Janet took one last look at the prone figure and walked towards the back of the house. The kitchen was in darkness.
‘Down here.’
She couldn’t see Dennis, but she knew that his voice came from downstairs. Through an open door to her right, three steps led down to a landing lit by a bare bulb. There was another door, most likely to the garage, she thought, and around the corner were the steps down to the cellar.
Dennis was standing there, near the bottom, in front of a third door. On it was pinned a poster of a naked woman. She lay back on a brass bed with her legs wide open, fingers tugging at the edges of her vagina, smiling down over her large breasts at the viewer, inviting, beckoning him inside. Dennis stood before it, grinning.
‘Bastard,’ Janet hissed.
‘Where’s your sense of humour?’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘I don’t know.’ Janet could see light under the door, faint and flickering, as if from a faulty bulb. She also noticed a peculiar odour. ‘What’s that smell?’ she asked.
‘How should I know? Rising damp? Drains?’
But it smelled like decay to Janet. Decay and sandalwood incense. She gave a little shudder.
‘Shall we go in?’ She was whispering without knowing why.
‘I think we’d better.’
Janet walked ahead of him, almost on tiptoe, down the final few steps. The adrenalin was really pumping in her veins now. Slowly, she reached out and tried the door. Locked. She moved aside, and Dennis used his foot this time. The lock splintered, and the door swung open. Dennis stood aside, bowed from the waist in a parody of gentlemanly courtesy, and said, ‘Ladies first.’
With Dennis only inches behind her, Janet stepped into the cellar.
She barely had time to register her first impressions of the small room – mirrors, dozens of lit candles surrounding a mattress on the floor, a girl on the mattress, naked and bound, something yellow around her neck, the terrible smell stronger, despite the incense, like blocked drains and rotten meat, crude charcoal drawings on the whitewashed walls – before it happened . . .
THE EIGHTH DCI BANKS NOVEL
Innocent Graves
One foggy night, Deborah Harrison is found lying in the churchyard behind St Mary’s, Eastvale. She has been strangled with the strap of her own school satchel.
But Deborah was no typical sixteen-year-old. Her father was a powerful financier who moved in the highest echelons of industry, defence and classified information. And Deborah, it seemed, enjoyed keeping secrets of her own . . .
With his colleague Detective Constable Susan Gay, Inspector Alan Banks moves along the many suspects, guilty of crimes large and small. And as he does so, plenty of sordid secrets and some deadly lies begin to emerge . . .
‘If you haven’t caught up with Peter Robinson already, now is the time to start’
Independent on Sunday
Critical acclaim for Peter Robinson and the Inspector Banks series
‘A powerfully moving work’
Ian Rankin
‘A wonderful novel’
Michael Connelly
‘The gripping story . . . shows Robinson getting more adept at juggling complex plot lines while retaining his excellent skills at characterization. The result is deeply absorbing, and the nuances of Banks’s character are increasingly compelling’
Publishers Weekly
‘An enjoyable mystery’
Sunday Telegraph
‘An addictive crime-novel series’
New York Times
‘Robinson’s Inspector Banks novels have built up a rising reputation as one of the most authentic and atmospheric of crime series . . . Any reader who still misses Morse should promptly resolve to go north with Banks’
Independent
‘As a crime writer, Robinson is not as granite-hard as Ian Rankin, and this is reflected in the crisp yet empathetic narration. Banks is genuinely human, rather than a hard man’
Observer
‘It demonstrates how the crime novel, when done right, can reach parts that other books can’t . . . A considerable achievement’
Guardian
‘Peter Robinson emerges as a definite contender for fiction’s new top cop’
Independent on Sunday
‘A guaranteed page-turner’
Mirror
‘Absorbing’
Scotsman
‘An engaging pleasure . . . Virtually every character is etched with care, precision and emotional insight. With each book, the quietly competent Alan Banks gets more and more human; like red wine, he gets better and more interesting with age’
Publishers Weekly
‘A good, solid, satisfactory police story with a host of well-depicted minor characters and an intriguing protagonist’
Evening Standard
Cold is the Grave
Peter Robinson grew up in Yorkshire and now lives in Canada.
His Inspector Banks series has won numerous awards in Britain, Europe, the United States and Canada. There are now fifteen novels published by Pan Macmillan in the series. Aftermath, the twelfth, was a Sunday Times bestseller.
The Inspector Banks series
Gallows View
A Dedicated Man
A Necessary End
The Hanging Valley
Past Reason Hated
Wednesday’s Child
Dry Bones that Dream
Innocent Graves
Dead Right
In a Dry Season
Cold is the Grave
Aftermath
The Summer that Never Was
Playing with Fire
Strange Affair
Also by Peter Robinson
Caedmon’s Song
Not Safe After Dark and Other Works
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, many thanks to those who read and commented on the manuscript throughout its development: in particular, Sheila Halladay, Dominick Abel, Patricia Lande Grader, Beverley Cousins, Erika Schmid and Mary Adachi. Also, many thanks to Robert Barnard for his inimitably valuable and entertaining comments.
While I frequently tweak police procedure for dramatic purposes, any accuracy I may display in this area is entirely due to my conversations with Area Commander Phil Gormley, Detective Inspector Alan Young and Detective Inspector Claire Stevens, all of Thames Valley Police, and Detective Sergeant Keith Wright, of Nottingham CID. Any mistakes are my own.
First published 2000 by Avon Books, New York
This electronic edition published 2016 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-51478-1
Copyright © Peter Robinson 2000
Cover photographs:
House © mubus7/Shutterstock
Tracks © Liveshot/Shutterstock
The right of Peter Robinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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