Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  Then there was Rosalind Riddle. Banks had had a strange feeling about her right from the start, when Riddle first asked him to go to London and find Emily. Rosalind hadn’t appeared to want Emily back home for some reason. More recently, Rosalind had denied ever hearing of Ruth Walker, yet Ruth said she had spoken to her on the telephone on several occasions. That probably meant nothing, Banks realized, merely a lapse of memory, a misheard name over a poor connection, but Rosalind’s role in all this still nagged away at the back of his mind. She was holding something back; of that he was certain. Whether it was important to the investigation or not, he couldn’t say. All families have secrets that can fester away behind their protective walls.

  Banks decided for the moment to concentrate on the line of inquiry he was pursuing in London, where Emily had done most of her drug-taking and mixed with a rough crowd: primarily Clough, of course, who lied about everything; then Ruth Walker, who remained a bit of an enigma to him, yet seemed a woman embittered far beyond her years; and finally Craig Newton, hurt ex-boyfriend-turned-stalker, and one-time amateur porn photographer, whom Banks was going to visit again that day.

  After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast and a short walk around St Pancras Gardens to clear his head, Banks felt ready to face the day. He was only about half a mile away from Euston, so he walked through the quiet streets of Somers Town to Eversholt Street. The train service to Milton Keynes was frequent, even on Sunday, and he only had to wait twenty minutes for an InterCity.

  Watching the urban sprawl of London give way to prime commuter territory set amidst rolling fields and grazing cows, Banks wrote up his notes on the previous evening’s talk with Barry Clough. Sometimes he took notes at the time, especially of important details, but that hadn’t seemed appropriate standing in the white room with Clough and Burgess. Fortunately, though his memory was average in most respects, he had excellent audio recall and could remember a conversation practically verbatim for at least a couple of days.

  He also thought about the coming interview with Craig Newton and tried to come up with a strategy. It was official business this time, not private-eye work for Jimmy Riddle. Approaching Craig Newton and getting any sort of trust out of him would be a delicate and difficult matter after all the lies he had told on his last visit. It had been the same with Ruth Walker, and Craig Newton struck him as a far more sensitive person than Ruth. On the other hand, Craig had lied to Banks, too.

  Though it was his first visit in daylight, he still saw nothing of Milton Keynes on the taxi ride to Newton’s house, except a few glimpses of concrete and glass. Perhaps that was all there was to see.

  Craig Newton was at home, and though he seemed puzzled to see Banks again, he invited him into the house. It hadn’t changed much since the last visit, still very much the bachelor house, with little piles of newspapers and magazines here and there and coffee rings on the low table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Craig. ‘You know . . . about your daughter. I read about it in the newspaper.’

  Banks felt like an utter shit. Craig seemed the trusting sort, and here he was, letting him down. Still, a hard lesson in the reality of deception probably wouldn’t do the kid any harm in the long run. Having been a policeman for years, Banks had long since stopped trying to make everybody like him. He still felt like an utter shit as he pulled out his warrant card, though.

  Craig gaped at him. ‘But . . . you said . . .? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s simple, Craig,’ said Banks, sitting down. ‘I lied. Emily’s father wanted me to find her, and it seemed a good idea to pretend that I was him instead of trying to explain myself. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so, but . . .’

  ‘It was a simple strategy. Anyone would have more sympathy for the girl’s father than for a policeman.’

  ‘So you lied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He seemed to draw in on himself. ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘More information. I’m not the only one who lied, am I, Craig?’

  ‘You talked to Louisa?’

  ‘You must have known I would.’

  ‘What did she say about me?’

  ‘That you were bothering her, following her, stalking her.’

  ‘I’d never have done her any harm. I was just . . . I . . .’

  ‘What, Craig?’

  ‘I loved her. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘It didn’t give you the right to follow her around and scare her when she didn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Scare her? That’s a laugh. She hardly noticed me.’

  ‘Clough did, though, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Craig. You knew his name, didn’t you? You just didn’t want me to talk to him about your stalking Emily.’

  Craig rubbed his nose. ‘The bastard.’

  ‘Never a truer word. Anyway, let’s leave that behind us for the moment, shall we?’

  ‘Fine with me. Her real name is Emily. Is that right?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘And Gamine?’

  ‘A joke. It’s an anagram of enigma, which is a sort of riddle. Emily Louise Riddle was her real name, and her father’s my boss.’

  ‘I see. You probably didn’t have much choice, then. I suppose I shouldn’t have believed you in the first place, should I? I feel like a real idiot now.’

  ‘No need to. What reason could you possibly have had to think I was lying?’

  ‘None. But still . . . I had my suspicions. I told you. I thought there was something funny about you, the way you kept asking questions.’

  Banks smiled. ‘Yes, I remember. So credit yourself with that and let’s move on.’

  ‘I can’t see there’s anything I could possibly tell you that’s of any use. The papers said she took some poisoned cocaine in a club, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you ever supply Emily with cocaine, Craig?’

