“It’s all right,” Zoe said. “I’d have done the same.”
“And I told the police he was probably wearing a blue one. He took his blue one with him, but he wasn’t wearing it.”
“Where’s he heading?” asked Rick.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want him to tell me. He’s a survivor; he can live out on the streets. I gave him some money, some I’d saved from working at the shop and selling my pottery. He’ll have enough to get wherever he wants.”
Later that evening, when the others had drifted off back to the barn and Seth had settled down with a book, Mara began to think about the few months that Paul had been around, and how alive he had made her feel. At first, he had been sullen and unresponsive, and there had come a point when Seth had considered asking him to leave. But Paul hadn’t been long out of jail then; he wasn’t used to dealing with people. Time and care had worked wonders. Soon, he was taking long walks alone on the moors, and the claustrophobia that had so often made his nights unbearable in jail became easier to control. Nobody forced him to, but he really took to working with Seth.
When she thought about his progress and what it had all come to, Mara couldn’t help but feel sad. It would all be for nothing if he got caught and sent to prison again. When she pictured him cold and alone in the strange and frightening world beyond Swainsdale, it made her want to cry. But she told herself again that he was strong, resourceful, a survivor. It wouldn’t feel the same to him as it would to her. Besides, imagined horrors were always far worse than the reality.
149
“I hope Paul makes it far away,” Seth said in the silence that followed their love-making that night. “I hope they never catch him.”
“How will we know where he is, what’s happening to him?” Mara asked.
“He’ll let us know one way or another. Don’t you worry about it.” He put his arm around her and she rested her head against his chest. “You did the right thing.”
But she couldn’t help but worry. She didn’t think they’d hear from Paul again, not after all that had happened. She didn’t know what else she could have done, but she wasn’t sure she had done the right thing. As she tried to sleep, she remembered the expression on his face just before he left. There had been gratitude, yes, for the warning, the money and the clothes, but there had also been resentment and disappointment. He’d looked as if he was being sent into exile. She didn’t know if he’d expected her to ask him to stay no matter what-she certainly hadn’t told him he had to go away-but there had been a hint of accusation in his actions, as if to say, “You think I did it, don’t you? You don’t want me here causing trouble. You didn’t trust me in the first place. I’m an outcast, and I always will be.” She hadn’t told Seth and the others about that.
Ill
Banks waited his turn at the busy bar of the Queen’s Arms while Burgess sat at a round table by the Market Street entrance. It was eight-thirty. Hatchley had just left to keep a date with Carol Ellis, and Richmond had gone to a do at the Rugby Club.
Dirty Dick was clearly pleased with himself. He leaned back in his chair and positively beamed goodwill at everyone who looked his way. Nobody gave him much more than a scowl in return, though.
” ‘Ey, Mr Banks,” said Cyril. “A minute, if you’ve got one.”
‘Course. For you, Cyril, anything. And you might as well 150
pull me a pint of bitter and a pint of Double Diamond while you’re talking.”
“It’s about that there mate of yours.” Cyril nodded his head aggressively in the direction of Burgess.
“He’s not really a mate,” Banks said. “More like a boss.”
“Aye. Well, anyways, tell him to stop pestering my Glenys. She’s got too much work to do without passing the time of day with the likes of him.” Cyril leaned forward and lowered his voice. The muscles bulged above his rolled- up shirt sleeves. “And you can tell him I don’t care if he is a copper-no disrespect, Mr Banks. If he doesn’t keep out of my way I’ll give him a bloody knuckle sandwich, so help me I will.”
Glenys, who seemed to have grasped the tenor of the conversation, blushed and busied herself pulling a pint at the other end of the bar.
“I’d be delighted to pass on your message,” Banks said, paying for the drinks.
“Don’t forget his lordship’s Double Diamond,” Cyril said, his voice edged with contempt.
“You can wipe that bloody grin off your face,” Burgess said after Banks had passed on Cyril’s warning. “You’re a long way from collecting that fiver yet.
She fancies me, does young Glenys, there’s no doubt about it. And there’s nothing like a bit of danger, a touch of risk, to get the old hormones flowing.
Look at her.” True enough, Glenys was flashing Burgess a flush-cheeked smile while Cyril was looking the other way. “If we could only get that oaf out of the way…. Anyway, it’s her night off next Monday. She usually goes to the pictures with her mates.”
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Banks said.
“Yes, but you’re not me, are you?” He gulped down about half of his pint. “Ah, that’s good. So, we’ve got the bastard. Or will have soon.”
Banks nodded. That, he assumed, was why they were celebrating. Burgess was on his fourth pint already and Banks on his third.
They had done everything they could. Boyd had certainly done a bunk, though Banks had no idea how he knew about the discovery of the knife. It was likely he had headed for
151
Eastvale and taken a bus. The number forty-three ran along Cardigan Drive, on the town’s western edge. He
