Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“No, thanks.”

“Sure you won’t have a drop, miss?”

“No, thanks, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Gerald. I told you, it’s Gerald.”

Annie smiled that non-smile again. “No, Gerald.”

He beamed at her. “That’s better.”

“This person Clough met,” Banks said. “Man or a woman?”

“Man. You know, there was something familiar about him, but I just can’t put my finger on it right now.”

“A media personality?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ve seen him in the papers.”

“What did he look like?”

“About six-foot-something. Bit dour-looking, as if he’s just been sucking on a lemon. Didn’t seem at all comfortable to be there. Only drank mineral water. Kept looking around.”

“Could you tell if they’d met before?”

“Hard to say, really. If I had to guess, I’d say it was their first meeting. I don’t know why, but there you are. What you lot would call a hunch.”

“Did you hear any of what they said?”

“No. I was here, behind the bar, and they had a window table.”

“Did they seem friendly?”

“As a matter of fact, no, they didn’t. The bloke got up and left before his main course had even arrived.”

“Were they arguing?”

“If they were, they were doing it quietly. He was certainly red in the face when he left, I can tell you that.”

“Clough?”

“No, the other fellow. Clough were cool as a cucumber.”

“Anything else you can tell me about this man?”

“Bald as a coot, heavy eyebrows. There was something else familiar about him, too, about his bearing, as if maybe he was a military man or something. No… there’s still something missing.”

“A uniform, perhaps?” Banks suggested, feeling the tingle at the bottom of his spine. “A police uniform?”

Ferguson’s eyes opened wide. “By George, I think you’ve got it. He was wearing a suit that night, but if you picture him in a uniform… You’re right. I’ve seen him on telly opening farm shows and spouting about crime figures being down. Mr. Riddle, that’s who it was, now I think back. Your own chief constable. I wonder what all that was about.”

Great , thought Banks, with that sinking feeling. Just what we need. He had sensed something odd about Riddle the night he went to break the news of Emily’s murder. Riddle had mentioned Clough immediately, though Banks had never told him the man’s name, and he was damn sure Emily hadn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” he said, slugging back the last millimeter of Port Ellen. “Thank you very much. We might need to talk to you again, if that’s all right?”

“You know where I am. We’ll try the Caol Ila twenty-two-year-old next time you drop by. Lovely drop of malt. It’ll knock your socks off.”

Banks felt as if his socks had been knocked off already as he walked out into the evening darkness. Neither he nor Annie could think of anything to say. He felt tired. His brain couldn’t even grapple with the consequences of what Gerald Ferguson had just told him about Chief Constable Riddle dining with Barry Clough. There was too much to take in. But he couldn’t let it lie; he had to confront Riddle, and the sooner the better.

Banks still felt tired when he pulled up yet again in front of the Old Mill that night. Annie had seemed annoyed back at the station when he told her he wanted to confront Riddle alone with Ferguson’s story, but she hadn’t argued. Riddle was chief constable, after all, and Banks didn’t want to give the appearance of a formal interrogation, the way it would appear if two detectives turned up on his doorstep. He wanted an honest explanation, though he had his own ideas about what had transpired, and he believed that Riddle would give him one. It was a job he would have gladly delegated if he thought that was at all possible, but it wasn’t. He was still SIO, and if anyone was going to face Chief Constable Riddle with this new development, then it had to be Banks.

Riddle himself answered the door and invited Banks in.

“Ros is out, I’m afraid,” he said. “She’s visiting with Charlotte King, our neighbor. Benjamin’s in bed.”

They walked through to the large living room and sat down. Riddle didn’t offer anything in the way of refreshments, which was fine; Banks didn’t want anything. He blamed the small whiskey he’d had at Scarlea for his tiredness. “How’s he taking everything?” he asked. “Benjamin.”

“He doesn’t know what’s happened. He knows that his sister has gone to live with Jesus, and he misses her terribly. He keeps asking if it’s something to do with the funny pictures of her in the computer.”

“What do you tell him?”

“That it’s not. To forget about that. But it seems he can’t. We’re going to send him to stay with his grandparents – Ros’s mother and father down in Barnstaple – after the funeral. He’s always got along well with them and we think a change of scene will do him good.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow morning. The coroner released the body as quickly as she could.” He paused. “Will you be there?”

“If I wouldn’t be intruding.”

“For better or for worse, you’re part of this.”

Banks wished to hell he weren’t, but Riddle was right. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“Good.”

“And your wife? How’s Mrs. Riddle doing?”

“She’s bearing up. Ros is strong. She’ll survive. Anyway, you’re not here to make small talk about my family, Banks. What is it? Have there been any developments?”

Banks paused. “Yes,” he said finally. “As a matter of fact, there have.”

“Out with it, then.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“More bad news?” Banks noticed a quick flash of fear in Riddle’s eyes, something he had never seen there before. Riddle averted his gaze. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I like it or not,” he said. “Things have gone too far for that. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have even imagined having you in my house, let alone inviting you to my daughter’s funeral. It doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about you, Banks, just that circumstances have changed.”

“I’ve been useful to you.”

“And haven’t I fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

“What were you doing having dinner with Barry Clough at Scarlea House on Sunday, December the sixth?”

Riddle paused before answering. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out about that,” he said. “Too much to hope for, I suppose.”

“You should have known.”

“Yes, well… Anyway, I didn’t have dinner with him. I left before things went that far.”

“Don’t split hairs. You met with him. Why?”

“Because he asked me to.”

“When?”

“Two days earlier.”

“Friday?”

“Yes. He telephoned me at the station and said he was coming up to Yorkshire for the end of the grouse season the next day, that he’d like to meet me to talk about Emily. That’s all he would tell me on the telephone.”

“He called her Emily?”

“Yes.”

“Not Louisa?”

“No.”

“So he’d found out who she was?”

“Oh, he’d found out all right. Starting with her conversation with you in his living room.”

“Bugged?”

“Of course. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

“What did he want with you?”

“What do you think?”

“Blackmail?”

“In a nutshell. I’ve come across his kind before, Banks. They collect people they think they might be able to use at some point.”

“Tell me about your conversation.”

Riddle scowled. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Putting me on the receiving end. Isn’t this what you’ve always dreamed about?”