Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’

  ‘You certain?’

  ‘Certain.’

  Gerald shrugged. ‘Up to you.’ He poured two glasses of Port Ellen, very generous measures, Banks thought, set one in front of himself and another in front of Banks. ‘Slainte,’ he said, and knocked it back in one.

  ‘Slainte,’ said Banks, and took a little sip. Heaven. He set the glass down. ‘It’s a guest called Clough we’re interested in. Barry Clough. Apparently he’s a regular in grouse season.’

  ‘Aye, he’s that, all right.’

  Banks caught the tone of disapproval in his voice. ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ said Ferguson, pouring himself another Port Ellen. Banks guessed it wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last one of the day, either. At least this time he sipped it slowly.

  ‘Tell us what you do think of him, then.’

  ‘He’s a thug in fancy dress. And as for that factotum of his—’

  ‘Jamie Gilbert?’

  ‘If that’s his name. The one with the queer hair.’

  ‘That’s him. Go on.’

  Ferguson took another sip of whisky and lowered his voice. ‘This place used to have a bit of class, do you know that? I’ve worked here going on twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all come and go. We’ve had MPs – a prime minister and an American president once – judges, foreign dignitaries, businessmen from the City, and some of them might have been stingy bastards, but they all had one thing in common: they were gentlemen.’

  ‘And now?’

  Ferguson snorted. ‘Now? I wouldn’t give you twopence for the crowd we get these days.’ He glanced over at the doors again. ‘Not since he came.’

  ‘Mr Lacey?’

  ‘Mr George bloody Lacey, General Manager. Him and his new ideas. Modernization, for crying out loud.’ He pointed towards the windows. ‘What do you need modernization for when you’ve got the best bloody view in the world and all nature on your doorstep? Tell me the answer to that, if you can.’

  Banks, who knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, gave a sympathetic nod.

  ‘Since he came,’ Ferguson went on, ‘we’ve had nothing but bloody pop stars, actors, television personalities, whiz-kids from the stock market. Christ, we’ve even had bloody women. Sorry love, no offence intended, but grouse shooting never used to be much of a woman’s sport.’ He knocked back another mouthful of Port Ellen.

  Annie smiled, but Banks had seen that one before; she didn’t mean it. Ferguson had better watch out.

  ‘Half of them don’t even know one end of a shotgun from t’other,’ Ferguson went on. ‘It’s a wonder we don’t have more accidents, I tell you. But they’ve got plenty of money to throw about. Oh, aye. Take a bloke like that there Clough. Thinks if he tosses you a few bob at the start of the evening you’re at his beck and call for the rest of the night. Pillock. And Mary, she’s one of the lasses that clean the rooms. Nice lass, but a couple of bob short of a pound, if you know what I mean. The stories she’s told me about some of the things she’s found.’

  ‘Like what?’ Banks asked.

  Ferguson thrust his face forward and whispered. ‘Syringes, for a start.’

  ‘In Clough’s room?’

  ‘No. That were one of the pop stars. Stayed here a week and never once came out of his room. I ask you. Money to throw away, that lot.’

  ‘Back to Barry Clough, Mr Ferguson.’

  Ferguson laughed and scratched his head. ‘Aye. Sorry. I do run off at the mouth sometimes, don’t I? You got me started on one of my little hobby horses.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Banks, ‘but can you tell us any more about Barry Clough?’

  ‘What sort of things would you be wanting to know?’

  ‘Did you see much of him while he was here?’

  ‘Aye. I was on the bar every night – I get help when we’re busy, like. Mandy, one of the local girls from Longbridge – and Clough was always here for drinks before dinner, and most times he ate here, too.’ Ferguson looked around and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘They say the food’s spectacular here, but if you ask me there’s nowt edible. Foreign muck, for the most part.’

  ‘But Mr Clough enjoyed it?’

  ‘He did. And he knew what wines to order with what courses – we’ve got a wine waiter, sommelier, as he likes to call himself, the stuck-up bugger – from his Châteauneuf-du-bloody-Pape to his Sauternes and his vintage port. See, he’s got all the trappings, the expensive clothes – Armani, Paul Smith – all the top-quality shooting gear and what have you, and he thinks he’s got style, but you can tell he’s common as muck underneath it all. Must’ve read a bluffer’s guide, but he couldn’t fool me. There’s one thing you can’t fake: class. Like I said, a thug. Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘We don’t know that he’s done anything yet.’

  ‘I’ll bet you suspect him of something, though, don’t you? Stands to reason. You mark my words, bloke like him, he’s bound to have done something. Bound to.’

  ‘Did you talk to him much?’

  ‘Like I said, he came on like he thought he was a gentleman, but he couldn’t pull it off. For a start, a real gentleman wouldn’t pass the time of day talking to the likes of me. He might make a friendly comment on the weather or the quality of that day’s shooting, but that’s as far as he’d go. There are clear lines. This Clough, though, chatty as anything, propping up the bar, drinking his bloody Cosmopolitans and smoking his Cuban cigars. And that bloody ponytail.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  ‘Nothing much, when all’s said and done. Football. Seems he’s an Arsenal supporter. I’m a Newcastle man, myself. Goes on about his villa in Spain, about going to parties with all these bloody celebrities. As if I give a toss.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about his business?’

