“Isn’t that what you want?”
“I wish you’d stop making assumptions like that. You sound like a stoned hippie at a rock festival. Maybe you’d like to call me a pig, too, and get it over with? Either that or grow up.”
Mara said nothing, but Banks saw the faint flush suffuse her face.
“I want the truth,” Banks went on. “I’m not out to get any group or person, just a killer. If we assume that Boyd didn’t do it, then why are his prints on the knife, and why was it found on the moors about halfway between Eastvale and Maggie’s Farm?”
164
Mara pushed her half-eaten lasagne aside and rolled a cigarette. “I’m no detective,” she said, “but maybe he picked it up and threw it away on his way home, when he realized what it was.”
“But why? Would you have done something as stupid as that? Bent down at a demonstration to pick up a bloodstained knife? Think about it. Boyd had no guarantee of getting away. What if he’d been caught on the spot with the knife on him?”
“He’d probably have had time to drop it if he saw the cops closing in on him.”
“Yes, but it would still have his prints on it. I doubt if he’d have been calm enough to wipe it before they grabbed him. Even if he had, there would probably have been some of Gill’s blood on him.”
“This is all very well,” Mara said, “but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Banks went to the bar and bought two more drinks.
The place had filled up a bit since they’d come in, and there were even two well-wrapped hikers resting their feet by the fire.
Banks sat down and drank some beer. The hair of the dog was working nicely. “It all comes back to the knife,” he said. “You recognized it; Paul Boyd must have done, too. It comes from the farm, doesn’t it?”
Mara turned aside and studied the butterflies.
“You’re not helping anyone by holding back, you know. I only want you to confirm what we already know.”
Mara stubbed out her cigarette: “All right, so it comes from the house. What of it? If you know already, why bother to ask?”
“Because Paul might have been protecting someone, mightn’t he? If he found the knife and took it away, he must have thought it was evidence pointing to someone he knew, someone at the farm. Unless you think he’s just plain stupid.”
“You mean one of us?”
“Yes. Who would he be most likely to protect?”
“I don’t know. There were a few people up at the farm that afternoon.”
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“Yes, I know who was there. Could anyone have taken the knife?”
Mara shrugged. “It was on the mantelpiece, in plain view of everyone.”
“Whose knife is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s always been there.”
“Never mind, then. Let’s just call it a communal flick-knife. Do you think Paul would have picked it up to protect Dennis Osmond? Or Tim and Abha?”
Mara twirled a loose strand of hair. “I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t know them very well.”
“What part did he play that afternoon? Was he around?”
“Most of the time, yes, but he didn’t say much. Paul has an inferiority complex when it comes to students and political talk. He doesn’t know about Karl Marx and the rest, and he doesn’t have enough confidence in his own ideas to feel he can contribute.”
“So he was there but he wasn’t very involved?”
“That’s right. He agreed with everything in principle. I mean, he wasn’t at the demo just to … just to…”
“Cause trouble?”
“No. He was there to demonstrate. He’s never had a job, you know. He’s got nothing to thank Thatcher’s government for.”
“You say the knife was usually kept on the mantelpiece. Did you see anyone pick it up that afternoon, just to fidget with, perhaps?”
“No.”
“When did you notice it was missing?”
“What?”
“You must have noticed it was gone. Was it before you saw Jack Crocker walk in here with it yesterday?”
“I … I…”
Banks waved his hand. “Forget it. I think I get the gist. You had noticed it was missing, and for some reason you thought Paul might have taken it with him last Friday.”
“No!”
