Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  Banks opened the door and asked the uniformed officers to escort Clough to the custody suite in the station’s basement. ‘You’ll be well taken care of, Barry,’ Banks said. ‘Soon be lunchtime. Beefburger and chips, I think it is today. Sorry there’s no Château Margaux to accompany it. You might be able to get a mug of tea. Careful you don’t crease your Paul Smith.’

  While Banks went to pay another visit to the Riddle house, Annie wandered into the incident room to see what was going on. It was a hive of activity; most of the phone lines were busy and the fax machines were churning stuff out. DC Rickerd held sway over it all, a man who had truly found himself. He blushed when Annie gave him a wink.

  Poor Winsome was back at the computer, a stack of green sheets for input and another stack she had already entered.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Annie asked, picking up the entered stack and idly leafing through it. Just because everything went into HOLMES didn’t mean any of it was ever seen again, not unless some sort of link or connection came up, and then you had to be looking for it.

  Winsome smiled. ‘Okay, I suppose. Sometimes I wish I’d never done that damn course, though.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Annie. ‘Still, it’ll come in useful when you sit your boards.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Annie was hardly reading the information on the entered sheets, more just letting her gaze slip over them, but something she saw on one of them reached out and smacked her right between the eyes. ‘Winsome,’ she said, picking it out and putting it on the desk, ‘what happened with this?’

  Winsome scrutinized the sheet. ‘DCI Banks signed it off yesterday,’ she said. ‘No further action.’

  ‘ “No further action”,’ Annie repeated under her breath.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ said Annie quickly, replacing the sheet in the pile. ‘Nothing. Just curious, that’s all. See you later.’

  Aware of Winsome’s puzzled gaze, Annie hurried back to her office, noticed she had it all to herself, picked up the telephone and dialled an outside line.

  ‘Hotel Fifty-Five,’ the answering voice said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Poulson?’

  ‘Oh, you want Roger. Just a minute.’

  Annie waited a minute and another voice came on the line. ‘Roger Poulson here. Can I help you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cabbot, Eastvale CID. I understand you phoned our incident room yesterday with information relating to the death of Emily Riddle?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Poulson said. ‘It was just an odd coincidence, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell me about it anyway, Mr Poulson.’

  ‘Well, as I said to the gentleman yesterday—’

  ‘What gentleman?’

  ‘The policeman who called me back yesterday. I didn’t catch his name.’

  I’ll bet you didn’t, thought Annie, and we’d have heard no more about it if I hadn’t come across the name and number by accident. Hotel Fifty-Five. It was where she had stayed with Banks when they visited London in connection with the Gloria Shackleton case. When they were lovers.

  ‘What did he say?’ Annie asked.

  ‘He simply took the details and thanked me for calling. To be honest, I didn’t expect to hear any more of it. He didn’t sound very interested. Why? Has something turned up?’

  Annie felt a tightness in her chest. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just down to me to keep the paperwork up to date. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Poulson. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘If you’d just go over the information again briefly . . .?’

  ‘Of course. As I said, it’s nothing, really. It was about a month ago, when I was on night duty. I think I saw her, the girl who was killed.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘At least, she looked sort of like the girl in the newspaper photo yesterday, with her hair up, a nice evening gown. Mostly it’s the eyes and lips, though. I’d almost swear it was her.’

  ‘You say you saw her at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she a guest?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she walked in – I think she’d just got out of a taxi – and said she wanted to see her father.’

  ‘Her father?’ Annie was confused. She didn’t know that Jimmy Riddle had been down to London looking for his daughter, only Banks. She felt icy water rising fast around her ankles.

  ‘That’s right. She said he was staying here. I had no reason not to believe her.’

  ‘Of course not. What did you do?’

  ‘I called his room and told him his daughter was in the lobby, wanting to see him, and she was in a bit of a state. Naturally, he told me to send her up. The thing was, you see, she looked very dishevelled, as if she’d been attacked or involved in some rough stuff. Natural to come to Daddy under such circumstances, even if it was three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘When you say rough stuff, what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing really serious, but there was a tear in her dress and a little blood at the corner of her lip.’

  ‘What happened after she’d gone up?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean, I didn’t see anything. I was on duty until eight o’clock the next morning, and I didn’t see either of them again.’

  ‘So she stayed in his room the rest of the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The cold water was up to Annie’s navel by now and she decided to plunge right in. Sometimes it was the best way. ‘What was her father’s name?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Riddle, like it says in the papers. As I said to your colleague yesterday, that’s why I thought it was funny. So I looked out the credit-card slip. He’s stayed with us here before, I remember. Once with a very attractive young lady. His name is Banks. Alan Banks.’

  The shock numbed Annie’s blood, even though she had been half expecting it. She thanked Mr Poulson, then hung up in a daze. Banks. In a hotel room with Emily Riddle half the night. The same hotel he’d taken Annie to. And he hadn’t told her. This put a new complexion on things.