  ‘No. I’m not a dealer. I never have been.’

  ‘A user?’

  ‘I’ve snorted it on occasion. Not for a long time, though.’

  ‘She must have got it from somewhere.’

  ‘Ask her new boyfriend.’

  ‘I doubt that was the first time she took it.’

  ‘Well, ask Ruth’s friends, then. It certainly wasn’t me.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Ruth’s friends”?’

  ‘Just that they’re more into drugs than I am, that’s all.’

  ‘Selling?’

  ‘No. Just recreational. The music scene. Clubbing. That sort of thing.’

  ‘What about strychnine?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Ever have cause to use it in your line of work?’

  ‘I’m not a bloody rat-catcher, you know.’

  ‘I mean photography.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you last Thursday?’

  Craig frowned. ‘Thursday? I don’t remember. I could check . . . just a minute. That might have been the day . . .’ He got up and pulled a pocket diary from his jacket out in the hall. When he opened it to the right date, he looked relieved. ‘Yes, that was the day. I was in Buckingham doing some publicity shots for the university.’

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘The person who was putting the promotional brochure together. A lecturer from the law department. Canadian bloke. I can give you his name.’

  ‘Please.’

  Craig gave it.

  ‘How long were you with him?’

  ‘For an hour or so in the morning.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I walked around and took the photos.’

  ‘So you were pretty much on your own the rest of the day?’

  ‘Yes, but people must have seen me. Am I a suspect?’

  ‘What do you think? Emily finished with you, and you stalked her. It wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing’s led to murder. Obviously, if you’ve got an alibi I ca
n cross you straight off my list. Makes life easier, that’s all.’

  But Craig Newton didn’t have an alibi. He could easily have driven from Buckingham to Eastvale in about three hours. Banks had thought about the timing and decided that, while there was no telling exactly when Emily had been given the poison that killed her, the odds were that she wouldn’t have left a stash of coke sitting around for too long without snorting any. There was also the fact that she was back living at home, and she wouldn’t dare do it around her parents. It wouldn’t be much fun at home alone, anyway, even if they were out. Coke was a social drug, and most likely she would have saved it for a party, or a night out clubbing. It made most sense, then, that whoever had given her the stuff had given it to her on Thursday afternoon, after first giving her a sample of perfectly good, uncontaminated cocaine. That would explain why she turned up a bit high at the Cross Keys.

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I told you: I loved her.’

  ‘Craig, if you’d been in this business as long as I have, you’d realize that love is one of the strongest motives.’

  ‘It might be in the twisted world you live in, but pardon me if I haven’t had the chance to become that cynical. I loved her. I wouldn’t have harmed her.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Banks. ‘What kind of car do you drive?’

  ‘Nissan.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘White. I suppose you want the number too?’

  ‘Please.’

  Craig told him. It meant nothing yet, but if they came across someone who had seen Emily getting into a car, then it could be of value. ‘You should be going after that boyfriend of hers, you know,’ he went on. ‘Instead of harassing innocent people like me.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Believe me, Craig, he’s never far from my thoughts. And I’m not harassing you. You’d know it if I was.’

  ‘Why don’t you arrest him?’

  ‘No evidence. You overestimate our powers. We can’t just go around arresting people without any evidence.’ Actually, he could, but Craig wasn’t to know that, and he couldn’t be bothered to explain the difference between ‘arrest’ and ‘charge’. ‘Look, Craig, I realize you’re not enjoying this, but I didn’t enjoy seeing Emily’s body, either.’

  ‘Was it . . .? I mean . . . I’ve heard about what strychnine does.’

  ‘Did you ever contact Emily after she’d gone home?’

  ‘I didn’t even know she’d gone home. You never told me whether you’d found her or not, or whether she’d agreed to go back. To be honest, if I didn’t read the papers pretty thoroughly, I wouldn’t even have known she was dead. I recognized the photo, but not her name.’

  ‘I understand you were in London yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with you, but I had two business appointments – they are listed here in my appointment book, so you can check them if you want – and I also wanted to have a look at some new photographic equipment. The high street here may be quaint, but you must have noticed that it’s hardly chock-a-block with camera shops.’

  ‘And you had a drink with Ruth Walker?’

  ‘Again, that’s right.’

  ‘She had a cold, didn’t she?’

  ‘She was sniffling a bit, yeah. So what?’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘We were both stunned to hear of Louisa’s death. I suppose we wanted to mourn her together for a while, toast our memories of her. She’d been important to both of us, after all.’

  ‘Could Ruth have been jealous of you and Emily?’

  ‘I can’t see why. It’s not as if Ruth and me were ever lovers or anything.’

  ‘But she might have wanted it that way.’

  ‘She never said anything. Like I told you before, Ruth and me were just good friends. There was nothing . . . you know . . . like that between us.’

  ‘At least not in your mind.’

