Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Or was it? Had Emily Riddle posed some sort of threat to him? Did she have knowledge he considered dangerous? Clough didn’t like to lose, didn’t like people walking out on him, especially if they took something with them, be that something money or knowledge.

It was beginning to seem entirely possible to Banks that the two cases were connected, and that Emily Riddle might have been killed by the same person and for the same reason as Charlie Courage. But who was it? Which of his minions had Clough used? Andy Pandy, who already had a grudge against Emily, the kind of grudge you develop from a hard knee in the balls? Jamie Gilbert, to whom Burgess had referred as a psycho? Or someone else, someone they hadn’t encountered yet? Gregory Manners might be able to help them, if they could find him.

Banks finished his Yorkshire and lit another cigarette. He had about a third of a pint left, and he decided not to have another one. “You said you’d heard rumors about a big local operation,” he said. “Anything in them?”

“There’s always something, don’t you think? No smoke without fire, as they say. It’s mostly a matter of finding a lot more pirated goods flooding the markets around North Yorkshire, which reeks of the kind of organization you’ve just been talking about. You say they’ve moved on?”

“Their van was heading for another business park near Wooler, in Northumbria, when it was hijacked. Everything disappeared, and the driver was in a coma for a few days before he died. No prints at the scene. Nothing. All we have is a CD case from PKF’s Daleview operation which bears the fingerprints of one Gregory Manners, convicted for smuggling, and a known associate of our Mr. Big.”

“That’s the thing,” said Granville, leaning forward. “They’re getting into these new areas, the big guys, like cigarette smuggling and pirating games. There’s a pile of money to be made if you do it right, and the risks are far less than dealing in drugs. Besides, drugs are cheaper than they’ve ever been these days. With smuggling and pirating, you just sit back and rake in the profits. That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you lot for ages. And the more you squeeze the drug dealers, the more they’re likely to find more creative ways of making their fortunes.”

Banks looked at his watch. Just gone half past two. Time to check on what was happening in the incident room, then ACC McLaughlin and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe would be waiting for an update. “I’ve got to go now, Granville,” he said, “but could you do me a favor and keep your eyes and ears open?” Banks asked.

“My pleasure.” Granville paused, then said, “I heard about Jimmy Riddle’s daughter. Terrible business.”

“Yes, it is,” Banks agreed.

“Your case?”

“For my sins.”

“Anything in those rumors in the papers? Sex and drugs?”

“You know what it’s like, Granville,” said Banks, stubbing out his cigarette and getting up to leave. “There’s always something in it, isn’t there? No smoke without fire.”

Annie’s news about Clough’s being seen in the area around the time of both murders gave Banks that tingle of excitement he hadn’t felt in a while as he headed for Scarlea House late that afternoon, taking the unfenced high roads, where the only things that slowed him down were wandering sheep. He put Richard and Linda Thompson’s Shoot Out the Lights on the car stereo and turned it up a bit louder than usual.

Annie’s purple Astra was parked outside Scarlea, and she was waiting in the lobby when Banks arrived. Gerald Ferguson had reported for work ten minutes ago, according to George Lacey. He pointed the way, and Banks and Annie walked down the gloomy hallway to the double doors at the far end.

“Anything on that sighting in Barnard Castle?” Banks asked.

Annie shook her head. “False alarm. Witness was an elderly woman and she admitted all teenagers looked alike to her. Soon as I showed her the photo again she began to have doubts.”

Banks pushed open the heavy doors – it took more strength than he expected – and they entered the magnificently appointed dining room. Once a banquet hall, he guessed, it had a number of large windows looking out over the valley bottom to the steep dalesides crisscrossed with drystone walls. It was too dark to see anything now, of course, but breakfasting grouse shooters could no doubt look at the view and anticipate the joys of the coming day’s slaughter as they ate their eggs Benedict or juice and cereal.

There would probably have been one large central banquet table before the place had been turned into an upmarket restaurant, Banks thought, but now there were a number of tables scattered about the room, each covered by a spotless heavy linen tablecloth. At the far end were more doors, probably to the kitchen, and a long bar took up one wall, all dark polished wood and brass, the rows of bottles gleaming on shelves in front of the mirror at the back. Banks had never seen so many single-malt whiskeys in one place before. Most of them he had never even heard of.

A man in a burgundy jacket stood with his back to them fiddling with the Optic on the gin bottle when Banks went over and introduced himself and Annie.

“Charmed to meet you,” the man said, glancing back at them. “I’m Gerald Ferguson, and this bloody thing is a pain in the arse, excuse my French, love. I’ve told them to buy a new one but they’re too bloody tight-fisted. The hell with it.” He left the Optic and leaned on the bar to face them. “What can I do for you?”

He was a round little man of about fifty, with a red face, muttonchops sideboards and a soup-strainer mustache. His jacket tugged a bit at the gold buttons around his chest and stomach, and Banks thought one deep breath would pop them. “We were hoping you might be able to help us with some information about a guest, Mr. Ferguson,” he said.

“Gerald. Please.” He looked around, then put his finger to the side of his nose. “Fancy a wee dram?”

Banks and Annie sat on the high barstools. “We wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble,” said Banks.

Gerald waved his hand and looked toward the door they had entered by. His fingers were surprisingly long and tappered, Banks thought, the nails neatly clipped and shiny. Perhaps he played piano as a hobby. “What he doesn’t know won’t harm him. What’s your poison?”

It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, Banks thought, as he scanned the row of bottles and settled on the cask-strength Port Ellen.

“Detective Sergeant Cabbot?”

“Nothing for me, thank you.”

“You certain?”

“Certain.”

Gerald shrugged. “Up to you.” He poured two glasses of Port Ellen, very generous measures, Banks thought, set one in front of himself and another in front of Banks. “ Slainte ,” he said, and knocked it back in one.

“ Slainte ,” said Banks, and took a little sip. Heaven. He set the glass down. “It’s a guest called Clough we’re interested in. Barry Clough. Apparently he’s a regular in grouse season.”

“Aye, he’s that, all right.”

Banks caught the tone of disapproval in his voice. “You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” said Ferguson, pouring himself another Port Ellen. Banks guessed it wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last one of the day, either. At least this time he sipped it slowly.

“Tell us what you do think of him, then.”

“He’s a thug in fancy dress. And as for that factotum of his-”

“Jamie Gilbert?”

“If that’s his name. The one with the queer hair.”

“That’s him. Go on.”

Ferguson took another sip of whiskey and lowered his voice. “This place used to have a bit of class, do you know that? I’ve worked here going on twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all come and go. We’ve had MPs – a prime minister and an American president once – judges, foreign dignitaries, businessmen from the City, and some of them might have been stingy bastards, but they all had one thing in common: they were gentlemen.”