Cold is the Grave

by Peter Robinson

  The lights were on in the front room. He parked out front, glancing towards the garage as he pulled up his collar against the wind and rain, and rang the doorbell.

  Rosalind answered and invited him in. She was wearing a short skirt and a cashmere sweater. He followed her into the living room. Her legs looked good, and it didn’t seem as if she were wearing any tights. He thought he noticed something different about the smell of the place, but he dismissed it; there were far more serious matters on his mind.

  ‘Drink?’ Rosalind asked.

  ‘Small whisky, please.’

  ‘You might as well have a large one. I don’t like the stuff, and there’s no one else to drink it.’

  ‘I have to drive.’

  She raised her eyebrow as she poured. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Christ, Banks thought, she was flirting. He would have to tread carefully. He accepted the crystal glass and sat down in the only uncovered armchair. The room was as sterile as ever, and a couple of packing crates sat on the floor. The baby grand was covered by a white sheet, as was most of the other furniture. He took a sip of whisky. It was Glenfiddich, not one of his favourites. At the moment, though, anything would do.

  ‘I was just doing some packing,’ Rosalind said. ‘Do you know how remarkably little I have to show for all these years?’ She poured herself a large gin and tonic, clearly not her first of the evening, pulled a sheet off another armchair and sat down opposite Banks. As she did so, he caught a glimpse of black silk between her legs. He looked away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘First?’

  ‘That’s a start.’

  ‘I’m going down to Barnstaple after the funeral to be with Benjamin. We’ll be staying with my parents for a while. I can’t stand hanging about up here any longer. I feel like some crazy old woman all alone in a Gothic mansion; it’s too big. I’ve even started talking to the furniture and the creaks in the woodwork.’

  Banks smiled. ‘And then, after Barnstaple?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to reinvent myself, won’t I? I rather fancy the coast. A little Devon fishing village, for example. I can become the mysterious woman who paces the widow’s walk in a long black cloak.’

  ‘That was Lyme Regis,’ Banks said. ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman.’

  ‘I know. I saw the film. But this is my version.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  ‘That’s not important. It never has been. Jerry’s was the only important career in the family, and now that’s gone, none of it really matters.’

  ‘And Benjamin?’

  ‘He can walk with me. It would make me more mysterious. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant. It’s just . . .’ She ran her hand across her brow. ‘I’ve probably had too much to drink.’ She frowned. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Have you caught him? Emily’s killer?’

  Banks swallowed. This was going to be harder than he had imagined. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a confession.’

  ‘Clough?’

  That was another bridge he’d have to cross: Mal Licious. ‘No. Not Clough.’ He leaned forward and cupped his drink in both hands, staring into the pale liquid and catching a whiff of it. ‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was Ruth.’

  ‘Ruth? But . . . she can’t . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘She confessed. She said she didn’t mean to kill Emily, just to give her a scare.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. She’s contradicted herself quite a bit.’

  ‘Ruth.’ Rosalind fell silent and Banks let it stretch. Wind lashed the rain against the window panes the way it had the first night he came to the Riddle house. It seemed like years ago.

  ‘Do you want to hear what happened?’ Banks asked.

  Rosalind looked at him. There was fear in her large blue eyes. ‘I suppose I’d better,’ she said. ‘Look, do smoke if you want to. I know you’re a smoker.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Rosalind got up a little unsteadily and pulled a packet of Dunhills and a box of matches from her handbag. She lit up, topped up her gin and tonic and sat down again.

  ‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ said Banks.

  ‘I didn’t. Not for twenty years. But I’ve started again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Banks lit up too. ‘It’s bad for you.’

  ‘So’s life.’

  There was no answer to that. Slowly, Banks told her the whole story of Ruth Walker’s twisted, private campaign of hatred and revenge against the Riddle family. First he told her about Ruth’s less-than-perfect life with the overzealous Walkers and about the fire that killed them. Then he told her how Ruth had discovered that Barry Clough was her father and how she had hooked him up with Emily out of spite, then put the tabloids on the scent of a scandal. He told her how Ruth arranged to meet Emily and give her the poisoned cocaine, how she didn’t even need to be there, that it was enough for her simply to imagine Emily’s pain and shame as she humiliated herself. As he spoke, what little colour there had been left Rosalind Riddle’s face and her eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall, just gathered there at the rims, waiting, magnifying her despair. Rosalind left her drink and her cigarette untouched as she listened. A long column of ash fell onto the hardwood floor when a slight tremor passed through her fingers.

  When Banks had finished, Rosalind sat in silence for a while, taking it all in, digesting it as best she could, shaking her head slowly as if disagreeing with some inner voice. Then she knocked back the rest of her drink and whispered, ‘But why? Why did she do it? Can you answer me that one?’

  ‘She’s ill.’

  ‘That’s no reason. Why? Why did she do it? Why did she hate us so much? Didn’t I do my best for her? I didn’t have an abortion. I gave her life. How the hell was I to know her adoptive parents would turn out to be religious fanatics?’

  ‘You weren’t.’

  ‘So why does she blame me?’

