Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

A knock at his door jolted him out of his musings. It was DC Templeton.

“Yes, Kev?”

“Thought you’d like to know, sir, uniformed just brought Gregory Manners in. He’s waiting in interview room three.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there. Ask DS Hatchley to sit in, too, will you?”

“Will do, sir.”

“By the way, where’d they find him?”

“Strangest place you could imagine.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

DC Templeton grinned. “At home, sir. Nice little flat out Thirsk way.”

Banks grinned back. “Oh, and Kev, there’s one more thing I’d like you to do.”

Gregory Manners was a smoothie, right from his carefully combed, impossibly brown hair to the soles of his Italian loafers. He was good-looking in a way, and Banks could see that he might appeal to a certain kind of woman.

The interview room was a dingy, airless sort of place with whitewashed walls, a tiny wire-mesh window and metal table and chairs bolted to the floor. The old blue ashtray, stolen from the Queen’s Arms, was gone now that smoking had been banned from the building, but the air still seemed to smell of stale smoke, sweat and fear. Manners sat there coolly, legs crossed, idly staring into space. When Banks and Hatchley entered he asked why he had been brought there.

Banks ignored him and checked the tapes in the recording machine. Hatchley sat impassive as Buddha, and almost as fat.

The tapes worked. Banks went through the time, date and place routine, naming those present in the room, then he turned to Manners and said, “You’re here to help us with our inquiries, Mr. Manners.”

“What inquiries?”

“Things will become clear as we move along.”

Manners leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Should I have my lawyer present?”

“I understand you put in a call to your solicitor before you left home?”

“Before I was brought here, yes. And all I got was his answering machine.”

“They’re busy people. You left a message?”

“I told him to get up here sharpish.”

“In the meantime, you’ve been offered the services of a duty solicitor?”

“Some wet-behind-the-ears little pillock who can’t get a proper job?”

“And you’ve declined?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, Mr. Manners, let’s proceed with the interview. Just for the record, you haven’t been charged with anything yet so there’s no need to get overexcited. I’m sure your own solicitor will get here as soon as he possibly can, but in the meantime let’s just have a little chat, all right?”

Manners narrowed his eyes but sat back in his chair and relaxed, crossing his legs again. “What do you want to know? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.” Banks took the CD case that Annie had found at PKF out of its envelope and pushed it over the rickety metal table to Manners. “Know what this is?”

Manners looked at it. “It’s a CD container.”

“Good. Maybe you can tell me what your fingerprints are doing on this particular CD container?”

“I suppose I must have touched it.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Indeed, you must have touched it. Can you tell me what you were doing at the Daleview Business Park?”

“Daleview? Working. Why?”

“I don’t know, Gregory. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, that’s what I was doing. Working. I don’t understand this. I haven’t done anything illegal. Why are you questioning me?”

“We want to know about the operations of PKF Computer Systems.”

“What about it?”

“Is that who you worked for at Daleview?”

“Yes. But I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“And what if I told you that it’s dummy company? That it doesn’t exist?”

“Then I’d be very surprised indeed.”

“Who set it up?”

“What?”

“PKF.”

“I did, of course. The whole thing’s me. Just me. Look, there must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake.”

“A mistake with the paperwork. I was sure I did it right.”

“There is no paperwork, Gregory. Bugger all. PKF doesn’t exist.”

“Well, if it doesn’t exist, then I can hardly know anything about it, can I? So why don’t I just leave now?”

“Sit down!” Hatchley slammed his ham-sized fist on the table and the noise made Manners jump.

“Hey,” said Manners. “There’s no need for that. That’s intimidation.”

“Any more of this bollocks, and I’ll show you what intimidation is,” growled Hatchley.

“I’m sure if you just answer my questions as clearly and fully as you can, DS Hatchley will listen as eagerly as I will, won’t you, Sergeant?”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, “soon as he stops trying to feed us this crap.”

Manners swallowed. “Look, what do you want to know? I’m sorry if I ballsed up the paperwork. Is it a criminal offense?”

“Probably,” said Banks, “but we’ll worry about that later. What did you do at PKF?”

“Developed, produced and marketed a commercial database program.”

“Called?”

“PKF.”

“You invented this?”

“I did.”

“You worked alone?”

“For the most part.”

“It sounds like a lot of work for one person.”

“I’ve never been afraid of hard work. On occasion, I hired casual labor to help with distribution and such things.”

“People like Jonathan Fearn?”

Manners frowned. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I might have, yes.”

Banks took the photographs of Andrew Handley, Jamie Gilbert and Barry Clough out of his file folder and slid them across to Manners. “Ever seen any of these men?”

“No.”

Banks tapped the picture of Clough. “This one in particular,” he said. “Go on, have a good look. Think about it.”

“I told you. No.”

“Didn’t you do six months for smuggling offenses down south not long ago?”

“I just happened to get caught doing something people get away with every day.”

“You must be a heavy smoker and drinker, then.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So you were going to sell the goods you smuggled?”

“Of course I was going to sell them. People go over to Calais and load up their cars every bloody weekend, for crying out loud. What’s this got to do with anything?”

Banks tapped Clough’s photo again. “We have information that leads us to believe this man was behind both the smuggling operation and whatever PKF was up to.”

“Then your information is wrong. I’ve never seen him in my life. Or the other two. I imported the stuff myself, and I also ran PKF. Which wasn’t up to anything, by the way. Maybe I got the paperwork wrong, maybe I just forgot to make everything all official, but if that’s why I’m here, just charge me and get it over with. You know I’ll be walking out the minute my lawyer gets here.”

“Who said anything about charging you?”

“I can’t understand why else you had me brought here.”

“What’s happened to PKF?”

“I’m sure you know already,” said Manners. “The van was hijacked on its way to our new business’ premises in Northumbria and everything was stolen. There is no PKF anymore.”

“And the driver was killed.”

“Yes. Very unfortunate, that.”

“A Mr. Fearn. Jonathan Fearn.”

“Yes, well, as I said, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember his name. I simply hired him to do the job.”

“Where did you find him?”

“Mr. Courage, the night watchman at Daleview, recommended him.”

“Ah, yes,” said Banks, shuffling some papers in his folder. “Charlie Courage. Small-time villain. Must have got in over his head.”