Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“So what have you got on him?”

“Precious little, again. Mostly circumstantial. Earlier this year customs stopped a lorry at Dover and found seven million cigarettes. Seven fucking million. Would’ve netted a profit of about half a million quid on the black market – and don’t ask me how much that is in Euros. Clough’s name came up in the investigation.”

“And what else is he into?”

Burgess flicked some more ash on the floor. “Like I said, we don’t know the full extent of his operations. He’s cagey. Has a knack of staying one step ahead, partly because he contracts out and partly because he operates outside London, setting up little workshops like that one near Thirsk and then moving on before anyone’s figured out what he’s doing. He uses phony companies, gets others to front for him, so his name never appears on any of the paperwork.”

Something in what Burgess had said rang a bell for Banks. It was very faint one, a very poor connection, but it wasn’t an impossible one. “Ever heard of PKF Computer System?” he asked.

Burgess shook his head.

“Bloke called Courage? Charlie Courage?”

“No.”

“Jonathan Fearn?”

“Nope. I can look them up if you like.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “One’s dead and the other’s in a coma. Would murder be Clough’s style at all?”

“I’d say a man who does as high a volume of crime as he does has to maintain a certain level of threat, wouldn’t you? And if he does that, he has to make good on it once in a while or nobody’s intimidated. He has to keep his workers in line. Nothing like a nice little murder for keeping the lads focused.” He slurped down some lager and lime. “Two weeks after Clough’s name came up in connection with that seized shipment, two known baddies got shot in Dover city center. No connection proven, of course, but they were business rivals. It’s a fucking war zone down there.”

Banks pushed aside the rest of his chicken, which was too dry, and lit a cigarette. He fancied a pint but held off. If he was going to see Barry Clough tonight, as he planned, then he’d need to be sharp, especially after what Burgess had said. “What about women?” he asked.

Burgess frowned. “What do you mean?”

“From what I can gather, Clough’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“So I’ve heard. And apparently he likes them young.”

“Has he ever been under suspicion of hurting or killing a woman?”

“Nope. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t done it and got away with it, though. Like I said, Clough’s good at staying ahead of the game. The thing is, with someone like him, people don’t like to come forward and make themselves known, if you catch my drift.”

“Right.” Banks sipped some black coffee. It tasted bitter, as if it had been left on the burner too long. Still, it beat instant. “Heard of Andrew Handley?”

“Andy Pandy? Sure. He’s one of Clough’s chief gofers.”

“Dangerous?”

“Could be.”

“Anything on him hurting women?”

“Not that I know of. Is this about Jimmy Riddle’s daughter?”

“Yes,” said Banks. Emily Riddle’s murder was all over the newspapers that morning. As Banks had guessed, it hadn’t taken the press long to ferret out that she had died of cocaine laced with strychnine, and that was far bigger news than another boring drug overdose.

“You’re SIO on that?”

“Yes.”

Burgess clapped his hands together and showered ash on the remains of his steak. “Well, bugger me!”

“No, thanks. Not right after lunch,” said Banks. “What’s so strange about that?”

“Last I heard, Jimmy Riddle had you suspended. I had to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“It was you who put them in there in the first place with all that cloak-and-dagger bollocks,” said Banks. “But thanks all the same.”

“Ungrateful cunt. Think nothing of it. Now he’s got you working on his daughter’s case. What’s the connection? Why you?”

Banks told him about finding Emily in London.

“Why d’you do that? To get Riddle off your back?”

“Partly, I suppose. At least in the first place. But most of all I think it was the challenge. I’d been on desk duties again for a couple of months after the Hobb’s End fiasco, and it was real work again. It was also a bit of a rush going off alone, working outside the rules.”

Burgess grinned. “Ah, Banks, you’re just like me when you get right down to it, aren’t you? Crack a few skulls?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Did you fuck her? The kid?”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Banks, his teeth clenching. “She was sixteen years old.”

“So. What’s wrong with that? It’s legal. Tasty, too, I’ll bet.”

It was at times like this Banks wanted to throttle Burgess. Instead, he just shook his head and ignored the comment.

Burgess laughed. “Typical. Knight in bloody shining armor, aren’t you, Banks?”

That was what Emily had called him in the Black Bull, Banks remembered. “Not a very successful one,” he said.

Burgess took a long drag on his cigar. He inhaled, Banks noticed. “She was sixteen going on thirty, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine.”

“What have you heard?”

“Just that she was a crazy kid, bit of an embarrassment to the old man.”

“That’s true enough.”

“So he wanted you to head off any trouble at the pass?”

“Something like that.”

“Any ideas?”

“I’d have to put Barry Clough very high on my list.”

“That why you’re here? To rattle his cage?”

“It had crossed my mind. I’m thinking of paying him a visit tonight.”

Burgess stubbed out his cigar and raised his eyebrows. “Are you indeed? Fancy some company?”

It was a different bridge, but almost a repeat of his previous trip, Banks thought, as he walked across Vauxhall Bridge on his way to visit Kennington. He looked at his watch: almost three. Ruth had been at home last time; he just hoped she had a Saturday routine she stuck to.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Ruth answered the intercom at the first press of the button and buzzed him up.

“You again,” she said, after letting him into the room. “What is it this time?”

Banks showed her his warrant card. “I’ve come about Emily.”

A look of triumph shone in her eyes. “I knew there was something fishy about you! I told you, didn’t I, last time you were here. A copper.”

“Ruth, I was here unofficially last time. I apologize for pretending to be Emily’s father – not that you believed me anyway – but it seemed to be the best way to get the job done.”

“End justifies the means? Typical police mentality, that is.”

“So you knew her real name?”

“What?”

“You didn’t seem at all surprised when I called her Emily just now.”

“Well, that’s the name they used in the papers yesterday.”

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I knew her real name. She told me. So what? I respected her right not to want to use it. If she wanted to call herself Louisa Gamine, it was fine with me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

Banks sat. Ruth didn’t offer him tea this time. She didn’t sit down herself, but lit a cigarette and paced. She seemed edgy, nervous. Banks noticed that she had changed her hair color; instead of black it was blond, still cropped to within half an inch of her skull. It didn’t look a hell of a lot better and only served to highlight the pastiness of her features. She was wearing baggy jeans with a hole in one knee and a sort of shapeless blue thing, like an artist’s smock: the kind of thing you wear when you’re by yourself around the house and you think nobody’s going to see you. Ruth didn’t seem unduly concerned about her appearance, though; she didn’t excuse herself to change or apply makeup. Banks gave her credit for that. The music was playing just a little too loud: Lauryn Hill, by the sound of it, singing about her latest mis-adventures.