Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘What about boyfriends?’

  ‘I don’t think there was anyone special. She hung around with a group of people.’

  ‘It must have been difficult for her to make friends locally, with being at school down south so much of the time.’

  ‘It was. And as you probably know yourself, the locals aren’t always that welcoming to southerners, even these days. But when she was home for the holidays she’d meet people. I don’t know. She didn’t seem to have any real trouble making friends. She was outgoing enough. And of course, she still knew people from when she was at St Mary’s School here. That was only two years ago.’

  ‘What about Darren Hirst? Did she ever mention him?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, it was his birthday party she went to last week. But he wasn’t her boyfriend; he was just part of the group she hung out with. The lad with the car. They came to the house to pick her up on Wednesday – Darren and a girl, Nina or Tina or something – and they certainly seemed pleasant enough, although I didn’t approve of her hanging around with people who were, for the most part, three or four years older than she was. I knew she went to pubs and could get served easily enough, and I didn’t like it. I told her often enough, but she just accused me of going on at her, and in the end I gave up.’

  ‘Did she ever mention someone called Andrew Handley?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Andy Pandy?’

  ‘Is this some sort of joke? Who’s he?’

  ‘It’s not a joke. That’s his nickname. He’s a colleague of the man Emily was living with in London.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Rosalind. She reached forward, grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and sniffled into it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Please excuse me.’

  Riddle moved over to her and touched her shoulder hesitantly, without much warmth, it seemed. In response, Rosalind’s body stiffened, and she turned away. Banks thought he glimpsed something in her eyes as she turned – fear or confusion, perhaps. Did she suspect her husband of being involved in Emily’s death? Or was he protecting her? Whatever it was, there was something desperately out of kilter with the Riddle family.

  ‘Did Emily speak to you of her plans for the future, Mrs Riddle?’ Banks asked, switching the direction of the interview to something he thought might be a little easier for her to deal with.

  ‘Only that she wanted to do her A levels and go to university,’ said Rosalind, still dabbing her eyes with the tissue. ‘Preferably in America. I think she wanted to get as far away from here and from us as she could.’

  Out of sight, out of mind, thought Banks. And less likely to damage Riddle’s fledgeling political career, if that wasn’t already damaged beyond repair. He remembered on his first visit, when the Riddles asked him to go to London and find Emily, how he had got the impression that Rosalind hadn’t particularly wanted her to come back home. He got the same impression now. ‘And you approved?’

  ‘Of course I did. It’s better than her running off to London and living with some . . . I don’t know . . . some drug dealer.’

  ‘We don’t know that he was a drug dealer,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, Emily swore he wasn’t, and I’m inclined to believe her.’

  ‘Well, Emily always could twist men around her little finger.’

  ‘Not Clough. She met her match there.’

  ‘Do you really think he could be responsible?’ asked Riddle.

  ‘Oh, yes. The impression I got is that he’s a dangerous man and he doesn’t like to be crossed.’

  ‘But why would he want to harm her? He had no real motive.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘All I can say is that I’ve met him and I’m convinced he’s into something. Perhaps he did it out of sheer maliciousness, because he didn’t like to be crossed. Or perhaps he thought she knew too much about his business interests. Did she ever talk about him to you?’

  ‘No. What are you doing about him?’ Riddle asked.

  ‘I’m going to London first thing tomorrow. Before that, I just want to find out if there are any more leads I should be following up here.’ Banks paused. ‘Look, I had lunch with Emily the day she died and—’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘She phoned and asked me to lunch, said she’d be in Eastvale. She wanted to thank me.’

  ‘She never told us,’ said Riddle, looking at Rosalind, who frowned.

  ‘Well, your wife did say she was secretive. And given that, my next question is probably a waste of time, but when she left, she said she was going to meet someone else. Did she say anything to either of you about meeting someone in Eastvale that afternoon?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘What did she say to you?’ Rosalind asked. ‘Did she tell you anything?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything that might help explain what happened.’

  ‘Only that she thought she’d seen one of Clough’s men in Eastvale. I gather she didn’t mention that to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Rosalind.

  ‘When did you last see her yesterday?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Riddle answered. ‘Both Ros and I had gone to work long before she got up that morning, and when we got back she was out.’

  ‘So the last time you saw her was Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she phone anyone or get any phone calls?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Riddle. ‘Ros?’

  Rosalind shook her head.

  ‘Did she spend much time on the telephone while she was up here?’

  ‘Not a lot, no.’

  ‘Do I have your permission to ask British Telecom for a record of your telephone calls since Emily came home?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Riddle. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll put DC Templeton on it. Did she have any visitors from London, make any trips back down there?’

  ‘Not that we know of, no,’ said Riddle.

  ‘Are you both sure there’s no one else you can think of who I should be looking closely at for this?’

  ‘No,’ said Riddle, after a moment’s pause for thought. ‘Not up here. As Ros said, she hung around with a group. They were probably with her at the club. You can talk to them and ascertain whether you think any of them had anything to do with it.’

