Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Banks laughed. “There’s one for the books. Ever hear of a fellow called Jonathan Fearn?” he asked.

“Rings a bell.” Hatchley scratched his ear. “If I’m thinking of the right one, he’s an unemployed yobbo, not above a bit dodgy dealing every now and then. We’ve had our eyes on him as driver on a couple of warehouse robberies over the years.”

“But he’s got no form?”

Hatchley shrugged. “Just lucky. Some are. It won’t last.”

“His luck’s already run out. He’s in hospital in Newcastle, in a coma.”

Hatchley whistled. “Bloody hell. What happened?”

Banks told him as much as he knew. “Do you know of any connection between this Fearn character and Charlie Courage?”

“Could be,” Hatchley said. “I mean, they hung out in the same pubs and neither of them was beyond a bit of thievery every now and then. Sound like two peas from the same pod to me.”

“Thanks, Jim,” said Banks. “Poke around a bit, will you? See if you can find a connection.”

Hatchley, always happy to be sent off to do his work in pubs, beamed. “My pleasure.”

“There’s a DI Dalton around the place somewhere. Down from Northumbria, staying at the Fox and Hounds. He might be able to help. Liaise with him on this one.”

“Will do.”

Annie followed Banks out of the office and caught up with him in the corridor. “A word?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Not here, though. This noise is driving me crazy. Queen’s Arms?”

“Fine with me.”

Banks and Annie walked across Market Street to the Queen’s Arms.

“I want to know just what the hell you think you’ve been playing at,” Annie said when they had got drinks and sat down in a quiet corner. She spoke softly, but there was anger in her voice, and she sat stiffly in the chair.

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean. What went on between you and the victim?”

“Emily Riddle?”

“Who else?”

Banks sighed. “I’m sorry it happened the way it did, Annie, sorry if I embarrassed you in any way. I would have told you, honestly. I just hadn’t found the right time.”

“You could have told me last night at the scene.”

“No, I couldn’t. There was too much else going on, too much to do, too much to organize. And I was bloody upset by what I saw – all right?”

“No, it’s not all right. You made me feel like a complete idiot this morning. I’ve been working on the case as long as you had, and here are you coming up with a suspect I’ve never even heard of. Not to mention having lunch with the victim on the day she died.”

“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. What else can I say?”

Annie shook her head. “It’s not on, Alan. If I’m supposed to be your DIO, I’m not supposed to be the last bloody person on earth who hears about important developments.”

“It wasn’t an important development. It had already happened.”

“Stop splitting hairs. You named a suspect. You had a prior relationship with the victim. You should have told me. It could have a bearing on the investigation.”

“It does have a bearing on the investigation. And I will tell you if you’ll let me.”

“Better late than never.”

Banks told her about London, about GlamourPuss, Clough, Ruth Walker and Craig Newton – everything except the night in the hotel room – and about what he and Emily had discussed over lunch the previous day. When he had finished, Annie seemed to relax in her chair the way she normally did.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you, Annie,” he said. “It was just bad timing, that’s all. Honestly.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all. Scout’s honor.”

Annie managed a smile. “Next time anything like that happens, tell me up front, okay?”

“Okay. Forgive me?”

“I’m working on it. What next?”

“I’m going down to London tomorrow to do a bit of checking up.”

“And me?”

“I want you to take care of things at this end. I’ll only be gone for the weekend, most likely, but there’s a lot to do. Get posters made up, contact the local TV news people and see if you can get an appeal for information on. Anyone who saw her between the time she left the Black Bull just before three and the time she met her friends in the Cross Keys at seven. And stress the fact that even though she was technically only sixteen, she looked older. Men will certainly remember if they saw her. Check local buses and taxis. Get DC Templeton to organize a house-to-house of the area around the Black Bull. Maybe we’ll even get reinforcements. Who knows? We might get lucky. Maybe someone saw Clough handing over a gram of coke to her.”

“Sure.”

“And there’s another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I had a visit from a DI Dalton this morning. Northumbria CID. It’s about the Charlie Courage business. Seems there’s some connection with a hijacked van up north. Seeing as you did the preliminary interviews at Daleview, I’d like you to have a quick chat with him before you hand over the file to DS Hatchley. He might be able to help us. He’s staying at the Fox and Hounds. You never know. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll even buy you a pint.”

That evening at home, Banks tossed a few clothes into his overnight bag, followed by Evelyn Waugh’s The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold and his Renee Fleming and Captain Beef-heart tapes. He would have to buy a portable CD player, he decided; it was becoming too time-consuming and expensive to tape everything, and CD timings were getting more difficult to match with the basic ninety- or one-hundred-minute tape format.

When he had finished packing, he phoned Brian, who answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”

“Fine. Look, I’m going to be down your way again this weekend. Any chance of your being around? I’ll be pretty busy, but I’m sure we can fit in a lunch or something.”

“Sorry,” said Brian. “We’ve got some gigs in Southampton.”

“Ah, well, you can’t blame a father for trying. One of these days, maybe. Take care, and I hope you’re a big success.”

“Thanks. Oh, Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You remember that bloke you were asking about a while back, the ex-roadie?”

“Barry Clough?”

“That’s him.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing, really, but I was talking to one of the producers at the recording studio, name of Terry King. Old geezer like you, been around a long time, since punk. You know: The Sex Pistols, The Clash, that sort of thing? Surely you must remember those days?”

“Brian,” said Banks, smiling to himself, “I even remember Elvis. Now cut the ageism and get to the point.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just that he remembered Clough. Called himself something else, then, one of those silly punk names like Sid Vicious – Terry couldn’t remember exactly what it was – but it was him, all right. Apparently he got fired from his roadie job.”

“What for?”

“Bootlegging live concerts. Not just the band he worked with, but all the big names.”

“I see.” Banks remembered the booming business in bootleg LPs in the seventies. First Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and other popular bands were all bootlegged, and none of them made a penny from the illegal sales. The same thing also happened later with some of the punk bands. Not that any of them needed the money, and most of them were too stoned to notice, but that wasn’t the point. Clough’s employers had noticed and given him the push.

“Like I said, it’s not much. But he says he’s heard this Clough bloke is a gangster now. A tough guy. Be careful, Dad.”

“I will. I’m not exactly a five-stone weakling myself, you know.”