Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  The headline screamed up at him: CHIEF CONSTABLE’S DAUGHTER MURDER CASE: WHAT ARE THEY HIDING? The story went on to tell of Emily’s association with ‘well-known club owner and man-about-town Barry Clough’, a man ‘the same age as her senior policeman father’. After a couple of not-so-subtle indications that ‘well-known club owner and man-about-town’ was shorthand for gangster, there were a couple of morally high-handed digressions of the ‘Do you know what your daughter’s doing and who she’s with tonight?’ sort before the reporter got to the real nitty-gritty: speculation about Clough expanding his ‘business empire’ up north, and about him and Riddle being involved in some sort of crooked partnership. Emily’s role in all this was left to the readers to guess.

  The article had obviously been vetted by the paper’s solicitors, and it stopped just short of libel. For example, never at any point did the reporter state that Riddle and Clough had met and talked, or that Riddle had known about Emily’s relationship with Clough – the reporter clearly hadn’t found out about Scarlea House yet – but the whole thing was a masterpiece of innuendo, and the implications in themselves were damaging enough. Banks could only imagine how Riddle’s political cronies would react to it.

  Banks also realized that the damage wouldn’t stop with the political set either; this sort of thing could also easily make Riddle a pariah on the job. Whether there was anything in them or not, such rumours could effectively end his police career. Already Banks suspected there were mutterings at high levels about a chief constable so careless as to let his own daughter get murdered while snorting cocaine in a nightclub. Not to mention the rumours of sex that went with it all. One way or another, as a politician or as a high-ranking copper, Banks imagined that Jimmy Riddle’s tenuous reign had come to an end. Humpty-Dumpty.

  What surprised Banks was that he felt sorry for the poor bastard.

  And what about Rosalind and Benjamin? What would all this do to them?

  Banks still remembered Ruth Walker’s final question to him only last Saturday: why did Emily’s father want her back, when he hadn’t appeared to care about her before? Banks had thought about that a lot since. At first he had suspected Riddle wanted her back to avoid more damage to his career and, to credit him with some fatherly feelings, because he was worried about her after he saw the photos on the porno website. Perhaps he was wrong about that. At some point in the investigation, the Riddles themselves had joined the group of suspects in Banks’s mind.

  The big problem with Jimmy Riddle as a suspect was that, whichever way you looked at it, Emily’s murder only made things worse for him. Sure, her continuing existence had always held out the risk of scandal, but her death guaranteed it. On the other hand, given the pressure that Riddle might have been under since Clough’s approach at Scarlea, something could have snapped in him.

  And what about Rosalind? She hadn’t particularly wanted Emily back at home. She had made that clear from the start. What if she had a good reason for it, and Emily had become, somehow, a threat to her? But how? Why? It still didn’t feel right, especially given the method, but perhaps it was time to start pushing the grieving parents a bit harder.

  A knock at his door jolted him out of his musings. It was DC Templeton.

  ‘Yes, Kev?’

  ‘Thought you’d like to know, sir, uniformed just brought Gregory Manners in. He’s waiting in interview room three.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be right there. Ask DS Hatchley to sit in, too, will you?’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘By the way, where’d they find him?’

  ‘Strangest place you could imagine.’

  ‘Oh? And where’s that?’

  DC Templeton grinned. ‘At home, sir. Nice little flat out Thirsk way.’

  Banks grinned back. ‘Oh, and Kev, there’s one more thing I’d like you to do.’

  Gregory Manners was a smoothie, right from his carefully combed, impossibly brown hair to the soles of his Italian loafers. He was good-looking in a way, and Banks could see that he might appeal to a certain kind of woman.

  The interview room was a dingy, airless sort of place with whitewashed walls, a tiny wire-mesh window and metal table and chairs bolted to the floor. The old blue ashtray, stolen from the Queen’s Arms, was gone now that smoking had been banned from the building, but the air still seemed to smell of stale smoke, sweat and fear. Manners sat there coolly, legs crossed, idly staring into space. When Banks and Hatchley entered, he asked why he had been brought there.

  Banks ignored him and checked the tapes in the recording machine. Hatchley sat impassive as Buddha, and almost as fat.

  The tapes worked. Banks went through the time, date and place routine, naming those present in the room, then he turned to Manners and said, ‘You’re here to help us with our inquiries, Mr Manners.’

  ‘What inquiries?’

  ‘Things will become clear as we move along.’

  Manners leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. ‘Should I have my lawyer present?’

  ‘I understand you put in a call to your solicitor before you left home.’

  ‘Before I was brought here, yes. And all I got was his answering machine.’

  ‘They’re busy people. You left a message?’

  ‘I told him to get up here sharpish.’

  ‘In the meantime, you’ve been offered the services of a duty solicitor?’

  ‘Some wet-behind-the-ears little pillock who can’t get a proper job?’

