Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Manners was in charge of PKF, so he must have been Clough’s first suspect. Clough put the frighteners on him and Manners must have convinced him he had nothing to do with the hijack. Maybe Manners told him Andy Pandy had been hanging about asking questions. We’ll probably never know for sure now.’

  ‘So what do we do next?’

  ‘We’ll keep showing the photographs around Daleview. I’ve also got Gregory Manners kicking his heels in the cells here waiting for his lawyer, so maybe I’ll have another chat with him first.’

  ‘He won’t tell you anything. Too shit-scared of Clough.’

  ‘Probably, but I can push him a bit harder. It’d be nice to threaten him with conspiracy to commit murder or something juicy like that. At the moment there’s nothing much except pirating software to hold him on, and that’ll probably never stick. Minute his lawyer gets here he’ll be off.’

  ‘And what’s the betting you’ll never see him again?’

  ‘I’d put money on it.’

  ‘So where do we go with Andy Pandy?’

  ‘We’ll have a hell of a job proving it’s anything to do with Clough,’ Banks said. ‘Anything at the scene?’

  ‘Tyre track.’

  Banks thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think it’s about time we brought Mr Clough up north for a chat. But first, I’ve got an idea.’

  It was late, and Banks was listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s interpretation of Beethoven’s ‘Spring’ violin sonata and reading a biography of Ian Fleming when he heard a car draw up outside. That was unusual in itself. The dirt lane that ran in front of his cottage ended at the woods about ten yards farther on, where it became a narrow path between the trees and Gratly Beck. Occasionally, tourists would take the wrong road and have to back out, but not at that time of night, or that time of year.

  Curious, Banks put down his book, walked over to the window and opened the curtains a few inches. A sporty-looking car, to judge from its shape, had pulled up in front of the cottage and a woman was getting out. He couldn’t make out her features, as it was pitch black outside; she was wearing a scarf, and there were no street lamps on the isolated lane. He would soon find out, though, he thought, as she walked to up to his front door and knocked.

  When he opened it and saw Rosalind Riddle take off her scarf, he must have looked surprised enough to embarrass her. in.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’

  ‘No,’ said Banks. ‘No, not at all.’ He stood aside. ‘Come

  As she passed close to him in the doorway he felt her breast brush lightly against his arm, and he thought he could smell juniper berries on her breath. Gin, most likely. He took her fur coat and hung it in the cupboard by the door. Underneath, she was wearing a simple pastel blue dress; more suitable, Banks thought, for summer than for a miserable winter’s night like this one. Still, with a mink on top, you didn’t really need anything underneath. He stopped that line of thought before it went any further.

  ‘This is nice,’ she said, standing and looking around the small room, with its blue walls and melting-Brie ceiling. Banks had hung a couple of watercolours he had picked up at auctions on the walls, and a blow-up of what he thought the best of Sandra’s photographs took pride of place over the mantelpiece. It had been taken, coincidentally, not far away from the cottage where Banks now lived alone, and it showed the view down the daleside to Helmthorpe in late evening, with a red-and-orange sunset sprawled across the sky, smoke drifting from the chimneys, the church with its square tower and odd little turret attached to one corner, the dark graveyard where sheep grazed among the lichen-stained tombstones, and crooked rows of flagstone roofs. He and Sandra might no longer be together, but that didn’t mean he rejected her talent. There wasn’t much furniture in the room, just a sofa under the window and two matching armchairs arranged at angles to the fireplace, where a couple of lumps of peat burnt and cast shadows on the walls.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s hardly room enough for two.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. Of course, I do know something of your circumstances. Your wife . . .’

  ‘Cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Or something. After a day like this one, I need something a bit stronger than tea. Gin and tonic, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Coming up.’ Banks went into the kitchen and took the gin out of the cupboard where he kept his haphazard selection of spirits – some rum, a little vodka, half a bottle of cognac and the Laphroaig single malt, that smoky Islay, his favourite and a constant drain on his wallet.

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘What?’ Banks turned to see that Rosalind had followed him into the kitchen. She was standing at its centre with an odd expression on her face, as if she were listening to a distant voice.

  ‘It feels . . . I don’t know . . . sort of haunted, but in a good way.’

  Banks was gobsmacked. One of the reasons he had bought the house in the first place was that he had dreamed of the kitchen before he knew it existed – a dream full of warmth and feelings of extreme well-being – so that when he saw it, he knew he had to have it. Luckily the old lady who was selling didn’t want it to fall into the hands of an absentee landlord, so she let him have it for the ridiculously low price of £50,000 – a gift when you considered that there were semis and terraced cottages smaller even than this one going for £70,000 and above in some of the more popular Dales villages.

  All Banks sensed about the kitchen was that there was definitely some sort of presence, that it was benevolent, and – only God knew why – that it was feminine. He didn’t really believe in gods and ghosts, had never thought much about them, being a more practical sort of man, but this was another change that had taken place since Sandra had left. In the end, he accepted, even embraced, whatever the presence was, and came to believe it was some sort of spirit of the house, the way places are said to have spirits. He had read a little about the subject and named his spirit Haltia, after the Finnish, generally believed to be the spirit of the first person to lay claim to a site either by lighting a fire on it, by building a house on it, or even, in some cases, the first person to die there.

