“Osmond?”
“That’s right.”
“Does either of you recall seeing a flick-knife that day, or hearing anyone mention one?”
“No. That’s what the other bloke went on about,” Tim 106
said, getting edgy. “Bloody Burgess. He went on and on about a flick-knife.”
“He almost came right out and accused us of killing that policeman, too,” Abha said.
“That’s just his style. I wouldn’t worry about it. Did anyone at the meeting mention PC Gill by name?”
“Not that I heard,” Tim said.
“Nor me,” said Abha.
“Have you ever heard anyone talk about him? Dennis Osmond, for example? Or Rick?”
“No. The only thing we knew about him,” Abha said, “was that he’d trained with the TAG groups and he liked to work on crowd control. You know-demos, pickets and such.”
The chair creaked as Banks swivelled sharply. “How did you know that?”
“Word gets around,” Abha said. “We keep-“
Tim nudged her in the ribs and she shut up.
“What she means,” he said, “is that if you’re politically involved up here, you soon get to know the ones to watch out for. You lot keep tabs on us, don’t you?
I’m pretty sure Special Branch has a file on me, anyway.”
“Fair enough,” Banks said, smiling to himself at the absurdity of it all. Games.
Just little boys’ games. “Was this fairly common knowledge? Could anyone have known to expect Gill at the demo that night?”
“Anyone involved in organizing it, sure,” Tim said. “And anyone who’d been to demos in Yorkshire before. There aren’t many like him, thank God. He did have a bit of a reputation.”
“Did you know he was going to be on duty?”
“Not for certain, no. I mean, he could have had flu or broke his leg.”
“But short of that?”
“Short of that he was rarely known to miss. Look, I don’t know what all this is in aid of,” Tim said, “but I think you should know we’re still going to do our own investigation.”
“Into the murder?”
Tim gave him a puzzled glance. “No. Into the police 107
brutality. We’re all getting together again up at the farm in a few days to compare notes.”
“Well, if you find anything out about PC Gill’s death, let me know.”
Banks looked at his watch and stood up. It was time he went and got ready for his evening out with Jenny. After he’d said goodbye and walked back down the gloomy staircase to the street, he reflected how odd it was that wherever he went, all roads seemed to lead to Maggie’s Farm. More than that, almost anyone involved could have known that Gill was likely to be there that night. If Gill cracked heads in Yorkshire for a hobby, then the odds were that one or two people might hold a strong grudge against him. He wished Tony Grant would hurry up and send the information from Scarborough.
II
Mara put on her army-surplus greatcoat and set off down the track for Relton. It was dark now and the stars were glittering flecks of ice in the clear sky.
Distant hills and scars showed only as muted silhouettes, black against black.
The crescent moon was up, hanging lopsided like a backdrop to a music-hall number. Mara almost expected a man with a top hat, cape and cane to start dancing across it way up in the sky. The gravel crackled under her feet, and the wind whistled through gaps in the lichen-covered dry-stone wall. In the distance, the lights of cottages and villages down in the dale twinkled like stars.
She would talk to Jenny, she decided, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets and hunching up against the chill. Jenny knew Chief Inspector Banks, too. Though she distrusted all policemen, even Mara had to admit that he was a hell of a lot better than Burgess. Perhaps she might also be able to find out what the police really thought, and if they were going to leave Paul alone from now on.
Mara’s mind strayed back to the I Ching, which she had consulted before setting off. What the hell was it all about? It
108
was supposed to be an oracle, to offer words of wisdom when you really needed them, but Mara wasn’t convinced. One problem was that it always answered questions obliquely. You couldn’t ask, “Did Paul kill that policeman?” and get a simple yes or no. This time, the oracle had read: “The woman holds the basket, but there are no fruits in it. The man stabs the sheep, but no blood flows.
Nothing that acts to further.” Did that mean Paul hadn’t killed anyone, that the blood on his hand had come from somewhere else? And what about the empty basket?
Did that have something to do with Mara’s barren womb? If there was any practical advice at all, it was to do nothing, yet here she was, walking down the track on her way to call Jenny. All the book had done was put her
