A Necessary End by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

Farm.”
    â€œThat place up near Relton?”
    â€œThat’s it. The local women’s group was involved, too.”
    â€œWEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?”
    Jenny nodded. Banks had come up against the Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom before—Dorothy Wycombe in particular—and it gave him a sinking feeling to realize that he might have to deal with them again.
    â€œI still can’t believe it,” Jenny went on. “Dennis told me time and time again that the last thing they wanted was a violent confrontation.”
    â€œI don’t suppose anybody wanted it, but these things have a way of getting out of hand. Look, why don’t you go home? I’m sure he’ll beback soon. He won’t be mistreated. We don’t suddenly turn into vicious goons when things like this happen.”
    â€œ You might not,” said Jenny. “But I’ve heard how you close ranks.”
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    Jenny finished her drink. “All right. I can see you’re trying to get rid of me.”
    â€œNot at all. Have another Scotch if you want.”
    Jenny hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “I was only teasing. You’re right. It’s late. I’d better get back home.” She picked up her scarf. “It was good, though. The scotch. So rich you could chew it.”
    Banks walked her to the door. “If there are any problems,” he said, “let me know. And I could do with your help, too. You seem to know a bit about what went on behind the scenes.”
    Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.
    â€œMaybe you could come to dinner?” Banks suggested on impulse.
    â€œTry my gourmet cooking?”
    Jenny smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œWhy not? It’s not that bad. At least—”
    â€œIt’s just . . . it wouldn’t seem right with Sandra away, that’s all. The neighbours . . .”
    â€œOkay. We’ll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?”
    â€œIt’ll do fine,” Jenny said. “Give me a call.”
    â€œI will.”
    She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.

THREE
    I
    COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning. As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn’t gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a “k.”
    He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shell-shocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off. The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.
    Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.
    He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police