Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

The only problem with Clough as a suspect, thought Banks, was that he stood to gain nothing by Emily’s death. Still, there was always the chance that she had stolen from him, as Ruth Walker had suggested, or that she knew too much about his business activities, though Banks thought she would have told him if that were the case. It was also possible that Clough only thought she knew something she didn’t This was assuming, of course, that the whole matter was one of logic and profit. What if it wasn’t? Clough was certainly capable of killing, and if Emily had humiliated him in any way, then he was probably capable of killing her out of sheer malice.

Banks got up and poured himself a glass of water. The dream and the drink had left him with a dry mouth. As he showered in the tiny stall, he put the Graham Marshall dream out of his mind and found himself thinking again of what Ruth had said, how her words had cast suspicion even on Riddle himself, someone Banks had completely over-looked as a suspect.

He found it hard to take it seriously that a man like Jimmy Riddle would deliberately give his daughter cocaine laced with strychnine, even if for some obscure reason he did want her dead. And her death had done nothing to free Riddle of the shame of her exploits; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect, and already the tabloids were raking up stories of the chief constable’s daughter and her wild life. That wouldn’t do his budding political career any good at all, or his standing in the force, either.

Then there was Rosalind Riddle. Banks had had a strange feeling about her right from the start, when Riddle first asked him to go to London and find Emily. Rosalind hadn’t appeared to want Emily back home for some reason. More recently, Rosalind had denied ever hearing of Ruth Walker, yet Ruth said she had spoken to her on the telephone on several occasions. That probably meant nothing, Banks realized, merely a lapse of memory, a misheard name over a poor connection, but Rosalind’s role in all this still nagged away at the back of his mind. She was holding something back; of that he was certain. Whether it was important to the investigation or not, he couldn’t say. All families have secrets that can fester away behind their protective walls.

Banks decided for the moment to concentrate on the line of inquiry he was pursuing in London, where Emily had done most of her drug-taking and mixed with a rough crowd: primarily Clough, of course, who lied about everything; then Ruth Walker, who remained a bit of an enigma to him, yet seemed a woman embittered far beyond her years; and finally Craig Newton, hurt ex-boyfriend-turned-stalker, and onetime amateur porn photographer, whom Banks was going to visit again that day.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast and a short walk around St. Pancras Gardens to clear his head, Banks felt ready to face the day. He was only about half a mile away from Euston, so he walked through the quiet streets of Somers Town to Eversholt Street. The train service to Milton Keynes was frequent, even on Sunday, and he only had to wait twenty minutes for an InterCity.

Watching the urban sprawl of London give way to prime commuter territory set amid rolling fields and grazing cows, Banks wrote up his notes on the previous evening’s talk with Barry Clough. Sometimes he took notes at the time, especially of important details, but that hadn’t seemed appropriate standing in the white room with Clough and Burgess. Fortunately, though his memory was average in most respects, he had excellent audio recall and could remember a conversation practically verbatim for at least a couple of days.

He also thought about the coming interview with Craig Newton and tried to come up with a strategy. It was official business this time, not private-eye work for Jimmy Riddle. Approaching Craig Newton and getting any sort of trust out of him would be a delicate and difficult matter after all the lies he had told on his last visit. It had been the same with Ruth Walker, and Craig Newton struck him as a far more sensitive person than Ruth. On the other hand, Craig had lied to Banks, too.

Though it was his first visit in daylight, he still saw nothing of Milton Keynes on the taxi ride to Craig’s house, except a few glimpses of concrete and glass. Perhaps that was all there was to see.

Craig Newton was home, and though he seemed puzzled to see Banks again, he invited him into the house. It hadn’t changed much since the last visit, still very much the bachelor’s house, with little piles of newspapers and magazines here and there and coffee rings on the low table.

“I’m sorry,” said Craig. “You know… about your daughter. I read about it in the newspaper.”

Banks felt like an utter shit. Craig seemed the trusting sort, and here he was, letting him down. Still, a hard lesson in the reality of deception probably wouldn’t do the kid any harm in the long run. Having been a policeman for years, Banks had long since stopped trying to make everybody like him. He still felt like an utter shit as he pulled out his warrant card, though.

Craig gaped at him. “But… you said…? I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, Craig,” said Banks, sitting down. “I lied. Emily’s father wanted me to find her, and it seemed a good idea to pretend that I was him instead of trying to explain myself. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I suppose so, but…”

“It was a simple strategy. Anyone would have more sympathy for the girl’s father than for a policeman.”

“So you lied?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to draw in on himself. “What do you want this time?”

“More information. I’m not the only one who lied, am I, Craig?”

“You talked to Louisa?”

“You must have known I would.”

“What did she say about me?”

“That you were bothering her, following her, stalking her.”

“I’d never have done her any harm. I was just… I…”

“What, Craig?”

“I loved her. Can’t you understand that?”

“It didn’t give you the right to follow her around and scare her when she didn’t want to see you.”

“ Scare her? That’s laugh. She hardly noticed me.”

“Clough did, though, didn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Oh, come on, Craig. You knew his name, didn’t you? You just didn’t want me to talk to him about your stalking Emily.”

Craig rubbed his nose. “The bastard.”

“Never a truer word. Anyway, let’s leave that behind us for the moment, shall we?”

“Fine with me. Her real name is Emily. Is that right?”

Banks nodded.

“And Gamine?”

“A joke. It’s an anagram of enigma, which is a sort of riddle. Emily Louise Riddle was her real name, and her father’s my boss.”

“I see. You probably didn’t have much choice, then. I suppose I shouldn’t have believed you in the first place, should I? I feel like a real idiot now.”

“No need to. What reason could you possibly have had to think I was lying?”

“None. But still… I had my suspicions. I told you. I thought there was something funny about you, the way you kept asking questions.”

Banks smiled. “Yes, I remember. So credit yourself with that and let’s move on.”

“I can’t see there’s anything I could possibly tell you that’s of any use. The papers said she took some poisoned cocaine in a club, is that right?”

“That’s right. Did you ever supply Emily with cocaine, Craig?”

“No. I’m not a dealer. I never have been.”

“A user?”

“I’ve snorted it on occasion. Not for a long time, though.”

“She must have got it from somewhere.”

“Ask her new boyfriend.”

“I doubt that was the first time she took it.”