  ‘Not that I recall. What is it?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know.’

  ‘Well, I won’t say some people don’t sometimes let something slip, you know. Comes with the job. I’ve actually managed one or two good investments over the years based on things I’ve heard on this job, but don’t tell anyone that. I’m paid to stand behind this bar all bloody night and sometimes people, they look on you as a sort of father confessor, not that I’m Catholic or anything. Straight C of E.’

  ‘Not Clough, though?’

  ‘No. That’s why I can hardly remember a word he said.’

  ‘Was he with a party?’

  ‘Yes. About five or six of them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They were a mixed bunch. There was that pretty young pop singer whose picture you see all over the place these days, the one where she’s wearing hardly more than a pair of gold silk knickers. Amanda Khan, she’s called. Touch of the tarbrush. Lovely skin, though.’

  Banks had seen the image in question; it was on the cover of her new CD and also graced posters in HMV and Virgin Records. She looked about as old as Emily Riddle.

  ‘Couldn’t even hold a bloody gun, her, let alone shoot one. Still, I must say she seemed a nice enough lass, especially for a pop singer. Polite. And far too nice, not to mention too young, for the likes of Clough.’

  ‘Was she with him?’

  ‘What do you mean? Were they sleeping together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever they get up to when the bar closes is none of my business.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that they were sleeping together?’

  ‘Well, they did seem a bit close, and I did see him touch her every now and then. You know, put an arm around her, pat her bum, that sort of thing. More as if she were a possession he kept wanting to touch than anything else.’

  That sounded like Clough, Banks thought. It hadn’t taken him long to get another girl. ‘Who else?’

  Ferguson scratched his head again. Banks took another sip of the fiery malt. ‘I didn’t recognize any of the others. I’m s
ure our Mr Lacey will let you have a look at the registration book, or bloody diskette or whatever he calls it now. Used to have a nice big black leather-bound book. Must’ve been worth a bob or two. But now it’s all bloody computer disks and websites. I ask you. Websites.’

  Banks slipped the photograph of Emily Riddle out of his briefcase. ‘Did he ever meet this girl?’

  Some of the colour left Ferguson’s face. ‘So that’s what it’s all about, is it? I know who she is, poor lass. I read about her in the papers. You think he did it? Clough?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘That’s why we’re asking these questions.’

  ‘I can’t give him an alibi,’ said Ferguson. ‘Like I said, I saw him most evenings, but never during the day. He could have slipped out any time, really.’

  ‘An alibi’s not much use in a case like this,’ Banks said. ‘At the moment it’s enough to know that he was in the area at the time.’

  ‘Oh, he was in the area, all right.’

  ‘Did you see him meet anyone outside his party?’

  ‘Only the once.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I can’t recall if it was Sunday or Monday. I think it must have been Sunday. That was the day we had the saddle of lamb. Would have been nice, too, if it hadn’t been for all them fancy herbs and sauces cook sloshes over everything he makes. Another drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Sure you won’t have a drop, Miss?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘Gerald. I told you, it’s Gerald.’

  Annie smiled that non-smile again. ‘No, Gerald.’

  He beamed at her. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘This person Clough met,’ Banks said. ‘Man or a woman?’

  ‘Man. You know, there was something familiar about him, but I just can’t put my finger on it right now.’

  ‘A media personality?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’ve seen him in the papers.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘About six foot something. Bit dour-looking, as if he’d just been sucking on a lemon. Didn’t seem at all comfortable to be there. Only drank mineral water. Kept looking around.’

  ‘Could you tell if they’d met before?’

  ‘Hard to say, really. If I had to guess, I’d say it was their first meeting. I don’t know why, but there you are. What you lot would call a hunch.’

  ‘Did you hear any of what they said?’

  ‘No. I was here, behind the bar, and they had a window table.’

  ‘Did they seem friendly?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no, they didn’t. The bloke got up and left before his main course arrived.’

  ‘Were they arguing?’

  ‘If they were, they were doing it quietly. He was certainly red in the face when he left, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Clough?’

  ‘No, the other fellow. Clough was as cool as a cucumber.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about this man?’

  ‘Bald as a coot, heavy eyebrows. There was something else familiar about him, too, about his bearing, as if maybe he was a military man or something. No . . . there’s still something missing.’

  ‘A uniform, perhaps?’ Banks suggested, feeling the tingle at the bottom of his spine. ‘A police uniform?’

  Ferguson’s eyes opened wide. ‘By George, I think you’ve got it. He was wearing a suit that night, but if you picture him in a uniform . . . You’re right. I’ve seen him on telly opening farm shows and spouting about crime figures being down. Mr Riddle, that’s who it was, now I think back. Your own chief constable. I wonder what all that was about.’

  Great, thought Banks, with that sinking feeling. Just what we need. He had sensed something odd about Riddle the night he went to break the news of Emily’s murder. Riddle had mentioned Clough immediately, though Banks had never told him the man’s name, and he was damn sure Emily hadn’t.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ferguson,’ he said, slugging back the last millimetre of Port Ellen. ‘Thank you very much. We might need to talk to you again, if that’s all right?’

