Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘I see.’ Banks remembered the booming business in bootleg LPs in the seventies. First Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Doors and other popular bands were all bootlegged, and none of them made a penny from the illegal sales. The same thing also happened later with some of the punk bands. Not that any of them needed the money, and most of them were too stoned to notice, but that wasn’t the point. Clough’s employers had noticed and given him the push.

  ‘Like I said, it’s not much. But he says he’s heard this Clough bloke is a gangster now. A tough guy. Be careful, Dad.’

  ‘I will. I’m not exactly a five-stone weakling myself, you know.’

  ‘Right. Oh, and there’s one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s this car a mate of mine’s selling. Only three years old, got its MOT and everything. I got another—’

  ‘Brian, what do you want?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got the asking price down a couple of hundred from what it was, but I was wondering, you know, if you could see your way to helping me out?’

  ‘What? Me help out my rich and famous rock-star son?’

  Brian laughed. ‘Give us a break.’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Three hundred quid would do nicely. I’ll let you have it back when I am rich and famous.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s great! Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. I mean it.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Talk to you later.’

  Banks hung up. Three hundred quid he could ill afford. Still, he would come up with it somehow. After all, he had saved a bundle by missing out on Paris, and he had given Tracy a bit of spending money that weekend. He remembered how much he had wanted a car when he was young; the kids with cars seemed to get all the girls. He had finally bought a rusty old VW Beetle when he was at college in London. It lasted him the length of his course there, then clapped out on the North Circular one cold, rainy Sunday in January, and he hadn’t got another one until he and Sandra were married. Yes, he’d find a way to help Brian out.

  Next, Banks tried Tracy’s number and was surprised when she answered right away: ‘Dad! I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I just heard about Mr Riddle’s daughter on the news. Are you all right? I know you didn’t get along with him, but . . . Did you know her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks. Then he told Tracy the bare details about going to London to find Emily instead of going with her to Paris that weekend.

  ‘Oh, Dad. Don’t feel guilty for doing someone a favour. I was disappointed at first, but Damon and I had the most wonderful time.’

  I’ll bet you did, thought Banks, biting his tongue.

  Tracy went on. ‘All I heard was that she died after taking an overdose of cocaine in the Bar None, and they’re all saying she lived a pretty wild life. Is it something to do with what happened in London?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Was it deliberate?’

  ‘Could have been.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who . . .? No, I know I shouldn’t ask.’

  ‘It’s all right, love. We don’t at the moment. A few leads to follow, that’s all. I’m going back to London tomorrow. I just wanted to talk to you first, see if you were still on for Christmas.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She was only sixteen, wasn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Tracy paused. ‘Look, Dad . . . I just want you to know . . . I mean, I know you worry about me sometimes. I know you and Mum worried about me when we were all together, but you didn’t really need to. I’m . . . I mean, I never did anything like that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘No, Dad. You don’t know. You can’t know. Even if you knew what signs to look for, you weren’t there. I don’t mean to be nasty about it. I know about the demands of your job and all, and I know you loved us, but you just weren’t there. Anyway, I’m telling you the truth. I know you think I’ve always been little Miss Goody Two-shoes, but it’s not true. I did try smoking some marijuana once, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel. And once a girl gave me some Ecstasy at a dance. I didn’t like that, either. It made my heart beat too fast and all I did was sweat and feel frightened. I suppose you could say I’m a failure as far as drugs are concerned.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Banks wanted to ask if she’d been sexually active at fourteen, too, but he didn’t think it would be a fair question to put to his daughter. She would tell him what she wanted when she wanted to.

  ‘Anyway,’ Tracy went on, ‘I’m sure you’re very busy. And I’m sure if anyone’s going to catch him, it’ll be you.’

  Banks laughed. ‘I appreciate your confidence in me. Take care, love. Talk to you soon.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  Banks hung up the phone gently and let the silence enfold him again. He always had that same empty, lonely feeling after he’d spoken to someone he loved over the telephone, as if the silence had somehow become charged with that person’s absence. He shook it off. It was a mild enough night outside and he still had time to go to his little balcony by the falls for a cigarette and a finger or two of Laphroaig.

  10

  ‘Barry Clough,’ said Detective Superintendent Richard ‘Dirty Dick’ Burgess, chewing on a piece of particularly tough steak. ‘Now there’s an interesting bloke.’

  It was Saturday lunchtime, and Banks and Burgess were sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street, the air around them laced with smoke and conversation. It was a mild day, much warmer than the last time Banks had been to London in early November. The pub was crowded with Christmas shoppers taking a break, and one brave couple actually sat at a table outside. Burgess was drinking lager and lime, but Banks had only coffee with his chicken-in-a-basket. He had a busy day ahead and needed to stay alert.

  He had phoned Burgess before leaving Eastvale that morning. If anyone could uncover information on Clough, it was Dirty Dick Burgess. He had recently got himself into a bit of trouble for dragging his feet over the investigation into the murder of a black youth. As a result, he’d been shunted off to the National Criminal Intelligence Service, where he couldn’t do so much harm. It didn’t seem to bother Burgess that he had been identified as a racist; he took it all in his stride with his usual lack of concern.