  Banks slipped the tape he had made of Brian’s band’s CD in the cassette player and reflected on his interview with Clough as he drove out to the Old Mill. Clough was still cooling his heels in the holding cells, but they wouldn’t really be able to hold him much after the following morning. Gallagher was right about that. Any infringement of PACE because Clough was a suspect in the murder of the chief constable’s daughter would go down very badly and only increase his chances of getting off scot-free. That was how things were now. In the old days, they used to be different, of course, and Banks still wasn’t certain which was best. He just hoped to hell that some of the information he was desperate for arrived before the deadline.

  The question he always came back to, though, was that if Clough had killed Emily, what was his motive? Clough was an astute gangster, surely smart enough not to let an affair with a sixteen-year-old girl ruin what was clearly a charmed and profitable life. Still, Banks thought, remembering the famous gangsters of movieland – James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson – there were plenty of Mob bosses who were also psychopaths and had killed for reasons other than pure business. If Banks were Clough, though, when he found out that Emily had gone and then discovered she was a chief constable’s daughter, he would have cut his losses and left well alone. But perhaps that was why Banks wasn’t Clough.

  Had Emily really been doing something foolish, like trying to blackmail Clough? Banks didn’t think so. She was a mixed-up kid, but he didn’t think she was a blackmailer. He had also got the feeling from talking to her that she was genuinely scared of Clough, and that the more distance there was between them, the better. Besides, her family didn’t lack money, and as Riddle had pointed out at the start, they had spoiled her rotten. Even so, the idea of an undisclosed income of her very own might appeal. But would it o
vercome her fear?

  Also, why would Clough wait so long to kill her if he was after revenge for her leaving? It was over a month since Banks had brought Emily back from London. Perhaps it had taken him that long to find out who and where she was. Or perhaps it had taken her that long to start blackmailing him. There had been no telephone calls to Clough on Riddle’s phone records, but that didn’t necessarily mean Emily hadn’t called him from a public box. Something about the sparse phone records nagged at his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Never mind. As his mother always said, if it was that important it would come to the surface soon enough.

  He showed his warrant card to the officers at the end of the lane, and they waved him through. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled up on the gravel drive outside the Old Mill and turned off the engine. The rain had stopped but it had swelled the mill-race, which sounded even louder and faster than on his last visit.

  This time, Riddle wasn’t watching for his arrival. He wondered if Rosalind had told him Banks was coming. He hoped not. He knocked at the door and waited. Nothing. Surely Riddle couldn’t have gone back to work already? He knocked again, harder, in case the noise from the stream was covering the sound. Still nothing.

  Banks stepped back a few paces from the front door and looked at the front of the house. No windows open. It was a dull afternoon, and someone at home might have put on a light or two, but none showed. Perhaps Riddle had gone out, maybe for a long drive to think things over. Banks felt relief. He had come to fulfil his promise to Rosalind, but it wasn’t his fault if Riddle wasn’t home. What more could he do?

  But surely, if Riddle had gone out, the duty officers would have told Banks?

  It was then that he became aware of another faint noise beyond the sound of the rushing mill-race. At first, it didn’t mean much, but when he realized what it was, it sent a chill through him.

  It was coming from the converted barn, and it was the sound of a car engine idling.

  Banks dashed towards the barn, doubting his own ears at first, but there was no mistaking the smooth purr of the German engineering. The garage door was closed but not locked. Banks bent and grasped the handle, pulling as he moved back, and the door slid up smoothly and silently on its overhead runners. The stink of exhaust fumes hit him immediately, and he staggered back, digging his hand into his raincoat pocket for a handkerchief. He couldn’t find one, but he went in anyway with his forearm over his nose and mouth.

  It was dark inside the garage, and Banks couldn’t make out very much at first. His eyes adjusted as he moved inside, noticing that rolled-up cloths or towels had been placed against the gap between the floor and the bottom of the garage door. He did the best he could to keep the fumes at bay, covering his mouth and nose with one hand, breathing only as little as necessary. At least now air from outside was displacing the carbon monoxide.

  When Banks got to the car, he could see Riddle slumped across the two front seats. There was no way of knowing yet whether he was dead, so Banks first tried to open a door. They were all locked. He looked around and found a crowbar on one of the shelves. Standing back and swinging it hard, he smashed one of the back windows, reached inside and disengaged the lock mechanism. Then he opened the front door on the driver’s side, reached across Riddle and turned off the engine. The fumes were dissipating slowly now the garage doors stood wide open, but Banks was beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy.

  He felt for a pulse and found none. Riddle’s whole face was as red as his bald head got when he was angry. Cherry red. The hosing he had rigged from the exhaust to the back window was still in place. He had opened the window a crack to admit it and stuffed the opening with oil-stained rags.

  Riddle was wearing his uniform, everything polished, shiny and in order, apart from the thin streak of yellowish vomit down his front. Above the dashboard was a sheet of paper with handwriting on it. Leaving it where it was, Banks leaned over and squinted. It was short and to the point:

  The game’s over. Please take care of Benjamin and try to ensure that he doesn’t think too ill of his father. I’m sorry.

