Peter Robinson - Cold Is The Grave

“I understand,” said Banks. “I promise I won’t keep you more than a couple of minutes more.”

She sat back in the chair but didn’t relax. What was she so nervous about? Banks wondered. What was she holding back?

“Ruth Walker told me that you had answered when she phoned to talk to Emily, but you said you’d never heard of her. Why?”

“You surely can’t expect me to remember the name of every single person who calls and asks for Emily, can you? Perhaps she never even said what her name was.”

“People usually do, though, don’t they. I mean, it’s only polite to say who you are.”

“You’d be surprised how many people lack basic politeness. Or maybe you wouldn’t. What exactly are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. I just get this funny feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe it’s to do with Ruth Walker and maybe it’s not, but you get very vague every time her name comes up.”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Maybe. I’ve been told more than once that I’ve got too much of it for my own good. Your husband’s told me often enough.” Banks leaned forward. “Look, Mrs. Riddle, you probably don’t think it’s very relevant or important, but I’ve got to warn you that you’re making a poor judgment here. The best course of action is to tell me everything you know and let me be the judge. That’s my job.”

Rosalind stood up. “Thanks for the advice. If I did know anything of relevance to your investigation, you can be sure I’d take it, but as I don’t… Anyway, I really must be going now. Thank you very much for your hospitality. You will call in on Jerry tomorrow?”

“Barring any emergencies, yes, I’ll call. Don’t tell him, though; he might board up the doors and bar the windows.” Rosalind smiled. It was a sad smile, Banks thought, but nice nonetheless. “And please think about what I said? If there’s anything…”

Rosalind nodded quickly and left. Banks stood in the doorway and watched her drive back toward the Helmthorpe road, then he poured another Laphroaig and returned to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Beethoven.

Banks and Annie watched Barry Clough walking along the corridor toward them, his police escort following behind, along with another man. Banks noted the Paul Smith suit, the ponytail, the matching gold chain and bracelet, the cocky, confident strut, and thought: pillock .

“Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Barry,” he said, opening the door to interview room 2, the smallest and smelliest interview room they had. It passed the PACE regulations about the same way Banks’s old Cortina had passed its final MOT test: barely.

“You’d better have a damn good reason for dragging me halfway across the country,” Clough said cheerfully. “One my lawyer will understand.” He gave Annie an appraising look, which she ignored, then turned to the man who had followed him down the corridor.

“Simon Gallagher,” the man said. “And I’m the lawyer in question.”

And very questionable indeed you look, thought Banks. For once, the client looked better-dressed than the lawyer, but Banks was willing to bet that Gallagher’s casual elegance cost every bit as much as Clough’s Paul Smith, and that it had been thrown together at short notice. He was also willing to bet that, appearances aside, Gallagher was sharp as a tack and very well-versed in the intricacies of criminal law. He was in his late twenties, Banks guessed, with a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his dark hair hung in greasy strands over his collar. He also had that edgy, wasted look of someone who stays up too late at too many clubs and takes too many class-A drugs. He sniffed the stale air of the interview room and pulled a face.

Annie turned on the tape recorders and went through the preamble, then she sat beside Banks, a little out of Clough’s line of vision. On the periphery, Banks had told her, she could remain unnoticed or distract him with a movement if she wished.

“Can we get on with it?” Gallagher said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got an important appointment back in the City this evening.”

Banks smiled. “We’ll do our best to make sure you don’t miss it, Mr. Gallagher.” Then he turned to Clough. “Do you have any idea why we want to talk to you?”

Clough held out his hands, palm open. “None at all.”

“Okay. Let’s start with Emily Riddle. You do admit to knowing her?”

“I knew her as Louisa Gamine. You know that. You came to my house.”

“But you now know that her real name was Emily Louise Riddle?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I told you. I saw it in the papers.”

“Are you sure you didn’t know before that?”

“How could I?”

“Perhaps the room in your house, the room in which I talked to her, was wired for sound?”

Clough laughed and glanced over at Simon Gallagher. “Get that, Simon. That’s a laugh, eh? My house bugged.” He looked at Banks again, no longer laughing. “Now you tell me why I’d want to do something like that?”

“Information?”

“What sort of information?”

“Business information?”

“I don’t eavesdrop electronically on my clients or my partners, Chief Inspector. Besides, it’s my home we’re talking about, not my office.”

“Let’s leave that for the moment, then, shall we?” Banks went on. “What was your relationship with Emily Riddle?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. You know, the sort of thing human beings have with one another.”

Clough shrugged. “I fucked her once in a while,” he said. “She was okay in bed. A hell of a lot better than she was at giving blow jobs.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all?”

“Did you ever do anything else together? Talk, for example?”

“I suppose we must have, though I can’t say I remember a word she said.”

“Did you ever tell her anything about your business interests?”

“Certainly not. If you think I’d go around telling some bimbo about my business, you must be crazy.”

“Did she live with you?”

“She lived in the same house.”

“In Little Venice?”

“Yes.”

“Did she live with you?”

“We were together some of the time. It’s a big house. Sometimes guests come and forget to leave for a long time. You can get lost in there. You should know. You’ve seen it. Twice.”

“Is this what happened with Emily? She sort of got lost in your big house?”

“I suppose so. I don’t remember how she got there.”

“A party?”

“Probably.”

“Did you sleep together?”

“We didn’t do much sleeping.”

“Look, Chief Inspector,” Gallagher chipped in, “this all seems pretty innocuous, as the girl in question was of legal age, but I can’t really see where it’s getting us.”

“Did Emily Riddle know anything at all about your business dealings, Barry?”

“No. Not unless she spied on me.”

“Is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible. I’m careful, but…”

“What exactly is your business?”

“Bit of this, bit of that.”

“More specifically?”

Clough looked at Gallagher, who nodded.

“I manage a couple of fairly successful rock bands. I own a bar in Clerkenwell. I also promote concerts from time to time. I suppose you could call me a sort of impresario.”

“An impresario.” Banks savored the word. “If you say so, Barry.”

“Has a sort of old-fashioned ring to it, don’t you think? ‘Sunday Night at the London Palladium’ and all that.”

“Were you worried that Emily Riddle might have known too much about this impresario business of yours?”