Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Routine? That’s what you always say on telly.’

  Annie laughed. ‘It’s probably about the only realistic thing about TV coppers, then. It’s Ruth we’re interested in. The daughter.’

  ‘Is she in any trouble?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?’

  Mrs Tattersall leaned forward and poured. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be asking about her for the good of your health, would you?’

  ‘It’s to do with a friend of hers,’ Annie said. Like most police, she was loath to give away the slightest scrap of information.

  ‘I suppose that’ll have to do, then,’ said Mrs Tattersall, handing Annie the cup and saucer.

  ‘Thank you. Did you know the Walkers well?’

  ‘Pretty well. I mean, as well as you could do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They weren’t the most sociable types, weren’t the Walkers.’

  ‘Stand-offish? Snobbish?’

  ‘No, not really. I mean, they were polite enough. Polite to a T. And helpful if you needed anything. Lord knows they didn’t have much themselves, but they’d give you the shirt off their backs. They just didn’t mix.’ She paused, then whispered, ‘Religious,’ the same way she had whispered cancer.

  ‘More than most?’

  ‘I’d say so. Oh, it was nothing strange. None of those weird cults or churches where you can’t have blood transfusions or anything. Straight Methodist. But strict observers. Against Sunday shopping, drinking, pop music, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What was Mr Walker’s occupation?’

  ‘Wages clerk.’

  ‘Did his wife work?’

  ‘Pauline? Good heavens, no. They were as traditional as you get. She was a housewife.’

  ‘You don’t get many of those in this day and age.’

  Mrs Tattersall laughed. ‘You’re telling me you don’t, lass. Me, half the time I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and to work. Not that I had such a wonderful job, myself. I was only a receptionist at the medical centre down the road. But you get to meet people, chat, find out what’s going on in the world. I’d go barmy if I was stuck between four walls day in, day out. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would,’ said Annie. ‘But Mrs Walker didn’t seem to mind?’

  ‘She never complained. But it’s against their religion, isn’t it, complaining?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Annie would have been the first to admit that she didn’t know much about religion except what she had read, and she had read mostly about Buddhism and Taoism. Her father was an atheist, so he hadn’t subjected her to Sunday school or any of the usual childhood indoctrination, and the people who came and went in the commune carried with them a variety of ideas about religion and philosophy. Everything was always up for debate, up in the air.

  ‘I mean, if whatever happens to you is God’s will, good or bad, then you’ve no call to be complaining to God about God, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘They were just a bit old-fashioned, that’s all. People used to laugh behind their backs. Oh, nothing vicious or anything. It was mostly good-humoured. Not that they’d have noticed. That was another thing that wasn’t in their religion. Humour. I did feel a bit sorry for young Ruth sometimes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, there wasn’t much fun in her life. And young people need fun. Even us old ’uns need a bit of fun from time to time, but when you’re young . . .’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, the Walkers were different from other folk. And they didn’t have much money, with only him working.’

  ‘How did they get by?’

  ‘She were a good housekeeper, Pauline, I’ll give her that. Good budgeter. But it meant that young Ruth could hardly stay up to date with fashions and whatnot. You’d see her in the same outfit year after year. A nip here and a tuck there. And shoes. Good Lord, she’d be clomping around in the most ugly things you could imagine. Pauline bought her them because they were durable, you see. Sturdy, sensible things with thick soles so they’d last a long time. None of these Nike trainers or Reeboks, like the other kids were wearing. Like it or not, love, fashions are so important to children, especially in their teens.’ She laughed. ‘I should know; I’ve brought up two of them.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The usual. The other girls at school laughed at her, called her names, tormented her. Children can be so cruel. And they’d no time for music or telly, either – wouldn’t have a record player or a television set in the house – so poor Ruth couldn’t join in the conversations with the rest. She didn’t know all about the latest hits and the popular television programmes. She was always a bit of a loner. It wasn’t as if she was a great beauty, either. She was always a rather pasty-faced, dumpy sort of lass, and that kind are easy to pick on.’

  It was starting to sound like a pretty miserable household to grow up in, Annie thought. The artists’ colony where she had grown up herself didn’t have a television, either, but there was always music – often live – and all sorts of interesting people around. Some nights they would sing songs and recite poems. She could hear them from her bedroom. It was all mumbo-jumbo to her then, of course; none of it rhymed or anything, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. Sometimes, they let her sing for them, too, and if she said so herself, she didn’t have a bad voice for traditional folk music.

  Still, she thought she could relate to Ruth’s feeling of being an outsider. If you’re different in any way – no matter whether your family’s too strict or too liberal – you get picked on, especially if you aren’t up on the latest styles, too. Children are cruel; Mrs Tattersall was right about that. Annie could remember some of their cruelties of her own childhood very well indeed.