  Ruth’s last words still echoed in Banks’s mind from that afternoon: Because they took her back. She broke their hearts and they took her back. ‘Because Ruth sees everything from her own point of view, and only that,’ he said. ‘All she knows is how things affect her, how things hurt her, how she was deprived. In her way of looking at the world, everything was either done for her or against her. Mostly it was against her. She doesn’t know any different, doesn’t recognize people’s normal feelings.’

  Rosalind laughed harshly. ‘My daughter the psychopath?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so. Not as simple as that. She enjoyed exercising power over people, inflicting pain, yes, but she didn’t have the detachment of a psychopath. She was obsessed, yes, but not psychopathic. And she knows the difference between right and wrong. You’d have to ask a psychiatrist, of course, but that’s my opinion.’

  Rosalind got up and fixed herself another drink. She offered Banks one, but he refused. He still had a quarter of an inch in the bottom of his glass, and that would do him nicely.

  ‘Will she be put in a mental hospital?’ Rosalind asked.

  ‘She’ll be sent for psychiatric evaluation, for what it’s worth. They’ll determine what’s best done with her.’

  ‘There’ll be a trial? Prison?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘Emily’s dead. Jerry’s dead. Ruth’s a murderer. Before Emily died she lived with the man who left me pregnant with Ruth more than twenty years ago. Then I find out that my daughter, my abandoned daughter Ruth, led her into it on purpose, just to humiliate us all in her eyes, so that she could be the only one to know we were all living a lie. Then she killed her. I had two daughters, and one murdered the other. How do you expect me to put all that together? How can I possibly make sense of it
all?’ She took a long sip of gin and tonic.

  Banks shook his head. ‘I don’t know. In time, perhaps.’

  ‘Remember the first time we met,’ Rosalind said, crossing her long legs and leaning back in her chair so that a smooth white stretch of thigh showed. Her voice was a little slurred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was obnoxious, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were upset.’

  ‘No, that’s not it at all. I was obnoxious. Jerry was upset. If anything, I was annoyed, irritated by Emily’s irresponsible behaviour, worried what impact it might have on Jerry’s political ambitions, on my future. I didn’t want Emily back. I couldn’t handle her.’

  ‘You wanted to protect the world you’d made.’

  ‘And what a world that was. All style and no substance. All glitter and no gold.’ She waved her arm in a gesture at the room and spilled some gin and tonic on her skirt. She didn’t bother to wipe it off. ‘All this. It’s strange, but I was thinking about it when you arrived, while I was packing. Funny, it doesn’t mean very much now. None of it does. You were right to despise me.’

  ‘I didn’t despise you.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Admit it.’

  ‘Maybe I resented you a little.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Do you despise me now? Resent me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? I’m the same person.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘How profound. But you’re right. I’m not. All the money, the status, the power, the thrill of political ambition, the whiff of Westminster . . . it all used to mean so much. It means nothing now. Less than nothing. Dust.’

  ‘What does have meaning for you now?’

  Rosalind paused, sipped some more gin and tonic and stared at him, her eyes slightly unfocused. Outside, the wind continued to howl and rain lashed against the window panes. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet. I have to find out. But I won’t give up until I do. I’m not like Jerry.’ She got unsteadily to her feet. ‘Stay and have another drink with me?’

  ‘No. Really. I must be going.’

  ‘Please. Where do you have to go to that’s so important? Who do you have to go to?’

  She had a point. There was Annie, of course, but he wouldn’t be going to Annie so late. Another small drink couldn’t do any harm. ‘All right.’

  The drink, when it came, wasn’t small, but he didn’t have to drink all of it, he told himself.

  ‘I’m sorry there’s no music,’ Rosalind said. ‘We never did have music in the house. I remember your little cottage, how cosy it is with the fire, the music playing. Maybe I’ll find somewhere like that.’ She looked around bleakly. ‘There was nothing like that here.’

  Banks wanted to point out the grand piano, but he had a feeling it was just for show. Emily had been forced to take piano lessons, he remembered, because it was part and parcel of the Riddle lifestyle, along with the pony, the proper schools and the rest. Some people managed to be happy with those things for their entire lives, then there were people like Rosalind, who caught Tragedy’s wandering eye and got to watch it all come toppling down around them.

  ‘I should never have put her up for adoption.’

  ‘What else could you do?’

  ‘I could have had an abortion, and then Emily’s killer would never have been born.’

  ‘If we all knew the consequences of every decision we made, we’d probably never make any,’ said Banks. ‘Besides, it wasn’t your fault that you had to give Ruth up for adoption. Your parents played a part in that. Does that make them responsible for Emily’s death, too?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, Rosalind. You were young. You couldn’t have cared for a child properly, especially without the father’s help. You thought she would have a better life. It wasn’t your fault that the adoption agency thought they had found Ruth a home with decent people who turned out to be strict religious types. And it wasn’t even the Walkers’ fault that Ruth turned out the way she did. I’m sure they did their best in many ways. From what I’ve gathered, they weren’t intentionally cruel, just thoughtless and strict and cold. No. You can keep on assigning blame here, there and everywhere, but when it comes right down to it, we’re responsible for what we do ourselves.’

