Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Manners frowned. “Come again?”

“Funny you should mention Mr. Courage, Greg. He also met with an unfortunate accident, shortly after Mr. Fearn. He found himself at the wrong end of a shotgun.”

“Yes, I read about that in the paper,” said Manners. “It was a terrible shock. He seemed a decent-enough bloke.”

“He was a crook, but you know all about that. Let’s move on.”

“By all means.” Manners shifted in his chair and rearranged his legs.

“Do you believe in coincidences?”

“They happen all the time.”

“And do you believe that the van getting hijacked, Jonathan Fearn dying of injuries received, and Charlie Courage being shot just happen to be coincidences?”

“They could be.”

“Why were you leaving Daleview?”

“The rent was too expensive. This new place was cheaper, and the space was better. Bigger.”

“Tell me again what PKF actually did.”

“I manufactured and distributed a database system I invented.”

“Background in computers? College?”

“Self-taught. A lot of people in the business are.”

“To whom did you distribute this software?”

Retailers.”

“Names?”

“Look, I’m sure I have a list somewhere. What is this all about?”

The knock came at the door, as arranged, and it couldn’t have been better timed. Banks announced DC Templeton’s arrival and paused the tape. “What is it, Kev?”

“Thought you might be interested in this, sir,” said Templeton, glancing at Manners as he spoke. “It’s just come in from fingerprints. Those CD cases.”

“Ah, yes,” said Banks. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He opened the file. Templeton left the office. Banks pored over the file frowning for a while, showed the papers to Hatchley, then he set the tapes going again.

“This is interesting,” he said to Manners.

“What is it?”

“Fingerprint results. Another CD case.”

“But I don’t understand. You’ve already found my prints on the CD case. I’ve explained that to you already.”

“But this is different, see, Greg,” said Banks. “This is another case entirely.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ve touched more than one.”

“Yes, but it’s where we found it and what it contained that interests me.”

Manners seemed to turn a little pale. “I don’t… where did you find it?”

“Shop called Castle Hill Books. Run by a man called Stan Fish. Ring any bells?”

“He might have been one of my retailers.”

“For your PKF database software?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come this particular case contained a brand new Sony PlayStation game?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the owner of the shop switched them around.”

“Could be,” said Banks. “In fact, I’d be inclined to believe that would be exactly the case, except…”

“Except what?”

“Except we found your prints on six other cases containing the same game, and we have a lot more to test before we’re finished. Some of them contain a brand-new music CD by REM. Hardly even in the shops yet. Then there are a few word-processing programs and so forth. Funny, though, Greg, no PKF database system.”

Manners crossed his arms. “Right, that’s it,” he said. “I’m not saying another word until my lawyer gets here.”

Two hours later, toward the end of the afternoon, Manners was still in custody waiting for his solicitor and Banks was in his office reading through witness statements when his telephone rang.

It was Dirty Dick Burgess calling from London. “Guess what, Banks.”

“You’ve been made head of the Race Relations Board?”

“Very funny. No. But Andy Pandy’s turned up at last.”

“Has he, indeed?”

“Thought you’d be interested.”

“Any chance of a chat with him in the near future?”

“Not unless you fancy holding a séance. He’s dead. Dead as the proverbial doornail, though I never could see how a doornail could be dead as it was never alive in the first place. Anyway, enough philosophical speculation. He’s dead.”

“Where?”

“Pretty remote spot on the edge of Exmoor. I tell you, Banks, if it weren’t for the anorak brigade and the dogwalkers, bless their souls, we’d never find half the corpses we do.”

“The long ride?”

“Indeed so.”

“Shotgun?”

“Wound to the upper body. Pretty close range. Not much left.”

“Same as Charlie Courage. Any signs of torture?”

“Christ, Banks, there’s hardly any signs of the poor bugger’s chest . What do you expect? Miracles?”

“So what do you think?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Humor me.”

“Andy Pandy’s been a naughty boy. He’s ripped off Mr. Clough. Mr. Clough doesn’t like being ripped off, so he sends Andy on the long ride. Way I see it.”

“And Charlie Courage?”

“Part of it. Hardly an innocent bystander, from what you told me.”

“He was taking money from Clough, or from Clough’s local oppo Gregory Manners, to make sure PKF operated without hassles. Then suddenly, PKF is moving and Charlie’s bonuses are gone. I think Charlie knew where PKF was moving to, and when. And I think Andy Pandy came along with a better offer.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s pissed off with Clough for taking him for granted. He wants more respect.” And he’s also angry with Clough over the incident with Emily, when she kneed him in the balls, Banks thought.

“Maybe,” said Burgess, sounding unconvinced.

“So he hijacks the van to set up his own business. The van’s full of PKF stock, but more important than that, it’s also carrying two or three multidisc copying machines, very valuable pieces of equipment. He thinks Clough will never guess in a million years that he did it. But Clough’s no fool. He sends a couple of goons up to push Charlie around a bit. Now, Charlie might have been a crook, but no one ever said he was a brave man. Charlie rats Andy Pandy out under torture, and they’re both history. I wondered why Gregory Manners is still alive.”

“Come again?”

“Manners was in charge of PKF, so he must have been Clough’s first suspect. Clough put the frighteners on him and Manners must have convinced him he had nothing to do with the hijack. Maybe Manners told him Andy Pandy had been hanging about asking questions. We’ll probably never know for sure now.”

“So what do we do next?”

“We’ll keep showing the photographs around Daleview. I’ve also got Gregory Manners kicking his heels in the cells here waiting for his lawyer, so maybe I’ll have another chat with him first.”

“He won’t tell you anything. Too shit-scared of Clough.”

“Probably, but I can push him a bit harder. It’d be nice to threaten him with conspiracy to commit murder or something juicy like that. At the moment there’s nothing much except pirating software to hold him on, and that’ll probably never stick. Minute his lawyer gets here he’ll be off.”

“And what’s the betting you’ll never see him again?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“So where do we go with Andy Pandy?”

“We’ll have a hell of a job proving it’s anything to do with Clough,” Banks said. “Anything at the scene?”

“Tire track.”

Banks thought for a moment, then said, “I think it’s about time we brought Mr. Clough up north for a chat. But first, I’ve got an idea.”

It was late, and Banks was listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Spring violin sonata and reading a biography of Ian Fleming when he heard a car draw up outside. That was unusual in itself. The dirt lane that ran in front of his cottage ended at the woods about ten yards farther, where it became a narrow path between the trees and Gratly Beck. Occasionally, tourists would take the wrong road and have to back out, but not usually at that time of night, or that time of year.