Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Winsome shook her head. Kevin Templeton said, “The woman at number forty-two, Mrs. Finlay, noticed something. She says she thought she saw Charlie get in a car with a couple of men later on Monday morning.”

“Description?”

“Nothing very useful, sir.” Templeton doodled in the dust on the table as he spoke. “One was medium height, the other was a bit taller. They wore jeans and leather jackets – brown or black. The taller one, he was going bald; the other had short fair hair. She said she didn’t get a good look and wasn’t really paying attention. I asked her if she thought Mr. Courage was being forced in the car in any way, and she told me she didn’t get that impression, but she could have been wrong.”

Banks sighed. It was typical of most witness statements. Of course, if you didn’t know you were witnessing anything momentous, such as a man’s final journey, you didn’t pay that much attention. Most people don’t see much on the peripheries; they’re more concerned about where they’re going, what they’re doing and thinking. “What about the car?”

“Light-colored. Maybe white. That was the best she could say. Nothing fancy, but new-looking, with a nice shiny finish.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Time? Did we fare any better there?”

“A little bit, sir,” said Templeton. “She said it must not have been long after ten o’clock, because she had just started listening to ‘Woman’s Hour,’ and that starts at ten o’clock.”

“Interesting.”

“Maybe the trip was prearranged?” Annie suggested. “It could have been something he was looking forward to. Maybe he thought he was going somewhere nice, getting some more money?”

“Could be.” Banks turned to Hatchley. “What did your afternoon in the fleshpots of Eastvale turn up, Jim?”

Hatchley scratched the side of his bulbous nose. “Charlie was up to something dodgy, I can tell you that much.”

“Go on.”

Hatchley got his notebook out. Workmen started hammering somewhere in the extension. Hatchley raised his voice. “According to Len Jackson, one of his old colleagues, Charlie was on to a nice little earner, and it wasn’t his job at Daleview, either.”

“Was it connected with that?”

“Charlie didn’t say. He was pretty vague about it all. What he did say, though, was that he was already bringing in a bit of extra and pretty soon he’d be in for a much larger slice of the pie. What he was getting now was peanuts to what he’d have soon.”

“Interesting. But he didn’t say what pie?”

“No, sir. Charlie was pretty cagey about it, apparently. He wanted his old mates to know he was doing well, but not how he was doing it. Scared of the competition, I suppose.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Well, at least that tells us we’re on the right track. All we need to know now is what he was into and who was running it. Makes it sound easy, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “Charlie, Charlie, you should’ve stayed on the straight and narrow this time.”

“He never was big-time, wasn’t Charlie,” added Hatchley. “He must have got in way over his head, not known who he was dealing with.”

Banks nodded. “Okay, that’s it for now,” he said.

Back in his office, with his door tightly shut to keep the noise out, Banks phoned DI Collaton down in Market Harborough to give him an update, more out of professional courtesy than anything else, as there wasn’t much to report. After that, he decided to call it a day. He tidied his desk and locked up, then headed for the door. Annie Cabbot was a flight ahead of him on her way down the stairs. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Oh, it’s you. Off home?”

“Unless you’d like to go for a quick drink or something?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “That bloody rain’s soaked right into my bones. All I want is to pick up something for dinner, then a long hot bath and a good book to curl up with.”

“Some other time?”

She smiled and pushed open the door. “Yes. Some other time.”

Maybe she should have accepted Banks’s offer of a drink, Annie thought, as she crossed the market square. It wouldn’t have done any harm, just a quick drink and a chat. She didn’t want to seem to be always giving him the brush-off, and it wasn’t as if the men were exactly queuing up to take her out. But things were still a little sensitive, and her inner voice told her to back off, so she did. Not that she always did what her inner voice told her to; if she had done that she would never have got in trouble in her life, and what a boring old time that would have been. But this time, she listened; at least for now.

Though she could still smell it in the air, the rain had stopped and the evening had turned quite mild. Colored lights hung across Market Street and around the cross, and the shoppers were out in force. She was lucky that most of the shops were staying open late until Christmas, or she’d have nothing but a couple of moldy old carrots and potatoes for dinner. There was the Indian shop on Gallows View that was always open, but they didn’t have much selection; besides, that was too far away in the wrong direction. What she wanted was something easy, something she could boil in the bag or stick in the oven for half an hour, no fuss.

In the end, it was a toss-up between vegetarian lasagna and Indonesian curry. The lasagna won, mostly because she had a bottle of Sainsbury’s Chianti at home that would complement it nicely. She also needed eggs, milk, cereal and bread for breakfast.

As she wandered the busy aisles casting her eyes over the myriad varieties of meals specially prepared for those who dined alone, she remembered a book she had read many years ago – something her father had given her – that explained the underhand strategies supermarkets use to make you buy things you don’t want. The lighting, for a start, and the soft, hypnotic music. At this time of year, of course, it was all Christmas music played in a cheery, sugary sort of style. Annie sometimes thought that if she heard one more “fa-la-la-la-la” she would scream. The manufacturers also used certain colors in packaging their products, and there was something about bright things being placed at eye level that just made you reach out and grab them. She couldn’t remember all the details, but the book had made an impression on her, and she always felt manipulated when she left a supermarket with more than she had intended to buy. Which she always did. It was the chocolate ice cream this time; it had hardly been at eye level, nor was the package of a color that made you reach for it, but even stuck away in the freezer it had seemed to be screaming, “Buy me! Buy me!” and now it nestled in her basket as she waited in the queue to pay.

Maybe if she had been at Eastvale a couple of months, she thought, then she might have taken Banks up on his offer. It was just too soon: too soon after their affair, and too soon after her transfer. If truth be told, she still didn’t trust herself with him, either. A couple of drinks might loosen her inhibitions a bit too much, as they almost had the last time she’d been out with him. Then where would she be? It had been all right sleeping with Banks when she worked out of Harkside and he worked out of Eastvale, but if they were both in the same station, it could be awkward.

Suddenly, as she was queuing up to pay, Annie saw someone she knew, someone she had never expected to see again, not here, not anywhere. And someone she had never wanted to set eyes on again. He was walking into the wines and spirits section. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t seen her. What the hell was he doing here? Annie felt her skin turn clammy and her heart start to pound.

“That’ll be five pounds seventy-two pee, please, love,” said the plump, smiling woman at the checkout desk. Annie fiddled around in her purse and found a five-pound note and four twenty-pee pieces, which she promptly dropped from her shaking hands all over the floor. She picked them up and handed them to the woman.