Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“Could be. That stuff can be valuable.”

“Any leads at all?”

Dalton shook his head. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the unit they rented near Wooler, but no one’s shown up yet. Given what’s happened, we don’t expect them to now. It was late, on a quiet road, so there were no witnesses. They left the van in a lay-by. As I said, the driver’s still in a coma and fingerprints will be working to sort out their findings till kingdom come. You and I both know that anyone doing a professional job like this would be wearing gloves, anyway. This was the only lead we got – PKF and the Daleview Business Park.”

“Okay,” said Banks, standing. “We’ll keep in touch on this one.”

“Mind if I stick around a day or two, have a look at the business park, poke about?”

“Be my guest.” Banks pulled his pad toward him. “The way things are right now we can use all the help we can get. You could also get in touch with DI Collaton at Market Harborough. It looks as if this is all connected. Where are you staying?”

“Fox and Hounds, on North Market Street. Got in yesterday evening. Nice little en suite.”

“I know the place,” said Banks. “Let us know if you find anything.”

“Will do.” Dalton touched the tips of his fingers in a friendly salute, then left the office.

Banks walked over to the window and looked out on the cobbled market square. The gold hands against the blue front of the church clock stood at quarter past ten. The morning mist had disappeared and it was as light now as it was likely to be all day. He saw DI Dalton walk across the square, pause and linger a moment at the taped-off, guarded entrance of the Bar None, then turn left on York Road toward the bus station and the Swainsdale Centre.

It was difficult for Banks to drum up much enthusiasm for the Charlie Courage investigation since Emily’s murder, but he knew he had to keep on top of it. He also knew that they should have checked into PKF the way Dalton had. Any further signs that he was dragging his feet, and Red Ron would, quite rightly, have him on the carpet. Emily was a priority, yes, but that didn’t mean poor Charlie counted for nothing. Maybe Dalton would come up with something useful. Banks would put him in touch with Hatchley, and with Annie, so she could share what she’d discovered at Daleview.

Looking at the weak gray light that seemed to cling to everything, bleeding the townscape of all color, Banks wished he could escape to somewhere warm and sunny for a couple of weeks, find a nice spot on the beach and read novels and biographies and listen to the waves all day. Normally he didn’t like that kind of holiday, preferring to explore a foreign city on foot, but there was something about the long, dark Yorkshire winters that made him yearn for the Canaries or the Azores. Or Montego Bay. If he could afford it, though, he thought he would like to go to Mexico for a while, see some Mayan ruins. But that was out of the question, especially with the mortgage on the cottage and Tracy at university.

Besides, Banks thought, opening the window a few inches and lighting a cigarette, he couldn’t desert Emily now. He was responsible for what happened to her, at least in part. There was no escaping that. If he hadn’t gone down to London and stirred things up with Clough, then it was unlikely that she would have come back home and ended up dead in a crummy Eastvale nightclub. She had gone the way of Graham Marshall, of Jem and of Phil Simpkins, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, just let it go; he had to do something.

“Let it roll, Ned,” said Banks. He was in the CCTV viewing room downstairs along with DCs Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton, Annie Cabbot and their civilian video technician, Ned Parker.

The screen showed the market square from the police station, including the edge of the Queen’s Arms to the right, the church front to the left and all the shops, pubs and offices directly opposite, including the entrance to the Bar None. The picture was a grainy black and white, with a slight fish-eye effect, and the glare of the Christmas lights caused one or two problems with the contrast, but it was still possible to make out figures coming and going. Whether they would be able to identify someone coming out of the Bar None from this tape alone, Banks was doubtful.

The time appeared in an on-screen display at the bottom right-hand side, and, starting at 10:00, Parker advanced it quickly so that the people crossing the market square looked like extras in a Keystone Cops chase. Somewhere around twenty-five past, Banks noticed a group of people enter the screen from the right, the exit of the Queen’s Arms, and told Parker to slow down to normal speed. He then watched Emily walk across the market square. She seemed a little unsteady on the cobbles as she crossed the square, which didn’t surprise him considering the platform heels she was wearing and the amount she had had to drink that day.

When she got to the market cross, she turned to face the police station and did a little dance, and when she finished, she bowed with a flourish to the camera, but before walking away she gave it the finger, just one, in the American style, then she turned and swung her hips exaggeratedly as she walked on to the nightclub. The others laughed. Banks himself smiled as he watched her, almost forgetting for a moment that this was a little cheeky gesture that would never be repeated.

Banks watched them enter the club and asked Parker to keep it running at normal speed as he watched others follow. As far as he could make out, there was no suspicious activity in the market square. No little packages of white powder exchanging hands. As he watched, he realized how much he wanted to be watching what was happening inside the club, but there were no cameras there.

At 10:47, two people walked out of the club and headed down York Road. Banks couldn’t make out their features, but it looked like a boy in jeans and a short leather jacket and a girl in a long overcoat and a floppy hat. He asked Parker to freeze the frame, but it didn’t help much.

After that, another three couples went in, but no one came out. When DC Rickerd and Inspector Jessup entered the frame, Banks told Parker to turn the machine off.

It was beginning to look very much as if Emily had scored her coke long before she went to the Bar None, as Banks had guessed, and that would make it all the more difficult to find out who had supplied her with the lethal concoction.

“Okay,” Banks said, standing up and stretching. “That’s all your entertainment for today. Winsome, bring in Darren Hirst, would you? Maybe he can help us with the two who left.”

“Friendly, sir?”

“Friendly. He’s not a suspect, just helping us with our inquiries.”

Winsome smiled at the hackneyed phrase. “Will do, sir.”

“Kevin, I’d like you to work with Ned here and see if you can pull a decent image of those two who left. Something we can show around.”

“Okay, Guv.”

“And, Kevin?”

“Guv?”

“Please don’t call me ‘Guv.’ It makes me feel as if I’m on television.”

Templeton grinned. “Right you are, sir .”

Then Banks looked at his watch and turned to Annie. “We’d better go,” he said. “We’ve got an appointment with Dr. Glendenning in a few minutes.”

Banks drove out to the Old Mill after Emily Riddle’s postmortem, Fauré’s Requiem playing on the stereo. He still felt angry and nauseated at what he had just seen. It wasn’t the first young girl he had watched Dr. Glendenning open up on the slab, but it was the first whose vitality he had known, whose fears and dreams had been shared with him, and watching Dr. Glendenning calmly bisecting the black spider tattoo with his scalpel as he made his “Y” incision had almost sent Banks the way Annie went down in Market Harborough. Annie had been fine this time, though. Quiet and tense, but fine, even when the saw ripped into the bone of Emily’s skull.