  Once, when she was about thirteen, a gang of classmates had waylaid her in the lane on her way home from school, dragged her into the trees, stripped her and painted flowers all over her body while they made remarks about filthy, drug-taking hippies and flower power. They had then run off with her clothes and left her to make the rest of her way home naked. Cruel. You could say that again. Going to school the next day she had found her clothes hanging on a tree by the side of the lane. And that was in 1980, when hippies were history and the sixties was something her classmates could only have read about in books or seen on television documentaries. The people who lived at the commune were artists and writers, free-thinkers, yes, but hippies? No. Annie’s only sin was to be different, to wear the kind of clothes she wanted to wear (and that her father could afford, artists never having been among the richest members of society). Yes, in an odd way, she could sympathize very easily with Ruth Walker: two sides of the same coin.

  ‘Ruth went off to university, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what changed everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they wanted her to go to Manchester, like, and keep on living at home so they could keep an eye on her, but she went to London. They thought university was a den of iniquity, you see, full of sex and drugs, but they also knew you don’t get very far in this day and age without a good education. It was a bit of a dilemma for them. Anyway, she got her student grant or loan or whatever they get, so she had a bit of money of her own for the first time, and in the holidays she usually got a job. It gave her her first taste of independence.’

  ‘What did she do with her money?’

  ‘Bought clothes, mostly. You should have seen her when she came back after her first year. Had all the latest styles. Whatever they were wearing at the moment. It all changes far too quickly for me to keep up with it. Anyway, she looked like any other rebellious young lass her age. Had her hair dyed all the colours of the rainbow, rings through her ears and eyebrows. Looked awfully painful. She’d found her brave new world, all right.’

  ‘How did her parents react?’

  ‘I don’t know. They never said anything in public. I can’t imag
ine they were pleased, though. I got the feeling they were ashamed of her.’

  ‘Did you hear any rows? Through the walls.’

  ‘They never got angry. Against their religion. I think they pleaded with her and tried to get her to switch to a course in Manchester and come back home, but she’d changed too much by then. It was too late. She’d had her taste of freedom and she wasn’t about to give it up. I can’t say I blame her.’

  ‘So the matter went unresolved?’

  ‘I suppose so. She spent that summer working at the local supermarket, general floor washer and shelf stacker, that sort of thing. She was a bright lass and a hard worker, and, to do her justice, even when she looked like a tearaway she didn’t cause any trouble. She was always polite.’

  ‘So she just looked strange?’

  ‘That’s about all. I think she’d reacted against the religion, too. At least she didn’t go to chapel with them any more. But kids do that, don’t they?’

  ‘They do,’ Annie agreed. ‘I was talking to one of the firemen, Mr Whitmore, earlier.’

  ‘I know George Whitmore. He was a friend of my Bernard’s. They used to enjoy a game of darts down at the King Billy on a Friday night.’

  ‘He said they didn’t see any need to investigate the fire.’

  ‘That’s right. I can’t see why they would. That’s why I was wondering what on earth you were doing here. Nobody would want to hurt the Walkers.’

  ‘Mr Whitmore said it was probably started by a cigarette left smouldering down the side of the sofa.’

  ‘Well, that was a bit odd,’ said Mrs Tattersall slowly. ‘Being religious and all, the way they were, you see, the Walkers didn’t smoke or drink.’

  ‘But I’ll bet Ruth did,’ said Annie.

  Clough looked a little the worse for wear after his night in the cells, though the kind of suit he wore hardly showed a wrinkle. He had chosen not to shave, and the stubble, along with the tan and the gold accessories, made him look slightly unreal, like some sort of ageing pop star. His lawyer, Simon Gallagher, however, who had no doubt spent the night in Burgundy House, Eastvale’s poshest and priciest hotel, had taken the opportunity to clean himself up a bit, and now looked every inch the high-priced solicitor. He still had the twitchy, perky manner of a habitual cokehead, though, and Banks wondered if he’d snorted a couple of lines before the interview. He didn’t say a lot, but he just couldn’t sit still.

  With Annie in Salford and Winsome back inputting data into HOLMES, Banks got Kevin Templeton to attend the interview with him. After the usual preliminaries, Banks began.

  ‘Hope you had a comfortable night, Barry.’

  ‘You don’t give a rat’s arse what kind of night I had, so why don’t you cut the crap and get to the point.’ Clough looked at his watch. ‘According to this, my twenty-four hours are up in about one hour and forty-five minutes. That right, Simon?’

  Simon Gallagher nodded. Or twitched.

  ‘We aim to please,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but since we last talked, Chief Constable Riddle has committed suicide.’

  ‘Well, at least that’s one thing you can’t bang me up for, then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say about it?’

  ‘What do you expect? I didn’t know the man.’

  Even people who did know Riddle, Banks thought, might show as little concern as Clough. Banks himself hadn’t liked him, and he didn’t intend to be hypocritical about it now, but the tragedy and despair of the act pierced his dislike to some extent. Nobody should be reduced to that. ‘Were you putting pressure on him, Barry?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean. Putting pressure on him to become your man, to do you the odd favour or two, make sure we looked the other way when you set up your little scams in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘But that’s what your meeting was about, wasn’t it? That’s why he walked out before you really got started, isn’t it? What were you using, Barry? Was it Emily? Do you have photographs? Did you threaten him that you could take her back any time you wanted?’

