Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

Banks smoked and listened. He had never thought about Riddle’s origins before but remembered he had vaguely heard something about his coming from a farmworker’s family in Suffolk. He got the impression that Rosalind just wanted to talk, and he was quite happy to let her ramble on as long as she liked, though why she had chosen him to unburden herself on was a mystery. Still, it felt good to have an attractive woman in the house – and one who understood the spirit of the place, at that – even if she was Jimmy Riddle’s wife, and for another, there was always the possibility that he might learn something relevant to Emily’s murder.

“As I said, he’s worked hard and we’ve made a lot of sacrifices. Jerry isn’t… I mean, he’s not the most demonstrative of men. Our marriage… he finds it difficult to show emotion.” She smiled. “I know most men are the same, but he’s more so. He loved Emily dearly but he’s never been able to express it. He’s come across as overprotective, a sort of tyrant who sets the rules and leaves them to me to enforce. Which made me a tyrant in my daughter’s eyes, too. He was never there when she might have needed him; they never managed to form a strong bond of any kind.”

“Yet he loved her?”

“Yes. Dearly. He doted on her and her achievements as much as he’s capable of doting on anyone other than himself.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a good listener.”

“Go on.”

“There’s not much more to tell, really. Because of what’s happened, because of the guilt over never having been able to show his feelings, of always trying to control her rather than showing affection, he’s coming apart at the seams. He just sits there. Half the time he doesn’t even answer when I talk to him. It’s as if he’s come adrift, got lost in some inner hell and he can’t find his way out. After the funeral, it was even worse. I can’t talk to him anymore, he’s shutting me out. Fortunately Benjamin’s gone down to Barnstaple with my parents, or I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’m not explaining this very well. I’m not very good with words, but I’m worried about him.”

“Is there anything else on his mind?”

“I don’t know. Nothing he’s told me about, anyway. Isn’t it enough?”

“Maybe you should try to get him to seek help? Grief counseling. I’m sure your doctor could recommend the right sort of treatment.”

“I’ve mentioned it, but it’s no good, he won’t go.”

“Then I don’t know what to suggest.”

“Would you talk to him?”

“Me?” Banks almost laughed out loud. “I can’t see that doing him any good. You know he can’t stand the sight of me.”

“You might find that he’s softened his attitude toward you a bit lately.”

“Since I got Emily to come home?” Banks shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s just sticking to the bargain.” Banks remembered what Emily had told him about Riddle’s envy. Deep-rooted feelings like that didn’t just disappear after you’d done someone a favor or two. In most cases they intensified because people who didn’t like you to start with resented being beholden to you. Besides, Banks had caught Riddle in a lie, too, and that must rankle. He remembered the guilty expression at the funeral.

“But he wanted you in charge of the investigation.”

“That was a purely professional decision.”

“I still wish you’d talk to him.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, he’d hardly listen to me.”

“He might. At least you’re a man. He doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“What about his political colleagues? He must have friends there.”

Rosalind sipped some more gin and tonic. “They’re dropping him like a hot potato. It started with Emily’s murder, but it’s got worse ever since the newspaper article with all those innuendoes. Plenty of phone calls, lots of sympathy, then the old ‘…perhaps it would be best for all us if… for the good of the party.’ Hypocrites!”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will only contribute more proof to your poor theory of human nature, especially the human nature of Conservatives.”

Banks said nothing. He looked into the fire and watched the burning peat shift and sigh out a breath of sparks.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Rosalind laughed harshly. “I’m talking about me more than about you. I must admit my own view of human nature has taken a bit of a nosedive over the past few days.”

The music ended and Banks let the silence stretch.

“If you want to put something else on, that’s all right,” said Rosalind. “I like classical music.”

Banks went to the stereo and picked another Beethoven violin sonata, the Kreutzer this time.

“Mmm,” said Rosalind. “Lovely.”

Banks marveled at how much she resembled Emily, especially her lips; they were the same full but finely outlined shape and the same natural pinkish red color; they even moved in the same way when she spoke. “I still don’t see that there’s anything I can do,” said Banks. “Even if I do talk to him. And I’m not saying I will.”

“You can at least try. If it does no good…” Rosalind shrugged.

“What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m coping. Surviving. Sometimes I feel as if I’m being pulled apart by millions of little red-hot fishhooks, but other than that, I’m fine.” She smiled. “Someone has to be. I went back to the office this afternoon, after everyone had gone. I know it sounds odd, but boring estate deals help keep my mind off more serious matters. But Jerry hasn’t even got his work now. He’s got nothing. He just sits at home all the time brooding. It’s frightening watching someone like him unravel. He’s always been so strong, so solid.”

How the mighty are fallen , thought Banks, but he didn’t voice it because it would have been cruel. Even so, he had thought it, and that made him bad; was he such a rotten person? He understood what Rosalind meant, of course; it is far more terrifying to see someone you have always depended on, your rock, crack apart than it is to watch someone who was fragile to start with have yet another breakdown. Banks had a distant aunt who kept having “funny turns,” as his mother called them, but as she was mentally flimsy to begin with, no one was much surprised. It wasn’t that people didn’t sympathize or care, just that her “turns” lacked any sort of tragic dimension.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll try to make time to go over tomorrow and have a talk with him. I can’t promise anything, mind you.”

Her face lit up. “You will? But that’s wonderful. That’s all I ask.”

How do I let myself get talked into these things? Banks wondered. Do I look like a sucker? First I give up a weekend in Paris with my daughter – abandoning her to the clutches of the monosyllabic Damon – and head off to London to look for Emily Riddle, now I’m playing visiting shrink to Jimmy Riddle, the man who’s done about as much for my career as Margaret Thatcher did for the trade unions.

“While you’re here, there are a couple of things I’d like to ask you, if I may.”

“Really?” Rosalind looked away from him and started twisting the wedding ring on her finger. She had finished her drink and let the empty tumbler stand on the arm of the chair.

“Another g and t?”

“No, thanks. I have to drive.” She glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch and sat forward. “Besides, I really should be getting back. I told Jerry I was going for a drive. I don’t like to leave him alone for too long at night. It’s a bad time for him.”