Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“He’d only get angry.” She pouted, then moved away from the fireplace. “How did you find me? I didn’t tell anyone where I’m from. I didn’t even use my real name.”

“I know,” said Banks. “But, really: Louisa Gamine . You’re a clever girl, you’ve had an expensive education. It took me a little while to work it out, but I got there in the end. Gamine means a girl with mischievous charm, but ‘gamine’ is an anagram of ‘enigma,’ which means puzzle, or, in this case, Riddle. Your father said you were very good with language.”

She clapped her hands together. “Clever man. You got it. What a brilliant detective. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Your little brother saw your photo on the Internet.”

Emily’s jaw dropped and she fell back onto the chair. It was hard to tell, but Banks thought her reaction was genuine. “Ben? Ben saw that?”

Banks nodded.

“Oh, shit.” She flicked her half-smoked cigarette into the fire. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I don’t imagine it was.”

“And he told Mum?”

“That’s right.”

“She’d never have told Dad. Not in a million years. She knows what he’s like as well as I do.”

“I don’t know how he found out,” said Banks, “but he did.”

Emily laughed. “I’d love to have seen his face.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“And he sent you to look for me?”

“That’s about it.”

“Why?”

“Why did he send me?”

“Well, I’m damn sure he wouldn’t bother coming himself, but why you? He doesn’t even like you.”

“But he knows I’m good at my job.”

“Let me guess. He’s promised you he’ll leave you alone if you do as he asks? Don’t trust him.”

“I can’t honestly say as I do, but I’ve got…”

“What?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me what you were going to say.”

“No.” Banks didn’t want to tell her about Tracy, that in an odd sort of way he was doing this for her, making up for his own absences and shortcomings as a father.

Emily sulked for a few moments, then she stood up again and paced in front of him, counting off imaginary points on her fingers. “Let me see… the pictures took you to GlamourPuss… right? That took you to Craig…? But he doesn’t know where I am. I told… Ah, Ruth! Ruth told you?”

Banks said nothing.

“Well, she would. She’s a jealous cow. She’d just love to cause trouble for me, the ugly bitch, just because I’ve met someone like Barry and she’s still stuck in her poky little flat in Kennington. Do you know…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

Emily smiled. “No. Now it’s my turn to tease. I’m not telling you.” Before Banks could frame a response, she stopped pacing and knelt in front of him, looking up into his face with her sparkling blue eyes. “So you saw them, too, did you? The photos.”

Banks swallowed. “Yes.”

“Did you like them? Did they excite you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Liar.” She jumped up again, a smile of triumph on her face. “Besides, they were just a joke. A laugh. Daddy’s got nothing to worry about from them. It’s not as if I’ve taken up a career in the porno business or anything.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.

“He’s just worried about me ruining his spotless reputation, isn’t he?”

“That’s part of it.” Banks didn’t feel he necessarily had to paint an idealized picture of Riddle, especially to his run away daughter. She probably knew him better than anyone. “But he did also seem genuinely concerned about you.”

“I’m sure he did.” Emily had sat down again now and seemed thoughtful. “Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle, champion of family values, quality time, the caring, concerned copper. ‘My daughter the slut’ wouldn’t fit at all with that image, would it?”

“It wouldn’t do any harm if you just gave him a call and reassured him everything’s okay, would it?” Banks said. “And what about your mother? She’s worried sick, too.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t know anything. What do you know about it?” She fingered the collar of her sweater and seemed to draw in on herself. “It was like being in prison up there. You can’t go here. You can’t do that. You can’t see him. You can’t talk to her. Don’t forget your piano lessons. Have you done your homework? Be in before eight o’clock. I’d no room to breathe. It was stifling me. I couldn’t be free, couldn’t be myself.”

“Are you now?”

“Of course I am.” She stood up again. Red patches glowed on her cheeks. “Tell Daddy to fuck off. Tell the old man to just fuck off. Let him wonder. Let him worry. I’m not going to set his mind at rest. Because… you know what?”

“What?”

“Because he was never fucking there anyway. He used to make all these rules and you know what… he was never even there to enforce them. Mummy had to do that. And she didn’t even care enough. He was never even there to enforce his own stupid rules . Isn’t that a laugh?” She went to lean against the fireplace again. Alanis Morissette was singing about seeing right through someone, and Banks knew what she meant. Still, he’d done his job, done as he’d been asked. He could give Jimmy Riddle Emily’s London address, tell him about Barry Clough. If Riddle wanted to send in the locals to check out Clough’s gun collection, set the forensic accountants on his business interests and put in a call to the drugs squad, that was his business. Banks’s job was over. It was up to Riddle to take it from there. He tore a page from his notebook and wrote on it. “If you change your mind, or if there’s anything else you want to tell me, any message you want me to deliver, this is where I’m staying. You can phone and leave a message if I’m not there.”

For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to take it, but she did. Then she glanced at it once, crumpled it up and threw it in the fire. The door opened and Barry Clough strode in, smile on his face. He tapped his wristwatch. “Better get ready, love,” he said to Emily. “We’re due at Rod’s place in half an hour.” He looked at Banks, the smile gone. “And your time’s up, mate,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the front door. “On your bike.”

Banks was running about five minutes late for his dinner with Sandra when he got off the tube at Camden Town. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour now, and puddles in the gutter were smeared with the gaudy reflections of shop signs and traffic lights. Luckily, the restaurant wasn’t far from the underground.

Banks turned up his jacket collar, but he was still soaked by the time he dashed into the restaurant. At first he didn’t recognize the woman who smiled and waved him over to her table by the window. Though he had seen Sandra briefly just a couple of months ago, she had changed her appearance completely since then. For a start, she had had her blond hair cut short and layered. If anything, the style emphasized her dark eyebrows more than ever, and Banks had always found Sandra’s eyebrows one of her sexiest features. She was also wearing a pair of round gold-rimmed glasses, not much bigger than the “granny glasses” that were so popular in the sixties. He had never seen her in glasses before, hadn’t known she needed them. From what he could make out, her clothes looked artsy, all different layers: a black shawl, a red silk scarf, a red-and-black-patterned jumper.

Banks edged into the chair opposite her. He was starving. It seemed ages since that dismal chicken pot pie in Kennington. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, drying off his hair with a serviette. “I’d forgotten what a pain the bloody tube can be.”