Peter Robinson: Cold Is The Grave

It was very much the kind of house Banks would associate with someone pulling in a hundred grand a year or more, but for all its rusticity, and for all the heat the fire threw out, it was a curiously cold, bleak and impersonal kind of room. there were no magazines or newspapers scattered on the low glass-topped table, and no messy piles of sheet music by the piano; the woodwork gleamed as if it had been waxed just moments ago, and everything was neat, clean and orderly. Which, come to think of it, was exactly what Banks would have expected from Riddle. This effect was heightened by the silence, broken only by the occasional howling of the wind outside and the rain spattering against the windows.

A woman walked into the room

“My wife, Rosalind,” said Riddle.

Banks shook Rosalind’s hand. It was soft, but her grip was firm. If this was shaping up to be a night of surprises, Rosalind Riddle was the second.

Banks had never met the chief constable’s wife before – all he knew about her was that she worked with a firm of Eastvale solicitors specializing in property conveyancing – and if he had ever given a passing thought to her, he might have imagined a stout, sturdy and rather characterless figure. Why, he didn’t know, but that was the image that came to mind.

The woman who stood before him, however, was elegant and tall, with a model’s slim figure and long shapely legs. She was casually dressed in a gray skirt and a white silk blouse, and the two buttons open at the top revealed a V of skin as pale as her complexion. She had short blond hair – the expensive, shaggy kind of short, and the highlit sort of blond – a high forehead, prominent cheekbones and dark blue eyes. Her lips were fuller than one would expect in the kind of face she had, and the lipstick made them seem even more so, giving the impression of a pout.

Her expression revealed nothing, but Banks could tell from her brusque body language that she was distraught. She set her drink on the table and sat on the velvet-upholstered sofa, crossing her legs and leaning forward, one hand clasping the other in her lap. She reminded Banks of the kind of elegant, remote blondes that Alfred Hitchcock had cast in so many of his films.

Riddle asked Banks to sit down. He was still in uniform. A tall man, running to bulk but still fit, he sat opposite in an armchair, pulling at the sharp crease of his trouser leg, and leaned back. He was bald, and dark beetle brows arched over his hard, serious brown eyes.

Banks got the feeling that neither of them quite knew what to say now that he was there. You could cut the tension with a knife; something bad had happened, something delicate and painful. Banks needed a cigarette badly, but there was no way. He knew Riddle hated smoke, and the room had a sort of sweet lavender smell that he could tell had never been sullied by cigarettes. The silence stretched on. He was beginning to feel like Philip Marlowe at the beginning of a case. Maybe he should tell them his rates and break the ice, he thought, but before he could say anything flippant, Riddle spoke.

“Banks… I… er… I know we’ve had our differences in the past, and I’m sure this request will come as much of a surprise to you as it comes to me to be making it, but I need your help.”

Differences in the past ? There was an understatement if ever there was one. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Riddle shifted in his chair and plucked at his creases. His wife reached forward and picked up her drink. The ring of moisture it left on the glass surface was the only thing that marred the room’s sterile perfection.

“It’s a personal matter,” Riddle went on. “Very personal. And unofficial. Before we go any further, Banks, I want your absolute assurance that what I have to say won’t be repeated outside these four walls. Can you give me that?”

Banks nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Rosalind said, standing up. “You must think me a terrible hostess. You’ve come all this way, and I haven’t even offered you a drink. Will you have something, Mr. Banks? A small whiskey, perhaps?”

“The man’s driving,” said Riddle.

“Surely just the one?”

Banks held his hand up. “No, thank you,” he said. What he really wanted was a cup of tea, but more than that, he wanted to get this all over with and go home. If he could do without a cigarette for a while, he could do without a drink, too. He wished one of them would get to the point.

“It’s about our daughter,” Rosalind Riddle began, hands wriggling on her lap. “She left home when she was sixteen.”

“She ran away, Ros,” said Riddle, his voice tight with anger. “Let’s not fool ourselves about what happened.”

“How long ago was that?” Banks asked.

Riddle answered him. “Six months.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Banks, “but I’m not sure what-”

“Our son Benjamin was playing on the computer earlier this evening,” Rosalind chipped in. “By accident he stumbled across some pictures on one of those sex sites.”

Banks knew that inadvertently accessing a porno site was easily enough done. Look for “Spice Girls” on some of those search engines and you might end up at “Spicy Girls.”

“Some of the pictures…” Rosalind went on. “Well, they were of Emily, our daughter. Benjamin’s only eight. He doesn’t really know what any of it means. We put him to bed and told him not to say anything.”

“Are you certain it was your daughter?” Banks asked. “Some of those photos can be doctored, you know. Heads and bodies rearranged.”

“It was her,” Rosalind answered. “Believe me. There’s a distinctive birthmark.”

“I’m sure this is all very upsetting,” Banks said. “And you have my sympathies. But what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find her,” Riddle said.

“Why haven’t you tried yourself?”

Riddle looked at his wife. The gaze that passed between them spoke volumes of discord and recrimination. “I have,” said Riddle. “But I had nothing to go on. I couldn’t go through official channels. I mean, it wasn’t even as if there was a crime . She was perfectly within her legal rights. And the fewer people who knew about what happened, the better.”

“You’re worried about your reputation?”

Riddle’s voice rose. “I know what you think, Banks, but these things are important. If only you realized that, you might have made something better of yourself.”

“More important than your daughter’s well-being?”

“Valuing reputation doesn’t mean that either my husband or I care any the less about our daughter, Mr. Banks,” said Rosalind. “As her mother, I resent that implication.”

“Then I apologize.”

Riddle spoke again. “Look, what I’m saying, Banks, is that before tonight I didn’t think I had any real cause to worry about her – Emily’s an intelligent and resourceful girl, if a bit too headstrong and rebellious – but now I think I do have something tangible to be concerned about. And this isn’t all about ambition and reputation, no matter what you think.”

“So why don’t you try to find her yourself?”

“Be realistic, Banks. For a start, I can’t be seen going off on some sort of private chase.”

“And I can?”

“You’re not in the public eye as much as I am. People might recognize me. I can cover for you up here, if that’s what you’re worried about. I am chief constable, after all. And I’ll also cover all reasonable expenses. I don’t expect you to be out of pocket over this. But you’ll be on your own. You can’t use police resources or anything like that. I want to keep this private. A family matter.”

“You mean your career’s important and mine’s expendable?”