Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“Your associates being criminals?”

“Now that’s close to slander, that is.”

“Sue me.”

“Not worth the effort.”

“Not much is worth the effort with you, is it, Barry?”

“What can I say? Life goes on. Seize the moment. Live for the now.”

Banks looked at Burgess. “And I never used to believe it when they said drugs could do you permanent damage.”

Burgess laughed.

“Where’d you get the strychnine, Barry?” Banks asked.

“The what?”

“You heard.”

“Never touch the stuff. I’ve heard it’s bad for your health.”

Banks sighed. “Is Andrew Handley here tonight? I wouldn’t mind a word with him.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t. Unfortunately, no, he’s not. In fact, he’s no longer in my employ.”

“You fired him?”

“Let’s say we came to a parting of the ways.”

“Have you got his address?”

“We weren’t that close. It was only business.”

“Ever heard of PKF Computer Systems?”

“What?”

Was there just a slight flicker of recognition there? Clough off-guard for a moment, letting it through? Banks knew he could easily be imagining it, but he thought his internal antennae had detected something. It wasn’t as far-fetched as he had originally thought when Burgess told him about Clough’s business practices. Move into a business park, do whatever crooked little thing it is you do and then, before anyone twigs on to it, move somewhere else. Which is where the white van rented by PKF, which didn’t exist, was going when it was hijacked. The driver still in a coma. There were plenty of business parks and trading estates in the country, most of them fairly remote. They were good places to operate from. And Emily had said something about Clough visiting Eastvale. She had also thought she saw Jamie Gilbert there. Could there be a motive for killing her in that? Something she knew about Clough’s business operations? She had a photographic memory, like her mother, Banks remembered.

“PKF,” Banks repeated.

“No, never heard of it. Why, should I have?”

“Charlie Courage?”

“I’m sure I’d remember someone with a name like that.”

“But you don’t.”

“No.”

Banks could sense Burgess getting impatient across from him. Maybe he had a point; they seemed to be getting nowhere fast. “Where were you last Thursday afternoon?” he asked.

“Why? Is that when it happened?”

“Just answer the fucking question.” Burgess did his world-weary voice.

Clough didn’t even look at him. “I was out of the country.”

“All day?”

“All week, actually. In Spain.”

“Nice for you. Sure you didn’t nip up to Yorkshire for an hour or two?”

“Why would I want to do something like that? The weather’s far better in Spain.”

“Weekend in the country, perhaps? Get your own back on Emily? After all, you don’t like losing your prized possessions, do you?”

Clough laughed. “If she told you that, then she’s got a pretty inflated opinion of herself.”

“A little overproof coke, Barry? Make her suffer?”

“You’re mad.” Clough pushed himself away from the wall. “Look, I’ve been patient with you, but this is absurd. Time for you to go wherever coppers crawl after dark and time for me to get back to my fun and games. Any more talking and my lawyer will be present.”

“Here, is he?”

Clough grinned. “As a matter of fact, he is.” Then he opened the door and gestured for them to leave. They stood their ground a moment, then, there being no point staying any longer, Banks gave Burgess the nod, and they left. As Burgess was passing Clough on the way out, Banks heard Clough whisper, “And don’t think I’ll forget what you did back there. I’ll crush you for that, little man. I own people more important than you.”

Burgess gave a mock shudder. “Ooh! I’m quaking in my boots.”

Then they pushed their way through the stream of people coming up and down the stairs, edged through the hall and said good night to the minder, who grunted. While they were still in his earshot, Banks said, “Maybe we should call in the drugs squad, after all?”

The bouncer disappeared inside the house like a shot.

“Party pooper,” said Burgess. “Besides, they’re probably already in there.”

They walked out of the gates and headed toward the canal. “It was an interesting evening, though,” said Burgess. “Very interesting indeed. Thanks for inviting me. I enjoyed myself.”

“My pleasure.”

“And, I must say, Banks. You surprise me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, listen to him. So modest. So naive. The girl, Banks. The girl in the hotel room. You’re the quiet one, aren’t you? But you’ve got hidden depths. My administration for you has just grown by leaps and bounds. I didn’t realize how close to the mark I was.”

Banks gritted his teeth. They were near the Regent’s Canal now, which gave Little Venice its name. For Banks, at that moment, it evoked fond memories not of Venice but of Amsterdam, and of Burgess flailing around cursing in the filthy water. Down the steps, a little push, a tiny trip. But no. That would be just too childish.

“Nothing happened,” Banks said.

“Like I said, leaps and bounds,” Burgess repeated, clapping his arm around Banks’s shoulder. “And, now, my old cock sparrow, the night is still young, I suggest we head for the nearest pub and get shitfaced. What do you say, Banks?”

Annie didn’t stop to consider the folly of her actions – or their possible consequences – until she was following Wayne Dalton up Skelgate Lane, a narrow, walled path to the north just before Reeth School.

An hour or so earlier, after asking Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton to cover for her, she had parked across North Market Street from the Fox and Hounds, then followed Dalton down to the market square, where he had parked his car. After that she followed him to Reeth about a half hour drive away, and the rest was easy.

Though it was a perfect day for walking, there were few other cars parked on the cobbles outside the shops and none on the green itself. Annie saw a number of people who looked as if they were dressed for rambling. A few clouds marred the blue winter sky, blocking the sun occasionally as they floated by, but the temperature was about ten degrees and there was very little wind.

Skelgate Lane was overgrown, stony and muddy in places after the recent rains. While Annie had put on suitable walking shoes, there were times, as she squelched through the unavoidable mud, when she thought her red wellies would have been more appropriate.

What the hell did she think she was doing anyway? she asked herself after the first half mile. The investigation into Emily Riddle’s murder, of which she was DIO, was going full steam, still in its crucial early stages, and here she was leaving two DCs in charge while she took time out to settle old scores, or tilt at windmills. Her behavior offended even her own sense of professionalism, but when it came right down to it, her profession was the reason she was doing it. The situation with Dalton was something she had to get resolved quickly, because it had become too much of a distraction.

She had dressed like an anonymous rambler, in a charcoal anorak, black jeans tucked into her gray woollen socks, sturdy walking shoes, hat and an ash stick. She wasn’t carrying a rucksack, nor did a plastic folder of Ordnance Survey maps hang around her neck. Instead, she carried a small book of local walks, and when she stopped for a moment to refer to it, she saw where Dalton was likely to be going. It was five and a half miles of relatively easy walking, taking them along the daleside above the River Swale, then down and back along the river to Grinton, arriving there around lunchtime. She looked for a good vantage point where she might confront him and decided that it would be best to wait until they had doubled back over the swing bridge near Reeth. Then they would be near the old Corpse Way to Grinton.