A Necessary End by Peter Robinson Page A

bit. Now, so far the only somebody we know about for sure is you. Maybe you did it all by yourself, but I’m betting you had some help. Whose tune do you dance to, Mr Osmond? Moscow’s? Peking’s? Or is it Belfast?”
    Osmond laughed. “You’ve got your politics a bit mixed up, haven’t you? A socialist is hardly the same as a Maoist. Besides, the Chairman’s out of favour these days. And as for the IRA, you can’t seriously believe—”
    â€œI seriously believe a lot of things that might surprise you,” Burgess cut in. “And you can spare me the fucking lecture. Who gave you your orders?”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” Osmond said. “It wasn’t like that at all. And even if there was somebody else involved, do you think I’m going to tell you who it was?”
    â€œYes, I do,” Burgess said. “There’s nothing more certain. The only question is when you’re going to tell me, and where.”
    â€œLook,” Banks said, “we’ll find out anyway. There’s no need to takeit on yourself to carry the burden and get done for withholding information in a murder investigation. If you didn’t do it and you don’t think your mates did, either, then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?” Banks found it easy to play the nice guy to Burgess’s heavy, even though he felt a strong, instinctive dislike for Osmond. When he questioned suspects with Sergeant Hatchley, the two of them switched roles. But Burgess only had one method of approach: head on.
    â€œListen to him,” Burgess said. “He’s right.”
    â€œWhy don’t you find out from someone else, then?” Osmond said to Banks. “I’m damned if I’m telling you anything.”
    â€œDo you own a flick-knife?” Burgess asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHave you ever owned one?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œKnow anybody who does?”
    Osmond shook his head.
    â€œDid you know PC Gill?” Banks asked. “Had you any contact with him before last Friday?”
    Osmond looked puzzled by the question, and when he finally answered no, it didn’t ring true. Or maybe he was just thrown off balance. Burgess didn’t seem to notice anything, but Banks made a mental note to check into the possibility that Osmond and Gill had somehow come into contact.
    The bedroom door opened and Jenny walked out. She’d brushed her hair and put on a pair of jeans and an oversized plaid shirt. Banks bet it belonged to Osmond and tried not to think about what had been going on earlier in the bedroom.
    â€œHello, love,” Burgess said, patting an empty chair beside him. “Come to join us? What’s your name?”
    â€œIn the first place,” Jenny said stiffly, “I’m not ‘love,’ and in the second, I don’t see as my name’s any of your damn business. I wasn’t even there on Friday.”
    â€œAs you like,” Burgess said. “Just trying to be friendly.”
    Jenny glanced at Banks as if to ask, “Who is this bastard?” and Burgess caught the exchange.
    â€œDo you two know each other?” he asked.
    Banks cursed inwardly and felt himself turning red. There was noway out. “This is Dr Fuller,” he said. “She helped us on a case here a year or so back.”
    Burgess beamed at Jenny. “I see. Well, maybe you can help us again, Dr Fuller. Your boy-friend here doesn’t want to talk to us, but if you’ve helped the police before—”
    â€œLeave her alone,” Osmond said. “She had nothing to do with it.” Banks had felt the same thing—he didn’t want Burgess getting his claws into Jenny—and he resented Osmond for being able to defend her.
    â€œVery prickly today, aren’t we?” Burgess said. “All right, sonny, we’ll get back to you, if that’s the way you want it.” But he kept looking at