Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  Clough took it, and lit it with his own lighter. ‘Thanks. Forgot mine downstairs. I was in the kitchen enjoying a nice glass of Château Margaux when you two arrived.’

  ‘We’ll make sure you get back to your wine before it turns to vinegar, Mr Clough,’ said Banks. ‘But no more flights of fancy, okay? Just answer the questions.’

  ‘Yes, officer.’ Clough smiled and cracked the crust of blood, sending another thin stream down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and went on smoking, blood staining the filter of his cigarette.

  ‘After Emily left, did you check up on her, find out who she was, where she lived?’

  ‘Why would I do that? I’d finished with her. She wasn’t worth the effort.’

  ‘So you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know who she was?’

  ‘Not until I read it in the papers. Sleeping with a chief constable’s daughter, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Wonder what my associates would say.’

  ‘Your associates being criminals?’

  ‘Now that’s close to slander, that is.’

  ‘Sue me.’

  ‘Not worth the effort.’

  ‘Not much is worth the effort with you, is it, Barry?’

  ‘What can I say? Life goes on. Seize the moment. Live for the present.’

  Banks looked at Burgess. ‘And I never used to believe it when they said drugs could do you permanent damage.’

  Burgess laughed.

  ‘Where’d you get the strychnine, Barry?’ Banks asked.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Never touch the stuff. I’ve heard it’s bad for your health.’

  Banks sighed. ‘Is Andrew Handley here tonight? I wouldn’t mind a word with him.’

  ‘I’ll bet you wouldn’t. Unfortunately, no, he’s not. In fact, he’s no longer in my employ.’

  ‘You fired him?’

  ‘Let’s say we came to a parting of the ways.’

  ‘Have you got his address?’

  ‘We weren’t that close. It was only business.’

  ‘Ever heard of PKF Computer Systems?’

  ‘What?’

  Was there just a slight flicker of recognition there? Clough off guard for a moment, letting it through? Banks knew he could easily be imagining it, but he thought his internal antennae had detected something. It wasn’t as far-fetched as he had originally thought when Burgess told him about Clough’s business practices. Move into a business park, do whatever crooked little thing it is you do and then, before anyone twigs on to it, move somewhere else. Which is where the white van rented by PKF, which didn’t exist, was going when it was hijacked. The driver still in a coma. There were plenty of business parks and trading estates in the country, most of them fairly remote. They were good places to operate from. And Emily had said something about Clough visiting Eastvale. She had also thought she saw Jamie Gilbert there. Could there be a motive for killing her in that? Something she knew about Clough’s business operations? She had a photographic memory, like her mother, Banks remembered.

  ‘PKF,’ Banks repeated.

  ‘No, never heard of it. Why, should I have?’

  ‘Charlie Courage?’

  ‘I’m sure I’d remember someone with a name like that.’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘No.’

  Banks could sense Burgess getting impatient across from him. Maybe he had a point; they seemed to be getting nowhere fast. ‘Where were you last Thursday afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Why? Is that when it happened?’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question.’ Burgess did his world-weary voice.

  Clough didn’t even look at him. ‘I was out of the country.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘All week, actually. In Spain.’

  ‘Nice for you. Sure you didn’t nip up to Yorkshire for an hour or two?’

  ‘Why would I want to do something like that? The weather’s far better in Spain.’

  ‘Weekend in the country, perhaps? Get your own back on Emily? After all, you don’t like losing your prized possessions, do you?’

  Clough laughed. ‘If she told you that, then she had a pretty inflated opinion of herself.’

  ‘A little overproof coke, Barry? Make her suffer?’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Clough pushed himself away from the wall. ‘Look, I’ve been patient with you, but this is absurd. Time for you to go wherever coppers crawl after dark and time for me to get back to my fun and games. Any more talking and my lawyer will be present.’

  ‘Here, is he?’