  ‘We’ve already talked to them, but we’ll follow up on that. I must say, on first impressions I don’t think any of them are responsible. Do you know where she got her drugs?’

  It was Rosalind who answered. ‘I told you. I don’t think she was taking drugs since she came back.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Not completely. But . . . I . . .’ She glanced at her husband and blushed before she went on. ‘I searched her room once. And once or twice I looked in her handbag. I found nothing.’

  ‘Well, she was definitely taking cocaine the night she died,’ said Banks.

  ‘Maybe it was her first time since London?’

  ‘When you searched her handbag, Mrs Riddle, did you come across a driving licence and a proof-of-age card?’

  Rosalind looked puzzled. ‘A driving licence? Good Lord, no. Emily was too young to drive. Besides, I didn’t look in her purse.’

  ‘I’m not saying she did actually drive a car, but when she was found, the officer at the scene found a driving licence in her handbag and thought it was hers. He also found one of those cards clubs issue as proof of age, though they’re nothing of the kind. That’s why there was some confusion over identity at first.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything to me,’ said Rosalind. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What about the name Ruth Walker?’

  Banks saw a strange look flash across Rosalind’s eyes, perhaps the surprise of recognition, but it was gone so fast that he didn’t trust his own judgement. She pressed her lips tight together. ‘No.’

  ‘She was another friend of Emily’s in London. Apparently this Ruth met her in the street and took h
er in when she first arrived. You didn’t know about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Craig Newton? Ring any bells?’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Her first boyfriend in London. There was a bit of trouble between him and Clough. He seemed a decent enough lad when I talked to him, but he might have been jealous, and he might have held a grudge against Emily for ditching him. She told me he’d been following her around and pestering her.’ Banks stood up. ‘Clearly I’m going to find more answers down there. For the moment, though, are you certain neither of you can think of anyone who would want to harm Emily?’

  They both shook their heads.

  Banks looked at Riddle. ‘You’re a policeman, sir,’ he said. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Banks. You know I’ve hardly been fighting in the trenches for years. That’s not a chief constable’s job.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  ‘No, I can’t think of anyone offhand.’

  ‘Would you check through your previous arrests, no matter how old? Just for form’s sake.’

  ‘Of course.’ Riddle saw Banks to the door. ‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?’ he said, grasping Banks’s arm tightly. ‘I’ve been advised to stay away from the office for the time being, so I’m taking a leave of absence. But I’m sure I could be more effective there. Anyway, the moment you know, I want to know. Understand? The moment.’

  Banks nodded and Riddle released his grip.

  Back at the incident room, Banks discovered that Darren Hirst had been and gone. DC Jackman had interviewed him and said he had been unable to shed any light on the couple who had left the Bar None at 10.47. He hadn’t even remembered seeing them in the first place. Now it was a matter of getting the rather blurred and grainy image that Ned Parker had pulled from the CCTV video copied up and shown around. It was possible that someone might have remembered seeing them in the pubs around the market square. It would probably come to nothing, but then most police work did.

  He also found out that three people who had been in the Black Bull yesterday lunchtime had phoned in and said they had seen the victim with an older man. One person had positively identified the man as ‘that detective who was on telly about that there reservoir business in t’summer’. Just as well he’d told the ACC and the Riddles.

  Banks walked into the CID office. Down the corridor, it sounded as if someone were going at the floor with a pneumatic drill. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall. Hatchley and Annie Cabbot were at their desks. Annie gave him a dirty look, and Hatchley said he had been out investigating an alien abduction.

  Banks smiled. ‘Come again? Since when have you been working on the X Files, Jim?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Hatchley. ‘Honest to God.’ He chuckled; it sounded as if he was coughing up a big one. ‘Toy shop down on Elmet Street,’ he went on. ‘They put out an inflatable little green man to advertise a new line of toys and somebody nicked it. Some kid, probably. Still, it’s an alien abduction.’

  Banks laughed. ‘There’s one for the books. Ever hear of a fellow called Jonathan Fearn?’ he asked.

  ‘Rings a bell.’ Hatchley scratched his ear. ‘If I’m thinking of the right one, he’s an unemployed yobbo, not above a bit of dodgy dealing every now and then. We’ve had our eyes on him as driver on a couple of warehouse robberies over the years.’

  ‘But he’s got no form?’

  Hatchley shrugged. ‘Just lucky. Some are. It won’t last.’

  ‘His luck’s already run out. He’s in hospital in Newcastle, in a coma.’

  Hatchley whistled. ‘Bloody hell. What happened?’

  Banks told him as much as he knew. ‘Do you know of any connection between this Fearn character and Charlie Courage?’

  ‘Could be,’ Hatchley said. ‘I mean, they hung out in the same pubs and neither of them was beyond a bit of thievery every now and then. They sound like two peas from the same pod to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ said Banks. ‘Poke around a bit, will you? See if you can find a connection.’

