“All right,” Jenny said, holding up her hand. “Give it a rest. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. You’re getting almost as bad as your mate in there.
Mara just wondered how the investigation was going, that’s all. They’re all a bit tense up at the farm, and they wanted to know if they could expect any more visits from God’s gift to women. Will you believe me now that it doesn’t matter?”
“When did you talk to her?”
“This lunchtime in the Black Sheep.”
“She must have seen the knife,” Banks said, almost to himself.
“What?”
“The shepherd, Jack Crocker. He found the knife. She must have seen it, recognized it as Boyd’s, and dashed off to warn him. That’s why he took off just in time.”
“Oh, Alan, surely not?”
“I thought she was lying when I talked to her earlier. Didn’t you notice any of this?”
“She did take off in rather a hurry, but I’d no idea why. I left just after.
You’re not going to arrest her, are you?”
Banks shook his head. “It makes her an accessory,” he said, “but I doubt we’d be able to prove it. And when Burgess gets Boyd, I don’t think he’ll spare another thought for Mara and the rest. It was just a bloody stupid thing to do.”
“Was it? Would you split on a friend, just like that? What would you do if someone accused Richmond of murder, or me?”
“That’s not the point. Of course I’d do what I could to 156
clear you. But she should have let us know. Boyd could be dangerous.”
“She cares about Paul. She’s hardly likely to hand him over to you just like that.”
“I wonder if she’s told him where to run and hide as well.”
Jenny shivered. “It’s cold standing about here,” she said. “I should go before Dirty Dick comes out and beats me up. That’s just about his level. And you’d better get back or he’ll think you’ve deserted him. Give him my love.” She kissed Banks quickly on the cheek and hurried to her car. He stood in the cold for a moment thinking about Mara and what Jenny had said, then rushed back into the Queen’s Arms to see what had become of the soused superintendent.
“She’s certainly got spirit, I’ll say that,” Burgess said, not at all upset by the incident. “Another pint?”
“I shouldn’t really.”
“Oh, come on Banks. Don’t be a party pooper.” Without waiting for a reply, Burgess went to the bar.
Banks felt that he’d had enough already, and soon he would be past the point of no return. Still, he thought, after a couple more pints he wouldn’t give a damn anyway. He sensed that Burgess was lonely and in need of company in his moment of triumph, and he didn’t feel he could simply desert the bastard. Besides, he had only an empty house to go home to. He could leave the Cortina in the police car-park and walk home later, no matter how much he’d drunk. It was only a mile and a bit.
And so they drank on, and on. Burgess was easy enough to talk to, Banks found, once you got used to his cocky manner and stayed off politics and police work.
He had a broad repertoire of jokes, an extensive knowledge of jazz and a store of tales about cock-ups on the job. On the Met, as Banks remembered, there were so many different departments and squads running their own operations that it wasn’t unusual for the Sweeney to charge in and spoil a fraud-squad stakeout.
An hour and two pints later, as Burgess reached the end of a tale about a hapless drug-squad DC shooting himself in the foot, Banks suggested it was time to go.
157
“I suppose so,” Burgess said regretfully, finishing his drink and getting to his feet.
He certainly didn’t seem drunk. His speech was normal and his eyes looked clear.
But when they got outside, he had difficulty walking on the pavement. To keep himself steady, he put his arm around Banks’s shoulder and the two of them weaved across the market square. Thank God the hotel’s just around the corner, Banks thought.
“That’s my only trouble, you know,” Burgess said. “Mind clear as a bell, memory intact, but every time I go over the limit my motor control goes haywire. Know what my mates call me down at the Yard?”
“No.”
“Bambi.” He laughed. “Bloody Bambi. You know, that little whatsit in the cartoon-the way the damn thing walks. It’s not my sweet and gentle nature they’re referring to.” He put his hand to his groin. “Bloody hell, I still feel like I’ve pissed myself. That damn woman!” And he laughed.
Banks declined an invitation to go up to Burgess’s room and split a bottle of Scotch. No matter how sorry he felt for the lonely bugger, he wasn’t that much of a masochist. Grudgingly, Burgess let him go. “I’ll drink it myself, then,”
were his final words, delivered at full volume in front of an embarrassed desk clerk in the hotel lobby.
As he set off home, Banks wished he’d brought his Walkman. He could be listening to Blind Willie McTell or Bukka White as he walked. He was steady on his feet, though, and arrived at the front door of the empty house in about twenty minutes. He was tired and he certainly didn’t want another drink, so he decided to go straight to bed. As usual, though, when things were bothering him he couldn’t get to sleep immediately. And there were plenty of things about the Gill case that still puzzled him.
