Cold Is The Grave

“Was it locked?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you open it?”

Rickerd took off his glasses and wiped them with a white handkerchief. It was a habit Banks had noticed in him before. “From the next stall, sir. I stood on the toilet seat, leaned over with a stick and slipped the bolt. It was easy enough. We’re bloody lucky the door opens outwards.”

“A locked-toilet mystery, then,” Banks muttered, thinking Rickerd had shown more initiative than he would have expected.

“I didn’t disturb anything any more than necessary, sir. Just to establish who she was and that she was dead. Inspector Jessup supervised, and the others made sure no one left.”

“That’s all right. You did well.” He pulled the door slowly toward him with his fingertips, anxious not to mess up an already messy scene.

“You won’t believe this, sir,” Rickerd said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Neither had Banks.

The girl’s body was wedged crabwise from wall to wall, her back arched about two feet over the toilet, knees jammed against one wall and her shoulders pushed up hard against the other, her neck bent at an awkward angle. A trickle of blood had run from her nose and there were contusions on her face and head. Broken mirror glass and white powder lay scattered on the floor amid the spilled contents of her handbag. Banks knew that the eyes of the dead have no expression, but hers seemed full of terror and agony, as if she had looked the Grim Reaper right in the eye. Her face was dark, suffused with blood, and the corners of her mouth were turned up in a parody of a grin.

But the worst thing about it all, the thing that caused Banks’s blood to scream in his ears and his knees to turn watery and bring him so close to falling down that he had to grab on to the doorjamb to stay on his feet, was that the body wasn’t Ruth Walker’s at all; it was Emily Riddle’s.

8

“Alan?” The voice seemed to reach Banks’s ears from a great distance. “Alan? So now you’re hanging around ladies’ toilets, eh?”

Banks felt someone touch his sleeve, and he turned to see Annie Cabbot standing in the doorway. Never had he seen a more welcome sight. He wanted to fall forward into her arms, have her stroke his head and kiss his face and tell him everything was all right, he’d just had a bad dream, that’s all, and it would all be gone in the morning.

“Alan, you’re pale as ashes. Are you all right?”

Banks moved away from the doorway to let Annie have a look. “I’ve got a daughter not much older than her,” he said.

Annie frowned and edged forward. Banks watched her and noticed the way her eyeballs flicked around, taking in all the details: the body’s unusual position, the broken mirror, the white powder, the spilled cosmetics, the contusions. Some of the buttons on Emily’s black silk blouse had popped, and the dark spider tattoo was visible against the pale skin below her navel ring. Annie touched nothing but seemed to absorb everything. And when she had finished, even she was pale.

“I see what you mean,” she said when they had both gone to stand outside the toilet again. “Poor cow. What do you think happened?”

“It looks as if someone got in there with her and beat the living shit out of her, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” said Annie. “There’s hardly enough room for one, let alone space to swing a few punches.”

“And the stall was locked,” Banks added. “I suppose she could have been beaten elsewhere, then crawled inside and locked it herself before she died, maybe in a vain attempt to keep her attacker out…” He shrugged. It seemed a pretty thin thesis. Even if she had locked herself in there to escape a beating, how had she ended up arched crabwise over the toilet? It was the most unusual body position Banks had ever seen, and though he had a glimmer of an idea about what might have caused it, he needed the expert knowledge of a doctor. “We’ll have to wait for the doc. Ah, speak of the devil.”

Dr. Burns walked across the dance floor and greeted them. “Where is she?” he asked.

Banks pointed toward the ladies’. “Try not to disturb things too much. We haven’t got photographs yet.”

“I’ll do my best.” Burns passed under the tape.

“Call the SOCOs and the photographer,” Banks said to Annie. He gestured toward Rickerd and lowered his voice. “DC Rickerd phoned me, and I wanted to be certain we really had a crime on our hands before making a hue and cry.”

“What about the people in the club?”

“Nobody leaves. Including the bar staff. Chris Jessup’s lads have instructions to keep them all where they are. There’s no telling how many left between the boyfriend’s phone call and Jessup’s arrival, though.”

“It’s still early for this kind of place,” said Annie. “People would be more likely to be arriving than leaving.”

“Unless they’d just killed someone. Ask one of the uniforms to take everyone’s name and address.”

Annie turned to go.

Banks called after her. “And, Annie?”

“Yes?”

“Be prepared for one of the biggest shitstorms that’s ever come your way as a copper.”

“Why?”

“Because the victim’s Emily Riddle, the chief constable’s daughter.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Annie.

“Exactly.”

Annie went off to attend to her duties while Banks collared Darren Hirst, the boy who had found the body. He seemed still in shock, trembling, tears in his eyes. Banks could understand that, having seen Emily’s body himself. He had seen many forms of death in his years as a policeman, and though he never quite got inured to it, he certainly had an advantage over the boy. Leaving a uniformed constable guarding the entrance to the toilet, Banks led Darren to an empty table. The club’s manager hovered nearby, clearly wanting to know what was going on but not daring to ask. Banks waved him over.

“What time did you open tonight?” he asked.

“Ten o’clock. It starts slow. We don’t usually get much of a crowd until after eleven.”

“Has this place got surveillance cameras?”

“On order.”

“Great. Bar still open?”

“The other policeman said I shouldn’t serve any more drinks,” he said.

“Quite right, too,” said Banks, “but this lad’s had a bit of a shock and I can’t say I’ve had a pleasant surprise, either, so bring us a couple of double brandies, will you?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on duty.”

“Just bring the drinks.”

“All right, mate. No need to get shirty.” The bartender strode off. When he came back, he plonked the drinks down on the table. The measures looked small, but Banks paid him anyway.

“When can I go home?” the man asked. “Only, if we’re not serving drinks, we’re not making any money, see, and there’s not a lot of point staying open.”

“You’re not open,” said Banks. “And if I get much more of that crap out of you, you won’t be opening again in the foreseeable future. There’s a dead girl in your toilets, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“Fucking drug addicts,” the bartender muttered as he stalked away.

“All right, Darren,” said Banks when the bartender was out of earshot. “Like to tell me what happened?” He lit a cigarette. Darren refused his offer of one. The brandy was poor quality, but its bite put a bit of warmth back in Banks’s veins.

“She said she wasn’t feeling well,” Darren began, after a sip of brandy. A little color crept back into his