  Clough grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, he is.’ Then he opened the door and gestured for them to leave. They stood their ground a moment, then, there being no point staying any longer, Banks gave Burgess the nod, and they left. As Burgess was passing Clough on the way out, Banks heard Clough whisper, ‘And don’t think I’ll forget what you did back there. I’ll crush you for that, little man. I own people more important than you.’

  Burgess gave a mock shudder. ‘Ooh! I’m quaking in my boots.’

  Then they pushed their way through the stream of people coming up and down the stairs, edged through the hall and said goodnight to the minder, who grunted. While they were still in his earshot, Banks said, ‘Maybe we should call in the Drugs Squad, after all.’

  The bouncer disappeared inside the house like a shot.

  ‘Party-pooper,’ said Burgess. ‘Besides, they’re probably already in there.’

  They walked out of the gates and headed towards the canal. ‘It was an interesting evening, though,’ said Burgess. ‘Very interesting indeed. Thanks for inviting me. I enjoyed myself.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘And, I must say, Banks. You surprise me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, listen to him. So modest. So naïve. The girl, Banks. The girl in the hotel room. You’re the quiet one, aren’t you? But you’ve got hidden depths. My admiration for you has just grown by leaps and bounds. I didn’t realize how close to the mark I was.’

  Banks gritted his teeth. They were near the Regent’s Canal now, which gave Little Venice its name. For Banks, at that moment, it evoked fond memories not of Venice but of Amsterdam, and of Burgess flailing around cursing in the filthy water. Down the steps and a little push, a tiny trip. But no. That would be just too childish.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ Banks said.

  ‘Like I said, leaps and bounds,’ Burgess repeated, clapping his arm around Banks’s shoulder. ‘And, now, my old cock sparrow, the night is still young, I suggest we head for the nearest pub and get shit-faced. What do you say, Banks?’

  11

  Annie didn’t stop to consider the folly of her actions – or their possible consequences – until she was following Wayne Dalton up Skelgate Lane, a narrow walled path to the north just before Reeth school.

  An hour or so earlier, after asking Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton to cover for her, she had parked across North Market Street from the Fox and Hounds, then followed Dalton down to the market square, where he had parked his car. After that, she followed him to Reeth, about a half-hour drive away, and the rest was easy.

  Though it was a perfect day for walking, there were few other cars parked on the cobbles outside the shops and none on the green itself. Annie saw a number of people who looked as if they were dressed for rambling. A few clouds marred the blue winter sky, blocking the sun occasionally as they floated by, but it was quite mild and there was very little wind.

  Skelgate Lane was overgrown, stony and muddy in places after the recent rains. While Annie had put on suitable walking shoes, there were times, as she squelched through the unavoidable mud, when she thought her red wellies would have been more appropriate.

  What the hell did she think she was doing anyway? she asked herself after the first half mile. The investigation into Emily Riddle’s murder, of which she was DIO, was going full steam, still in its crucial ear
ly stages, and here she was leaving two DCs in charge while she took time out to settle old scores, or tilt at windmills. Her behaviour offended even her own sense of professionalism, but when it came right down to it, her profession was the reason she was doing it. The situation with Dalton was something she had to get resolved quickly, because it had become too much of a distraction.

  She had dressed like an anonymous rambler, in a charcoal anorak, black jeans tucked into her grey woollen socks, sturdy walking shoes, hat and an ash stick. She wasn’t carrying a rucksack, nor did a plastic folder of Ordnance Survey maps hang around her neck. Instead, she carried a small book of local walks, and when she stopped for a moment to refer to it, she saw where Dalton was likely to be going. It was five and a half miles of relatively easy walking, taking them along the daleside above the River Swale, then down and back along the river to Grinton, arriving there around lunchtime. She looked for a good vantage point where she might confront him and decided that it would be best to wait until they had doubled back over the swing bridge near Reeth. Then they would be near the old Corpse Way to Grinton.

