Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Now that Jonathan Fearn was dead, Banks also had another murder on his plate, or manslaughter at least. Strictly speaking, it was DI Dalton’s case, the way Charlie Courage’s murder was Collaton’s, but there was a strong Eastvale connection, the Daleview Business Park and PKF Computer Systems being at the heart of both. Banks was just about to check if anything was happening in the incident room when his phone rang. It was Vic Manson, the fingerprints expert.

“It’s about that CD case you had sent over,” Manson said.

“Find anything?”

“Some very clear prints. I’ve checked the national index and, lo and behold, they belong to a bloke called Gregory Manners.”

“Who the hell’s he when he’s at home?”

“You may well ask. He’s been a naughty boy, though. Did six months a couple of years back for attempting to defraud Customs and Excise.”

“What?”

“Smuggling, to you and me.”

“Well, well, well.”

“Ring any bells?”

“So loud they’re deafening me. Thanks, Vic. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem.”

The minute Banks got off the phone with Manson he called Dirty Dick Burgess at the National Criminal Intelligence Service.

“Banks. Solved your murder yet?”

“Murders. And no, I haven’t.”

“How can I help?”

“I’ve got a few loose strands that seem to be coming together. Remember that PKF business I asked you about?”

“Something to do with computers, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Charlie Courage, night watchman and one-time con, gets murdered the day after a van clears out PKF’s Daleview offices, heading for another business park up Tyneside way. Over the past four weeks he’s made five two-hundred-pound cash deposits at his bank. With me so far?”

“Hanging on your every word.”

“The van itself gets hijacked north of Newcastle and the entire contents disappear. The driver, Jonathan Fearn, who, by the way is a known associate of Courage’s, has just died of injuries received.”

“Another murder, then.”

“Looks that way. But let me finish. PKF is a phony company and we can’t trace anyone involved in it. The only bit of evidence we’ve got is a CD case.”

“That’s hardly evidence, is it?” Burgess commented. “Stands to reason there’ll be cases around computer people.”

“That’s not all. I’ve just found out that the prints on this CD case are those of one Gregory Manners, late of Her Majesty’s first-class hotel in Preston. Manners did six months for smuggling a lorryload of cigarettes through Dover. Or trying to. When questioned he said-”

“ – he was working alone, and nobody was able to prove any different. All right, you’ve got a point. As a matter of fact, I do remember that one. It was one of Customs and Excise’s few successes that year.”

“Let me guess who was behind it: Barry Clough?”

“The man himself. Seems he’s everywhere we look, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is. This Manners connection links him directly to PKF, whatever it was up to, and by extension to the murders of Charlie Courage and Jonathan Fearn.”

“Still like him for the girl’s murder, too?”

“Very much. But we don’t have enough to bring him in yet. You told me yourself how slippery he is.”

“As a jellied eel. You know what I’m thinking, Banks?”

“What?”

“This hijack you told me about. It sounds very much as if someone ripped Barry Clough off.”

“Indeed it does.”

“And we know Barry doesn’t like that. Barry throws tantrums when people upset him.”

“Enough for two people to end up dead?”

“I’d say so.”

“So maybe Courage was on Clough’s payroll, then he decided to work his own scam, selling information about when PKF was moving and where they were going. He’d hardly have looked the other way during a robbery at Daleview because it would have seemed far too obvious.”

“A hijacked van’s pretty obvious, too, if you ask me,” said Burgess.

“Charlie wasn’t that bright.”

“Obviously not. Anyway, it all sounds possible. It must have been valuable merchandise, though, to make it worth the risk.”

“There wasn’t much risk to speak of, believe me. Not on the road up there at that time on a Sunday night.”

“Ah, the provinces. They never cease to amaze me. Ever wondered where the stuff’s got to?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Whatever it was, I’m assuming it’s either been sold or it’s in someone’s lockup waiting to cool down. I’m trying to run a check on other business parks around the country, see if there’ve been any more PKF-type scams lately, but that’ll take forever.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Can you fax me what you’ve got on Gregory Manners, for a start?”

“Sure.”

“And have you any photos of Andrew Handley and Jamie Gilbert on file?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Could you fax them up here, too? It might not be a bad idea to have someone show them around Daleview and Charlie Courage’s neighborhood along with Clough’s.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. And will you keep a close eye on Clough?”

“It’s being done as we speak.”

“Because I’ll be wanting to talk to him again soon, if anything breaks, and this time I think we’ll have him up here.”

“Oh, he’ll like that.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway, thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

“My pleasure. By the way, there’s nothing on Andy Pandy yet. It seems that when he wants to hide, he stays hidden. The lads are still on it, though. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Thanks.”

Banks hung up the phone and tried to piece together what he’d got. Not much, really, just a lot of vague suspicions as far as both cases were concerned. There was still something missing: the magnet, the one piece that would rearrange the chaotic jumble of iron filings into a discernible pattern. Until he had that, he would get nowhere. He had a feeling that part of the answer, at least, lay with PKF and whatever it had been doing. At least he could have Gregory Manners brought in and find out what he had to say about the operation.

Annie found a place to park outside number 37 Sebastopol Avenue, walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell to flat number 4.

Luck was still with her; they were in.

The flat was quite nicely done up, Annie thought, when they let her in and offered her a cup of tea. The furniture looked used, probably secondhand or parental donations, but it was serviceable and comfortable. The small living room was clean and uncluttered, and the only decoration was a poster of a Modigliani nude over the tiled mantelpiece. Annie recognized it from one of her father’s books; he had always been a big fan of Modigliani, and of nudes. Under the window was a desk with a PC, and a mini stereo unit stood in a cabinet along with stacks of compact discs. There was no television.

“What are you studying?” Annie asked as Alex brought the tea.

“Physics.”

“Beyond my ken, I’m afraid.” She nodded toward the painting. “Someone likes art, though, I see.”

“That’s me,” said Carly. “I’m studying art history.” She was a slight girl with dyed black hair, a ring through the far edge of her left eyebrow and another through the center of her lower lip, which gave her voice a curious lisp.

They talked about art for a while, then, when they both seemed relaxed, Annie got down to business. It wasn’t as if she was there to interrogate them, but people often got nervous around the police, the way Annie did around gynecologists.

“Have you any idea why I’m here?” she asked.

They shook their heads.

“I found someone in the Jolly Roger who told me where you lived. Why haven’t you come forward before now? You must know of all the appeals for information we’ve had out.”