  The two had known each other for years, and while they had tentatively come to enjoy each other’s company, their relationship remained mostly confrontational. Banks especially didn’t share Burgess’s strong right-wing leanings, nor did he concur with his racist and sexist opinions. In his turn, Burgess had called Banks a ‘pinko’. About the only thing they had in common was that both were from working-class backgrounds. Burgess, though, unlike Banks, was the Margaret Thatcher kind of working-class lad who had come to the fore in the eighties; someone who had triumphed over a deprived background, then devoted himself to the pursuit of material benefits, and felt no sympathy or solidarity with any of his class who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow suit.

  Banks, or so he hoped, retained some compassion for his fellow man, especially the downtrodden, and occasionally even the criminal. It was difficult to maintain such a view, being a copper all those years, but he had sworn to himself not long after finding Dawn Wadley’s dismembered body in a Soho alley that as soon as he stopped caring, he would quit. He had thought that his move from the Met to the softer patch of Eastvale would have made life easier, but somehow, without the sheer volume of human misery that had been his lot in the city, every case seemed to take more of a toll on him. It was similar to the way people found it hard to respond to the deaths of millions of foreigners in a flood or an earthquake, but fell to pieces when a kindly old neighbour was run over.

  ‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,’ as John Donne had said, and Banks kn
ew exactly what he meant.

  The odd thing about working day-in, day-out against murderers, pimps, drug dealers, muggers and the rest was that you could distance yourself. Partly you did it by developing a dark sense of humour, telling tasteless jokes at crime scenes, getting pissed with the lads after attending a post-mortem, and partly you just built a wall around your feelings. But in Eastvale, where he had more time to devote himself to important cases – especially murders – his defences had been slowly eroded until he was nothing but a bundle of raw nerve ends. Each case took a little bit more of his soul, or so he felt.

  Banks remembered some of the victims, especially the young ones – Deborah Harrison, Sally Lumb, Caroline Hartley. He had come to know and care about all these victims. Even Gloria Shackleton, murdered long before Banks had been born, had come to obsess him only a few months ago. And now Emily Riddle. It didn’t matter what anyone said about not becoming personally involved with cases, Banks thought. You had to be personally involved; there had to be something more at stake than mere crime statistics.

  ‘Problem is,’ Burgess went on, ‘we don’t really know enough about him.’

  ‘Any form?’

  Burgess sniffed. ‘Minor drug bust in seventy-four. Half a pound of Nepalese black. Said it was for his own consumption. Well, I believed him – I could go through that much in a week easily – but the magistrates didn’t. They gave him eighteen months, out in nine.’

  ‘Is he still dealing?’

  ‘Not that we know of. If he is, he’s not in the premier league.’ Burgess pushed his plate away. ‘Too bloody tough for my teeth,’ he said. Apart from his crooked and stained teeth, Banks noticed, Burgess seemed in better shape than the last time they had met. He had even lost a little weight. He still had his greying hair tied in a ponytail, which irritated Banks, who thought that middle-aged men with ponytails looked like prize wankers, and his grey eyes were as sharp, as cynical and as world-weary as ever.

  The last time they had met, Banks remembered, was in Amsterdam over a year ago, when Burgess had got pissed and fallen in a canal. Banks had helped him out and taken him back to the hotel, and the last he had seen of him, Burgess was trailing dirty canal water across the lobby, his shoes squelching as he went, head held high, trying to walk in a straight line, with dignity. He had been wearing the same scuffed leather jacket he was wearing today.

  ‘How does he pay for that bloody great villa of his?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Little Venice. You mean he’s got more than one?’

  ‘Sure. There’s two that we know of. The one in Little Venice and one outside Arenys de Mar, in Spain.’

  ‘So where does his money come from?’

  ‘He’s a gangster.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. I didn’t know they were back in fashion.’

  ‘They never really went away. They just adapted, changed names, switched rackets.’

  ‘What sort of a gangster is Clough, then?’

  Burgess lit one of his small cigars before answering. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘he’s got a legitimate front. He owns a very successful bar in Clerkenwell. Popular with the City boys. Gets some good bands, serves first-class food and booze. You know the type of place: “How about a little coke and crème caramel to end the perfect evening, darling?” Then they go off home for the perfect shag. We know he’s into all sorts of things, but we’ve never been able to get him on anything. He runs things, delegates, doesn’t get his hands dirty. Basically, he bankrolls dodgy or downright criminal operations and rakes in a big cut. As far as we know, he made a pile of money managing and promoting bands in the music business years ago and invested it in a life of crime.’

  ‘Bootlegging.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s how he made his pile,’ Banks explained. ‘Making bootleg recordings of live concerts, getting them pressed and selling them.’

  Burgess narrowed his eyes. ‘You seem to know a lot about him. Sure you want me to go on?’

  Banks smiled. ‘It’s a matter of making a little go a long way. That’s all I know. Anyway, it looks as if it paid off.’

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘What kinds of things is he interested in now, if it’s not drugs?’

