Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  Banks pushed aside the rest of his chicken, which was too dry, and lit a cigarette. He fancied a pint but held off. If he was going to see Barry Clough tonight, as he planned, then he’d need to be sharp, especially after what Burgess had said. ‘What about women?’ he asked.

  Burgess frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From what I can gather, Clough’s a bit of a ladies’ man.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. And apparently he likes them young.’

  ‘Has he ever been suspected of hurting or killing a woman?’

  ‘Nope. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t done it and got away with it, though. Like I said, Clough’s good at staying ahead of the game. The thing is, with someone like him, people don’t like to come forward and make themselves known, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Right.’ Banks sipped some black coffee. It tasted bitter, as if it had been left on the burner too long. Still, it beat instant. ‘Heard of Andrew Handley?’

  ‘Andy Pandy? Sure. He’s one of Clough’s chief gofers.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Anything on him hurting women?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Is this about Jimmy Riddle’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks. Emily Riddle’s murder was all over the newspapers that morning. As Banks had guessed, it hadn’t taken the press long to ferret out that she had died of cocaine laced with strychnine, and that was far bigger news than another boring drug overdose.

  ‘You’re SIO on that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Burgess clapped his hands together and showered ash on the remains of his steak. ‘Well, bugger me!’

  ‘No thanks. Not right after lunch,’ said Banks. ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  ‘Last I heard, Jimmy Riddle had you suspended. I had to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.’

  ‘It was you who put them in there in the first place with all that cloak-and-dagger bollocks,’ said Banks. ‘But thanks all the same.’

  ‘Ungrateful cunt. Think nothing of it. Now he’s got you working on his daughter’s case. What’s the connection? Why you?’

  Banks told him about finding Emily in London.

  ‘Why’d you do that? To get Riddle off your back?’

  ‘Partly, I suppose. At least in the first place. But most of all I think it was the challenge. I’d been on desk duties again for a couple of months after the Hobb’s End fiasco, and it was real work again. It was also a bit of a rush going off alone, working outside the rules.’

  Burgess grinned. ‘Ah, Banks, you’re just like me when you get right down to it, aren’t you? Crack a few skulls?’

  ‘I didn’t need to.’

  ‘Did you fuck her? The kid?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Banks, his teeth clenching. ‘She was sixteen years old.’

  ‘So. What’s wrong with that? It’s legal. Tasty, too, I’ll bet.’

  It was at times like this Banks wanted to throttle Burgess. Instead, he just shook his head and ignored the comment.

  Burgess laughed. ‘Typical. Knight in bloody shining armour, aren’t you, Banks?’

  That was what Emily had called him in the Black Bull, Banks remembered. ‘Not a very successful one,’ he said.

  Burgess took a long drag on his cigar. He inhaled, Banks noticed. ‘She was sixteen going on thirty, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Just that she was a crazy kid, bit of an embarrassment to the old man.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘So he wanted you to head off any trouble at the pass?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I’d have to put Barry Clough very high on my list.’

  ‘That why you’re here? To rattle his cage?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind. I’m thinking of paying him a visit tonight.’

  Burgess stubbed out his cigar and raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you indeed? Fancy some company?’

  It was a different bridge, but almost a repeat of his previous trip, Banks thought, as he walked across Vauxhall Bridge on his way to visit Kennington. He looked at his watch: almost three. Ruth had been at home last time; he just hoped she had a Saturday routine she stuck to.

  As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Ruth answered the intercom at the first press of the button and buzzed him up.

  ‘You again,’ she said, after letting him into the room. ‘What is it this time?’

  Banks showed her his warrant card. ‘I’ve come about Emily.’

  A look of triumph shone in her eyes. ‘I knew there was something fishy about you! I told you, didn’t I, last time you were here. A copper.’

  ‘Ruth, I was here unofficially last time. I apologize for pretending to be Emily’s father – not that you believed me anyway – but it seemed to be the best way to get the job done.’

  ‘End justifies the means? Typical police mentality, that is.’

  ‘So you knew her real name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t seem at all surprised when I called her Emily just now.’

  ‘Well, that’s the name they used in the papers yesterday.’

  ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I knew her real name. She told me. So what? I respected her right not to want to use it. If she wanted to call herself Louisa Gamine, it was fine with me.’

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Banks sat. Ruth didn’t offer him tea this time. She didn’t sit down herself, but lit a cigarette and paced. She seemed edgy, nervous. Banks noticed that she had changed her hair colour; instead of black it was blonde, still cropped to within half an inch of her skull. It didn’t look a hell of a lot better and only served to highlight the pastiness of her features. She was wearing baggy jeans with a hole in one knee and a sort of shapeless blue thing, like an artist’s smock: the kind of thing you wear when you’re by yourself around the house and you think nobody’s going to see you. Ruth didn’t seem unduly concerned about her appearance, though; she didn’t excuse herself to change or apply make-up. Banks gave her credit for that. The music was playing just a little too loud: Lauryn Hill, by the sound of it, singing about her latest misadventures.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and talk to me?’ Banks asked.