  She had two choices: either walk down to the swing bridge and wait a couple of hours for him to come by, or follow him at a safe distance. She decided on the latter course, partly because there were a number of possible diversions from the route. The Dales were criss-crossed by hundreds of footpaths, signposted or not, going off in every direction, not all of them listed in guidebooks. He could, for example, turn off by Calver Hill into Arkengarthdale for a different walk, or continue along the high dale to Gunnerside, though then it would take him much longer to get back to Grinton – more like for dinnertime rather than lunch.

  Besides, even if she were only ten yards from him, he would never recognize her, not with the hat and the anorak, and not when he wasn’t expecting to see her.

  Annie had always marvelled at how, even in summer, you could walk for miles in the Dales and hardly see another soul. In winter you were even less likely to bump into someone. Along the tops, after emerging from Skelgate Lane into open moorland, she passed a small group of ramblers, probably a club, going the other way. Everyone politely said good morning as they passed by. After that, she couldn’t see a soul except Dalton, a good half mile or more ahead, wearing a distinctive red anorak. It certainly made him easy to keep in her sights.

  The guidebook advised her to pause and enjoy views of Fremington Edge back in the east and Harkerside on the opposite side of the valley, but though she glanced occasionally at the cloud shadows drifting over the greenish-brown hillsides, with their distinctive patterns of drystone walls – one field shaped like a milk jug, another like a teacup – Annie was in no mood for sightseeing.

  Still, up here on the heights looking down on the valley below reminded her of cliff walks around St Ives with her father when she was younger. How he used to point out examples of interesting perspectives, shapes, textures and colours in the landscape, how he was always stopping to sketch frantically in the book he carried with him, eyes and brain tuned to his fingers. At moments like those she might as well not have been there; she didn’t exist.

  All that was missing today was the crashing of the waves and the screeching of gulls. Instead, hares hopped through the spent heather, and grouse broke cover. The weather turned nasty for a few minutes along the daleside, with a brisk west wind whipping up and at one point blowing a brief hailstorm at her. She had to lean forward into the wind to make progress, looking up occasionally to see the red anorak in the distance.

  By the time she came to the steep descent into the village of Healaugh, the wind and hail had all gone, and as she walked through the quiet streets she could almost believe it was summer. A man in a white coat stood selling meat and vegetables to villagers from the back of a small van. Everyone paused and looked at her as she walked past. None of them smiled or said anything; they just stared. It was an odd feeling. They didn’t exactly seem unfriendly, but aloof, a little mournful even, as if they were telling her that their world was not hers and never would be, that she was merely passing through it and she should keep going.

  She did.

  Shortly beyond the village, which was the turning point in the walk, the path led her through a field down to the riverside. She could see Dalton’s red anorak ahead appearing and disappearing between the bare alders that lined the Swale. Empty brown seed cones still clung to many of the branches, making the trees look chocolate brown.

  The closer she got, the more nervous and confused Annie became. She still wasn’t physically afraid of him, but Dalton’s arrival in Eastvale, and the memories it stirred, had played havoc with her usually calm emotional centre. For one thing, she didn’t know what to say to him. What did you say to a man who had been a willing accessory to your rape, a man who would have raped you himself if you hadn’t managed to wriggle free from his grasp and escape? How would he react? Perhaps, she began to think, this wasn’t such a good idea after all. It would be easy enough just to turn left at the swing bridge and walk up to Reeth, where her car was parked on the cobbles by the green, and forget the whole thing, get back to work.

  But she kept on going.

  It was only a small bridge. At that point, the river meandered through meadowland where cows grazed. It was, however, a genuine swing bridge and Annie experienced a frisson of fear as she walked the wooden planks and felt it sway. While not exactly phobic, she had always been a little nervous of bridges, though she didn’t know why.

