43 2006 C813’.54 C2006-901658-5

  * * *

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca

  Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see

  www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-399-6858, ext. 477 or 474

  For Martin, Chris, Steve

  and Paul—old friends

  who all contributed.

  Author’s Note

  Though most of this story takes place in the fictional region of Swainsdale and its main town, Eastvale, some scenes are set in real places, such as Hebden Bridge and Scarborough. Whatever the setting, all characters in the story are purely imaginary and bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead.

  ONE

  I

  The demonstrators huddled in the March drizzle outside Eastvale Community Centre. Some of them held home-made placards aloft, but the anti-nuclear slogans had run in the rain like the red lettering at the beginning of horror movies. It was hard to make out exactly what they said any more. By eight-thirty, everyone
was thoroughly soaked and fed up. No television cameras recorded the scene, and not one reporter mingled with the crowd. Protests were passé, and the media were only interested in what was going on inside. Besides, it was cold, wet and dark out there.

  Despite all the frustration, the demonstrators had been patient so far. Their wet hair lay plastered to their skulls and water dribbled down their necks, but still they had held up their illegible placards and shifted from foot to foot for over an hour. Now, however, many of them were beginning to feel claustrophobic. North Market Street was narrow and only dimly lit by old-fashioned gaslamps. The protestors were hemmed in on all sides by police, who had edged so close that there was nowhere left to spread out. An extra line of police stood guard at the top of the steps by the heavy oak doors, and opposite the hall more officers blocked the snickets that led to the winding back streets and the open fields beyond Cardigan Drive.

  Finally, just to get breathing space, some people at the edges began pushing. The police shoved back hard. The agitation rippled its way to the solidly packed heart of the crowd, and suppressed tempers rose. When someone brought a placard down on a copper’s head, the other demonstrators cheered. Someone else threw a bottle. It smashed harmlessly, high against the wall. Then a few people began to wave their fists in the air and the crowd started chanting, “WE WANT IN! LET US IN!” Isolated scuffles broke out. They were still struggling for more ground, and the police pushed back to contain them. It was like sitting on the lid of a boiling pot; something had to give.

  Later, nobody could say exactly how it happened, or who started it, but most of the protestors questioned claimed that a policeman yelled, “Let’s clobber the buggers!” and that the line advanced down the steps, truncheons out. Then all hell broke loose.

  II

  It was too hot inside the Community Centre. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks fidgeted with his tie. He hated ties, and when he had to wear one he usually kept the top button of his shirt undone to alleviate the choking feeling. But this time he toyed with the loose knot out of boredom, as well as discomfort. He wished he was at home with his arm around Sandra and a tumbler of good single-malt Scotch in his hand.

  But home had been a cold and lonely place these past two days because Sandra and the children were away. Her father had suffered a mild stroke, and she had taken off down to Croyden to help her mother cope. Banks wished she were back. They had married young, and he found that the single life, after almost twenty years of (mostly) happy marriage, had little to recommend it.

  But the main cause of Banks’s ill humour droned on and on, bringing to the crowded Eastvale Community Centre a particularly nasal brand of Home Counties monetarism. It was the Honourable Honoria Winstanley, MP, come to pour oil on the troubled waters of North-South relations. Eastvale had been blessed with her presence because, though not large, it was the biggest and most important town in that part of the country between York and Darlington. It was also enjoying a period of unprecedented and inexplicable growth, thus marking itself out as a shining example of popular capitalism at work. Banks was present as a gesture of courtesy, sandwiched between two taciturn Special Branch agents. Superintendent Gristhorpe had no doubt assigned him, Banks thought, because he had no desire to listen to the Hon Honoria himself. If pushed, Banks described himself as a moderate socialist, but politics bored him and politicians usually made him angry.

  Occasionally, he glanced left or right and noticed the restless eyes of the official bodyguards, who seemed to be expecting terrorist action at any moment. For want of their real names, he had christened them Chas and Dave. Chas was the bulky one with the rheumy eyes and bloated red nose, and Dave was blessed with the lean and hungry look of a Tory cabinet minister. If a member of the audience shifted in his or her seat, raised a fist to muffle a cough or reached for a handkerchief, either Chas or Dave would slip his hand under his jacket towards his shoulder-holster.

  It was all very silly, Banks thought. The only reason anyone might want to kill Honoria Winstanley would be for inflicting a dull speech on the audience. As motives for murder went, that came a long way down the list—though any sane judge would certainly pronounce it justifiable homicide.

  Ms Winstanley paused and took a sip of water while the audience applauded. “And I say to you all,” she continued in all-out rhetorical flight, “that in the fullness of time, when the results of our policies have come to fruition and every vestige of socialism has been stamped out, all divisions will be healed, and the north, that revered cradle of the Industrial Revolution, will indeed prosper every bit as much as the rest of our glorious nation. Once again this will be a united kingdom, united under the banner of enterprise, incentive and hard work. You can already see it happening around you here in Eastvale.”

