with Gristhorpe in companionable silence. Today, though, it was too cold for such outdoors activity.
Carrying a tray of tea and scones, Gristhorpe returned and sat down in his favourite armchair to pour. After small talk about the wall and the possibility of yet more snow, the superintendent told Banks his news: the enquiry into the demo had been suspended.
“I’m on ice, as our American cousins would put it,” he said. “The Assistant Chief Commissioner’s been talking to the PCA about getting an outsider to finish the report. Maybe someone from Avon and Somerset division.”
“Because we’re too biased?”
“Aye, partly. I expected it. They only set me on it in the first place to make it look like we were acting quickly.”
“Did you find anything out?”
“It looks like some of our lads overreacted.”
Banks told him what he’d heard from Jenny and Tim and Abha.
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Gristhorpe nodded. “The ACC doesn’t like it. If you ask me, I don’t think there’ll be an official inquiry. It’ll be postponed till it’s no longer an issue. What he’s hoping is that Superintendent Burgess will come up with the killer fast. That’ll satisfy everyone, and people will just forget about the rest.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“I’m taking a few days’ leave, on the ACC’s advice. Unless anything else comes up-something unconnected to Gill’s death-then that’s how I’ll stay. He’s right, of course. I’d only get in the way. Burgess is in charge of that investigation, and it wouldn’t do to have the two of us treading on each other’s toes. But don’t let the bugger near my office with those foul cigars of his! How are you getting on with him?”
“All right, I suppose. He’s got plenty of go, and he’s certainly not stupid.
Trouble is, he’s got a bee in his bonnet about terrorists and lefties in general.”
“And you see things differently?”
“Yes.” Banks told him about the meeting with Tony Grant and the possibilities it had opened up for him. “And,” he added, “you’d think Special Branch would have known if there’d been some kind of terrorist action planned, wouldn’t you?”
Gristhorpe digested the information and mulled it over for a few moments, then turned his light-blue eyes on Banks and rubbed his chin. “I’ll not deny you might be right,” he said, “but for Christ’s sake keep your feet on the ground.
Don’t go off half-cocked on this or you could bring down a lot of trouble on yourself-and on me. I appreciate you want to follow your own nose-you’d be a poor copper if you didn’t -and maybe you’d like to show Dirty Dick a thing or two. But be careful. Just because Gill turned out to be a bastard, it doesn’t follow that’s why he was killed. Burgess could be right.”
“I know that. It’s just a theory. But thanks for the warning.”
Gristhorpe smiled. “Think nothing of it. But keep it under your hat. If Burgess finds out you’ve been pursuing a private
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investigation, he’ll have your guts for garters. And it won’t be just him. The ACC11 have your balls for billiards.”
“I don’t know as I’ve got enough body parts to go around,” Banks said, grinning.
“And this conversation hasn’t taken place. I know nothing about what you’re up to, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“But keep me posted. God, how I hate bloody politics.”
Banks knew that the superintendent came from a background of Yorkshire radicals-Chartists, the anti-Corn Laws crowd-and there was even a Luddite lurking in the family tree. But Gristhorpe himself was conservative with a small “c.” He was, however, concerned with the preservation of human rights that had been fought for and won over the centuries. That was how he saw his job-as a defender of the people, not an attacker. Banks agreed, and that was one reason they got along so well.
Banks finished his tea and looked at his watch. “Talking of Dirty Dick, I’d better be off. He’s called a conference in the Queen’s Arms for one o’clock.”
“Seems like he’s taken up residence there.”
“You’re not far wrong.” Banks explained about Glenys and put on his car-coat.
“Besides that,” he added, “he drinks like a bloody fish.”
“So it’s not only Glenys and her charms?”
“No.”
“Ever seen him pissed?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, watch him. Drinking’s an occupational hazard with us, but it can get beyond a joke. The last thing you need is a piss-artist to rely on in a tight spot.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” Banks said, walking to the car.
“He’s always been a boozer. And he’s usually sharp as a whippet. Anyway, what can I do if I think he is