  Rosalind was the first person other than Banks to feel it. Others had been there – Tracy, Brian, Sandra, Annie, Superintendent Gristhorpe, Jim Hatchley – but none of them had felt the preternatural appeal of the kitchen. Banks felt almost inclined to tell Rosalind about the dream, but he held back for some reason. He hadn’t told anyone about it yet for fear of seeming foolish or mad, and there was no point starting now.

  ‘It’s a comfortable room to be in,’ he said, pouring the drink. ‘You should see it when the sun’s shining through the windows. Glorious.’ That was his favourite time in the kitchen, when the morning sunlight came skipping over Low Fell and sliding down the green daleside, spilling into the kitchen like honey. That wouldn’t happen again for a few more months.

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Rosalind. Then she looked away and blushed. She had dark semicircles under her eyes, Banks noticed, which made her look mysterious, tragic even, which was hardly surprising given what she had been through this past while. Despite the poor first impression Rosalind had made on him, Banks found himself thinking that she was a woman he would like to have known, perhaps in another time, another life. Also, in another part of his mind, he suspected that she might have had something to do with her daughter’s murder.

  ‘Ice? Lemon?’

  ‘Just the tonic water, please.’

  Banks handed her the gin and tonic and poured himself a couple of fingers of rapidly dwindling Laphroaig. They went back into the living room. The only light came from the fire and the reading lamp by his armchair. He wondered if he should turn on the overhead light and decided not to. By the look of her as she sat down wearily opposite him, Rosalind Riddle looked glad of the semi-darkness. He turned down the music and lit a cigarette.

>   ‘How was the get-together?’

  ‘What you’d expect. You were fortunate you had work to keep you away.’

  ‘I’m not good at those sorts of things. Did you get a chance to talk to Ruth and Craig?’

  ‘A little. You know what those things are like.’

  ‘What was your impression?’

  ‘He seemed a nice-enough boy.’

  ‘He probably is,’ Banks said. ‘And Ruth?’

  ‘I didn’t really get much chance to talk to her. I’m just glad that it’s over, that’s all.’

  ‘Why did you want to see me? Was there something you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you? No. What makes you think that?’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  She swirled her drink in her glass before answering. ‘I’m worried about Jerry. He’s taking this all very badly.’

  ‘It’s hardly surprising. I mean, after all, your only daughter is dead, murdered. He’s bound to take it badly. He’s not made of stone. And now this thing in the newspaper.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Rosalind sighed and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. It was a gesture that reminded Banks of Annie Cabbot.

  ‘All his life,’ Rosalind began, ‘the only thing that’s counted for Jerry is his work. The job. You know what it’s like, what the demands are. The sacrifices he’s made . . . we’ve made . . .’ She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘I’m not saying he doesn’t love us, his family, but we’ve taken the back seat all along. My career’s taken a back seat, too. We’ve always had to move where and when Jerry wanted, no matter what I was doing or how well the children were getting on at school. It’s been hard, but I accept it. I don’t mind. After all, I don’t have to stay if I don’t want to. But the rewards have made it worthwhile. I know you think he’s a social climber and maybe he is, but his origins are pretty humble. Like yours, I should imagine.’

  Banks smoked and listened. He had never thought about Riddle’s origins before but remembered he had vaguely heard something about his coming from a farmworker’s family in Suffolk. He got the impression that Rosalind just wanted to talk, and he was quite happy to let her ramble on as long as she liked, though why she had chosen him to unburden herself to was a mystery. Still, it felt good to have an attractive woman in the house – and one who understood the spirit of the place, at that – even if she was Jimmy Riddle’s wife; and there was always the possibility that he might learn something relevant to Emily’s murder.

  ‘As I said, he’s worked hard and we’ve made a lot of sacrifices. Jerry isn’t . . . I mean, he’s not the most demonstrative of men. Our marriage . . . He finds it difficult to show emotion.’ She smiled. ‘I know most men are the same, but he’s more so. He loved Emily dearly but he’s never been able to express it. He’s come across as overprotective, a sort of tyrant who sets the rules and leaves me to enforce them. Which made me a tyrant in my daughter’s eyes, too. He was never there when she might have needed him; they never managed to form a strong bond of any kind.’

  ‘Yet he loved her?’

  ‘Yes. Dearly. He doted on her and her achievements as much as he’s capable of doting on anyone other than himself.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  She smiled again. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a good listener.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s not much more to tell, really. Because of what’s happened, because of the guilt over never having been able to show his feelings, of always trying to control her rather than showing affection, he’s coming apart at the seams. He just sits there. Half the time he doesn’t even answer when I talk to him. It’s as if he’s come adrift, got lost in some inner hell and he can’t find his way out. After the funeral, it was even worse. I can’t talk to him any more, he’s shutting me out. Fortunately Benjamin’s gone down to Barnstaple with my parents, or I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’m not explaining this very well. I’m not very good with words, but I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Is there anything else on his mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing he’s told me about, anyway. Isn’t it enough?’

