Motive was a problem, unless Burgess was right and Boyd had simply lashed out indiscriminately. In this case, it seemed that knowing who didn’t explain why.
Boyd wasn’t political as far as anyone knew, and even street punks like him weren’t in the habit of stabbing policemen at antinuclear demos. If someone had a private reason for wanting
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to do away with Gill, then there was plenty to consider in the personal lives of the other suspects: Osmond’s assault charges, Trelawney’s custody battle, Seth’s wife’s accident, Mara’s religious organization, and even Zoe’s seaside fortunetelling. It was hard to imagine a connection at this point, but stranger things had happened. Tony Grant’s report might prove useful, if it ever arrived.
Banks was also curious about the prints on the knife. Usually when a knife is thrust into a body, the fingers holding the handle slip and any impression is blurred. Boyd’s prints had been perfectly clear, just as if he had carefully applied each one. It could have happened if he’d folded up the knife and carried it in his hand before throwing it away, or if he’d just picked it up after someone else had used it. There were other prints under his, but they were too blurred to read. They could be his, too, of course, but there was no way of knowing.
Boyd had certainly carried the knife in his pocket. The stains inside the parka matched PC Gill’s blood type. But if he had used it, why had he been foolish enough to pick it up after dropping it? He must have let it fall at some point, because several people had seen it being kicked around by the crowd. And if he had just left it there, it was very unlikely that it could have been traced to the farm.
But if Boyd hadn’t done it, why had he picked up a knife that wasn’t his? To protect someone? And who would he be more likely to protect than the people at Maggie’s Farm? Or had there been someone else he knew and cared about who had access to the knife? There were a lot more questions to be asked yet, Banks thought, and Burgess was being very premature in celebrating his victory tonight.
Then there was the matter of the number torn out of Seth Cotton’s notebook.
Banks didn’t know what it meant, but there was something familiar about it, something damn familiar. Boyd was close to Seth and spent plenty of time helping him in the workshop. Could the number be something to do with him? Could it help tell them where he’d gone?
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It could be a phone number, of course. There were still plenty of four-digit numbers in the Swainsdale area. On impulse, Banks got out of bed and went downstairs. It was after eleven, but he decided to try anyway. He dialled 1139
and heard a phone ring at the other end. It went on for a long time. He was just about to give up when a woman answered, “Hello. Rossghyll Guest House, bed and breakfast.” The voice was polite but strained.
Banks introduced himself and some of the woman’s politeness faded when it became clear that he wasn’t a potential customer. “Do you know what time it is?” she said. “Couldn’t this have waited till morning? Do you know what time I have to get up?”
“It’s important.” Banks gave a description of Paul Boyd and asked if she’d seen him.
“I wouldn’t have that kind of person staying here,” the woman answered angrily.
“What kind of place do you think this is? This is a decent house.” And with that she hung up on him.
Banks trudged back up to bed. He’d have to send a man over, of course, just to be sure, but it didn’t seem a likely bet. And if it was a phone number outside the local area, it could be almost anywhere. With the dialling code missing, there was no way of telling.
Banks lay awake a while longer, then he finally drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Burgess humble in defeat.
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I
The overcast sky seemed to press on Banks’s nagging headache when he set off for Maggie’s Farm at eleven- thirty the next morning. Burgess had called in earlier to say he was going over some paperwork in his hotel room and didn’t want to be disturbed unless Paul Boyd turned up. That suited Banks fine; he wanted a word with Mara Delacey, and the less Dirty Dick knew about it, the better.
He pulled up outside the farmhouse and knocked. He wasn’t surprised when Mara opened the door and moaned, “Not again!”
Reluctantly she let him in. There was no one else in the place. The others were probably working.
Banks wanted to get Mara away from the house, on neutral ground. Perhaps then, he thought, he could get her to open up a bit more.
“I’d just like to talk to you, that’s all,” he said. “It’s not an interrogation, nothing official.”
She looked puzzled. “Go on.”
Banks tapped his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime and I haven’t eaten yet,” he said casually. “Do you fancy a trip down to the Black Sheep?”
“What for? Is this some subtle way of getting me to accompany you to the station?”
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“No tricks. Honest. What I’ve got to say might even be of advantage to you.”
She still regarded him suspiciously, but the bait was too good to refuse. “All right.” She reached for an anorak to put over her sweater and jeans. “I’m going into the shop this afternoon anyway.” She pulled back her thick chestnut hair and tied it in a ponytail.
In the car, Mara leaned forward to examine the tapes Banks kept in the storage rack Brian had bought him for his birthday the previous May-his thirty-eighth.