  Jerry

  Banks read it again, angry tears pricking at his stinging eyes. You bastard, he thought, you selfish bastard. As if his family hadn’t suffered enough already.

  Groggy and sick, Banks stumbled outside and made it to the mill-race before he emptied out his lunch. He bent over and took handfuls of cold clear water and splashed it over his face, drinking down as much of it as he could manage. He knew that there were two officers only a hundred yards away, but he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him that far, so he went back to his car, picked up his mobile and called the station, then he bent forward, put his hands on his knees and took deep breaths as he waited for the circus to begin.

  16

  Banks spent the evening at home trying to make sense of the day’s events. He still felt weak and nauseated, but apart from that, there seemed no serious damage. The ambulance crew had insisted on giving him oxygen and taking him to Eastvale General for a check-up, but the doctor pronounced him fit to go home, with a warning to lay off the ciggies for a while.

  From what he had been able to piece together so far, it appeared almost certain that Riddle had committed suicide. They wouldn’t know for sure until Dr Glendenning performed the post-mortem, probably tomorrow, but there were no signs of external violence on Riddle’s body, the note appeared to be in his handwriting, and the rags and towels used to keep the petrol fumes in the garage had been placed on the inside of the door after it had been closed. There were no windows or other means of exit.

  Banks would never have pegged Riddle as the suicidal type, but he would be the first to admit that he had no idea if such a type existed. Certainly the murder of his daughter, the destruction of all his political and professional hopes, and the smear campaign started against him in the tabloids would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.

  So suicide it might be, Banks thought, but Barry Clough still had a lot to answer for. Clough was enjoying the hospitality of the Eastvale cells that night, while the detectives and forensic experts mobilized by Burgess down south were working overtime following up all the leads they had on the Charlie Courage and Andy Pandy shootings. With any luck by tomorrow, Banks would have something more substantial to confront Clough with in the interview room.

  It was nine o’clock when a car pulled up and someone knocked at the door. Puzzled, Banks went to see who it was.

  Rosalind Riddle stood there in the cold night air, wearing only a long skirt and sweater. ‘Can I come in?’ she said. ‘It’s been a hell of a day.’

  Banks could think of no reply to that. He stood aside to let her in and shut the door behind her. She smoothed down her skirt and sat in the armchair by the fire, rubbing her hands together. ‘There’s a chill in the air,’ she said. ‘We might get frost tonight.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Banks asked.

  ‘I’ve been going insane just sitting around the house. Charlotte came to stay with me for a while but I sent her away. She’s nice, but you know, we’re not that close. It’s so empty, and there’s nothing to do there. My mind has been running around in circles. I want to talk to you. It seemed . . . I don’t know . . . I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.’ She moved to stand up.

  ‘No. Sit down. You might as well stop. You’re here now. Drink?’

  Rosalind paused. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’ She sat down again. ‘Thank you. I wouldn’t mind a glass of white wine, if you have any.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve only got red.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s nothing fancy.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I might be a snob about some things, but not about wine.’

  ‘Good.’ Banks headed into the kitchen to open the Marks & Sparks Bulgarian Merlot. He poured himself a glass, too. He had a feeling he would need it. After he had handed Rosalind her drink, Banks sat opposite he
r. She had clearly made an effort to look her best, applying a little make-up to give some colour to her pallid features; but there was no disguising the bruise-like circles under her eyes, or the rims pink from crying. This was a woman hanging on by her fingernails.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked. It sounded like a stupid question after what had happened to her, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘I’m . . . I . . . I don’t really know. I thought I was coping, but inside . . .’ She tapped her chest. ‘It all feels so tight and hot inside here. I keep thinking I’m going to explode.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It’s quite a thing, you know, losing both your daughter and your husband within a week of one another.’ She gave a harsh laugh, then thumped the arm of her chair. ‘How dare he do this? How dare he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s run away from it all, hasn’t he? And where does that leave me? A cold, heartless bitch because I’m still alive? Because I didn’t care about my daughter’s murder enough to kill myself over it?’

  ‘Don’t do this, Rosalind,’ said Banks, getting up and putting his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the little convulsions as grief and anger surged through her.

  After a while, she reached up and gently disengaged his hands. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for inflicting myself on you, but it’s been on my mind all day. Going over and over it again. I can’t understand my feelings. I should feel sorrow, loss . . . but all I feel is anger. I hate him. I hate him for doing this! And I hate myself for feeling like that.’

  Banks could do nothing but sit down helplessly and let her cry again. He remembered his own reaction to finding Riddle’s body; there had been a lot of anger in that too, before it gave way to guilt. The selfish bastard.

  When Rosalind had finished, he said, ‘Look, I can’t pretend to know how you feel, but I feel terrible myself. If I’d gone out there sooner I might have saved him.’ It sounded even more pathetic than his opening gambit, but he felt he had to get it off his chest.