Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

The renovators hadn’t turned up yet, so things were quiet in the extension. Banks went to his office, read his copies of last night’s reports and made some notes on his own impressions. He did this, as most good coppers did, for himself, not for the files; they were very personal impressions, and sometimes they could lead somewhere, often not. Whatever else they were, they were no substitute for facts or evidence. He included in his notes, for example, his sense that Darren Hirst was telling the truth and a gut feeling that Emily had got the drugs somewhere other than the Cross Keys or the Bar None. Already, he noted from the reports, a couple of very sleepy local dealers were cooling their heels in the detention cells in the basement of the station. More would soon follow.

By the time the sun was sniffing its nose at the cloudy horizon, the station was humming with activity. The incident room was quickly taking on form and function, and DC Rickerd had been up all night getting it organized. Computer links had been set up, phone lines activated and civilian staff were drifting in for data-input, logging and recording duties. By the time Banks felt the need for his breakfast coffee, ACC McLaughlin had arrived from county headquarters at Newby Wiske, outside Northallerton. He set up camp in the boardroom, and fifteen or twenty minutes later, Banks was summoned in.

McLaughlin, Annie Cabbot and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe were waiting for him. Banks greeted them and sat down. Annie looked tired, and he imagined she had got as little sleep as he had. She also seemed nervous, which was unusual for her.

“Red Ron” McLaughlin was about fifty, tall and slim, with short, thinning gray hair combed forward, and a small gray mustache. He wore silver-rimmed glasses, which balanced on the tip of his nose, and he had a habit of peering over them at whomever he was speaking to. His eyes were the same shade of gray as his hair.

“Ah, DCI Banks,” he said, then he shuffled some papers and looked over his glasses. “Right. I’ll get straight down to brass tacks. I met with Chief Constable Riddle this morning – in fact, he came to see me – and he was most emphatic that he wanted you to head the investigation into his daughter’s death. What do you think of that?”

“I had hoped for the case,” said Banks, “but in all honesty I never expected to be given it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew the deceased, sir. Only vaguely, but I knew her. And her family. I assumed we’d have to bring in someone from outside.”

“That would be normal procedure.” McLaughlin scratched his earlobe. “The chief constable did explain your involvement,” he went on. “Apparently, he asked you to go to London and find his daughter, which you did. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you then accompanied her back home?”

“Yes, sir.” Banks felt Annie staring at him but didn’t turn to meet her look.

“I hardly think that disqualifies you from acting as senior investigating officer. Do you?”

Banks thought for a moment. He would have to tell Red Ron about the lunch. Someone was bound to come forward about that, and it wouldn’t take long now that Emily’s murder had featured on the breakfast news. Enough people in the Black Bull had noticed them, and probably at least one or two of them knew who Banks was.

On the other hand, if he told McLaughlin everything , he’d be off the case for certain, no matter what Riddle wanted. It was a delicate balancing act. There was also a risk that someone from the Hotel Fifty-Five in London would see Emily’s photo in the papers and come forward, although Banks thought that had been long enough ago, and Emily had looked sufficiently different that night, dressed up for the party, her hair piled on top of her head, that it was probably very unlikely.

Still, if Banks accepted the post as SIO, he would be in the best position possible to head off any trouble at the pass. He also knew far more about Emily’s life in London than anyone else up there, which gave him an advantage when it came to tracking down possible leads. It was bloody unethical, he knew that, probably more unethical than anything he’d done before. After all, one of Riddle’s bugbears had been that Banks too often acted as a maverick. But, Banks guessed, that was why Riddle had asked him to go to London, and that was why he now wanted him to head the investigation. Riddle had said as much last night.

“No, sir,” Banks answered finally. “I’d like to take the case.” He was aware as he spoke the words that he might well be digging his own grave. The last thing he needed to do was give the new ACC a reason for hating his guts right off the bat. But it couldn’t be helped. Emily came first here; he owed her that much at least. He had said he only knew her vaguely. It wasn’t a lie, but like many unsatisfactory truths, it left too much out. How could Banks describe the bond he had felt with Emily? It wasn’t entirely paternal, but it wasn’t simple friendship either.

“As you all know, I’m new to this job and this region,” McLaughlin explained. “I’ve done my homework, studied the turf, but I can’t hope to be up to scratch this soon. According to Mr. Riddle, you’re the best man for the job. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe here agrees, and nothing I’ve seen in your file contradicts that.”

That was a surprise to Banks; he thought Riddle had weighed his file down with negative reports. But McLaughlin frowned and continued, “I’m not saying there aren’t a few black marks against you, Banks. You’ve made some mistakes I’d like you to avoid making under my command, but your case results speak for themselves. There’s going to be a lot of changes around here, with the new organization, and I’m hoping you can play a big part in them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s settled then,” said McLaughlin. “You’ll act as SIO on the Emily Riddle case. I take it you’ll have no objection to acting as deputy investigating officer, DS Cabbot?”

“No, sir,” said Annie. “Thank you.”

McLaughlin turned to Gristhorpe. “And you’ll liaise with me at Regional Headquarters, Superintendent. Okay?”

Gristhorpe nodded.

“What about HOLMES?” McLaughlin asked.

HOLMES, acronym of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was a computer database system developed since the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Everything would be entered there, from witness statements to SOCO reports. It would all be indexed and cross-indexed so that nothing got lost in the mass of disparate paperwork the way the Ripper’s identification had. “I think we should activate it now,” said Banks. “Given the seriousness of the case. I’ll put DC Jackman on it. She’s a trained operator.”

“Very well.” McLaughlin looked from Banks to Annie. “By the way, Dr. Glendenning has offered to conduct the postmortem early this afternoon, so don’t eat a heavy lunch. I think you should both be there. I’ll also get some more DCs assigned as soon as possible,” McLaughlin went on. “There’ll probably be a lot of legwork on this. I understand you already have a murder investigation on the go. Can you handle this one, too?”

“I think so, sir.” Banks remembered often having several serious cases on the go when he worked for the Met. “Officially, the Charlie Courage murder is still DI Collaton’s case. Leicestershire Constabulary. DS Cabbot did some of the preliminary interviews, but I can put DS Hatchley on it.”

McLaughlin paused and made a steeple of his hands and looked over his glasses. “We don’t want to appear as if we’re playing favorites, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “but there’s no denying we’re giving this case a very high priority indeed. Have you any thoughts so far, DCI Banks?”