  Hatchley, always happy to be sent off to do his work in pubs, beamed. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘There’s a DI Dalton around the place somewhere. Down from Northumbria, staying at the Fox and Hounds. He might be able to help. Liaise with him on this one.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Annie followed Banks out of the office and caught up with him in the corridor. ‘A word?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘Not here, though. This noise is driving me crazy. Queen’s Arms?’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  Banks and Annie walked across Market Street to the Queen’s Arms.

  ‘I want to know just what the hell you think you’ve been playing at,’ Annie said when they had got drinks and sat down in a quiet corner. She spoke softly, but there was anger in her voice, and she sat stiffly in her chair.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know damn well what I mean. What went on you between you and the victim?’

  ‘Emily Riddle?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Banks sighed. ‘I’m sorry it happened the way it did, Annie, sorry if I embarrassed you in any way. I would have told you, honestly. I just hadn’t found the right time.’

  ‘You could have told me last night at the scene.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. There was too much else going on, too much to do, too much to organize. And I was bloody upset by what I saw – all right?’

  ‘No, it’s not all right. You made me feel like a complete bloody idiot this morning. I’ve been working on the case as long as you, and here you are coming up with a suspect I’ve never even heard of. Not to mention having lunch with the victim on the day she died.’

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. What else can I say?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘It’s not on, Alan. If I’m supposed to be your DIO, I’m not supposed to be the last bloody person on earth who hears about important developments.’

  ‘It wasn’t an important development. It had already happened.’

  ‘Stop splitting hairs. You named a suspect. You had a prior relationship with the victim. You should have told me. It could have a bearing on the investigation.’

  ‘It does have a bearing on the investigation. And I will tell you if you’ll let me.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  Banks told her about London, about GlamourPuss, Clough, Ruth Walker and Craig Newton – everything except the night in the hotel room – and about what he and Emily had discussed over lunch the previous day. When he had finished, Annie seemed to relax in her chair the way she normally did.

  ‘I wasn’t keeping it from you, Annie,’ he said. ‘It was just bad timing, that’s all. Honestly.’

  ‘And that’s all there is to it?’

  ‘That’s all. Scout’s honour.’

  Annie managed a smile. ‘Next time anything like that happens, tell me up front, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Forgive me?’

  ‘I’m working on it. What next?’

  ‘I’m going down to London tomorrow to do a bit of checking up.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I want you to take care of things at this end. I’ll only be gone for the weekend, most likely, but there’s a lot to do. Get posters made up, contact the local TV news people and see if you can get an appeal out for information on anyone who saw her between the time she left the Black Bull just before three and the time she met her friends in the Cross Keys at seven. And stress the fact that even though she was technically only sixteen, she looked older. Men will certainly remember if they saw her. Check local buses and taxis. Get DC Templeton to organize a house-to-house of the area around the Black Bull. Maybe we’ll even get reinforcements. Who knows? We might get lucky. Maybe someone saw Clough handing over a gram of coke to her.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And there’s another thing.’

  ‘What’s that?�
��

  ‘I had a visit from a DI Dalton this morning. Northumbria CID. It’s about the Charlie Courage business. Seems there’s some connection with a hijacked van up north. Seeing as you did the preliminary interviews at Daleview, I’d like you to have a quick chat with him before you hand over the file to DS Hatchley. He might be able to help us. He’s staying at the Fox and Hounds. You never know. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll even buy you a pint.’

  That evening at home, Banks tossed a few clothes into his overnight bag, followed by Evelyn Waugh’s The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold and his Renee Fleming and Captain Beefheart tapes. He would have to buy a portable CD player, he decided; it was becoming too time-consuming and expensive to tape everything, and CD timings were getting more difficult to match with tape lengths.

  When he had finished packing, he phoned Brian, who answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Look, I’m going to be down your way again this weekend. Any chance of your being around? I’ll be pretty busy, but I’m sure we can fit in lunch or something.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Brian. ‘We’ve got some gigs in Southampton.’

  ‘Ah, well, you can’t blame a father for trying. One of these days, maybe. Take care, and I hope you’re a big success.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember that bloke you were asking about a while back, the ex-roadie?’

  ‘Barry Clough?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nothing, really, but I was talking to one of the producers at the recording studio, name of Terry King; old geezer like you, been around a long time, since punk. You know; the Sex Pistols, the Clash, that sort of thing? Surely you must remember those days?’

  ‘Brian,’ said Banks, smiling to himself, ‘I even remember Elvis. Now cut the ageism and get to the point.’

  ‘It’s nothing, really. Just that he remembered Clough. Called himself something else, then, one of those silly punk names like Sid Vicious – Terry couldn’t remember exactly what it was – but it was him, all right. Apparently he got fired from his roadie job.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Bootlegging live concerts. Not just the band he worked with, but all the big names.’