  ‘It’s the only one I can speak for.’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted there to be something?’

  Craig shrugged. ‘I didn’t fancy her in that way, and I’m pretty sure she knew it. Besides, what you’re suggesting is absurd. If Ruth had to be jealous of anyone, it should have been the new boyfriend. He took Louisa completely away from both of us.’

  ‘Jealousy’s rarely rational, Craig. Emily breezed in and out of your lives and tossed you both aside. At least that’s how Ruth put it. How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Ruth can be a bit melodramatic when the mood takes her. How did I feel? You know damn well how I felt. I told you last time you were here, when you were pretending to be her father. I was devastated. Hurt. Heartbroken. But I got over it.’

  ‘Only after you’d followed her around for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not proud of that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  ‘Maybe you weren’t thinking clearly when you killed her?’

  ‘That’s absurd. No matter how cynical you are, I loved her and I would never have hurt her.’

  ‘So you said. Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Look, are you suggesting I killed her over three months after she dumped me?’

  ‘People have been known to brood for longer. Especially stalkers.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. And I’m getting sick of this. I don’t want to answer any more questions.’ He stood up. ‘And if you want anything more out of me, you’ll have to arrest me.’

  Banks sighed. ‘I don’t want to do that, Craig. Really, I don’t. Too much paperwork.’

  ‘Then you’d better leave. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘I suppose I had,’ said Banks, who had asked almost all the questions he wanted. ‘But there is one small thing you might be able to help me with.’

  Craig looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last time I came to see you, you told me that when you saw Emily with her boyfriend in London, you were taking candid pictures in the street, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you really taking pictures or just pretending for the sake of cover?’

  ‘I took some candids. Yes.’

  ‘Do you still have the photos from that day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have one of Clough?’

  ‘I think so, yes. Why?’

  ‘I know you’re pissed off at me, Craig, but would you do me a favour and make me a copy?’

  ‘I could do that. Again, though, why? Oh, I see. You want to show it around up north, don’t you? Find out if anyone saw him up there. I suppose he’s got a watertight alibi, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Banks. ‘Believe me, it would be a great help.’

  ‘At least you’re thinking in the right direction again,’ said Craig. ‘I can probably get some prints to you by tomorrow.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sooner the better.’

  ‘But I’d have to get set up. I mean . . . it’d take a bit of time.’

  ‘I can come back.’ Banks looked at his watch. Lunchtime. ‘How about I pop down to the nearest pub and have some lunch while you do the prints, then I’ll come back and pick them up.’

  Craig sighed. ‘Anything to get you off my back. Try the Plough, down by the roundabout, end of the high street. And you don’t need to come back. I’ll drop them off there. Half an hour to an hour, say?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Banks.

  ‘Will you do me a favour in exchange?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘When’s the funeral going to be?’

  ‘That depends on when the coroner releases the body.’

  ‘Will you let me know? Her parents don’t know me, so they won’t invite me, but I’d like . . . you know . . . at least to be there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Craig. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, I suppose I’d better get up to the darkroom.’r />
  Of all the different ways that Annie had tried to imagine this moment turning out – confronting her rapist – the one thing that had never occurred to her was that it would end with a sense of anticlimax, of disappointment.

  But disappointment was exactly what she felt as she stood in front of Wayne Dalton on the banks of the River Swale, with a steaming cow-pat between them. Indifference, even.

  Her heart was still pounding, but more from the anticipation and the long walk than from the actual encounter, and he looked like a guilty schoolboy caught masturbating in the toilets. But instead of the monster she had created in her mind, what stood before her was all too human. Dalton wasn’t frightening; he was pathetic.

  For a few moments they just stared at one another. Neither spoke. Annie felt herself calming down, becoming centred. Her heart returned to its normal rhythm; she was in control.

  Finally, Dalton broke the silence. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I work here. Eastvale. I followed you.’

  ‘My God. I never knew . . . What do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Annie replied honestly. ‘I thought I wanted revenge, but now I’m here it doesn’t seem important any more.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Dalton, avoiding her eyes, ‘there’s not a day gone by when I haven’t regretted that night.’

  ‘Regretted that you didn’t get to finish what you started?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. We were insane, Annie. I don’t know what happened. The drink. The herd mentality.’ He shook his head.

  ‘I know. I was there.’ Calm as she was inside, Annie felt tears prickling her eyes, and she hated the idea of crying in front of Dalton. ‘You know, I’ve dreamed of this moment, of meeting one of you alone like this, of crushing you. Now we’re here, though, it really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter, Annie. It matters to me.’

  ‘What do you mean? And don’t you dare call me Annie.’

  ‘Sorry. The guilt. That’s what I’m talking about. What I have to live with, day in, day out.’

  Annie couldn’t stop herself from laughing. ‘Oh, Wayne,’ she said, ‘that’s a good one. That’s a really good one. Are you asking me for forgiveness?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m asking for. Just for some . . . some sort of end, some resolution.’