“Seth Cotton’s dead,” he answered, and felt ears prick up behind him in the public bar, where most of the tables were occupied.
Grafton turned pale. “Oh no, not Seth,” he said. “He was only in here this lunchtime. Not Seth?”
“How did he seem?” Banks asked.
“He was happy as a pig in clover,” Grafton said. “That young lad was back and they all seemed to be celebrating. You’re not telling me he killed himself, are you?”
“We don’t know yet,” Burgess said, picking up his pint of Watney’s. “Anywhere quiet the chief inspector and I can have a little chat? Police business.”
“Aye, you can use the snug. There’s no one in there.”
The snug was aptly named. Hidden away behind a partition of smoked glass and dark wood, there was room for about four people, and even that would be a tight squeeze.
258
Banks and Burgess made themselves comfortable, both of them practically draining their drinks before even reaching for smokes.
“Have a cigar,” Burgess said, offering his tin.
“Thanks.” Banks took one. He didn’t enjoy cigars as a rule, but thought that if he tried them often enough he might eventually come to like them.
“And I think I’d better get a couple more drinks in before we start,” Burgess said. “Thirsty work, this.”
He was back in a moment carrying another pint of bitter for Banks and, this time, a pint of draught Guinness for himself.
“Right,” he said, “I can tell you’re not happy about this. Don’t clam up on me, Banks. What’s bothering you?”
“Let’s take it at face value, for a start,” Banks suggested. “Then maybe we can see what’s wrong.”
“Suicide?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“No. But I’d like to play it through and see if I can pin down my ideas.”
“All right. Cotton murdered Gill, then he was overcome with remorse and slit his ankles. Case closed. Can I go back to London now?”
Banks smiled. “But it’s not as simple as that, is it? Why would Cotton murder PC
Gill?”
Burgess ran a hand through his greying, Brylcreemed hair. “Bloody hell, I thought we’d been through all this before. We’re talking about a political crime; call it an act of terrorism. Motive as such doesn’t apply.”
“But Seth Cotton was perhaps the least political of the lot of them,” Banks argued. “Except maybe for Mara, or Zoe Hardacre. Sure, he was antinuclear, and he no doubt believed in social equality and the evils of apartheid. But so do I.”
Burgess sniffed. “You might be the murder expert around here, but I know about terrorism. Believe me, anyone can get involved. Terrorists play on people’s ideals and warp them to their own ends. It’s like the brainwashing religious cults do.”
259
“Do you think Gill’s death was calmly planned and executed, or was it a crime of passion?” Banks asked.
“A bit of both. Things aren’t so clear-cut in this kind of crime. Terrorists are very emotional about their beliefs, but they’re cold and deadly when it comes to action.”
“The only thing Seth Cotton cared passionately about was his carpentry, and perhaps Mara. If he did commit suicide, I doubt it was anything to do with politics.”
“We have his note, don’t forget. It’s a confession.”
“Let’s leave that for later. Why did he kill himself? If he’s the kind of person you’re trying to make out he is, why would he feel remorse after succeeding in his aim? Why would he kill himself?”
Burgess doodled in the foam of his Guinness. “You expect too many answers, Banks. As often as not, there just aren’t any. Can’t you leave it at that?”
Banks shook his head and stubbed out the cigar. It tasted like last week’s tea-leaves. He swigged some more Black Sheep bitter to get rid of the taste and lit a Silk Cut. “It’s because there’s too many questions,” he said. “We still don’t know much about Cotton’s political background before he came to the farm, though if there’d been any subversive activity I’m sure Special Branch would have a record of it. And what about his behaviour over the last few days? How do you read that?”
“They said he seemed happy when Boyd was released. Is that what you mean?”
“Partly.”
“Well, of course he’d be happy,” Burgess said. “If he knew the kid wasn’t guilty.”
“Why should he care? It’d be better for a coldblooded terrorist to let someone else go down for what he’d done. So why kill himself?”
Burgess shrugged. “Because he knew we’d get to him soon.”