  Dalton had paused by the riverbank on the other side, about a hundred yards or so ahead, and he appeared to be watching her approach. Feeling a little dizzy, Annie stayed on the bridge and pretended to admire the view, waiting for him to carry on. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was and kept on looking at her. Her heart was in her mouth. Did he recognize her? Had he known she was following him all along?

  There was only one thing to do if she wasn’t going to run. She walked through the gate at the far end of the bridge and along the grassy path to where he stood. All the way he kept looking at her, but she still didn’t sense any recognition on his part. Her fear was quickly turning into anger. How dare he not recognize her after what he had done? She tried to take long deep breaths to keep herself calm and centred. They helped a little.

  Finally, about five or six yards away from Dalton, she stopped and took off her hat, letting her wavy chestnut hair fall free to her shoulders. She saw the recognition now. He hadn’t known who she was before, she could tell, but he did now. She even heard the sharp intake of his breath.

  ‘You,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Wayne,’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s me. Nice to see you again.’

  Banks awoke from a disturbing dream at about eight o’clock on Sunday morning. He had been walking in an unfamiliar landscape, which kept switching between rural and urban settings. There was a river somewhere, or perhaps a canal. Whatever it was, there was a sense in the dream that it was never far away. It was always raining and always twilight no matter where he was or how long he seemed to walk. Other people drifted by like shadows, but nobody he knew. He had the feeling that he was supposed to be following someone, but he didn’t know who or why.

  Suddenly he found himself on a green iron bridge, and a man was walking just in front of him. At that point, Banks felt panic gather, felt as if he couldn’t breathe and wanted to wake up and break out of it. The man turned. He wasn’t a monster, though, just a perfectly ordinary-looking man.

  ‘I know you’ve been looking for me,’ he said to Banks, smiling. ‘My name’s Graham Marshall. I was in the army. Then I had my hair cut. Now I’m in the rain. Emily’s with me, too, but she can’t appear to you right now.’ Then he went on to tell a garbled life story of which Banks could remember nothing when he woke in a cold sweat to church bells ringing in the distance.

  It was still dark outside, so Banks turned on the bedside light. He was in a small hotel near King’s Cross, not the place he had stayed with Annie and Emily. Somehow, going back there
hadn’t seemed like a good idea.

  When he had taken stock of himself, he realized with relief that he felt only mildly hung over. That was, he remembered, because he had declined the invitation to repair to Burgess’s flat and drink whisky all night. Surely he wasn’t getting wiser in his old age? Anyway, he was glad that all they’d done was visit a few pubs and down a few pints. It must have been a dull evening for Burgess, though; they hadn’t got into any fights or picked up any women. Mostly, Burgess had talked about Clough, and Banks got the impression that even if he didn’t manage to pin Emily’s murder on Clough himself, the man’s days of freedom were limited.

  The only problem with Clough as a suspect, thought Banks, was that he stood to gain nothing by Emily’s death. Still, there was always the chance that she had stolen from him, as Ruth Walker had suggested, or that she knew too much about his business activities, though Banks thought she would have told him if that were the case. It was also possible that Clough only thought she knew something she didn’t. This was assuming, of course, that the whole matter was one of logic and profit. What if it wasn’t? Clough was certainly capable of killing, and if Emily had humiliated him in any way, then he was probably capable of killing her out of sheer malice.

  Banks got up and poured himself a glass of water. The beer and the dream had left him with a dry mouth. As he showered in the tiny stall, he put the Graham Marshall dream out of his mind and found himself thinking again of what Ruth had said, how her words had cast suspicion even on Riddle himself, someone Banks had completely overlooked as a suspect.

  He found it hard to take it seriously that a man like Jimmy Riddle would deliberately give his daughter cocaine laced with strychnine, even if for some obscure reason he did want her dead. And her death had done nothing to free Riddle of the shame of her exploits; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect, and already the tabloids were raking up stories of the chief constable’s daughter and her wild life. That wouldn’t do his budding political career any good at all, or his standing in the force, either.