  Rosalind stubbed out another cigarette and tossed back the rest of her drink. ‘Oh, you’re right. I know. It’ll pass. Everything’s just too overwhelming at the moment. I can’t seem to take it all in.’ She went to refill her glass and bumped her hip against the corner of the cocktail cabinet. Glasses and bottles rattled.

  ‘I’d really better be going,’ Banks said. ‘It’s getting late.’

  Rosalind turned and walked towards him, swaying a little. ‘No, you can’t go yet. I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I can’t help you any more,’ said Banks.

  Rosalind pouted. ‘Please?’

  ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’

  ‘There must be. You’re a nice man. You’ve been good to me. You’re the only person who has.’

  Banks walked towards the front door and opened it. He felt the cold wind around his hands and bare head. Rosalind leaned against the wall, drink in her hand, tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks, then he pulled the door shut behind him and dashed towards his car. Sorry as he felt for Rosalind Riddle, he didn’t want to be part of her life any longer. He wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. Gratly would do for a start, and Barnstaple would be even better.

  Before he could get into his car, he heard the crystal tumbler shatter against the door behind him.

  Epilogue

  Christmas Day

  Banks woke up early on Christmas morning, and after sitting quietly in the kitchen for a while drinking his tea and enjoying the peace he always felt there, he went into the living room, turned the tree lights on, slipped his Buena Vista Social Club CD in the stereo and went back to the kitchen, humming along with ‘Chan Chan’ as he stood over the large free-range chicken that lay splayed on the chopping block, a copy of Delia Smith’s Christmas open flat beside it.

  He was going to make the traditional pork, sage and onion stuffing, for which he had purchased all the ingredients yesterday. He was shocked to read that Delia said you should make your stuffing on Christmas Eve, but he decided that was perhaps because the enormous turkey she was cooking would probably take all day. He’d be fine. He looked at his watch. Plenty of time.

  His back ached because he had had to sleep on the small sofa downstairs. It was a small price to pay for having both of his kids with him for Christmas, though.

  A couple of days ago, Brian had phoned to say that he had bought the car he’d been after and he had a few days free. He offered to pick up Tracy in Leeds on his way to Gratly if Banks had room for them both. Banks was overjoyed. Of course he had room. He immediately went out and bought more presents: a three-CD history of the Blue Horizon label for Brian, and some of the finest, most expensive make-up brushes he could find for Tracy, along with a few odds and ends to fill out their stockings.

  They were both staying until Boxing Day, when Brian would drive Tracy down to London to see her mother and Sean, who were spending Christmas in Dublin. Annie was with her father and the rest of his colony of oddballs in Cornwall, but that was all right. She would be back soon, and they had a date for New Year’s Eve.

  So this was his imperfect Christmas with his imperfect family, but at least, he reminded himself, he still had a family, despite the damage done over the last year. All Rosalind Riddle had was a young son who would be forever asking where his daddy and his big sister had gone, and a long-abandoned daughter facing charges for murdering her half-sister; though Banks had a feeling that Ruth Walker would probably be committed to a mental hospital rather than sent to prison.

  Many times over the past week or so Banks had remembered that expression of despair on Rosalind’s face as she sat amidst the packing c
rates and sheeted furniture listening to him tell her the full story of Ruth’s obsession. He also remembered the sound of the crystal glass shattering against the door as he left. It had worried him so much that he had called on Rosalind’s closest neighbour, Charlotte King, on his way home, and asked her to keep an eye on Rosalind.

  He had also attended Jimmy Riddle’s funeral, with full police honours, a week before Christmas. Rosalind had been there, along with Benjamin and her parents, but she had ignored him; another person who had opened up to him too much, like Jenny Fuller, and revealed far too much of the raw, naked self below the surface, then regretted it and turned away.

  Afterwards, he heard, they had all gone down to Barnstaple, and the Old Mill was on the market. He wished Rosalind well; God knew, she had suffered enough.

  Banks peered at the recipe. He had just mixed the breadcrumbs, sage and onion with the boiling water when his telephone rang. Who the hell could that be at nine o’clock on Christmas morning? he wondered, as he put the bowl aside and went into the living room.

  ‘Merry Crimble, Banks.’

  Bloody hell! It was Dirty Dick Burgess. ‘Merry Christmas,’ Banks said. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

  ‘Got a Christmas present for you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Okay, I give up. What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought it would come better from me, rather than you reading about it when it’s all over the papers or watching it on television.’

  ‘What would?’

  ‘Barry Clough.’

  ‘Barry Clough? What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Stop talking like a bloody parrot. Banks. Yes. Dead. D.E.A.D. Dead.’

  Banks gripped the handset tighter and sat down. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  As far as Banks knew, after he and Annie had gone to see Stafford Oakes at the CPS office a week or so ago, all charges against Clough had been dropped. It turned out that the tyre match probably wouldn’t withstand a close cross-examination, and someone had cocked up on the warrant for the search of Jamie Gilbert’s car, rendering all evidence found therein inadmissible. British justice. To add to their troubles, the witness who said she had seen Jamie Gilbert with Charlie Courage had begun having mysterious lapses of memory.