Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘People usually do, though, don’t they? I mean, it’s only polite to say who you are.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people lack basic politeness. Or maybe you wouldn’t. What exactly are you getting at?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just get this funny feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe it’s to do with Ruth Walker and maybe it’s not, but you get very vague every time her name comes up.’

  ‘It must be your imagination.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve been told more than once that I’ve got too much of it for my own good. Your husband’s told me often enough.’ Banks leaned forward. ‘Look, Mrs Riddle, you probably don’t think it’s very relevant or important, but I’ve got to warn you that you’re making a poor judgement here. The best course of action is to tell me everything you know and let me be the judge. That’s my job.’

  Rosalind stood up. ‘Thanks for the advice. If I did know anything of relevance to your investigation, you can be sure I’d take it, but as I don’t . . . Anyway, I really must be going now. Thank you very much for your hospitality. You will call in on Jerry tomorrow?’

  ‘Barring any emergencies, yes, I’ll call. Don’t tell him, though; he might board up the windows and bar the doors.’ Rosalind smiled. It was a sad smile, Banks thought, but nice nonetheless. ‘And please think about what I said. If there’s anything . . .’

  Rosalind nodded quickly and left. Banks stood in the doorway and watched her drive back towards the Helmthorpe road, then he poured another Laphroaig and returned to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Beethoven.

  15

  Banks and Annie watched Barry Clough walking along the corridor towards them, his police escort following behind, along with another man. Banks noted the Paul Smith suit, the ponytail, the matching gold chain and bracelet, the cocky, confident strut, and thought: pillock.

  ‘Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Barry,’ he said, opening the door to interview room two, the smallest and smelliest interview room they had. It passed the PACE regulations about the same way Banks’s old Cortina had passed its final MOT test: barely.

  ‘You’d better have a damn good reason for dragging me halfway across the country,’ Clough said cheerfully. ‘One my lawyer will understand.’ He gave Annie an appraising look, which she ignored, then turned to the man who had followed him down the corridor.

  ‘Simon Gallagher,’ the man said. ‘And I’m the lawyer in question.’

  And very questionable you look, thought Banks. For once, the client looked better dressed than the lawyer, but Banks was willing to bet that Gallagher’s casual elegance cost every bit as much as Clough’s Paul Smith, and that it had been thrown together at short notice. He was also willing to bet that, appearances aside, Gallagher was sharp as a tack and very well versed in the intricacies of criminal law. He was in his late twenties, Banks guessed, with a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his dark hair hung in greasy strands over his collar. He also had that edgy, wasted look of someone who stays up too late at too many clubs and takes too many drugs. He sniffed the stale air of the interview room and pulled a face.

  Annie turned on the tape recorders and went through the preamble, then she sat beside Banks, a little out of Clough’s line of vision. On the periphery, Banks had told her, she could remain unnoticed or distract him with a movement if she wished.

  ‘Can we get on with it?’ Gallagher said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve got an important appointment back in the City this evening.’

  Banks smiled. ‘We’ll do our best to make sure you don’t miss it, Mr Gallagher.’ Then he turned to Clough. ‘Do you have any idea why we want to talk to you?’

  Clough held out his hands, palms open. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s start with Emily Riddle. You do admit to knowing her?’

  ‘I knew her as Louisa Gamine. You know that. You came to my house.’

  ‘But you now know that her real name was Emily Louise Riddle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I told you. I saw it in the papers.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t know before that?’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘Perhaps the room in your house, the room in which I talked to her, was wired for sound?’

  Clough laughed and glanced over at Simon Gallagher. ‘Get that, Simon. That’s a laugh, eh? My house bugged.’ He looked at Banks again, no longer laughing. ‘Now you tell me why I’d want to do something like that?’

  ‘Information?’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Business information?’

  ‘I don’t eavesdrop electronically on my clients or my partners, Chief Inspector. Besides, it’s my home we’re talking about, not my office.’

  ‘Let’s leave that for the moment, then, shall we?’ Banks went on. ‘What was your relationship with Emily Riddle?’

  ‘Relationship?’

  ‘Yes. You know, the sort of thing human beings have with one another.’

  Clough shrugged. ‘I fucked her once in a while,’ he said. ‘She was okay in bed. A hell of a lot better than she was at giving blow jobs.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What do you mean, is that all?’

  ‘Did you ever do anything else together? Talk, for example?’

  ‘I suppose we must have, though I can’t say I remember a word she said.’

  ‘Did you ever tell her anything about your business interests?’

  ‘Certainly not. If you think I’d go around telling some bimbo about my business, you must be crazy.’

  ‘Did she live with you?’

  ‘She lived in the same house.’

  ‘In Little Venice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she live with you?’

  ‘We were together some of the time. It’s a big house. Sometimes guests come and forget to leave for a long time. You can get lost in there. You should know. You’ve seen it. Twice.’

  ‘Is this what happened with Emily? She sort of got lost in your big house?’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t remember how she got there.’

  ‘A party?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Did you sleep together?’

