Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“You admitted you’re frightened of Clough.”

“That was silly of me.” She gave a slight shudder. “It was just, you know, talking about it, remembering how he was that night. And I…”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Go on.”

“Oh, just that I thought I saw Jamie in the Swainsdale Centre.” She laughed, put her forefinger to her head and twisted it back and forth. “Me being crazy again. Paranoid Emily, that’s what they’ll be calling me.” Her nail was chewed almost to the quick, Banks noticed.

“Jamie who?”

“Jamie Gilbert. He’s one of Barry’s closest employees. Barry talks and Jamie jumps. I don’t like him. He’s good-looking, but he’s mean. He gives me the creeps.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of days ago. Monday, I think. But it can’t have been him. I must have been seeing things. Barry doesn’t even know who I really am or where I live, does he? Remember Louisa Gamine?”

“How could I forget?” Banks wasn’t certain that a man like Barry Clough lacked the resources to find out what he wanted about anyone. “Be careful, though. If you think you see him or Clough around here again, make sure you tell me. Okay?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Emily, promise you’ll tell me if you think you see either of them again.”

Emily waved her hand. “All right. All right. Don’t get your underpants in a twist about it.”

“You never did tell me what business Clough’s in.”

“That’s because I don’t know.”

“Are you certain he’s not a drug dealer?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Like I said, he’s always got drugs around. He knows people, does people favors and things, maybe gets them some stuff, but he’s not a dealer. I’m sure of that.”

“How does he make his money?”

“I told you, I don’t know. He never talked about it to me. As far as Barry is concerned, women are purely for recreation, not business. There’s the club, I suppose, for a start. That takes up a fair bit of his time. And I think maybe he manages some bands and does some concert promotion. He’s got business interests all over the country. He was always off here and there. Leeds. Dover. Manchester. Bristol. Sometimes he took me with him, but to be honest it was pretty boring waiting for him in some hotel room or walking the streets of some dingy little dump in the rain. Once he even asked me if I wanted to come here with him.”

“Here? The Black Bull?”

“Eastvale, silly. Can you imagine it? Me and Barry walking around Eastvale? I mean, my mother works here.” She slapped the table and made the glasses wobble. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It’s over. Barry will move on to his next little girl and I’ll get on with my life.”

“How are things at home?”

She pulled a face. “Just what you’d expect.”

“What’s that?”

“Boring. They just want me to keep quiet and stay out of the way. Mother pretty much ignores me. Dad has his political cronies over most of the time. You should see the way some of them look at me. But he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy planning his future.”

“And what about you? What do you want to do?”

Emily brightened and took a long swig of her lager and lime. “I’ve been thinking I might like to go to university after all.”

“Don’t you have to do your A-Levels first?”

“Of course. But I can do that at a sixth-form college. I could even do them at home if I want to. It’s not as if they’re hard or anything.”

“Ah,” said Banks, who had found even his O-Levels hard. “And where would you go to university?”

“Oxford or Cambridge, of course.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Farthest thing from my mind.”

“Right. Yeah… well… anyway, I also thought I wouldn’t mind going to university in America. Harvard or Stanford or somewhere like that. Not Bryn Mawr. It sounds like that nasty little Welsh town we lived in for a while when I was a kid. And not that one in Poughkeepsie, either. That sounds like somewhere you keep pigs.”

“What would you study?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe languages. Or acting. I was always good in school plays. But there’s plenty of time to think about all that.”

“Yes, there is.” Banks paused and fiddled for another cigarette. Emily lit it for him with a gold lighter. “I don’t want to sound like your father,” he went on, “but this drugs thing…”

“I can take them or leave them.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. I never did much anyway. Just a bit of coke, crystal meth, V amp; E.”

“Viagra and Ecstasy?”

“You remember.”

“You took that?”

“Sure.”

“But Viagra’s… I mean, what does it do? For a woman?”

She came up with a wicked grin and tapped his arm. “Well, it doesn’t exactly give me a hard-on, but it does make fucking really good. Mostly, it gives you a real rush, sort of like speed.”

“I see. And you’ve had no problems giving up all this stuff?”

“I’m not an addict , if that’s what you’re getting at. I can stop anytime I want.”

“I’m not suggesting that you’re an addict, just that it can be difficult without outside help.”

“I’m not going on one of those stupid programs with all those losers, if that’s what you mean. No way.” She pouted and looked away.

Banks held his hands up. “Fine. Fine. All I’m saying is that if you find you need any help… Well, I know you can hardly go to your father. That’s all.”

Emily stared at him for a while, as if digesting and translating what he had said. “Thanks,” she said finally, not meeting his eyes, and managed a small smile. “You know why my dad hates you?”

Startled, Banks almost choked on his drink. When he had regained some of his composure, he suggested, “Personality clash?”

“Because he envies you. That’s why.”

“Envies me?”

“It’s true. I can tell. I’ve heard him going on to Mother. Do you know, he thinks you’ve been having it off with some Pakistani tart in Leeds?”

“She’s not Pakistani, she’s from Bangladesh. She’s not a tart. And we’ve never had it off.”

“Whatever. And the music. That drives him crazy.”

“But why?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”

“It’s because you’ve got a life. You have a woman on the side, you listen to opera or whatever, and you get the job done, you get results. You also do it the way you want. Dad’s by the book. Always has been.”

“But he’s one of the youngest chief constables we’ve ever had. Why on earth should he be jealous of my achievements?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Obviously not.”

“He’s envious. You’re everything he’d like to be, but he can’t. He’s locked himself on a course he couldn’t change even if he wanted to. He’s sacrificed everything to get where he’s got. Believe me, I should know. I’m one of the things he’s sacrificed. All he’s got is his ambition. He doesn’t have time to listen to music, be with his family, have another woman, read a book. It’s like he’s made a pact with the devil and he’s handed over all his time in exchange for earthly power and position. And there’s something else. He can handle the politics, pass exams and courses by the cartload, manage, administrate better than just about anyone else on the force, but there’s one thing he could never do worth a damn.”

“What’s that?”

“He couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.”

“Why should that matter?”