A Necessary End ib-3 Page 11

  They both looked out over the ruffled water. Salt spray filled the air and Banks felt the ozone freshen his lungs as he breathed deep. He shivered and asked, “What is it you want to tell me?”

  Grant hesitated. “Look, sir,” he said after staring at the oil tanker for half a minute, “I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’m not a grass or anything. I’ve not been long on the force, and mostly I like it. I didn’t think I would, not at first, but I do now. I want to make a career out of it.” He looked at Banks intensely. “I’d like to join the CID. I’m not stupid; I’ve got brains. I’ve been to university, and I could maybe have got into teaching-that’s what I thought I wanted to do-but, well, you know the job situation. Seems all that’s going these days is the police force. So I joined. Anyway, as I said, I like it. It’s challenging.”

  Banks took out a cigarette and cupped his hand around his blue Bic lighter. It took him four attempts to get a flame going long enough. He wished Grant would get to the point, but he knew he had to be patient and listen. The kid was about to go against his peers and squeal on a colleague.

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  Listening to the justification, as he had listened to so many before, was the price Banks had to pay.

  “It’s just that,” Grant went on, “well… it’s not as clean as I expected.”

  Naive bugger, Banks thought. “It’s like anything else,” he said, encouraging the lad. “There’s a lot of bastards out there, whatever you do. Maybe our line of work attracts more than-the usual quota of bullies, lazy sods, sadists and the like. But that doesn’t mean we’re all like that.” Banks sucked on his cigarette.

  It tasted different, mixed with the sea air. A wave broke below them and the spray wet their feet.

  “I know what you’re saying,” Grant said, “and I think you’re right. I just wanted you to know what side I’m on. I don’t believe that the end justifies the means. With me they’re innocent until proven guilty, as the saying goes. I treat people with respect, no matter what colour they are or how they dress or wear their hair. I’m not saying I approve of some of the types we get, but I’m not a thug.”

  “And Gill was?”

  “Yes.” A big wave started to peak as it approached the wall, and they both stepped back quickly to avoid the spray. Even so, they couldn’t dodge a mild soaking, and Banks’s cigarette got soggy. He threw it away.

  “Was this common knowledge?”

  “Oh, aye. He made no bones about it. See, with Gill it wasn’t just the overtime, the money. He liked it well enough, but he liked the job more, if you see what I mean.”

  “I think I do. Go on.”

  “He was handy with his truncheon, Gill was. And he enjoyed it. Every time we got requests for manpower at demos, pickets, and the like, he’d be first to sign up.

  Got a real taste for it during the miners’ strike, when they bussed police in from all over the place. He was the kind of bloke who’d wave a roll of fivers at the striking miners to taunt them before he clobbered them. He trained with the Tactical Aid Group.”

  The TAG, Banks knew, was a kind of force within a force. Its members trained together in a military fashion and

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  learned how to use guns, rubber bullets and tear-gas. When their training was over, they went back to normal duties and remained on call for special situations-like demos and picket lines. The official term for them had been changed to PSU-Police Support Unit-as the TAGs got a lot of bad publicity and sounded too obviously martial. But it was about as effective as changing the name of Windscale to Sellafield; a nuclear-power station by another name….

  “Is that how he behaved in Eastvale?” Banks asked.

  “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure it was Gill who led the charge.

  See, things were getting a bit hairy. We were all hemmed in so tight. Gill was at the top of the steps with a few others, just looking down at people pushing and shoving -not that you could see much, it was so bloody dark with those old-fashioned streetlamps. Anyway, one of the demonstrators chucked a bottle, and someone up there, behind me, yelled, ‘Let’s clobber the bastards.’ I think I recognized Gill’s voice. Then they charged down and … well, you know what happened. It needn’t have-that’s what I’m saying. Sure, there was a bit of aggro going on, but we could have sat on it if someone had given the order to loosen up a bit, give people room to breathe. Instead, Gill led a fucking truncheon charge. I know we coppers are all supposed to stick together, but…” Grant looked out to sea and shivered.

  “There’s a time to stick together,” Banks said, “and this isn’t it. Gill got himself killed, remember that.”

  “But I couldn’t swear to anything. I mean, officially….”

  “Don’t worry. This is off the record.” At least it is for now, he told himself.

  If anything came of their discussion, young Grant might find himself with a few serious decisions to make. “How did the others feel about Gill?” he asked.

  “Oh, most of them thought it was all a bit of a joke, a lark. I mean, there’d be Gill going on about clobbering queers and commies. I don’t think they really took him seriously.”

  “But it wasn’t just talk? You say he liked smashing skulls.”

  “Yes. He was a right bastard.”

  “Surely they knew it?”

  “Yes, but…”

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  “Did they approve?”

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. Some, maybe … but I didn’t, for one.”

  “But nobody warned him, told him to knock it off?”

  Grant pulled up his collar. “No.”

  “Were they scared of him?”

  “Some of the lads were, yes. He was a bit of a hard case.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? Well, I wouldn’t have taken him up on anything, that’s for sure. I’m scarcely above regulation height, myself, and Gill was a big bugger.”