  Banks covered his mouth with his hand and yawned. He looked to his left and noticed that Chas had become so enrapt by Honoria that he had momentarily forgotten to keep an eye open for the IRA, the PLO, the Bader Meinhoff group and the Red Brigade.

  The speech was going down well, Banks thought, considering that members of the same government had recently told the north to stop whining about unemployment and had added that most of its problems were caused by poor taste in food. Still, with an audience made up almost entirely of members of the local Conservative Association—small businessmen, farmers and landowners, for the most part—such whole-hearted enthusiasm was only to be expected. The people in the hall had plenty of money, and no doubt they ate well, too.

  It was getting even hotter and stuffier, but the Hon Honoria showed no signs of flagging. Indeed, she was off on a laudatory digression about share-owning, making it sound as if every Englishman could become a millionaire overnight if the government continued to sell off nationalized industries and services to the private sector.

  Banks needed a cigarette. He’d been trying to give up again lately, but without success. With so little happening at the station and Sandra and the children away, he had actually increased his intake. The only progress he had made was in switching from Benson and Hedges Special Mild to Silk Cut. He’d heard somewhere that breaking brand loyalty was the first step towards stopping entirely. Unfortunately, he was beginning to like the new brand more than the old.

  He shifted in his seat when Honoria moved on to the necessity of maintaining, even expanding, the American military presence in Britain, and Chas gave him a challenging glance. He began to wonder if perhaps this latest digression was a roundabout way of approaching the issue the many people present wanted to hear about.

  There had been rumours about a nuclear-power station across the North York Moors on the coast, only about forty miles from Eastvale. With Sellafield to the west, that was one too many, even for some of the more right-wing locals. After all, radioactivity could be quite nasty when you depended on the land for your prosperity. They all remembered Chernobyl, with its tales of contaminated milk and meat.

  And as if the peaceful use of nuclear power weren’t bad enough, there was also talk of a new American air-force base in the area. People were already fed up with low-flying jets breaking the sound barrier day in, day out. Even if the sheep did seem to have got used to them, they were bad for the tourist business. But it looked as if Honoria was going to skirt the issue in true politician’s fashion and dazzle everyone with visions of a new Golden Age. Maybe the matter would come up in question time.

  Honoria’s speech ended after a soaring paean to education reform, law and order, the importance of military strength, and private ownership of council housing. She had made no reference at all to the nuclear-power station or to the proposed air base. There was a five-second pause before the audience realized it was all over and began to clap. In that pause, Banks thought he heard signs of a ruckus outside. Chas and Dave seemed to have the same notion too; their eyes darted to the doors and their hands slid towards their left armpits.

  III

  Outside, police and demonstrators punched and kicked each other wildly. Parts of the dens
e crowd had broken up into small skirmishes, but a heaving, struggling central mass remained. Everyone seemed oblivious to all but his or her personal battle. There were no individuals, just fists, wooden sticks, boots and uniforms. Occasionally, when a truncheon connected, someone would scream in agony, fall to his knees and put his hands to the flow of blood in stunned disbelief. The police got as good as they gave, too; boots connected with groins, fists with heads. Helmets flew off and demonstrators picked them up to swing them by the straps and use as weapons. The fallen on both sides were trampled by the rest; there was no room to avoid them, no time for compassion.

  One young constable, beset by two men and a woman, covered his face and flailed blindly with his truncheon; a girl, blood flowing down the side of her neck, kicked a policeman, who lay in the rain curled up in the foetal position. Four people, locked together, toppled over and crashed through the window of Winston’s Tobacco Shop, scattering the fine display of Havana cigars, bowls of aromatic pipe tobacco and exotic Turkish and American cigarette packets onto the wet pavement.

  Eastvale Regional Police Headquarters was only a hundred yards or so down the street, fronting the market square. When he heard the noise, Sergeant Rowe dashed outside and sized up the situation quickly. He then sent out two squad cars to block off the narrow street at both ends, and a Black Maria to put the prisoners in. He also phoned the hospital for ambulances.

  When the demonstrators heard the sirens, most of them were aware enough to know they were trapped. Scuffles ceased and the scared protestors broke for freedom. Some managed to slip by before the car doors opened, and two people shoved aside the driver of one car and ran to freedom across the market square. A few others hurled themselves at the policemen who were still trying to block off the snickets, knocked them out of the way, and took off into the safety and obscurity of the back alleys. One muscular protestor forced his way up the steps towards the Community Centre doors with two policemen hanging onto the scruff of his neck trying to drag him back.