Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“Information about what?” Alex asked, a puzzled expression on his face. He was good-looking enough, in a boyish sort of way, though his hair looked as if it needed a wash and he had an Adam’s apple the size of a gob-stopper. Could do with a shave, too, Annie thought, or was she just getting conservative in her old age? There was a time, she reminded herself, when she hadn’t minded a little stubble on a man. She had even worn a stud through her nose. It wasn’t that long ago, either.

“About the murder,” she went on. “Emily Riddle’s murder. Surely you know it happened at the Bar None shortly after you left on Thursday night?”

Alex and Carly looked blank. “No.”

“It was in all the papers. On telly. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“We don’t have a TV set and, well, to be honest,” Alex said, “we haven’t looked at a paper in days. Too busy at college.”

Seems like it, Annie thought. “But haven’t you heard anyone talking about it?”

“I’ve heard people talking about a drug overdose,” Carly said. “But I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t pay much attention. It’s so negative. I never read about things like that. It upsets my balance. Why are you here?”

“Why did you leave the club so early?”

They looked at one another, then Carly lisped, “We didn’t like the music.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it. I mean, you wouldn’t like to have to listen to that crap all night, would you?”

Annie smiled. She certainly wouldn’t. “So why go in the first place?”

“We didn’t know what sort of music they played,” Alex answered. “Someone at college said it was a pretty good place to have a few drinks and dance, and you know… unwind.”

“And buy drugs?”

Carly reddened. “We don’t do drugs.”

“Is that why you went? To buy drugs? And when you’d bought them you left?”

“She said we don’t do drugs and we don’t,” said Alex. “Why can’t you just believe us? Not every young person’s some sort of drug addict, you know. I knew the cops were prejudiced against blacks and gays, but I didn’t think they were prejudiced against the young in general.”

Annie sighed. She’d heard it all before. “I’d love to believe you, Alex,” she said. “In a perfect world, maybe. But a girl died a very nasty death after taking some adulterated cocaine in the Bar None not more than half an hour after you left and, as yet, we don’t know when she got it or where she got it from. If you can give me any help at all, then surely that gives me the right to come here and ask you a few simple questions, doesn’t it?”

“It still doesn’t give you the right to accuse us of being druggies,” said Alex.

“Oh, for crying out loud! Grow up, Alex. If I were accusing the two of you of being junkies you’d be down in the cells now waiting for your legal aid solicitor.”

“But you said-”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

They both sulked for a moment, then nodded.

“What kind of music do you like?”

Alex shrugged. “All sorts, really. Just not that technorave-disco crap they play at the Bar None. It gives me a headache.”

Annie got up and wandered over to look at their CD collection to see for herself. Hole, Nirvana, the Dancing Pigs, even an old Van Morrison. There was quite a variety, but certainly no dance mix. One odd thing she noticed was that some of the CDs had no covers, only typed labels stuck on the cases identifying the contents. When she looked more closely, she also saw that the CDs themselves didn’t all have record-company logos. She glanced at the desk and saw a couple of popular computer software programs and games there. Again, there was no form of official identification.

“Where did you get these?” she asked, noticing that Carly had reddened when she picked up one of the CD cases.

“Shop.”

“What shop?”

“Computer shop.”

“Come on, Carly. You think I’m stupid just because I’m an old fogy? Is that it? You didn’t buy this in any legitimate computer shop. It’s a knock-off, like the music CDs. Where did you buy them?”

“It’s not illegal.”

“We won’t go into the ins and outs of breach of copyright just now. I just want to know where you bought them.”

After letting the silence stretch for almost a minute, Alex answered. “Bloke in the used bookshop down by the castle sells them.”

“Castle Hill Books?”

“That’s the one.”

Annie made a note. It probably wasn’t important, and it wasn’t her case, but she couldn’t dismiss the connection she felt with the empty CD case she had found at PFK. She would pass the information on to Sergeant Hatchley.

“Are you going to arrest us?” Carly asked.

“No. I’m not going to arrest you. But I do want you to answer a few more questions. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“While you were in the club, did you notice anyone selling drugs or behaving suspiciously?”

“There weren’t many people in the place,” Carly said. “Everyone was just getting in drinks or sitting down.”

“A few people were dancing,” Alex added. “But things hadn’t really got going by then.”

“Did you notice this girl?”

Annie showed them a picture of Emily.

“I think that’s the girl who came in with some friends just after us,” Carly said. “At least it looks like her.”

“About five foot six, taller in her platforms. Flared jeans.”

“That’s the one,” Carly said. “No, I didn’t see her doing anything odd at all. They sat down. Someone went for drinks. I think she was dancing at one point. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. The music was already driving me crazy.”

“You didn’t notice her talk to anyone outside her immediate group?”

“No.”

“Did you see her go to the toilet?”

“We weren’t watching people coming and going from the toilets.”

“So you didn’t notice her go?”

“No.”

“All right. Did you recognize her? Have you ever seen her before?”

“No,” Alex answered, with a sly glance at Carly. “And I think I’d remember.”

Carly threw a cushion at him. He laughed.

“She was too young for you, Alex,” said Annie. “And by all accounts you’d have been far too young for her.” She thought again of Banks and his lunch with Emily the day she died. Was there any more to it than that? She still got the impression he was holding back, hiding something.

Things were going nowhere fast with Carly and Alex, so she decided to wrap up the interview and call it a day. “Okay,” she said, standing up and stretching her back. “If either of you remembers anything about that evening, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you, give me a ring at this number.” She handed her card to Carly, who put it on the computer desk, then left the flat, ready to head home. It had been a rough day. Maybe she could treat herself to a book and a long hot bath and put Banks and Dalton out of her mind.

The postman came before Banks set off for work on Wednesday morning, and in addition to the usual bills and another letter from Sandra’s lawyer, which Banks put aside for later, he also brought with him a small oblong package. Noting the return address, Banks ripped open the padded envelope and held in his hand his son’s first officially recorded compact disc, Blue Rain , along with a thank you note for the three-hundred-pound check Banks had sent him, and which had cut severely into his Laphroaig budget.

There was a photograph of the band on the cover, Brian at the center in a practiced, cool sort of slouch, torn jeans, T-shirt, a lock of hair practically covering one eye. Andy, Jamisse and Ali flanked him. It was a poor-quality photograph, Banks noticed – Sandra certainly wouldn’t approve – and looked more like a grainy black-and-white photocopy of a color original. Banks didn’t much like the band’s name, either; Jimson Weed sounded far too sixtyish and druggie, but what did he know?