  ‘And you’ve declined?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Manners, let’s proceed with the interview. Just for the record, you haven’t been charged with anything yet so there’s no need to get overexcited. I’m sure your own solicitor will get here as soon as he possibly can, but in the meantime let’s just have a little chat, all right?’

  Manners narrowed his eyes but sat back in his chair and relaxed, crossing his legs again. ‘What do you want to know? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t.’ Banks took the CD case that Annie had found at PKF out of its envelope and pushed it over the rickety metal table to Manners. ‘Know what this is?’

  Manners looked at it. ‘It’s a CD box.’

  ‘Good. Maybe you can tell me what your fingerprints are doing on this particular CD box?’

  ‘I suppose I must have touched it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Indeed, you must have touched it. Can you tell me what you were doing at the Daleview Business Park?’

  ‘Daleview? Working. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Gregory. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I was doing. Working. I don’t understand this. I haven’t done anything illegal. Why are you questioning me?’

  ‘We want to know about the operations of PKF Computer Systems.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is that who you worked for at Daleview?’

  ‘Yes. But I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘And what if I told you that it’s a dummy company? That it doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Then I’d be very surprised indeed.’

  ‘Who set it up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘PKF.’

  ‘I did, of course. The whole thing’s me. Just me. Look, there must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake.’

  ‘A mistake with the paperwork. I was sure I did it right.’

  ‘There is no paperwork, Gregory. Bugger all. PKF doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Well, if it doesn’t exist, then I can hardly know anything about it, can I? So why don’t I just leave now?’

  ‘Sit down!’ Hatchley slammed his ham-sized fist on the table and the noise made Manners jump.

  ‘Hey,’ said Manners. ‘There’s no need for that. That’s intimidation.’

  ‘Any more of this bollocks, and I’ll show you what intimidation is,’ growled Hatchley.

  ‘I’m sure if you just answe
r my questions as clearly and fully as you can, DS Hatchley will listen as eagerly as I will, won’t you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Hatchley, ‘soon as he stops trying to feed us this crap.’

  Manners swallowed. ‘Look, what do you want to know? I’m sorry if I ballsed up the paperwork. Is it a criminal offence?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Banks, ‘but we’ll worry about that later.

  What did you do at PKF?’

  ‘Developed, produced and marketed a commercial database program.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘PKF.’

  ‘You invented this?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You worked alone?’

  ‘For the most part.’

  ‘It sounds like a lot of work for one person.’

  ‘I’ve never been afraid of hard work. On occasion, I hired casual labour to help with distribution and such things.’

  ‘People like Jonathan Fearn?’

  Manners frowned. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I might have, yes.’

  Banks took the photographs of Andrew Handley, Jamie Gilbert and Barry Clough out of his file folder and slid them across to Manners. ‘Ever seen any of these men?’

  ‘No.’

  Banks tapped the picture of Clough. ‘This one in particular,’ he said. ‘Go on, have a good look. Think about it.’

  ‘I told you. No.’

  ‘Didn’t you do six months for smuggling offences down south not long ago?’

  ‘I just happened to get caught doing something people get away with every day.’

  ‘You must be a heavy smoker and drinker, then.’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘So you were going to sell the goods you smuggled?’

  ‘Of course I was going to sell them. People go over to Calais and load up their cars every bloody weekend, for crying out loud. What’s this got to do with anything?’

  Banks tapped Clough’s photo again. ‘We have information that leads us to believe this man was behind both the smuggling operation and whatever PKF was up to.’

  ‘Then your information is wrong. I’ve never seen him in my life. Or the other two. I imported the stuff myself, and I also ran PKF. Which wasn’t up to anything, by the way. Maybe I got the paperwork wrong, maybe I just forgot to make everything all official, but if that’s why I’m here, just charge me and get it over with. You know I’ll be walking out the minute my lawyer gets here.’

  ‘Who said anything about charging you?’

  ‘I can’t understand why else you had me brought all this way.’

  ‘What’s happened to PKF?’

  ‘I’m sure you know already,’ said Manners. ‘The van was hijacked on its way to our new businesses premises in Northumbria and everything was stolen. There is no PKF any more.’

  ‘And the driver was killed.’

  ‘Yes. Very unfortunate, that.’

  ‘A Mr Fearn. Jonathan Fearn.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I said, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember his name. I simply hired him to do the job.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Mr Courage, the nightwatchman at Daleview, recommended him.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Banks, shuffling some papers in his folder. ‘Charlie Courage. Small-time villain. Must have got in over his head.’

  Manners frowned. ‘Come again?’

  ‘Funny you should mention Mr Courage, Greg. He also met with an unfortunate accident, shortly after Mr Fearn. He found himself at the wrong end of a shotgun.’

  ‘Yes, I read about that in the paper,’ said Manners. ‘It was a terrible shock. He seemed a decent enough bloke.’