  ‘You know where I am. We’ll try the Caol Ila twenty-two-year-old next time you drop by. Lovely drop of malt. It’ll knock your socks off.’

  Banks felt as if his socks had been knocked off already as he walked out into the evening darkness. Neither he nor Annie could think of anything to say. He felt tired. His brain couldn’t even grapple with the consequences of what Gerald Ferguson had just told him about Chief Constable Riddle dining with Barry Clough. There was too much to take in. But he couldn’t let it lie; he had to confront Riddle, and the sooner the better.

  Banks still felt tired when he pulled up yet again in front of the Old Mill that night. Annie had seemed annoyed at the station when he told her he wanted to confront Riddle alone with Ferguson’s story, but she hadn’t argued. Riddle was chief constable, after all, and Banks didn’t want to give the appearance of a formal interrogation, the way it would appear if two detectives turned up on his doorstep. He wanted an honest explanation, though he had his own ideas about what had transpired, and he believed that Riddle would give him one. It was a job he would have gladly delegated if he thought that was at all possible, but it wasn’t. He was still SIO, and if anyone was going to face Chief Constable Riddle with this new development, then it had to be Banks.

  Riddle himself answered the door and invited Banks in.

  ‘Ros is out, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘She’s visiting Charlotte King, our neighbour. Benjamin’s in bed.’

  They walked through to the large living room and sat down. Riddle didn’t offer anything in the way of refreshments, which was fine; Banks didn’t want anything. He blamed the small whisky he’d had at Scarlea for his tiredness. ‘How’s he taking everything?’ he asked. ‘Benjamin.’

  ‘He doesn’t know what’s happened. He knows that his sister has gone to live with Jesus, and he misses her terribly. He keeps asking if it’s something to do with the funny pictures of her in the computer.’

  ‘What do you tell him?’

  ‘That it’s not. To forget about that. But it seems he can’t. We’re going to send him to stay with his grandparents – Ros’s mother and father down in Barnstaple – after the funeral. He’s always got along well with them and we think a change of scene will do him good.’

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. The coroner released the body as quickly as she could.’ He paused. ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘If I wouldn’t be intruding.’

  ‘For better or for worse, you’re part of this.’

  Banks wished to hell he weren’t, but Riddle was right. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And your wife? How’s Mrs Riddle doing?’

  ‘She’s bearing up. Ros is strong. She’ll survive. Anyway, you’re not here to make small talk about my family, Banks. What is it? Have there been any developments?’

  Banks paused. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘As a matter of fact there have.’

  ‘Out with it, then.’

  ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘More bad news?’ Banks noticed a quick flash of fear in Riddle’s eyes, something he had never seen there before. Riddle averted his gaze. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I like it or not,’ he said. ‘Things have gone too far for that. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have even imagined having you in my house, let alone inviting you to my daughter’s funeral. It doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about you, Banks, just that circumstances have changed.’

  ‘I’ve been useful to you.’

  ‘And haven’t I fulfilled my part of the bargain?’

  ‘What were you doing having dinner with Barry Clough at Scarlea House on Sunday, December the sixth?’

  Riddle paused before answering. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t find out about that,’ he said. ‘Too much to hope for, I suppose.’

  ‘You should
have known.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Anyway, I didn’t have dinner with him. I left before things went that far.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs. You met him. Why?’

  ‘Because he asked me to.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two days earlier.’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Yes. He telephoned me at the station and said he was coming up to Yorkshire for the end of the grouse season the next day, that he’d like to meet me to talk about Emily. That’s all he would tell me on the telephone.’

  ‘He called her Emily?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Louisa?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he’d found out who she was?’

  ‘Oh, he’d found out all right. Starting with her conversation with you in his living room.’

  ‘Bugged?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what he told me, anyway.’

  ‘What did he want with you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘In a nutshell. I’ve come across his kind before, Banks. They collect people they think they might be able to use at some point.’

  ‘Tell me about your conversation.’

  Riddle scowled. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do mean?’

  ‘Putting me on the receiving end. Isn’t this what you’ve always dreamed about?’

  ‘You overestimate your importance to me,’ said Banks, ‘and to be perfectly honest, the answer’s no, I’m not enjoying it. I haven’t enjoyed any of this. Not breaking the news to you about Emily’s death, not questioning you and your wife about her movements, and certainly not this. I’ve had the feeling that one or both of you has been lying or concealing things right from the start, and now I have some concrete evidence of it. I still wish I could simply wash my hands of the lot of you, but I can’t. I’ve got my job to do, and, believe it or not, I feel that I owe your daughter something.’

  ‘Why? What did she ever do for you?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s not it at all.’

  ‘What is, then?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. Let’s just get back to that Sunday dinner at Scarlea, shall we? What did Clough want to talk to you about?’

  ‘What do you think? He’d discovered that I’m chief constable and that I was contemplating entering politics. The idea of having such an influential person in his pocket appealed to him.’