  ‘We didn’t do much sleeping.’

  ‘Look, Chief Inspector,’ Gallagher chipped in, ‘this all seems pretty innocuous, as the girl in question was of legal age, but I can’t really see where it’s getting us.’

  ‘Did Emily Riddle know anything at all about your business dealings, Barry?’

  ‘No. Not unless she spied on me.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Anything’s possible. I’m careful, but . . .’

  ‘What exactly is your business?’

  ‘Bit of this, bit of that.’

  ‘More specifically?’

  Clough looked at Gallagher, who nodded.

  ‘I manage a couple of fairly successful rock bands. I own a bar in Clerkenwell. I also promote concerts from time to time. I suppose you could call me a sort of impresario.’

  ‘An impresario.’ Banks savoured the word. ‘If you say, so, Barry.’

  ‘Has a sort of old-fashioned ring to it, don’t you think? “Sunday Night at the London Palladium” and all that.’

  ‘Were you worried that Emily Riddle might have known too much about this impresario business of yours?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she ever indicate that she did? Did she ask you for money, for example?’

  ‘You mean blackmail?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Emily? No. I told you, she was just some young bimbo I used to fuck, that’s all.’

  ‘And now she’s dead.’

  ‘And now she’s dead. Sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks, reining in his rising temper. ‘It is.’

  Clough got to his feet. ‘Is that it, then? Can we go now?’
>
  ‘Sit down, Barry. You’ll go when I tell you to go.’

  Clough looked at Gallagher, who nodded again.

  ‘Did you see Emily at all after she left London?’

  ‘No. Easy come, easy go.’

  ‘Were you at Scarlea House between December the fifth and December the tenth this year?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Barry. You were there for the grouse shooting. You had your minder Jamie Gilbert with you and a young woman in tow: Amanda Khan, the singer.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I remember now.’

  ‘Last time I asked you, you said you were in Spain at that time.’

  ‘I get confused. I do a lot of travelling. What can I say? But I remember now.’

  ‘You didn’t see Emily while you were staying in the area?’

  ‘Why would I? Amanda gives far better head.’

  ‘For old time’s sake?’

  ‘Let go and move on. That’s my motto.’

  ‘Perhaps to give her a plastic bag of cocaine laced with strychnine?’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ said Gallagher, ‘you’re treading in dangerous territory here. Be careful.’

  ‘Did you?’ Banks asked Clough.

  ‘Now where would I get hold of strychnine?’

  ‘I dare say you’d have your sources. Cocaine wasn’t much trouble, was it?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Chief Inspector, that there’s probably enough of that stuff around at any given moment to pay off the national debt. If you like that sort of thing. Not for me, of course. But strychnine . . . I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘While you were at Scarlea, did you have dinner with Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘Mutual acquaintance.’

  ‘Bollocks, Barry. When Emily left, with the information you’d overheard from our conversation, you found out who she really was, where she lived. And when you learned that her father was a senior-ranking policeman, you tried to move in and blackmail him.’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Simon Gallagher broke in, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to stop these absurd insinuations. If you want to question my client, go ahead and question him in the prescribed manner.’

  ‘I apologize,’ said Banks. ‘Why did you have dinner with Chief Constable Riddle?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I already have.’

  Clough seemed surprised at that, but he soon regained his composure. ‘We talked about his daughter. And if he told you anything different, then he’s a liar.’

  ‘How did you feel when Emily left you?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Feel? I didn’t feel anything, really. Why would I? I mean she was only—’

  ‘Some bimbo you used to fuck? Yes, yes, so you said before. No need to keep on repeating yourself. But you don’t like your bimbos to run out on you, do you? You prefer to give them the boot yourself.’

  ‘That’s exactly what happened. She’d served her purpose. It was time to move on. She didn’t get the message, so I had to help her along a bit.’

  ‘By trying to toss her into bed with Andrew Handley?’

  ‘Andy Pandy? What’s he got to do with this?’

  ‘You do admit to knowing him, then?’

  ‘He works for me from time to time.’

  ‘Not any more, Barry. He’s dead.’

  ‘What? Andy? Dead? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘He was found shot to death near Exmoor. Know anything about that?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. It’s . . .’

  ‘Sad?’

  ‘Yeah. Andy was all right.’

  ‘Is that why you pushed Emily into a room with him?’

  ‘I did no such thing. I’ve told you before. If she went into a room with Andy, she went of her own accord.’

  ‘Sure he didn’t get tired of taking your leftovers and decide to strike out for himself?’

  ‘Look, Chief Inspector, my client has answered all these questions before. Unless there’s anything new—’

  ‘Gregory Manners,’ said Banks.

  ‘Who?’ said Clough.

  ‘Gregory Manners. He ran the PKF operation for you at Daleview. Remember, I told you. Their van got hijacked on the way to a new location, and the nightwatchman at Daleview was murdered. Oddly enough, it was the same MO as the Andrew Handley murder.’