  ‘He was a crook, but you know all about that. Let’s move on.’

  ‘By all means.’ Manners shifted in his chair and rearranged his legs.

  ‘Do you believe in coincidences?’

  ‘They happen all the time.’

  ‘And do you believe that the van getting hijacked, Jonathan Fearn dying of injuries received, and Charlie Courage being shot just happen to be coincidences?’

  ‘They could be.’

  ‘Why were you leaving Daleview?’

  ‘The rent was too expensive. This new place was cheaper, and the space was better. Bigger.’

  ‘Tell me again what PKF actually did.’

  ‘I manufactured and distributed a database system I invented.’

  ‘Background in computers? College?’

  ‘Self-taught. A lot of people in the business are.’

  ‘To whom did you distribute this software?’

  ‘Retailers.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Look, I’m sure I have a list somewhere. What is this all about?’

  The knock came at the door, as arranged, and it couldn’t have been better timed. Banks announced DC Templeton’s arrival and paused the tape. ‘What is it, Kev?’

  ‘Thought you might be interested in this, sir,’ said Templeton, glancing at Manners as he spoke. ‘It’s just come in from fingerprints. Those CD cases.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ He opened the file. Templeton left the office. Banks pored over the file frowning for a while, showed the papers to Hatchley, then he set the tapes going again.

  ‘This is interesting,’ he said to Manners.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Fingerprint results. Another CD case.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. You’ve already found my prints on the case. I’ve explained that to you already.’

  ‘But this is different, see, Greg,’ said Banks. ‘This is another CD case entirely.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I’ve touched more than one.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s where we found it and what it contained that interests me.’

  Manners seemed to turn a little pale. ‘I don’t . . . where did you find it?’

  ‘Shop called Castle Hill Books. Run by a man called Stan Fish. Ring any bells?’

  ‘He might have been one of my retailers.’

  ‘For your PKF database software?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then how come this particular CD case contained a brand new Sony PlayStation game?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the owner of the shop switched them around.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, I’d be inclined to believe that would be exactly the case, except . . .’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except we found your prints on six other CD cases containing the same game, and we have a lot more to test before we’re finished. Some of them contain a brand-new music CD by REM. Hardly even in the shops yet. Then there are a few word-processing programmes and so forth. Funny, though, Greg, no PKF database system.’

  Manners crossed his arms. ‘Right, that’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying another word until my lawyer gets here.’

  Two hours later, towards the end of the afternoon, Manners was still in custody waiting for his solicitor and Banks was in his office reading through witness statements when his telephone rang.

  It was Dirty Dick Burgess calling from London. ‘Guess what, Banks.’

  ‘You’ve been made head of the Race Relations Board?’

  ‘Very funny. No. But Andy Pandy’s turned up at last.’

  ‘Has he, indeed?’

  ‘Thought you’d be interested.’

  ‘Any chance of a chat with him in the near future?’

  ‘Not unless you fancy holding a seance. He’s dead. Dead as the proverbial doornail, though I never could see how a doornail could be dead as it was never alive in the first place. Anyway, enough philosophical speculation. He’s dead.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Pretty remote spot on the edge of Exmoor. I tell you, Banks, if it weren’t for the anorak brigade and the dog-walkers, bless their souls, we’d never find half the corpses we do.’

  ‘The long ride?’

  ‘Indeed so.’

  ‘Shotgun?’

  ‘Wound to the upper b
ody. Pretty close range. Not much left.’

  ‘Same as Charlie Courage. Any signs of torture?’

  ‘Christ, Banks, there’s hardly any signs of the poor bugger’s chest. What do you expect? Miracles?’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Andy Pandy’s been a naughty boy. He’s ripped off Mr Clough. Mr Clough doesn’t like being ripped off, so he sends Andy on the long ride. Way I see it.’

  ‘And Charlie Courage?’

  ‘Part of it. Hardly an innocent bystander, from what you told me.’

  ‘He was taking money from Clough, or from Clough’s local oppo Gregory Manners, to make sure PKF operated without hassles. Then suddenly, PKF is moving and Charlie’s bonuses are gone. I think Charlie knew where PKF was moving to, and when. And I think Andy Pandy came along with a better offer.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s pissed off with Clough for taking him for granted. He wants more respect.’ And he’s also angry with Clough over the incident with Emily, when she kicked him in the balls, Banks thought.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Burgess, sounding unconvinced.

  ‘So he hijacks the van to set up his own business. The van’s full of PKF stock, but more important than that, it’s also carrying two or three multi-disc-copying machines, very valuable pieces of equipment. He thinks Clough will never guess in a million years that he did it. But Clough’s no fool. He sends a couple of goons up to push Charlie around a bit. Now, Charlie might have been a crook, but no one ever said he was a brave man. Charlie rats on Andy Pandy under torture, and they’re both history. I wondered why Gregory Manners was still alive.’