Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“I don’t usually let strangers in,” she said.

“A good policy.”

“But you mentioned Louisa. You’re not one of her new friends, are you?”

“No, I’m not. You don’t like them?”

“I can take them or leave them.” Ruth sniffed and reached for a packet of Embassy Regal resting on the coffee table. “Bad habit I picked up in university. Want a cup of tea?”

“Please.” It would set them at ease, Banks thought, create the right atmosphere for the sort of informal chat he wanted. Ruth put the cigarettes down without lighting one and walked into the kitchen. She had a slight limp. Not enough to slow her down, but noticeable if you looked closely enough. Banks looked at the book titles: Maeve Binchy, Rosamunde Pilcher, Catherine Cookson. A few CDs lay scattered beside the stereo, but Banks hadn’t heard of most of the groups, except for the Manic Street Preachers, Sheryl Crow, Beth Orton, Radiohead and P.J. Harvey. Still, Ruth probably hadn’t heard of Arnold Bax or Gerald Finzi, either.

When Ruth came back with the tea and sat opposite him, she still seemed to be checking him out, probing him with those suspicious gray eyes of hers. “Louisa,” she said, when she had finally lit her cigarette. “What about her?”

“I’m looking for her. Do you know where she is?”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. You could be out to do her harm.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you want with her, then?”

Banks paused. Might as well do it again; after all, he’d got this far on a lie, and it was beginning to fit so well he almost believed it himself, even though he had never met Emily Riddle. “I’m her father,” he said. “I just want to talk to her.”

Ruth just stared at him a moment, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t think so.” She shook her head.

“You don’t think what?”

“That you’re Louisa’s father.”

“Why not?”

“He wouldn’t come looking for her, for a start.”

“I love my daughter,” Banks said, which at least was true.

“No. You don’t understand. I saw a photo. A family photo she had with the rest of her things. There’s no point lying. I know it wasn’t you.”

Banks paused, stunned as much by Emily’s taking a family photo as by Ruth’s immediate uncovering of his little deception. Time for a change of tack. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not her father. But he asked me to look for her, to try to find her and ask her if she’d talk to him.”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He’s afraid that if she knows he’s looking for her she’ll make herself even more scarce.”

“He’s got that one right,” said Ruth. “Look, why should I tell you anything? Louisa left home of her own free will, and she was of legal age. She came down here to live her own life away from her parents. Why should I mess things up for her?”

“I’m not here to force her to do anything she doesn’t want,” said Banks. “She can stay down here if she likes. All her father wants is to know what she’s doing, where she lives, if she’s all right. And if she’ll talk to him, great, if not-”

“Why should I trust you? You’ve already lied to me.”

“Is she in any trouble, Ruth?” Banks asked. “Does she need help?”

“Help? Louisa? You must be joking. She’s the kind who always lands on her feet, no matter what. After she’s landed on her back first, that is.”

“I thought she was a friend of yours?”

“She was. Is.” Ruth made an impatient gesture. “She just annoys me sometimes, that’s all. Most people do. Don’t your friends piss you off from time to time?”

“But is there any real reason for concern?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

Banks sipped some tea; it tasted bitter. “Where did you meet her?”

“Down near King’s Cross. She came up to me in the street and asked me the way to the nearest youth hostel. We got talking. I could tell she’d just arrived and she wasn’t quite sure what to do or where to go.” Ruth shrugged. “I know how lonely and friendless London can be, especially when you’re new to it all.”

“So you took her in?”

“I felt sorry for her.”

“And she lived with you here?”

Ruth’s cheeks reddened. “Look, I’m not a lezzy, if that’s what you’re thinking. I offered her my spare room till she got on her feet. That’s all. Can’t a person do someone a good turn anymore without it being turned into some sort of sex thing?”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” said Banks. “I’m sorry if it upset you.”

“Yeah… well. Just be careful what you go around saying to people, that’s all.”

“You and Louisa are friends, though, you said?”

“Yeah. She stayed here for a while. I helped get her a job, but it didn’t take. Then she met Craig, a bloke I knew from college, and she went off to live with him.”

Ruth spoke in a curiously dispassionate way, but Banks got the impression there was a lot beneath the surface she wasn’t saying. He also got the sense that she was constantly assessing, evaluating, calculating, and that being found out in his little lie had put him somehow in thrall to her. “I’ve talked to Craig Newton,” he said, “and he told me she left him for a new boyfriend. Sounds like a nasty piece of work. Know who he is?”

“Just some bloke she met at a party.”

“Were you there? Did you meet him?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen them since?”

“They came round here once. I think Louisa was showing him off. He certainly didn’t seem impressed by what he saw.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Barry Clough.”

“Do you know the address?”

Ruth fumbled for another cigarette, and when she had lit it and breathed out her first lungful of smoke, she nodded. “Yeah. They live in one of those fancy villa-style places out Little Venice way. Louisa had me over to a dinner party there once – catered, of course. I think she was trying to impress me that time.”

“Did it work?”

“It takes more than a big house and a couple of has-been rock stars. And maybe a back-bencher and a bent copper or two.”

Banks smiled. “What does he do for a living?”

“Some sort of businessman. He’s got connections with the music business. If you ask me, he’s a drug dealer.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Fancy house. Always lots of coke around. Rock stars. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“Does Louisa take drugs?”

“Is the Pope Polish?”

“How long ago did they meet?”

“Bit over two months.”

“Have you seen much of her since that time?”

“Not much. You’re beginning to sound like a copper, you know.”

Banks didn’t like the way she was looking at him, as if she knew . “I’m just worried, that’s all,” he said.

“Why? She’s not your daughter.”

Banks didn’t want to explain about his own daughter, at this moment no doubt walking around Paris hand in hand with Damon, or perhaps not even bothering with the sights, deciding instead to spend the weekend in bed. “Her father’s a good mate of mine,” he said instead, the words almost sticking in his throat as he uttered them. “I’d hate to see any harm come to her.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it? I mean, it was nearly six months ago when she first came down here. He should have put a bit more effort into finding her back then, if you ask me.” She paused, narrowed her eyes again, then said, “I’m not sure about you. There’s something you’re not telling me. You weren’t screwing her, were you? I wouldn’t put it past her. She was no innocent from the provinces, even when she first came here. She knew what was what.”