  ‘All sorts. I’ll give him his due; he’s innovative. Prefers newer, safer rackets to the old true, tested and tried. That’s why I don’t see him dealing drugs. Taking them, yes, but not dealing them. Not his style. You won’t find him running girls or protection rackets, either. Not Barry Clough. Guns, though, now there’s another matter. Remember that business with the reactivated firearms a year or so back? Up around your neck of the woods, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Thirsk,’ said Banks. ‘Yes, I remember.’ Undercover policemen posing as London gangsters had arrested four men on charges of conspiracy to transfer firearms and ammunition, and for selling prohibited weapons. Since the stricter gun laws introduced after the Dunblane school massacre, firearms had become harder to get because the risk attached to possessing or selling them was far greater. That also put their price up. To fill the gap, workshops like the one near Thirsk sprang up. It took about two hours to reactivate an Uzi that had been disabled for legal sale to a collector, and you could sell it for about £1,250. Tanfoglio pistols went for about a grand apiece. Discount for bulk. Needless to say, the weapons were especially popular with drug gangs.

  ‘We thought we had Clough on that but we couldn’t prove he was involved.’

  ‘What made you think he was?’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence. Titbits from informers. He’d made a couple of trips to the area shortly prior to the arrests. One of the men arrested had been observed visiting Clough’s house. He was a collector of disabled firearms himself. He had connections in both the drugs and firearms worlds. That sort of thing.’

  Banks nodded. He knew what Burgess meant. You could know it in your bones that a man was guilty of something, but if you couldn’t get enough evidence to interest the Crown Prosecution Service, then you might as well forget it. And the CPS was notoriously difficult to interest in anything other than a dead cert. He also remembered the guns in the case on Clough’s wall. Still, not evidence.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We leaned on him a bit. Not me personally, you understand, but we leaned. I think he shied away from that line of business, at least for a while. Besides, I think he found out that it’s not as lucrative as he’d hoped. Reactivating guns is more trouble than it’s worth, when you get right down to it. And it’s not as if they aren’t still being smuggled in by the cartload. Christ, I know where you could buy an Uzi for fifty quid not twenty minutes from here.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘We suspect, and you know what I mean when I stress that it’s just a suspicion, don’t you?’ Burgess flicked some ash and winked at Banks. ‘We suspect that, for one thing, he’s behind one of the big smuggling operations. Booze and fags. High profit, low risk. You might not know this, Banks, but I’ve done some work with Customs and Excise, and about eight per cent of cigarettes and five per cent of beer consumed in this country are smuggled. Have you any idea what sort of profits we’re talking about here?’

  ‘Given the amount people smoke and drink, I should imagine it’s pretty huge.’

  ‘Understatement.’ Burgess pointed his cigar at Banks. ‘A player like Clough might employ fifty people to get the stuff from warehouses in Europe to his retail outlets over here. Once they get it through customs at Dover, they go to distribution centres – industrial estates, business parks and the like – then their fleet of salesmen pick up their supplies and sell to the retailers. Shops, pubs, clubs, factories. Even schools. Christ, we’ve even got fucking pet shops and ice-cream vans selling smuggled booze.’

  ‘And Clough’s in it that big?’

  ‘So we suspect. I mean, it’s not as if he drives any of the freighters himself, or drops off a carton or two at the local chippie. Whenever Clough comes back from a month at his vi
lla in Spain you can be damn certain he’s clean as a surgeon’s scalpel. It really pisses me off, Banks, that when a law-abiding citizen such as me drinks his smuggled French lager there’s probably a share of the profits going to a gangster like Clough.’

  ‘So what have you got on him?’

  ‘Precious little, again. Mostly circumstantial. Earlier this year customs stopped a lorry at Dover and found seven million cigarettes. Seven fucking million. Would’ve netted a profit of about half a million quid on the black market – and don’t ask me how much that is in euros. Clough’s name came up in the investigation.’

  ‘And what else is he into?’

  Burgess flicked some more ash on the floor. ‘Like I said, we don’t know the full extent of his operations. He’s cagey. Has a knack of staying one step ahead, partly because he contracts out and partly because he operates outside London, setting up little workshops like that one near Thirsk and then moving on before anyone’s figured out what he’s doing. He uses phony companies, gets others to front for him, so his name never appears on any of the paperwork.’

  Something in what Burgess had said rang a bell for Banks. It was a very faint one, a very poor connection, but it wasn’t an impossible one. ‘Ever heard of PKF Computer Systems?’ he asked.

  Burgess shook his head.

  ‘Bloke called Courage? Charlie Courage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jonathan Fearn?’

  ‘Nope. I can look them up if you like.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Banks. ‘One’s dead and the other’s in a coma. Would murder be Clough’s style at all?’

  ‘I’d say a man who does as high a volume of crime as he does has to maintain a certain level of threat, wouldn’t you? And if he does that, he has to make good on it once in a while or nobody’s intimidated. He has to keep his workers in line. Nothing like a nice little murder for keeping the lads focused.’ He slurped down some lager and lime. ‘Two weeks after Clough’s name came up in connection with that seized shipment, two known baddies got shot in Dover city centre. No connection proven, of course, but they were business rivals. It’s a fucking war zone down there.’