Peter Robinson: Cold Is The Grave

“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 behavior, 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 jumper. 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 windowpanes. “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 cozy 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’s 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 her 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 toward him, swaying a little. “No, you can’t go yet. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I can’t help you anymore,” 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 toward 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 toward 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.

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 Smith 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 over-joyed. 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 makeup 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 amid the packing crates 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 neighbor, Charlotte King, on his way home, and asked her to keep an eye on Rosalind.