Jenny smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s not that bad. At least-“
“It’s just … it wouldn’t seem right with Sandra away, that’s all. The neighbours…”
“Okay. We’ll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?”
“It’ll do fine,” Jenny said. “Give me a call.”
“I will.”
She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each
33 33
other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.
34
I
COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning.
As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn’t gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a “k.”
He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shellshocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off. The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.
Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.
He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a 35
great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.
At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette-the super didn’t approve of smoking-and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe’s huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.
“I’ve been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable,” Gristhorpe said. “He’s been on the phone to London and they’re sending a man up this morning. I’m to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority.” He rubbed his eyes. “Of course, someone’ll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly.”
“This man they’re sending,” Banks asked, “what’s he going to do?”
“Handle the murder investigation. You’ll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. “Yes … let me see….
It’s a Superintendent Burgess. He’s attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I’m not even sure we’re allowed to know what he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose.”
“Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?” Banks asked.
“Yes. Why? Know him?”
“Bloody hell.”
“Alan, you’ve gone pale. What’s up?”
“Yes, I know him,” Banks said. “Not well, but I worked 36
with him a couple of times in London. He’s about my age, but he’s always been a step ahead.”
“Ambitious?”
“Very. But it’s not his ambition I mind so much,” Banks went on. “He’s slightly to the right of… Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right.”
“Is he good, though?”
“He gets results.”
“Isn’t that what we need?”
“I suppose so. But he’s a real bastard to work with.”
“How?”
“Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn’t let the right hand know what the left hand’s doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt.”
