Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“And now?”

Ferguson snorted. “Now? I wouldn’t give you twopence for the crowd we get these days.” He glanced over at the doors again. “Not since he came.”

“Mr. Lacey?”

“Mr. George bloody Lacey, General Manager. Him and his new ideas. Modernization, for crying out loud.” He pointed toward the windows. “What do you need modernization for when you’ve got the best bloody view in the world and all nature on your doorstep? Tell me the answer to that, if you can.”

Banks, who knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, gave a sympathetic nod.

“Since he came,” Ferguson went on, “we’ve had nothing but bloody pop stars, actors, television personalities, whiz kids from the stock market. Christ, we’ve even had bloody women. Sorry love, no offense intended, but grouse shooting never used to be much of a woman’s sport.” He knocked back another mouthful of Port Ellen.

Annie smiled, but Banks had seen that one before; she didn’t mean it. Ferguson had better watch out.

“Half of them don’t even know one end of a shotgun from t’other,” Ferguson went on. “It’s a wonder we don’t have more accidents, I tell you. But they’ve got plenty of money to throw about. Oh, aye. Take a bloke like that there Clough. Thinks if he tosses you a few bob at the start of the evening you’re at his beck and call for the rest of the night. Pillock. And Mary, she’s one the lasses clean the rooms. Nice lass, but a couple of bob short of a pound, if you know what I mean, the stories she’s told me about some of the things she’s found.”

“Like what?” Banks asked.

Ferguson thrust his face forward and whispered. “Syringes, for a start.”

“In Clough’s room?”

“No. That were one of the pop stars. Stayed here a week and never once came out of his room. I ask you. Money to throw away, that lot.”

“Back to Barry Clough, Mr. Ferguson.”

Ferguson laughed and scratched his head. “Aye. Sorry. I do run off at the mouth sometimes, don’t I? You got me started on one of my little hobbyhorses.”

“That’s fine,” said Banks, “but can you tell us any more about Barry Clough?”

“What sort of things would you be wanting to know?”

“Did you see much of him while he was here?”

“Aye. I was on the bar every night – I get help when we’re busy, like. Mandy, one of the local girls from Longbridge – and Clough was always here for drinks before dinner, and most times he ate here, too.” Ferguson looked around and leaned forward conspiratorially. “They say the food’s spectacular here, but if you ask me there’s nowt edible. Foreign muck, for the most part.”

“But Mr. Clough enjoyed it?”

“He did. And he knew what wines to order with what courses – we’ve got a wine waiter, sommelier, as he likes to call himself, the stuck-up bugger – from his Château neuf du bloody Pape to his Sauternes and his vintage Port. See, he’s got all the trappings, the expensive clothes – Armani, Paul Smith – all the top-quality shooting gear and what have you, and he thinks he’s got style, but you can tell he’s common as muck underneath it all. Must’ve read a bluffer’s guide, but he couldn’t fool me. There’s one thing you can’t fake: class. Like I said, a thug. Why? What’s he done?”

“We don’t know that he’s done anything yet.”

“I’ll bet you suspect him of something, though, don’t you? Stands to reason. You mark my words, bloke like him, he’s bound to have done something. Bound to.”

“Did you talk to him much?”

“Like I said, he came on like he thought he was a gentleman, but he couldn’t pull it off. For a start, a real gentleman wouldn’t pass the time of day talking to the likes of me. He might make a friendly comment on the weather or the quality of that day’s shooting, but that’s as far as he’d go. There are clear lines. This Clough, though, chatty as anything, propping up the bar, drinking his bloody Cosmopolitans and smoking his Cuban cigars. And that bloody ponytail.”

“What did he talk about?”

“Nothing much, when all’s said and done. Football. Seems he’s an Arsenal supporter. I’m a Newcastle man, myself. Goes on about his villa in Spain, about going to parties with all these bloody celebrities. As if I give a toss.”

“Did he ever talk about his business?”

“Not that I recall. What is it?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

“Well, I won’t say some people don’t sometimes let something slip, you know. Comes with the territory. I’ve actually managed one or two good investments over the years based on things I’ve heard on this job, but don’t tell anyone that. I’m paid to stand behind this bar all bloody night and sometimes people, they look on you as a sort of father confessor, not that I’m Catholic or anything. Straight C of E.”

“Not Clough, though?”

“No. That’s why I can hardly remember a word he said.”

“Was he with a party?”

“Yes. About five or six of them.”

“Who?”

“They were a mixed bunch. There was that pretty young pop singer whose picture you see all over the place these days, the one where she’s wearing hardly more than a pair of gold silk knickers. Amanda Khan, she’s called. Touch of the tarbrush. Lovely skin, though.”

Banks had seen the image in question; it was on the cover of her new CD and also graced posters in HMV and Virgin Records. She looked about as old as Emily Riddle.

“Couldn’t even hold a bloody gun, her, let alone shoot one. Still, I must say she seemed a nice-enough lass, especially for a pop singer. Polite. And far too nice, not to mention too young , for the likes of Clough.”

“Was she with him?”

“What do you mean? Were they sleeping together?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Whatever they get up to when the bar closes is none of my business.”

“Did you get the impression that they were sleeping together?”

“Well, they did seem a bit close, and I did see him touch her every now and then. You know, put an arm around her, pat her bum, that sort of thing. More as if she were a possession he kept wanting to touch than anything else.”

That sounded like Clough, Banks thought. It hadn’t taken him long to get another girl. “Who else?”

Ferguson scratched his head again. Banks took another sip of the fiery malt. “I didn’t recognize any of the others. I’m sure our Mr. Lacey will let you have a look at the registration book, or bloody diskette or whatever he calls it now. Used to have a nice big black leather-bound book. Must’ve been worth a bob or two. But now it’s all bloody computer discs and Web sites. I ask you. Web sites .”

Banks slipped the photograph of Emily Riddle out of his briefcase. “Did he ever meet with this girl?”

Some of the color left Ferguson’s face. “So that’s what it’s all about, is it? I know who she is, poor lass. I read about her in the papers. You think he did it? Clough?”

“We don’t know,” said Banks. “That’s why we’re asking these questions.”

“I can’t give him an alibi,” said Ferguson. “Like I said, I saw him most evenings, but never during the day. He could have slipped out anytime, really.”

“An alibi’s not much use in a case like this,” Banks said. “At the moment it’s enough to know that he was in the area at the time.”

“Oh, he was in the area, all right.”

“Did you see him meet with anyone outside his party?”

“Only the once.”

“When was this?”

“I can’t recall if it was Sunday or Monday. I think it must have been Sunday. That was the day we had the saddle of lamb. Would have been nice, too, if it hadn’t been for all them fancy herbs and sauces cook sloshes over everything he makes. Freshen your drink?”