  Ruth glared at him. ‘I don’t like being lied to. I told you last time. People always seem to think they can just walk right over me.’

  ‘Once again, I apologize.’

  Ruth stood a moment glaring at him through narrowed eyes, then she turned the music down, sat opposite him and crossed her legs. ‘All right. I’m sitting. Happy now?’

  ‘It’s a start. You know what happened?’

  ‘I told you. I read about it in the paper, and saw it on telly.’ Then her hard edges seemed to soften for a moment. ‘It’s terrible. Poor Emily. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know you were a friend of hers.’

  ‘Was it . . . I mean . . . were you there? Did you see her?’

  ‘I was at the scene,’ said Banks, ‘and yes, I saw her.’

  ‘What did she look like? I don’t know much about strychnine, but . . . was it, you know, really horrible?’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea—’

  ‘Was it quick?’

  ‘Not quick enough.’

  ‘So she suffered?’

  ‘She suffered.’

  Ruth looked away, sniffled and reached for a tissue from the low table beside her. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not like me.’

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions, Ruth, then I’ll go. Okay?’

  Ruth blew her nose, then nodded. ‘I don’t see how I can help you, though.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Did you speak to Emily after she left London?’

  ‘Only on the phone a couple of times. I think when she split up with this Barry she felt a b
it guilty about neglecting me. Not that I cared, mind you. It was her life. And people always do. Neglect me, that is.’

  ‘When was the last time you talked?’

  ‘A week, maybe two weeks before . . . you know.’

  ‘Was there anything on her mind?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did she confide any of her fears in you?’

  ‘Only about that psycho she’d been living with.’

  ‘Barry Clough?’

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘What did she say about him?’

  ‘She didn’t give me any gory details, but she said he’d turned out to be a real waste of space, and she sounded worried he was going to come after her. Did she steal some money from him?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘Dunno. He’s rich. It’s the sort of thing she’d do.’

  ‘Did she ever steal from you?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Ruth managed a quick smile. ‘Mind you, I can’t say I’ve much worth stealing. Someone ripped the silver spoon out of my mouth at a pretty early age. I’ve always had to work hard just to make ends meet.’

  ‘When did you miss your driving licence, Ruth?’

  ‘My licence? How did you know about that? It was ages ago.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Five, six months?’

  ‘While Emily was here?’

  ‘Yes, just after, but . . . you don’t mean . . . Emily?’

  ‘When the report came to me over the phone, the first officer on the scene told me the victim was Ruth Walker. He’d read the name off her driving licence.’

  ‘Bloody hell. So that’s what happened. I just thought I’d lost it. I do lose things. Especially bits of paper.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Applied for a new one. The new kind with the photo on it. But what possible use could the old one be to Emily?’

  ‘I think she used it to help her get one of those proof-of-age cards the clubs give out. She wouldn’t have had much difficulty from what I’ve heard. They practically give them to pretty young girls, whether they’ve got any proof in the first place or not. The card has her photo on it, but your name and, I assume, your date of birth. Twenty-third of February, 1977.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘I knew nothing about it.’

  ‘And maybe she also wanted to drive a car.’

  ‘She was too young to learn.’

  ‘That doesn’t always stop people.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Some of the most skilled car thieves I’ve met have been between ten and thirteen.’

  ‘You’d know about that.’

  ‘What did she say about Barry Clough?’

  ‘Just that she thought she’d pissed him off big time when she left without saying goodbye, and he wasn’t the kind of man just to let it go by.’

  ‘Did she sound scared?’

  ‘Not really scared. Bit nervous, maybe, in a giggly sort of way. She could put a brave face on things, could Louisa. Emily.’

  ‘When did she tell you her real name?’

  ‘Shortly after she came to stay with me. She asked me not to tell anyone, that she wanted to be called Louisa, so I respected her wishes.’

  ‘Did you tell Clough what her real name was?’

  Ruth jerked forward. ‘Give me a break! Why would I do something like that?’

  ‘Only asking. So you didn’t?’

  ‘No fucking way.’

  ‘Has he been in touch with you at all, asking about her?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen anything of him at all.’

  ‘What about Craig? Did you tell him?’

  ‘No, but he might have known. She might have told him herself.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I can keep a secret.’

  Banks lit a cigarette and leaned back in the armchair. ‘How have you been, Ruth?’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just a simple question. Healthy? Happy?’

  ‘I’m doing all right. As well as can be expected. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What exactly is it that you do?’

  ‘Computers. It’s pretty boring stuff.’

  ‘But steady? Well paid?’

  ‘It’s steady. That’s about the best you can say.’

