Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“What’s up, love? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Something like that,” Annie muttered, hurriedly putting away her purse and heading out with her groceries. She risked one quick glance over her shoulder. He was standing by the bargain reds section scanning the labels and prices. She was still certain that he hadn’t seen her.

She burst out onto York Road and took a gulp of fresh air. Her heart was still beating fast and she felt herself shaking inside. It was Wayne Dalton; she was sure of it. Detective Inspector Wayne Dalton. One of the two men who had held her down while a third had raped her over two years ago.

Banks knew he shouldn’t have asked Annie out like that, on impulse, and he hoped he hadn’t put her off for good. He didn’t want to appear to be pestering her, especially as they worked together and he was, technically, her boss. Not that Annie would ever accuse him of sexual harassment, but…

As it happened, his evening turned out to be just what he needed. He made a cheese-and-onion sandwich for tea and ate it while he read the paper in the kitchen. His son, Brian, phoned at about nine o’clock, excited about the CD. On a whim, Banks asked if he had ever heard of Barry Clough. He hadn’t, but said he’d ask around among his colleagues in the business. He also reminded Banks that punk had been a long time ago, as if Banks needed reminding of that.

After lunch with Emily Riddle, Banks also felt the need to talk to Tracy. It would help balance his sanity. After listening to Emily for over an hour, he had come away with a very warped idea about teenage girls. He needed to know they weren’t all like her, especially his own daughter.

Amidst all the craziness, though, and after all she’d been through, Emily still seemed to have a cool head on her shoulders, if her talk about getting her A-Levels and going to university was to believed. Like Banks, Tracy had had to work hard to get where she was. She was a bright girl, but not one of those who don’t have to apply themselves. The harder she worked, the higher her marks. Emily seemed to think her progress in the world was simply a matter of choice, of deciding what to do and then having it fall into her lap. Perhaps it was for her. Now that he had got a little beyond first impressions, Banks couldn’t help but like Emily, but she was the kind of girl he fretted about, and the kind who constantly exasperated him. He almost felt sorry for Jimmy Riddle.

Tracy didn’t answer. Out with Damon, no doubt. He left her a message, nothing urgent, just to call if she didn’t get in too late.

For a change from peat, Banks lit a log fire in the hearth, though it wasn’t a particularly cold evening, and sat down in the old armchair he had picked up at a local estate auction. The blue walls that he had worried might feel cold in winter had turned out just fine, he thought, as he watched the shadows cast by the flames flicker over them. Knotty wood spat and crackled in the fireplace, taking Banks back to his childhood, when the coal they used sometimes hissed and spat. There was no other source of heat in the house, so it was his father’s job in winter to get up while it was still dark and light the fire. Usually, when Banks came down for his jam and bread before school, there was a good blaze going, and it had taken most of the chill off the cool damp night air. The years in between, in various London flats and the Eastvale semi, he hadn’t had a coal or log fire, only gas or electric, so it was a luxury he was availing himself of a lot this winter.

He put the first CD of Miles Davis’s Carnegie Hall concert on, the one with Gil Evans and his orchestra, picked up the latest Kate Atkinson novel, which lay facedown on the chair arm, about half read, and lit a cigarette. Though he had intended an early night, he found himself enjoying both the music and the book so much that he put another log on the fire and slipped in the second CD. It was a quarter past eleven, and he had set the book aside for a few moments to listen to the live version of the adagio from Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez , when the telephone rang.

Thinking it might be Tracy, he turned down the stereo and snatched up the phone. The first thing that assaulted his ears was loud music in the background. He couldn’t make out exactly what it was, but it sounded like some sort of post-rave-techno-dance mix. The next thing to assail him was the squeaky voice of DC Rickerd shouting over the music.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” sighed Banks. “What is it?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m on duty tonight.”

“I know that. What is it? Will you get to the point? And do you have to shout so loud?”

“Well, I’m at the Bar None, sir. It’s pretty noisy here.”

The Bar None was one of Eastvale’s most popular night-clubs for the young crowd. Situated under the shops across the market square from the police station, it usually opened up an hour or so before pub closing time and attracted those kids who were too pissed to drive to Leeds or Manchester, where there were far better clubs. “Look,” said Banks, “if there’s been a fight or something, I don’t want to know.”

“No, sir, it’s nothing like that.”

“Well?” Banks lost Rickerd’s next words to a surge in the background noise. “Can you get them to turn the music down?” he yelled.

“It’s a suspicious death,” Rickerd said.

“How suspicious?”

“Well, she’s dead, sir. I’m pretty sure of that. Inspector Jessup agrees with me, sir. And the blokes from the ambulance. It looks as if somebody beat her up pretty badly.”

If Chris Jessup, inspector in the uniformed branch, thought it was serious enough to call Banks in, then it probably was. “Who is the victim?” he asked.

“You’d better get down here, sir…” Here he became inaudible again. “…can’t handle… myself.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Inspector Jessup and me and three PCs, sir.”

“That should be enough. I’m sure Inspector Jessup knows exactly what to do. Help him make sure no one leaves and secure the scene. We don’t want anyone else tramping about near the body until I get there, including the ambulance crew. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better put a call through to Dr. Burns, too. It’ll take him a while to get there.” Banks was about to ask Rickerd to send for the SOCO unit, but decided to wait until he could assess the scene himself. No sense spending the taxpayers’ money until he knew exactly what he was dealing with. “Have you got the victim’s name?”

“Yes, sir. She had a driving license and one of those proof-of-age cards some of the clubs give out to kids. It’s got her photo on it.”

“Good work. What’s her name, Rickerd?”

“It’s Walker, sir. Ruth Walker.”

“Shit,” said Banks. “I’ll be right there.”

Could it be the same Ruth Walker Banks had talked to in London? If so, what the hell was she doing in an Eastvale nightclub, unless she had come up from London to go clubbing with Emily Riddle? And if Ruth was dead, then Banks wouldn’t be at all surprised if Emily was in trouble, too.

Banks picked up his cigarettes and grabbed his leather jacket off the hook at the back of the door. Before he left, he went back to the phone. It was a snap decision between Jim Hatchley, who lived in Eastvale, and Annie Cabbot, who had as long a drive as Banks. Annie won, hands down. He would have been a liar if he had denied any personal preference for Annie’s charms over Jim Hatchley’s ugly mug, but he didn’t do it from entirely selfish motives. Annie was new to Eastvale, and she needed all the experience she could get; she was ambitious, whereas Hatchley was content to remain a DS for the rest of his days; Annie would welcome the opportunity, whereas Hatchley would grumble at being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night; Hatchley had his wife and baby to consider, while Annie lived alone.