political murder, and the first logical step was to check out local activist groups.
52
It was the obvious relish with which the superintendent contemplated the task that irked Banks and reminded him so much of his London days. And he remembered Burgess’s interrogation technique, probably learned from the Spanish Inquisition. There were hard times ahead for a few innocent people who simply happened to believe in nuclear disarmament and the future of the human race.
Burgess was like a pit-bull terrier; he wouldn’t let go until he got what he wanted.
Oh, for a nice English village murder, Banks wished, just like the ones in books: a closed group of five or six suspects, a dodgy will, and no hurry to solve the puzzle. No such luck. He drained his pint, stubbed out the cigarette and went back across the street to read more statements.
IV
Mara sipped at her half of mild without really tasting it. She couldn’t seem to relax and enjoy the company as usual. Seth sat at the bar chatting with Larry Grafton about some old furniture the landlord had inherited from his great-grandmother, and Rick and Zoe were arguing about astrology. By the window, the children sat colouring quietly.
What did it mean? Mara wondered. When she had tackled Paul about the blood on his hand the previous evening, he had gone into the kitchen and put on a plaster without showing her the cut. Now, it turned out, there was no cut. So whose blood had it been?
Of course, she told herself, anything could have happened. He could have accidentally brushed against somebody who had been hurt in the demo, or even tried to help someone. But he had clearly run all the way home; when he had arrived he had been upset and out of breath. And if the explanation was an innocent one, why had he lied? Because that’s what it came down to in the end.
Instead of telling the simple truth, he had let her go on believing he was hurt, albeit not badly, and she couldn’t come up with a convincing reason why he had done that.
53
“You’re quiet today,” Seth said, walking over with more drinks.
It’s easy for you, she felt like saying. You can cover up your feelings and talk about hammers and planes and chisels and bevels and chamfering as if nothing has happened, but I don’t have any small talk. Instead, she said, “It’s nothing. I’m just a bit tired after last night, I suppose.”
Seth took her hand. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
No, Mara almost said, No I didn’t bloody sleep well. I was waiting for you to share your feelings with me, but you never did. You never do. You can talk about work to any Tom, Dick and Harry, but not about anything else, not about anything important. But she didn’t say any of that. She squeezed his hand, kissed him lightly and said she was all right. She knew she was just irritable, worried about Paul, and the mood would soon pass. No point starting a row.
Rick, his conversation with Zoe finished, turned to the others. Mara noticed streaks of orange and white paint in his beard. “They were all talking about the Eastvale demo,” he said. “Plenty of tongues started clucking in the grocer’s when I walked in.”
“What did they think about it?” Mara asked.
Rick snorted. “They don’t think. They’re just like the sheep they raise. They’re too frightened to come out with an opinion about anything for fear it’ll be the wrong one. Oh, they worry about nuclear fall-out. Who doesn’t? But that’s about all they do, worry and whine. When push comes to shove they’ll just put up with it like everything else and bury their heads in the ground. The wives are even worse. All they can do if anything upsets the nice, neat, comfortable little lives they’ve made for themselves is say tut-tut-tut, isn’t it a shame.”
The door creaked open and Paul walked in.
Mara watched the emaciated figure, fists bunched in his pockets, walk over to them. With his hollow, bony face, tattooed fingers, and the scars, needle-tracks and self-inflicted cigarette burns that Mara knew stretched all the way up his arms, Paul seemed a frightening figure. The only thing 54
that softened his appearance was his hair-style. His blond hair was short at the back and sides but long on top, and the fringe kept slipping down over his eyes.
He’d brush it back impatiently and scowl but never mention having it cut.
Mara couldn’t help thinking about his background. Right from childhood, Paul’s life had been rough and hard. He never said much about his real parents, but he’d told Mara about the emotionally cold foster home where he had been expected to show undying gratitude for every little thing they did for him. Finally, he had run away and lived a punk life on the streets, done whatever he’d had to to survive. It had been a life of hard drugs and violence and, eventually, jail.
When they had met him, he had been lost and looking for some kind of anchor in life. She wondered just how much he really had changed since he’d been with them.
Remembering the blood on his hand, the way he had lied, and the murdered policeman, she began to feel frightened. What would he do if she were to question him? Was she living with a killer? And if she was, what should she do about it?
As the conversation went on around her, Mara began to feel herself drifting off on a chaotic spate of her own thoughts. She could hear the sounds the others were making, but not the words, the meaning. She thought of confiding in Seth, but what if he took some kind of action? He might be hard on Paul, even drive him away. He could be very stern and inflexible at times. She didn’t want her new family to split apart, imperfect as she knew it was. It was all she had in the world.
No, she decided, she wouldn’t tell anyone. Not yet. She wouldn’t make Paul feel as if they were ganging up on him. The whole thing was probably ridiculous anyway. She was imagining things, filling her head with stupid fears. Paul would never hurt her, she told herself, never in a million years.
55
I