  Clough sighed and rolled his eyes at Gallagher.

  ‘I think you’ve already exhausted this line of questioning,’ Gallagher said. ‘As you are well aware, my client could have had nothing to do with Mr Riddle’s unfortunate death, even if it hadn’t been suicide. He has the best of all alibis: he was in your cells.’

  ‘Your client might have been one of the chief factors that drove the chief constable over the edge.’

  ‘You can’t prove that,’ said Gallagher. ‘And even if you could, it hardly constitutes an indictable offence. Stick to the facts, Chief Inspector. Move on.’

  Banks was loath to give up and move on, but Gallagher was probably right. It would take a hell of a lot more than he had to persuade the CPS even to look at the possibility of prosecuting someone for complicity in the suicide of another. If Banks remembered his criminal law correctly, complicity could mean aiding, abetting, counselling or procuring another’s suicide, and there was no evidence that Clough, even though he might have been trying to blackmail Riddle, had done any of those things. He was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Banks moved on. ‘Remember we were talking yesterday about Charlie Courage and Andrew Handley?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘That both were killed by shotgun blasts, and both were found in rural areas some distance from their homes.’

  ‘I believe I asked what that had to do with me at the time, and now I’m asking again.’

  ‘Just this,’ said Banks, pausing and opening the file folder he had brought in with him. ‘While you’ve been enjoying our hospitality downstairs, we’ve been very busy indeed, and our forensics men have been able to match the tyre tracks at the two scenes.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Clough, raising an eyebrow. ‘The wonders of modern science.’

  ‘There’s even better to come. On further investigation, they were able to match the tracks found at the scene of the two murders to a cream Citroën owned by a Mr Jamie Gilbert. One of your employees, yes?’

  ‘Jamie? You already know that.’

  ‘And it also turns out that one of Charlie Courage’s neighbours recognized the photograph of Jamie Gilbert our officer showed her. Jamie was seen getting into a car with Charlie Courage around the time he disappeared. Anything to say?’

  ‘They must be mistaken.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your scientists. This witness.’

  Banks shook his head. ‘Afraid not. Not only do the tyres match, but we were also able to find hair samples and minute traces of blood we believe belong to either Charlie Courage or Andrew Handley in the car. Jamie was careless. He didn’t clean it out thoroughly enough. The samples are being checked for DNA now.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Clough. ‘I’m shocked. Stunned, even. And I thought I knew Jamie.’

  ‘Evidently not. Anyway, Mr Gilbert is in custody back in London at the moment. He’ll no doubt be telling the interviewing officers down there exactly what happened.’

  ‘Jamie won’t . . .’

  ‘Jamie won’t what, Barry?’

  Clough smiled. ‘I was just about to say that Jamie won’t be saying anything. You don’t know him as well as I do. He’s not the type.’

  ‘But you said just now that you only thought you knew him, that you’re surprised he’s a murderer.’

  ‘An alleged murderer,’ Simon Gallagher chipped in.

  ‘My apologies,’ Banks went on. ‘An alleged murderer.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why Jamie Gilbert would want to kill Charlie Courage and Andrew Handley?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Did he even know Charlie Courage?’

  ‘I don’t know who he hangs
about with in his spare time.’

  ‘But he works for you.’

  ‘Worked. If you think I’m going to keep a murderer in my employ you must think I’m crazy. He’s fired as of now.’

  ‘He worked for you at the time of the murders. He was your chief enforcer. And he did know Andrew Handley.’

  ‘Jamie was my administrative assistant. I already told you that.’

  ‘What did he administer for you? Punishment?’

  ‘He handled my business affairs.’

  ‘Just exactly what might those be?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Clough looked at Gallagher. ‘Can’t you get him to stop this? It’s like an old LP with the bloody needle stuck.’

  ‘Legitimate questions, Barry. Legitimate questions.’

  Clough glared at Gallagher, who turned to Banks. ‘Get to the point quickly, Chief Inspector. We’re all running out of time and patience here.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Banks. ‘Barry, is it true you were fired as a roadie for bootlegging the band’s live performances?’

  Clough faltered, clearly not expecting the question. ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Just answer my question, please.’

  ‘It was years ago. There were no charges or anything.’

  ‘But you do have a history in bootlegging?’

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘Well, pirating is big business these days. Movies, computer software, games. Big business. Maybe not as big here as it is in the Far East or Eastern Europe, but big enough to provide maximum profits for minimum risks. Just the kind of business venture that interests you, isn’t it, Barry?’

  ‘Chief Inspector!’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Gallagher. Slip of the tongue.’ Banks could see Kevin Templeton trying to stifle a grin. ‘You’ve already admitted you know Gregory Manners, haven’t you?’ Banks pressed on.

  ‘I’ve admitted no such thing.’

  ‘Mr Manners has a conviction for smuggling. Customs and Excise had their eyes on him for a while.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘They had their eyes on you, too.’

  ‘Well, if they’d seen anything they’d have arrested me, wouldn’t they?’