  ‘I vaguely remember you going on about that when you came to the house with that other copper. I didn’t understand why then, and I don’t now.’

  ‘Right. So what about it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Barry. We found Gregory Manners’s fingerprints on a whole stack of bootlegged games and software. That’s what you were doing at PKF. A big operation. You had multi-disc-copying machines, and they were in that van. Andy Pandy wanted to break away, didn’t he, go into business by himself? So he hatched a plot with the nightwatchman at Daleview. Charlie Courage had already figured out there was something dodgy going on at PKF – Charlie had a nose for that sort of thing – and you were paying him off. Then Andy comes along with a better offer. They arrange it to look like a hijack, but your lads pick up Gregory Manners first, and he tells you he thought there was something fishy going on between Charlie and Andy Pandy. Then you pick up Charlie, and he tells all. So they kill Charlie, and then they kill Andy Pandy. Isn’t that how it went?’

  Clough turned his head slowly to Gallagher and raised his eyebrows. ‘Am I missing something, Simon?’ he said. ‘I am Barry Clough, aren’t I? Mr Banks here seems to have me confused with some criminal named Gregory Manners.’

  Gallagher stood up. ‘Chief Inspector, you’ve got an active imagination, I’ll say that. But you can’t corroborate any of this. You haven’t a single shred of evidence connecting my client to either of these men.’

  ‘Mr Manners is still helping us with our inquiries,’ Banks lied. ‘We have every reason to believe he’ll tell us what he knows when he realizes the full extent of the charges that might be brought against him.’

  Clough gave Banks a stony gaze. ‘So what?’ he said.

  ‘What about Andrew Handley?’ Banks said to Gallagher. ‘Your client has already admitted to knowing him.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with Mr Handley’s unfortunate demise.’

  ‘ “Unfortunate demise”?’ Banks repeated. ‘Andrew Handley’s upper body was shredded by a close-range shotgun wound. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate fucking demise.’

  ‘Infelicitous turn of phrase,’ muttered Gallagher. ‘And there’s no need to swear at me.’

  ‘We’re all adults here, aren’t we? And I’m hardly the first.’

  ‘There’s a lady present,’ said Clough, grinning at Annie.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Annie.

  Gallagher waved his hands in the air. ‘All right, all right, ladies and gentlemen, can we all just calm down a minute and get back on track? If there is a track.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gallagher,’ said Banks. ‘I believe we were talking about Andrew Handley.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clough. ‘Yes. I knew him. He worked for me sometimes.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Managing things. I delegate a lot.’

  Banks laughed out loud.

  ‘Chief Inspector!’

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Delegate. Right. Would you say the two of you were friends?’

  ‘Not really. We might have had a drink together every now and then, talked about business, but other than that, no. I don’t know what he got up to.’

  ‘Nor he you?’

  ‘Suppose not.’

  ‘Do you own a shotgun, Barry?’

  ‘Do I look like a fucking farmer?’

  ‘You certainly have plenty of guns at your London house.’

  ‘They’re all deactivated and all legal. I
’m a collector.’

  ‘So you don’t own a shotgun?’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. You didn’t answer my question. Do you own a shotgun?’

  ‘No.’

  Banks paused a moment. ‘Then what did you use for shooting grouse at Scarlea? A pea-shooter?’

  Gallagher put his head in his hands.

  ‘They have guns available for their guests. For hire.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Barry. Do you expect me to believe that a keen, regular grouse shooter like you doesn’t own a shotgun? I find that difficult.’

  ‘Believe what you want.’

  ‘We can check.’

  ‘Okay, okay. So maybe I own a shotgun.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Because the way things are going it looks as if you’re trying to pin a fucking murder on me and my fucking lawyer is—’

  ‘Barry!’ said Gallagher. ‘Shut up. Just shut up. Okay? Let me take care of it.’

  ‘Lying just makes it worse,’ said Banks. He tipped Annie the nod and she officially terminated the taped interview.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Clough asked. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Afraid not, Barry,’ said Banks. ‘We’ll be issuing a warrant for your shotgun to be examined by forensic experts in the murders of Andrew Handley and Charles Courage.’

  Clough smiled. ‘Go ahead. If I did have anything to do with those murders, which I didn’t, do you think I’d be stupid enough to use my own shotgun and leave it lying around the house?’

  Banks smiled back. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t really matter. At least a forensic examination will settle things one way or the other, won’t it? We’re also looking into some tyre tracks found at the murder scenes. In the meantime you can sample some of our legendary northern hospitality.’

  ‘You mean I can’t go?’

  Banks shook his head.

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Your lawyer will tell you we can detain you for twenty-four hours, Barry. Any period of time after that has to be okayed by a more senior officer than me. But if you think that’s likely to be a problem, remember that Emily Riddle was our chief constable’s daughter, you know.’

  ‘He can’t do this, can he, Simon?’

  ‘I’m afraid he can,’ said Gallagher, staring at Banks. ‘But any detention longer than twenty-four hours will come under very severe scrutiny, I can assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better cancel my appointment.’