  ‘Maybe you should try to get him to seek help? Grief counselling. I’m sure your doctor could recommend the right sort of treatment.’

  ‘I’ve mentioned it, but it’s no good, he won’t go.’

  ‘Then I don’t know what to suggest.’

  ‘Would you talk to him?’

  ‘Me?’ Banks almost laughed out loud. ‘I can’t see that doing him any good. You know he can’t stand the sight of me.’

  ‘You might find that he’s softened his attitude towards you a bit lately.’

  ‘Since I got Emily to come home?’ Banks shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s just sticking to the bargain.’ Banks remembered what Emily had told him about Riddle’s envy. Deep-rooted feelings like that didn’t just disappear after you’d done someone a favour or two. In most cases they intensified because people who didn’t like you to start with resented being beholden to you. Besides, Banks had caught Riddle in a lie, too, and that must rankle. He remembered the guilty expression at the funeral.

  ‘But he wanted you in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘That was a purely professional decision.’

  ‘I still wish you’d talk to him.’

  ‘If he doesn’t listen to you, he’d hardly listen to me.’

  ‘He might. At least you’re a man. He doesn’t have a lot of friends.’

  ‘What about his political colleagues? He must have friends there.’

  Rosalind sipped some more gin and tonic. ‘They’re dropping him like a hot potato. It started with Emily’s murder, but it’s got worse ever since the newspaper article and all those innuendoes. Plenty of phone calls, lots of sympathy, then the old “ . . . perhaps it would be best for all of us if . . . for the good of the party”. Hypocrites!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure it will only contribute more proof to your theory of human nature, especially the human nature of Conservatives.’

  Banks said nothing. He looked into the fire and watched the burning peat shift and sigh out a breath of sparks.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Rosalind laughed harshly. ‘I’m talking about me more than about you. I must admit my own view of human nature has taken a bit of a nosedive over the past few days.’

  The music ended and Banks let the silence stretch.

  ‘If you want to put something else on, that’s all right,’ said Rosalind. ‘I like classical music.’

  Banks went to the stereo and picked another Beethoven violin sonata, the ‘Kreutzer’ this time.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Rosalind. ‘Lovely.’

  Banks marvelled at how much she resembled Emily, especially her lips; they were the same full but finely outlined shape and the same natural pinkish-red colour; they even moved in the same way when she spoke. ‘I still don’t see that there’s anything I can do,’ said Banks. ‘Even if I do talk to him. And I’m not saying I will.’

  ‘You can at least try. If it does no good . . .’ Rosalind shrugged.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? What about me?’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m coping. Surviving. Sometimes I feel as if I’m being pulled apart by millions of little red-hot fish hooks, but other than that, I’m fine.’ She smiled. ‘Someone has to be. I went back to the office this afternoon, after everyone had gone. I know it sounds odd, but conveyancing helps keep my mind off more serious matters. But Jerry hasn’t even got his work now. He’s got nothing. He just sits at home all the time brooding. It’s frightening watching someone like him unravel. He’s always been so strong, so solid.’

  How the mighty are fallen, thought Banks, but he didn’t voice it because it would have been cruel. Even so, he had thought it, and that made him
bad; was he such a rotten person? He understood what Rosalind meant, of course; it is far more terrifying to see someone you have always depended on, your rock, crack apart than it is to watch someone who was fragile to start with have yet another breakdown. Banks had a distant aunt who kept having ‘funny turns’, as his mother called them, but as she was mentally flimsy to begin with, no one was much surprised. It wasn’t that people didn’t sympathize or care, just that her ‘turns’ lacked any sort of tragic dimension.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to make time to go over tomorrow and have a talk with him. I can’t promise anything, mind you.’

  Her face lit up. ‘You will? But that’s wonderful. That’s all I ask.’

  How do I let myself get talked into these things? Banks wondered. Do I look like a sucker? First I give up a weekend in Paris with my daughter – abandoning her to the clutches of the monosyllabic Damon – and head off to London to look for Emily Riddle, now I’m playing visiting shrink to Jimmy Riddle, the man who’s done about as much for my career as Margaret Thatcher did for the trade unions.

  ‘While you’re here, there are a couple of things I’d like to ask you, if I may.’

  ‘Really?’ Rosalind looked away from him and started twisting the wedding ring on her finger. She had finished her drink and let the empty tumbler stand on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Another G and T?’

  ‘No, thanks. I have to drive.’ She glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch and sat forward. ‘Besides, I really should be getting back. I told Jerry I was going for a drive. I don’t like to leave him alone for too long at night. It’s a bad time for him.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Banks. ‘I promise I won’t keep you more than a couple of minutes more.’

  She sat back in the chair but didn’t relax. What was she so nervous about? Banks wondered. What was she holding back?

  ‘Ruth Walker told me that you had answered when she phoned to talk to Emily, but you said you’d never heard of her. Why?’

  ‘You surely can’t expect me to remember the name of every single person who calls and asks for Emily, can you? Perhaps she never even said what her name was.’