  A seagull screeched by them, a flash of white against the grey, and began circling over the water for fish. The tanker had moved far over to the right of the horizon. Banks felt the chill getting to him. He put his hands deep in his pockets and tensed up against the cold, wet wind.

  “Did any of the others actually like him?” he asked. “Did he have any real mates at the station?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, no. He wasn’t a very likeable bloke. Too big-headed, too full of himself. I mean, you couldn’t have a conversation with him; you just had to listen. He had views on everything, but he was thick. I mean, he never really thought anything out. It was all down to Pakis and Rastas and students and skinheads and unemployed yobbos with him.”

  “So he wasn’t popular around the station?”

  “Not really, no. But you know what it’s like. A few of the lads get together in the squad room-especially if they’ve had TAG training-and you get all that macho, tough-guy talk, just like American cop shows. He was good at that, Gill was, telling stories about fights and taking risks.”

  “Are there any more like him in your station?”

  “Not as bad, no. There’s a few that don’t mind a good punch-up now and then, and some blokes like to pull kids in on a sus just to liven up a boring night. But nobody went as far as Gill.”

  “Did he have any friends outside the station?”

  “I don’t know who he went about with off duty.”

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  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. He never mentioned anyone.”

  “So he didn’t brag about having women like he did about thumping people?”

  “No. I never heard him. Whenever he did talk about women it was always like they were whores and bitches. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He’d hit them, too, at demos. It was all the same to him.”

  “Do you think he could have been the type to mess around with someone else’s girlfriend or wife?”

  Grant shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  The seagull flew up towards the cliffs behind th
em, a fish flapping in its beak.

  The sea had settled to a rhythmic slapping against the stone wall, hardly sending up any spray at all. Banks risked another cigarette.

  “Did Gill have any enemies that you know of?”

  “He must have made plenty over the years, given his attitude towards the public,” Grant said. “But I couldn’t name any.”

  “Anyone on the force?”

  “Eh?”

  “You said nobody at the station really liked him. Had anyone got a good reason to dislike him? Did he owe money, cheat people, gamble? Any financial problems?”

  “I don’t think so. He just got people’s backs up, that’s all. He talked about betting on the horses, yes, but I don’t think he did it that much. It was just the macho sort of thing that went with his image. He never tried to borrow any money off me, if that’s what you mean. And I don’t think he was on the take. At least he was honest on that score.”

  Banks turned his back to the choppy water and looked up towards the sombre bulk of the ruined castle. He couldn’t see much from that angle; the steep cliff, where sea-birds made their nests, was mottled with grass, moss and bare stone.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I just wanted you to know that all that crap at the funeral was exactly that. Crap. Gill was a vicious bastard. I’m not saying he deserved what happened to him,

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  nobody deserves that, but those who live by the sword….” “Did you have any particular reason to dislike Gill?” Grant seemed startled by the question. “Me?

  What do you mean?”

  “What I say. Did he ever do you any harm personally?” “No. Look, if you’re questioning my motives, sir, believe me, it’s exactly like I told you. I heard you were asking questions about Gill, and I thought someone should tell you the truth, that’s all. I’m not the kind to go around speaking ill of the dead just because they’re not here to defend themselves.”

  Banks smiled. “Don’t mind me, I’m just an old cynic. It’s a long time since I’ve come across a young idealist like you on the force.” Banks thought of Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had managed to hang on to a certain amount of idealism over the years. But he was one of the old guard; it was a rare quality in youth these days, Banks had found-especially in those who joined the police.

  Even Richmond could hardly be called an idealist. Keen, yes, but as practical as the day was long.

  Grant managed a thin smile. “It’s nice of you to say that, but it’s not exactly true. After all,” he said, “I laid into them with the rest last Friday, didn’t I? And do you know what?” His voice caught in his throat and he couldn’t look Banks in the eye. “After a while, I even started to enjoy myself.”

  So, Banks thought, maybe Grant had told all because he felt ashamed of himself for acting like Gill and enjoying the battle. Getting caught up in the thrill of action was hardly unusual; the release of adrenaline often produced a sense of exhilaration in men who would normally run a mile from a violent confrontation.

  But it obviously bothered Grant. Perhaps this was his way of exorcising what he saw as Gill’s demon inside him. Whatever his reasons, he’d given Banks plenty to think about.

  “It happens,” Banks said, by way of comfort. “Don’t let it worry you. Look, would you do me a favour?” They turned and started walking back to their cars.

  Grant shrugged. “Depends.”

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  “I’d like to know a bit more about Gill’s overtime activities -like where he’s been and when. There should be a record. It’d also be useful if I could find out about any official complaints against him, and anything at all about his private life.”

  Grant frowned and pushed at his left cheek with his tongue as if he had a canker. “I don’t know,” he said finally, fiddling in his duffle-coat pocket for his car keys. “I wouldn’t want to get caught. They’d make my life a bloody misery here if they knew I’d even talked to you like this. Can’t you just request his record?”

  Banks shook his head. “My boss doesn’t want us to be seen investigating Gill. He says it’ll look bad. But if we’re not seen…. Send it to my home address, just to be on the safe side.” Banks scribbled his address on a card and handed it over.

