Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“Banks? I thought that was your car. What on earth…?”

But his voice trailed off as recognition that something was seriously wrong crept into his features. Whether he’d been a good one or not, Riddle had been a copper for long enough to know that the call in the middle of the night was hardly a social one; he knew enough to read the expression on Banks’s face.

“Maybe we could sit down, have a drink,” Banks said, as Riddle stood aside to let him in.

“Tell me first,” said Riddle, leaning back on the door after he closed it.

Banks couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. The honorific sounded odd even as he spoke the word; he had never called Riddle “sir” before, except in a sarcastic tone.

“It’s Emily, isn’t it?”

Banks nodded.

“My God.”

“Sir.” Banks took Riddle’s elbow and guided him into the living room. Riddle collapsed into an armchair and Banks found the cocktail cabinet. He poured them both a stiff whiskey; he was beyond worrying about drink driving at that point. Riddle held the glass but didn’t drink from it right away.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“What happened? How?”

“We’re not sure yet, sir.”

“Was there an accident? A car crash?”

“No. It was nothing like that.”

“Out with it, man. This is my daughter we’re talking about.”

“I know that, sir. That’s why I’m trying to tread softly.”

“Too late for that, Banks. What was it? Drugs?”

“Partly.”

“What do you mean, ‘partly’? Either it was or it wasn’t. Tell me what happened to her!”

Banks paused. It was a terrible thing to tell a dead girl’s father how painfully she had died, but he reminded himself that Riddle was also chief constable, a professional, and he would find out soon enough, anyway. Best he find out now. “We’re keeping this strictly confidential for the time being, but Dr. Burns thinks it might have been cocaine spiked with strychnine.”

Riddle jerked forward and spilled some whiskey on his trousers. He didn’t even bother to wipe it off. “ Strychnine ! My God, how…? I don’t understand.”

“She was taking cocaine at a nightclub in Eastvale,” Banks said. “The Bar None. You might have heard of it?”

Riddle shook his head.

“Anyway, if the doctor is right, somebody must have put strychnine in her cocaine.”

“Christ, Banks, do you realize what you’re saying?”

“I do, sir. I’m saying that, in all likelihood, your daughter was murdered.”

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“Believe me, I wish it were.”

Riddle ran his hand over his shiny bald skull, a gesture Banks had often thought ridiculous in the past; now it reeked of despair. He drank some of his whiskey before asking the hopeless question everyone asks in his situation: “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“No mistake, sir. I saw her myself. I know it’s no consolation, but it must have been very fast,” Banks lied. “She can’t have suffered very much.”

“Rubbish. I’m not an idiot, Banks. I’ve studied the textbook. I know what strychnine does. She’d have gone into convulsions, bent her spine. She’d have-”

“Don’t,” Banks said. “There’s no sense torturing yourself.”

“ Who ?” Riddle asked. “Who would want to do something like that to Emily?”

“Have you noticed anything strange while she’s been here?”

“No.”

“What about today, the last few days? Any changes in her behavior?”

“No. Look, you went to London, Banks. You found her. What about the people she was hanging around with down there? This Clough character. Do you think he could have had something to do with it?”

Banks paused. Barry Clough had been the first to come to his mind when Dr. Burns had told him about the poisoned cocaine. He also remembered how Emily had told him that Clough hated to lose his prize possessions. “That’s a distinct possibility,” he said.

Riddle plucked at the creases of his trousers, then he let out a long sigh. “You’ll do what you have to do, Banks. I know that. Wherever it leads you.”

“Yes, sir. Is there…?”

“What?”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

Riddle paused. He seemed to think hard for a few moments, then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. It’s out of my hands now.” He knocked back the rest of the whiskey. “I’ll go to the mortuary and identify her.”

“It’ll wait till morning.”

Riddle got up and started pacing the room. “But I must do something . I can’t just… I mean, Christ, man, you’ve just told me my daughter’s been murdered. Poisoned . What do you expect me to do! Sit down and cry? Take a bloody sleeping pill? I’m a policeman, Banks. I have to do something.”

“Everything possible is being done,” said Banks. “I think you’d be best off spending the time with your wife and son.”

“Don’t soft-soap me, Banks. My God, just wait till the press gets hold of this.”

Here we go again, thought Banks: his bloody reputation . It was only out of respect for Riddle’s bereavement that Banks said mildly, “They hadn’t got a whiff when I left the scene, but I don’t suppose it’ll take them long. The place will be swarming with them come morning. We want to try and keep the strychnine aspect quiet.”

Riddle seemed to collapse in on himself, all his energy gone. He looked tired. “I’ll wake up Ros and tell her. I appreciate your coming, Banks. I mean personally, you know, not sending someone else. The best thing you can do is get back to the scene and stay on top of things. I’ll be depending on you, and for once I don’t care how many bloody corners you cut or whose feet you tread on.”

“Yes, sir.” Riddle was right; probably the best thing Banks could do right now was throw himself into the investigation. Besides, people need to be alone with their grief. “I’ll need to talk to you both at some point,” he said. “Tomorrow?”

“Of course.” They heard a sound from the doorway and turned. Benjamin Riddle stood there in his pajamas clutching a battered teddy bear. He rubbed his eyes. “I heard voices, Daddy. I was scared. What is it? Is something wrong?”

It was still dark when Banks drove to Eastvale the following morning, and a thin mist nuzzled in the dips and hollows of the road and clung to the buildings, the cobbles and the ancient cross in the market square. It was that time of morning when lights were coming on in the small offices above the shops, some of which were already open, and the mist diffused their light like thin gauze. The air was mild and clammy.

Across the square, the Bar None was still taped off, and a uniformed officer stood on guard. After leaving Riddle’s house the previous night, Banks had returned to the club to find the SOCOs still at work and Annie taking statements. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had also driven in all the way from Lyndgarth.

Banks had hung around for a while, talking the scene over with Gristhorpe, but there was nothing more he could do there. When the media people started pestering him for comments, he drove home and spent a couple of sleepless hours on the sofa thinking about Emily Riddle’s terrible death before heading right back to the station. He tried to keep at bay the feelings of guilt that were crowding at the edge of his mind like circling sharks. He succeeded only partially, and that was because he had a job to do, something to focus on and exclude the rest. The problem was that the bad feelings would continue to accumulate even when he wasn’t looking, and the day would come when there were so many of them he could no longer ignore them. By then, he knew from experience, it was usually too late to end up feeling good about himself. For the time being, though, he couldn’t afford the self-indulgence of guilt.