Peter Robinson: Cold Is The Grave

The interview room was starting to feel very claustrophobic. Banks couldn’t quite sort out the she ’s; half the time it seemed as if Ruth was referring to Rosalind, the rest to Emily. “Were you abused by your adoptive parents, Ruth?”

Ruth gave a harsh laugh. “Abused? That’s a good one. You at least have to care about someone to abuse them. No, I wasn’t abused, not in the way you mean it. I suppose there’s more than one kind of abuse, though. I mean, I’d call being made to wear those shoes until my toes bled abuse. Wouldn’t you? Mostly, they were just cold. Ironic they should die by fire, isn’t it?”

Again, Banks felt that shiver creep up his spine. He saw Annie frowning. Ruth paid them no attention. “Did you see Rosalind often?” Banks asked.

“Not that often.”

“When you needed something?”

“I only wanted my due.”

“What about Emily? How did you feel toward her?”

“I’d be a liar if I said I liked her.”

“But you befriended her, took her in. At least I assume that’s how it happened and you didn’t just meet her by accident near the station. Is that right?”

Ruth nodded. “When I met her the once in Ros’s office, I made a point of finding out where she went to school. She was a boarding student, so I phoned her there, and visited her. When she started to trust me, when we began to be friends, she used to call me a lot from school, too. She’d complain about her parents, how strict they were. I had to laugh. I mean, she’d complain to me about that. I told her that after she was sixteen she could do what she wanted. It was near the end of the school year and she’d had her birthday, so I said why didn’t she come and stay with me in London for a while if she wanted.”

“You mean you lured her to London? You encouraged her to leave home?”

“I think lured is too strong a word. I had no trouble getting her there. She was only too pleased to come.”

“But you didn’t tell her parents where she was?”

“Why should I? It was her business, and she didn’t want them to know.”

“Do you think Rosalind knew?”

“I doubt it. She didn’t know how close me and Emily had become. I don’t think she even knew where I lived. Didn’t bother to ask. That’s how interested in me she was after all those years.”

“Did you introduce Emily to Craig Newton?” Banks asked.

Ruth’s face clouded. “I thought he was my friend. I thought he loved me. But he was just like all the rest.”

“Did it hurt you when she took up with Craig?”

Ruth shot him a tortured glance. “What do you think?”

“Is that why you killed her?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Come on, Ruth. We’ve got the evidence. We know. You might as well tell us how it happened. I’m sure there were extenuating circumstances. What about Barry Clough? What part did he play in all this, for example?”

Ruth’s eyes narrowed. “I wondered when you’d get around to him.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Plenty.”

“Like what?”

Ruth paused a minute and rubbed her fist over the top of her thigh as if she had an itch. “I bet it’s something you don’t know, clever clogs.”

“Maybe it is. Why don’t you tell me?”

“They didn’t name my father on the birth certificate, as I told you. But I found out. That’s who it was. Barry Clough. My father .” Ruth flopped back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. “I’m tired and I want something to eat. You have to give me something to eat, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about you, Annie,” Banks said when Ruth was back in her cell eating her canteen beefburger and chips, “but I could do with a breath of fresh air.”

“My feelings exactly.”

They left the station and walked across the market square, then they took the narrow, cobbled Castle Wynde past the bare formal gardens down to the riverside. It was a crisp, cold winter day, and their breaths plumed as they walked, crunching over puddles. The hill went down to the river steeply, with small limestone cottages lining both sides, and the cobbles were slippery. Banks could feel the icy wind blowing up from the river. It was just what he needed to get the smell of the interview room out of his system.

“What do you make of all that, then?” Annie asked when they were halfway down.

Banks didn’t know what to make of Ruth’s bombshell. He didn’t even know if it was true; after all, she had told plenty of lies already. But why lie about something like that? “It raises more questions than it answers,” he said.

“Such as: Did anyone else know, and did it have anything to do with Emily’s murder?”

“For a start. If Rosalind Riddle knew, she kept it well hidden. I hadn’t thought her that good an actress.”

“Do you think Ruth killed Emily?”

“If she didn’t, she knows what happened, she knows who did. She’s a part of it, I’m certain of that.”

They arrived at the river and paused for a while by the waist-high stone wall that ran along its bank. The falls rushed and foamed along the shallows, huge moss-covered slabs of ancient rock jutting out here and there, the result of a geological fault millions of years ago. banks could feel the icy spray on his cheeks and in his hair. If the cold spell continued for much longer, even the falls would freeze. Above them, the dark mass of the ruined castle keep and towers lay heavy against a pewter sky; it was a black-and-white world, or like the world of a black-and-white photograph with all its subtle variations of gray. Annie slipped her arm in his. It was a good feeling, the only good feeling he’d had that morning.

They walked along the riverside path, past the terraced gardens, no more than a small park dotted with trees, to their left. There weren’t many people around, just a young couple walking their Airedale and an old age pensioner in a flat cap taking his daily constitutional. Banks had often considered buying a flat cap himself. All these years in Yorkshire and he still didn’t have one. But he didn’t like wearing hats, even in winter.

Across the river, to the right, bare trees lined the opposite bank. Beyond them, Banks could make out the shapes of the large houses facing The Green, beyond which lay the notorious East Side Estate, which pretty much kept the Eastvale police in business year-round.

In one of those big houses lived Jenny Fuller, a psychologist Banks had worked with on a number of cases. A friend, too, and a one-time potential lover. Jenny had been polite but cool toward him ever since he stood her up on a date three months ago through no fault of his own. It was more than just that, though; it was as if Jenny had put too much of herself on the line, exposed her feelings for him, and the seeming rejection had grazed a raw nerve, made her curl in on herself. She was on the rebound from a sour relationship with an American professor at the time, Banks already knew, so she was hurting to start with. He wished he could do something to bridge the distance, rekindle the friendship. It had been important to him over the years.

But there was Annie, too. Banks was no expert, but he knew enough of women to realize that Annie wouldn’t appreciate his spending time with someone other than her now that he felt free from his marriage.

“Sandra wants a divorce,” he suddenly said to Annie. He felt her arm stiffen in his, but she didn’t remove it. First good sign. This was one thing he hadn’t told her the other night, one thing he had found too difficult to put into words. It still was, but he knew he would have to try if he and Annie were to go any further. It might put her more at ease or it might scare her off; that was the risk he would have to take.