  ‘Do you own a car?’

  Ruth got up and Banks followed her to the window. ‘There,’ she said pointing, ‘that clapped-out cream Fiesta down there.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I had one like that a few years back,’ he said. ‘Cortina, actually. Nobody believed I could possibly be driving such a thing. They’d stopped making them years ago. But it was a good car, while it lasted.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ruth, folding her arms at the window. ‘It’ll have to last me a few years longer, that’s for sure.’

  They sat down again. ‘Been on any trips lately?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Seeing anyone?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Just being friendly.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to be. Remember, you’re a copper and I’m a suspect.’

  ‘Suspect? What makes you think that?’

  A nasty smile twisted Ruth’s features. ‘Because I know you coppers. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, asking all sorts of questions. No matter. I didn’t do it. You can’t blame me.’

  ‘I’m not trying to. How do you know coppers, Ruth? Ever been arrested?’

  ‘No. I read the papers, though, watch the news. I know what racist, sexist bastards you are.’

  Banks laughed. ‘You must be thinking of Dirty Dick.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Seeing as how you think you’re a suspect, though, you might as well tell me where you were on Thursday.’

  ‘I was here. At home.’

  ‘Not at work?’

  ‘I had a cold. Still have. I was off Thursday and Friday. Does that mean I’ve got no alibi?’

  ‘But you haven’t been on any trips recently?’

  ‘No. I told you. I haven’t been anywhere. And for your information, no, I’m not screwing anyone, either. You’ve got to be careful these days. It’s a lot different from when you were young, you know. We’ve got AIDS to think about. The worst you had to worry about was crabs or a dose of clap. Either way, it wasn’t going to kill you.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right. Did you go up to visit Emily in Yorkshire over the past month?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too busy at work. Besides, she never asked me.’ Ruth snorted. ‘I can see why now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It said in the paper that her father’s a chief constable and her mother’s a solicitor. They don’t sound exactly the sort of people she’d want to introduce someone like me to.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself.’

  Ruth flushed. ‘I know what I am.’

  ‘Do you know Emily’s mother at all? Rosalind?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘Like I said, she’d hardly take me home to meet her mum and dad.’

  ‘I suppose not. So you never spoke with her?’

  ‘She answered the phone a couple of times when I called.’

  ‘So the two of you have spoken?’

  ‘Only to say hello, like, and ask for Emily.’

  ‘Rosalind didn’t ask you any questions?’

  ‘No. Just my name, that’s all.’

  ‘And you told her?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? What is this? Are you trying to make out her mother killed her now?’

  ‘I hardly think so. Just trying to get things clear, that’s all. Have you seen anything of Craig?’

  Ruth made herself more comfortable in the armchair, sittin
g with her legs curled under. ‘As a matter of fact, he phoned me after he heard about Emily on the news yesterday morning. We had lunch together. He had to come into town.’

  ‘What for? To pay a call at GlamourPuss?’

  ‘How would I know? He didn’t say.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Fine, I guess. I mean, we were both upset. Emily breezed in and out of both our lives. But if you’ve met her, then you’d know she certainly leaves an impression. The thought of somebody doing that to her . . . it’s too much to bear. You are certain it wasn’t just an accident, aren’t you? An overdose?’

  ‘We’re certain.’

  ‘Like I said, we were . . . you know, we couldn’t believe it. What about her father?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you think he might have done it? I mean, she used to go on about how horrible he was, and if anyone can get hold of drugs and poisons, it’s the police.’

  ‘Remember, he’s the one who wanted her back.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘You told me that. But why did he want her back? Have you ever thought about that?’

  Though it was Saturday, there was no time off for Eastvale CID that weekend. It would cost a fortune in overtime, but ACC McLaughlin and Superintendent Gristhorpe would hardly hesitate to approve the budget; there would be no stinting on this case. If Annie hadn’t seen the body for herself, she might have felt a little uncomfortable about the favouritism of it all, but having seen it, she knew that even if the victim had been a pox-ridden whore she would have been working on the case today, and working for nothing if she had to.

  And Banks, the SIO, was down in London. Which left Annie in charge. She understood that he had to go and follow the leads he already knew about, but it left her with an unbearably heavy load, especially after so little sleep, and she couldn’t help but still feel irritated with him. After their little talk the previous day, she had softened towards him, but she still couldn’t help but feel that he was holding something back. She didn’t know why or what it was about – something to do with Emily’s sojourn in London, she suspected – but it gave her the feeling that he knew something she didn’t. And she didn’t like that.

  Already that morning she had called in at the incident room and found it the usual hive of activity. Winsome was sitting at the computer looking flustered as the pile of green sheets for entry into HOLMES rose quickly beside her, and Gavin Rickerd looked as if he had found his true calling in life making sure every scrap of information was neatly logged and numbered. He also looked as if he hadn’t slept since the murder.