Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Clough twisted one corner of his tight lips into what passed for a smile. “They’ll be too fucking stoned to notice,” he said, then he turned to Banks. “You’re not drugs squad, are you?”

Banks shook his head.

“It’s just that there are a lot of important people here. Even a few coppers. Anything like that would be terribly messy. It would make the Stones drugs bust look like a vicarage tea party.”

“I remember that one,” said Burgess. “I wasn’t there, but I always wanted to meet the young lady with the Mars bar.” A skinny young girl with a joint in her hand walked past them in the hallway. “In fact,” Burgess went on, grabbing the joint from her, “some of us coppers quite enjoy a little recreational marijuana every now and then.” He took a deep toke, held the smoke awhile, then let it out slowly. “Paki black? Not bad.” Then he dropped the joint on the carpet and trod on it. “Sorry, Banks,” he said when he’d done. “Forgot you might have wanted a toke. On the other hand, you don’t strike me as the toking type.”

“That’s all right,” said Banks, who actually wouldn’t have minded trying the stuff again on another occasion. But he was keeping his mind clear for Emily. Instead, he lit a cigarette.

“I see,” said Clough, staring down at the burned spot on the carpet. He looked at Burgess. “You’re the bad cop and he’s the good cop, right?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

A muscular young man with bleached-blond hair came up to them as they walked down the upstairs hall. “Everything all right?” he asked Clough. “Only I didn’t think Mr. Burgess here was on the invitation list.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine and dandy. Maybe we should remember to add him in the future. Seems like the life and soul of the party type to me.”

“Who’s that?” Banks asked Burgess.

“Jamie Gilbert. Nasty little psycho. He’s Barry’s chief enforcer.”

Gilbert walked away laughing and Clough turned to them. “Jamie’s my administrative assistant ,” he said.

“Well, that covers a multitude of sins,” Burgess shot back.

They finally found an empty room on the top floor. Completely empty. No furniture. White walls. White floorboards.

“Is this the best you can do?” said Banks.

Clough shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

At least it was protected for the most part from the music downstairs, and there was a light. Trying to conduct an interview while sitting on the floor wouldn’t be very dignified, so they all chose to stand and lean against walls. It gave a strange sort of three-sided edge to the conversation.

Clough folded his arms and leaned back. “So, what’s it all about, then?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” said Banks.

“Humor me. Last time I saw you, you were a friend of Emily’s father.”

“I thought she was called Louisa?”

“No, you didn’t. You knew what her name was. I only found out from the papers.”

“So you do know what happened?”

“I know she’s dead, yes. Nothing to do with me.”

“Well, excuse us for thinking you’re a good bet,” Burgess cut in. He had agreed to let Banks do most of the interviewing, But Banks knew he would be impossible to shut up completely. Clough stared at Burgess as if he were a piece of dog shit on his shoe. He didn’t know that Burgess thrived on looks like that; they only made him better at his job.

Banks could make out the faint sounds of “White Room” coming from downstairs. A “best of” album, then, and not Disraeli Gears , as he had originally thought. The song was strangely appropriate, Banks thought, looking around the white room they were in. He wasn’t sure what he expected from this interview. Certainly not for Clough to confess. If anything, he wanted to go away with the certainty that he had the right man in his sights, a gut feeling, if that was the best he could come up with, then begin the slow painstaking grind toward finding enough evidence to prove it, knowing that was only the beginning of the struggle.

Between the Crown Prosecution Service’s reluctance to prosecute anyone, and the expensive barristers to whom Clough no doubt had access, there was every possibility that the man could get away with murder. Then what? Private vengeance? Would Riddle do it himself or try to hire Banks to kill Clough the way he had used him to find Emily? Christ, though, you had to draw the line somewhere, and Banks thought he drew his at murder, no matter how despicable the victim. He wasn’t too sure about Burgess, though; sometimes his cynical gray eyes took on the look of a stone-killer.

“What we’d expect you to say,” Banks went on, “but let’s back up a little, first. How did you feel when Emily left you?”

“What do you mean, left me? I threw her out.”

“Not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Okay.” Banks held his hand up. “I can tell you’re sensitive about it, so let’s carry on. That final night, at the party, you pushed her into a room with Andrew Handley, right?”

“I pushed her nowhere. She was so stoned she could hardly walk. She stumbled in there herself.”

“But you don’t deny she ended up in a room with Handley?”

“Why should I?”

“And that he tried to rape her?”

“Rape’s a bit strong for what happened there.”

“ Attempted rape, then? I don’t think so.”

“Call it what you will. It was nothing to do with me. If Andy wanted to try it on with the little slut, that was his business.”

“And Emily escaped, ran away?”

“When did she tell you all… wait a minute.” Clough put one hand to the side of his head and made an expression of mock thinking. “Wait a minute. I get it. After she left the party, she ran to you. Right? She knew where you were staying. She spent the night with you. That’s why you’re so upset. Tell me, Chief Inspector Banks, did you like it? Did you like that wet, scaly little tongue of hers licking your-”

Clough didn’t finish the sentence because as Banks struggled with the desire to lash out, Burgess beat him to it and gave Clough a backhander that sent him staggering toward the other wall. Typical Burgess, that; it was all right for him to tease Banks about sleeping with Emily, but not anyone else. Clough looked ready to fight back, muscles twitching, wiping a little thread of blood from the side of his mouth and giving Burgess one of those looks. But he regained his composure. And to give him his due, Banks thought, he didn’t make any noise about lawsuits or revenge.

He stuck his tongue out and licked the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, taking up his position against the wall again. “I got a little carried away then. Very rude of me to speak ill of the dead like that. I apologize.”

Banks relaxed and offered him a cigarette. “Apology accepted.”

Clough took it, and lit it with his own lighter. “Thanks. Forgot mine downstairs. I was in the kitchen enjoying a nice glass of Château Margaux when you two arrived.”

“We’ll make sure you get back to your wine before it turns to vinegar, Mr. Clough,” said Banks. “But no more flights of fancy, okay? Just answer the questions.”

“Yes, officer.” Clough smiled and cracked the crust of blood, sending another thin stream down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and went on smoking, blood staining the filter of his cigarette.

“After Emily left, did you check up on her, find out who she was, where she lived?”

“Why would I do that? I’d finished with her. She wasn’t worth the effort.”

“So you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Did you know who she was?”

“Not until I read it in the papers. Sleeping with a chief constable’s daughter, eh?” He laughed. “Wonder what my associates would say.”