don’t realize that it’s perfectly possible to be, say, antinuclear and anti-apartheid without being pro-gay and prochoice-especially if you’re a Catholic. Oh, the permutations might differ a bit-some packages are more extreme and dangerous than others, for example-but you can pretty well predict the kind of things our members value. The point is that what we stand for is politically hot, and that draws attention to us from all sides. The government thinks we’re in league with the Russians, so they raid our offices periodically and go over our files. The communists think we’re allies in overthrowing a decadent capitalist government, so they woo us and infiltrate us with their own. It’s a bloody mess, but we manage, through it all, to stick to our aims.”
“Are you saying you think the breakin was politically motivated?”
“That’s about it.” Osmond lifted the Scotch bottle and raised his eyebrows.
Banks held out his glass. “And the theft of the book was a sort of calling card, or warning. So do you see what I mean about not expecting much help from the police? If Special Branch or MI5 or whoever are involved, you’d get your wrists slapped, and if it’s the other side, you’d never catch them anyway.”
“But what were they looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t keep my files here. Most of the important ones are at the CND office, and some of the stuff is at work.”
“The Social Services Centre?”
“Yes. I’ve got an office there. It’s convenient.”
“So they didn’t find what they were looking for because they didn’t look in the right place.”
219
“I suppose so. The only current thing is the inquiry I’m making into the demo.
I’ve already told you about that-and Superintendent Burgess, too. I’ve talked to quite a lot of people involved, trying to establish exactly what happened and how it could have been avoided. Tim and Abha are helping, too. They’ve got most of the info at their place. We’re having a meeting up at the farm tomorrow to decide what to do about it all. Ever since your boss was taken off the job, we’ve been carrying on for him, and our results will be a hell of a lot less biased.”
“You’re wrong,” Banks said, lighting another cigarette. “The trouble with people like you, despite all your talk about packages, is that you tar everyone with the same brush. To you, all police are pigs. Superintendent Gristhorpe would have done a good job. He wouldn’t have swept it all under the carpet.”
“Maybe that’s why he was taken off,” Osmond said. “I read in the paper that they were going to appoint an impartial investigating commission-which, I suppose, means a bunch of high-ranking policemen from somewhere other than Eastvale-but most of us think they’re just going to forget about the whole embarrassing affair. Once the killer is convicted-and it looks like you’re well on your way to doing that-the anti-nuke lefties will be shown up for exactly what you all think we are-a gang of murderous anarchists -and the police will gain a lot of very useful public sympathy.”
Banks put his empty glass down and walked over to the window. “Tell me about Ellen Ventner.”
Osmond paled. “You certainly do your homework, don’t you?”
“Ellen Ventner.”
“If you think I’m going to admit to those ludicrous charges against me, you must be crazy.”
“Much as it saddens me to say so, I’m not here to investigate those old charges.
So you like to beat up women. That’s your privilege.”
“You bastard. Are you going to tell Jenny?”
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“I honestly don’t know. Ellen Ventner didn’t pursue the charges. God knows why, but a lot of women don’t. Maybe she thought you were still a really sweet fellow underneath it all. But that doesn’t alter what happened. You might think you’re a very important man in the political scheme of things, but personally I doubt it. On the other hand, a woman you once assaulted might bear a grudge.”
“After four years?”
“It’s possible.”
“Forget it. She wouldn’t. Besides, she emigrated not long after we split up.”
“I can understand why she might have wanted to get as far away from you as possible. Just checking all the angles.”
Osmond glared, then looked into his glass and started to fiddle with his crucifix again. “Look, it was only the once She … I was drunk. I didn’t mean to”
Banks sat down opposite him again and leaned forward. “When you made your complaint about PC Gill,” he asked, “how did you do it?”
Osmond floundered. It was so easy, Banks thought. Stir up a man’s emotions, then change the subject and you’re in control again. He’d had enough of Osmond’s lectures and his arrogance.
“What do you mean, how did I do it? I wrote a letter.”
“How did you refer to him?”
“By his number. How else?”
“1139?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“You still remember it?”
