“Hmmm. Still…”
“You could do most of the paperwork in your hotel room,” Banks suggested. “It’s close enough, big enough, and there’s a phone.” And you’ll be out of my way, too, he thought.
Burgess nodded slowly. “All right. It’ll do for now. Come on!” He jumped into action and clapped Banks on the back. “Let’s see if anything’s turned up at the station first, then we’ll set off and have a chat with Mr Dennis Osmond, CND.”
Nothing had turned up, and as soon as Richmond had located Paul Boyd’s record and Banks had had a quick look at it, the pair set off for Osmond’s flat in Banks’s white Cortina.
“Tell me about this Boyd character,” Burgess asked as Banks drove.
“Nasty piece of work.” Banks slipped a Billie Holiday 64
cassette in the stereo and turned the volume down low. “He started as a juvenile-gang fights, assault, that kind of thing -skipping school and hanging around the streets with the rest of the dead-beats. He’s been nicked four times, and he drew eighteen months on the last one. First it was drunk and disorderly, underage, then assaulting a police officer trying to disperse a bunch of punks frightening shoppers in Liverpool city centre. After that it was a drugs charge, possession of a small amount of amphetamines. Then he got nicked breaking into a chemist’s to steal pills. He’s been clean for just over a year now.”
Burgess rubbed his chin. “Everything short of soccer hooliganism, eh? Maybe he’s not the sporting type. Assaulting a police officer, you say?”
“Yes. Him and a couple of others. They didn’t do any real damage, so they got off lightly.”
“That’s the bloody trouble,” Burgess said. “Most of them do. Any political connections?”
“None that we know of so far. Richmond hasn’t been onto the Branch yet, so we haven’t been able to check on his friends and acquaintances.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. Most of his probation officers and social workers seemed to give up on him.”
“My heart bleeds for the poor bastard. It looks like we’ve got a likely candidate. This Osmond is a social worker, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he’ll know something about the kid. Let’s remember to ask him. Where’s Boyd from?”
“Liverpool.”
“Any IRA connections?”
“Not as far as we know.”
“Still…”
Dennis Osmond lived in a one-bedroom flat in northeast Eastvale. It had originally been council-owned, but the tenants had seized their chance and bought their units cheaply when the government started selling them off.
65
A shirtless Osmond answered the door and led Banks and Burgess inside. He was tall and slim with a hairy chest and a small tattoo of a butterfly on his upper right arm. He wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. With his shaggy dark hair and Mediterranean good looks, he looked the kind of man who would be attractive to women. He moved slowly and calmly, and didn’t seem at all surprised by their arrival.
The flat had a spacious living-room with a large plate-glass window that overlooked the fertile plain to the east of Swainsdale: a checkerboard of ploughed fields, bordered by hedgerows, rich brown, ready for spring. The furniture was modern-tubes and cushions-and a large framed painting hung on the wall over the fake fireplace. Banks had to look very closely to make sure the canvas wasn’t blank; it was scored with faint red and black lines.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from behind them. Banks turned and saw Jenny Fuller poking her head around a door. From what he could tell, she was wearing a loose dressing-gown, and her hair was in disarray. His eyes caught hers and he felt his stomach tense up and his chest tighten. Meeting her in a situation like this was something he hadn’t expected. He was surprised how hard it hit.
“Police,” Osmond said. But Jenny had already turned back and shut the door behind her.
Burgess, who had watched all this, made no comment. “Can we sit down?” he asked.
“Go ahead.” Osmond gestured to the armchairs and pulled a black T-shirt over his head while they made themselves as comfortable as possible. The decal on the front showed the CND symbol-a circle with a wide-spread, inverted Y inside it, each branch touching the circumference-with NO NUKES written in a crescent under it.
Banks fumbled for a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Osmond said. “Secondhand smoke can kill, you know.” He paused and looked Banks over. “So you’re Chief Inspector Banks, are you? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
66
“Hope it was good,” Banks said, with more equilibrium than he felt. What had Jenny been telling him? “It’ll save us time getting acquainted, won’t it?”
“And you’re the whiz-kid they sent up from London,” Osmond said to Burgess.
“My, my. How word travels.” Dirty Dick smiled. He had the kind of smile that made most people feel nervous, but it seemed to have no effect on Osmond. As Banks settled into the chair, he could picture Jenny dressing in the other room.
It was probably the bedroom, he thought gloomily, and the double bed would be rumpled and stained, the
