Peter Robinson: Cold Is The Grave

Aitcheson sat down and clasped his hands behind the back of his neck, still smiling. Up close, he looked older than Banks had first guessed – maybe late thirties – balding, with yellowing front teeth that were rather long and lupine. A few specks of dandruff speckled the shoulders of his suit. It was hardly fair, Banks thought, that even when you’re going bald you still get dandruff. “Okay, Mr. Banks,” said Aitcheson, “what can I do for you? You mentioned a business proposition.”

Banks felt a little more at home now. Smarmy smile and suit aside, he had dealt with pillocks like Aitcheson before, even if their offices weren’t as pretty and they didn’t bother to offer up a smug facade of decency. He took the truncated picture of Emily Riddle from his briefcase and put it on the desk, turning it so that Aitcheson could see the image the right way up. “I’d like you to tell me where I can find this girl,” he said.

Aitcheson studied the photo. His smile faltered a moment, then returned full force as he pushed the photograph back toward Banks. “I’m afraid we don’t give out that sort of information about our models, sir. For their own protection, you understand. We get some… well, some rather strange people in this business, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“So she is one of your models?”

“I was speaking generally, sir. Even if she were, I couldn’t give you the information you want.”

“Do you recognize her?”

“No.”

“What if I told you this came from a Web site run by your company?”

“We operate several Web sites, sir. They act as a major part of our interface with the public.” He smiled. “You have to be on the Web these days if you want to stay in business.”

Interface . That word again. It seemed to be a sort of buzzword around GlamourPuss Ltd. “Are escort services part of your business?”

“We have an escort agency as one of our subsidiary companies, yes, but you can’t just bring in a girl’s picture from one of our Web sites and place an order for her. That would be tantamount to pimping on our part.”

“And you don’t do that?”

“We do not.”

“What exactly is your business?”

“I should have thought that was obvious. Erotica in all its forms. Sex aids, videos, magazines, erotic encasement equipment and services, Web-site design and hosting, CD-ROMS, travel arrangements.”

“Erotic encasement equipment and services?”

Aitcheson smiled. “It’s a variation on bondage. Mummification’s the most popular. Some people liken it to an erotic meditative state, a sort of sexual nirvana. But there are those who simply prefer to be wrapped in cling film with rose thorns pressed against their flesh. It’s all a matter of taste.”

“I suppose it is,” said Banks, who was still trying to get his head around mummification. “And travel arrangements? What travel arrangements?”

Aitcheson graced Banks with a condescending smile. “Let’s say you’re gay and you want a cruise down the Nile with like-minded people. We can arrange it. Or a weekend in Amsterdam. A sex-tour of Bangkok.”

“Discount vouchers for brothels? Fifty pee off your next dildo? That sort of thing?”

Aitcheson moved to stand up, his smile gone. “I think that’s about all the time I can spare you at the moment, sir.”

Banks stood up, leaned over the desk and pushed him back down into his chair. It wheeled back a couple of inches and hit the wall, taking out a small chunk of plaster.

“Just a minute!” Aitcheson said.

Banks shook his head. “You don’t understand. That picture came from your Web site. Even if you don’t remember putting it up there yourself, you can find out who did and where it came from.”

“What’s this got to do with you anyway? Wait a minute. Are you a copper?”

Banks paused and glanced down at the photo again. The younger version of Rosalind Riddle’s features – pale skin, pouting lips, high cheekbones, blue eyes – looked up at him from under her fringe with a sort of mocking, come-hither sexuality. “It’s my daughter,” he said. “I’m trying to find her.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but we don’t run a location service for missing kids. There are organizations-”

“Pity, that,” Banks cut in. “Her being so young, and all.”

“What do you mean?”

Banks tapped the photo. “She can’t have been more than fifteen when this was taken.”

“Look, I’m not responsible for-”

“I think you’ll discover that the law says otherwise. Believe me, I’ve read up on it.” Banks leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk. “Mr. Aitcheson,” he said, “here’s my business proposition. There are two parts to it, actually, in case one of them alone doesn’t appeal. I must admit, I’m not always certain justice is done when you bring in the police and the lawyers. Are you? I mean, you could probably beat the charges of distribution and publication of indecent photographs of minors. Probably . But it could be an expensive business. And I don’t think you’d like the sort of interface it would create with your public. Do you follow? Child pornography is such an emotive term, isn’t it?”

Aitcheson’s smile had vanished completely now. “You sure you’re not a copper?” he whispered. “Or a lawyer?”

“Me? I’m just a simple working man.”

“Two parts. You said two parts.”

“Ah, yes,” said Banks. “As I said, I’m a simple working man, and I wouldn’t want to get tangled up with the law myself. Besides, it would be bad for young Louisa, wouldn’t it – all that limelight, giving evidence in court and all that. Embarrassing. Now, I work on a building site up north, and my fellow workers tend to be a conservative, even rather prudish lot when it comes to this sort of thing. It’s not that they mind looking at a pair of tits on a Playboy centerfold or anything like that, mind you, but, believe me, I’ve heard them talking about child pornography, and I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of some of the actions they propose to deal with the people who spread it, if you know what I mean.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Why not? Yes, let’s call it that: a threat. Suits me. Now, you tell me what I want to know, and I won’t tell the lads at the building site about GlamourPuss exploiting young Louisa. Some of them have known her since she was a little baby, you know. They’re very protective. As a matter of fact, most of them will be down here next week to see Leeds play Arsenal. I’m sure they’d be happy to find the time to drop by your offices, maybe do a bit of remodeling. Does that sound like a good deal to you?”

Aitcheson swallowed and started at Banks, who held his gaze. Finally, he brought out his smile again, a bit weaker now. “It really is a threat, isn’t it?”

“I thought I’d already made that clear. Do we have a deal?”

Aitcheson waved his arm. “All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do. Can you come back on Monday? We’re shut over the weekend.”

“I’d rather we got it over with now.”

“It might take a while.”

“I can wait.”

Banks waited. It took all of twenty minutes, then Aitcheson came back into the office looking worried. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we just don’t have the information you require.”

“Come again?”

“We don’t have it. The model’s address. She’s not on our books, not part of our… I mean, it was an amateur shoot. I seem to remember she was the photographer’s girlfriend. He used to do some work for us now and then, and apparently he took those photos as a bit of a lark. I’m sure he didn’t know the model’s true age. She looks much older.”