  Grant got into his car and opened the window. “I can’t promise anything,” he said slowly, “but I’ll have a go.” He licked his lips. “If anything important comes out of all this…” He paused.

  Banks bent down, his hand resting on the wet car roof.

  “Well,” Grant went on, “I don’t want you to think I’m after anything, but you will remember I said I wanted to join the CID, won’t you?” And he smiled a big, broad, innocent, open smile.

  Bloody hell, there were no flies on this kid. Banks couldn’t make him out. At first he’d taken such a moral line that Banks suspected chapel had figured strongly somewhere in his background. But despite all his idealism and respect for the law, he might well be another Dirty Dick in the making. On the other hand, that damn smiling moon-face looked so bloody cherubic….

  “Yes,” Banks said, smiling back. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget you.”

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  I

  In the cross-streets between York Road and Market Street, near where Banks lived, developers had converted terraces of tall Victorian family houses into student flats. In one of these, in a two-room attic unit, Tim Fenton and Abha Sutton lived.

  If Tim and Abha made an unlikely-looking couple, they made an even more unlikely pair of revolutionaries. Tim had all the blond good looks of an American “preppie,” with dress sense to match. Abha, half-Indian, had golden skin, beetle-black hair, and a pearl stud through her left nostril. She was studying graphic design; Tim was in the social sciences. They embraced Marxism as the solution to the world’s inequalities, but were always quick to point out that they regarded Soviet Communism as an extreme perversion of the prophet’s truth.

  Both were generally well-mannered, and not at all the type to call police pigs.

  They sat on a beat-up sofa under a Che Guevara poster while Banks made himself comfortable on a secondhand office swivel chair at the desk. The cursor blinked on the screen of an Amstrad PC, and stacks of paper and books overflowed from the table to the floor and onto any spare chairs.

  After getting back from Scarborough, Banks had just had time to drop in at the station and see what Special Branch

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  had turned up. As usual, their files were as thin as Kojak’s hair, and gathered on premises as flimsy as a stripper’s G-string. Tim Fenton was listed because he had attended a seminar in Slough sponsored by Marxism Today, and some of the speakers there were suspected of working for the Soviets. Dennis Osmond had attracted the Branch’s attention by writing a series of violently anti-government articles for various socialist journals during the miners’

  strike, and by organizing a number of political demonstrations-especially against American military presence in Europe. As Banks had suspected, their crimes against the realm hardly provided grounds for exile or execution.

  Tim and Abha were, predictably, hostile and frightened after Burgess’s visit.

  Banks had previously been on good terms with the two after successfully investigating a series of burglaries in student residences the previous November. Even Marxists, it appeared, valued their stereos and television sets.

  But now they were cautious and guarded. It took a lot of small talk to get them to relax and open up. When Banks finally got around to the subject of the demo, they seemed to have stopped confusing him with Burgess.

  “Did you see anything?” Banks asked first.

  “No, we couldn’t,” Tim answered. “We were right in the thick of the crowd. One of the cops shouted something and that was that. When things went haywire we were too busy trying to protect ourselves to see what was happening to anyone else.”

  “You were involved in organizing the demo, right?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. But that doesn’t mean-“

  Banks held up his hand. “I know,” he said. “And that’s not what I’m implying.

  Did you get the impression that anyone involved-anyone at all-might have had more on his mind than just protesting Honoria Winstanley’s visit?”

  They both shook their heads. “When we got together up at the farm,” Abha explained, “everyone was just so excited that we could organize a demo in a place as conservative as Eastvale. I know there weren’t many people there, but it seemed like a lot to us.”

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  “The farm?”

  “Yes. Maggie’s Farm. Do you know it?”

  Banks nodded.

  “They invited us up to make posters and stuff,” Tim said. “Friday afternoon.

  They’re really great up there; they’ve really got it together. I mean, Seth and Mara, they’re like the old independent craftsmen, doing their own thing, making it outside the system. And Rick’s a pretty sharp Marxist.”

  “I thought he was an artist.”

  “He is,” Tim said, looking offended. “But he tries not to paint anything commercial. He’s against art as a saleable commodity.”

  So that pretty water-colour Banks had noticed propped by the fireplace at Maggie’s Farm couldn’t have been one of Rick’s.

  “What about Paul Boyd?”

  “We don’t know him well,” Abha said. “And he didn’t say much. One of the oppressed, I suppose.”

  “You could say that. And Zoe?”

  “Oh, she’s all right,” Tim said. “She goes in for all that bourgeois spiritual crap-bit of a navel-gazer-but she’s okay underneath it all.”

  “Do you know anything about their backgrounds, where they come from?”

  They shook their heads. “No,” Tim said finally. “I mean, we just talk about the way things are now, how to change them, that kind of thing. And a bit of political theory. Rick’s pissed off about his divorce and all that, but that’s about as far as the personal stuff goes.”

  “And you know nothing else about them?”

  “No.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Just us and Dennis.”

  “Osmond?”

  “That’s right.”