Cold Is The Grave

mean, Christ, man, you’ve just told me my daughter’s been murdered. Poisoned. What do you expect me to do! Sit down and cry? Take a bloody sleeping pill? I’m a policeman, Banks. I have to do something.”

“Everything possible is being done,” said Banks. “I think you’d be best off spending the time with your wife and son.”

“Don’t soft-soap me, Banks. My God, just wait till the press gets hold of this.”

Here we go again, thought Banks: his bloody reputation. It was only out of respect for Riddle’s bereavement that Banks said mildly, “They hadn’t got a whiff when I left the scene, but I don’t suppose it’ll take them long. The place will be swarming with them come morning. We want to try and keep the strychnine aspect quiet.”

Riddle seemed to collapse in on himself, all his energy gone. He looked tired. “I’ll wake up Ros and tell her. I appreciate your coming, Banks. I mean personally, you know, not sending someone else. The best thing you can do is get back to the scene and stay on top of things. I’ll be depending on you, and for once I don’t care how many bloody corners you cut or whose feet you tread on.”

“Yes, sir.” Riddle was right; probably the best thing Banks could do right now was throw himself into the investigation. Besides, people need to be alone with their grief. “I’ll need to talk to you both at some point,” he said. “Tomorrow?”

“Of course.” They heard a sound from the doorway and turned. Benjamin Riddle stood there in his pajamas clutching a battered teddy bear. He rubbed his eyes. “I heard voices, Daddy. I was scared. What is it? Is something wrong?”

9

It was still dark when Banks drove to Eastvale the following morning, and a thin mist nuzzled in the dips and hollows of the road and clung to the buildings, the cobbles and the ancient cross in the market square. It was that time of morning when lights were coming on in the small offices above the shops, some of which were already open, and the mist diffused their light like thin gauze. The air was mild and clammy.

Across the square, the Bar None was still taped off, and a uniformed officer stood on guard. After leaving Riddle’s house the previous night, Banks had returned to the club to find the SOCOs still at work and Annie taking statements. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had also driven in all the way from Lyndgarth.

Banks had hung around for a while, talking the scene over with Gristhorpe, but there was nothing more he could do there. When the media people started pestering him for comments, he drove home and spent a couple of sleepless hours on the sofa thinking about Emily Riddle’s terrible death before heading right back to the station. He tried to keep at bay the feelings of guilt that were crowding at the edge of his mind like circling sharks. He succeeded only partially, and that was because he had a job to do, something to focus on and exclude the rest. The problem was that the bad feelings would continue to accumulate even when he wasn’t looking, and the day would come when there were so many of them he could no longer ignore them. By then, he knew from experience, it was usually too late to end up feeling good about himself. For the time being, though, he couldn’t afford the self- indulgence of guilt.

The renovators hadn’t turned up yet, so things were quiet in the extension. Banks went to his office, read his copies of last night’s reports and made some notes on his own impressions. He did this, as most good coppers did, for himself, not for the files; they were very personal impressions, and sometimes they could lead somewhere, often not. Whatever else they were, they were no substitute for facts or evidence. He included in his notes, for example, his sense that Darren Hirst was telling the truth and a gut feeling that Emily had got the drugs somewhere other than the Cross Keys or the Bar None. Already, he noted from the reports, a couple of very sleepy local dealers were cooling their heels in the detention cells in the basement of the station. More would soon follow.

By the time the sun was sniffing its nose at the cloudy horizon, the station was humming with activity. The incident room was quickly taking on form and function, and DC Rickerd had been up all night getting it organized. Computer links had been set up, phone lines activated and civilian staff were drifting in for data-input, logging and recording duties. By the time Banks felt the need for his breakfast coffee, ACC McLaughlin had arrived from county headquarters at Newby Wiske, outside Northallerton. He set up camp in the boardroom, and fifteen or twenty minutes later, Banks was summoned in.

McLaughlin, Annie Cabbot and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe were waiting for him. Banks greeted them and sat down. Annie looked tired, and he imagined she had got as little sleep as he had. She also seemed nervous, which was unusual for her.

“Red Ron” McLaughlin was about fifty, tall and slim, with short, thinning gray hair combed forward, and a small gray mustache. He wore silver-rimmed glasses, which balanced on the tip of his nose, and he had a habit of peering over them at whomever he was speaking to. His eyes were the same shade of gray as his hair.

“Ah, DCI Banks,” he said, then he shuffled some papers and looked over his glasses. “Right. I’ll get straight down to brass tacks. I met with Chief Constable Riddle this morning – in fact, he came to see me – and he was most emphatic that he wanted you to head the investigation into his daughter’s death. What do you think of that?”

“I had hoped for the case,” said Banks, “but in all honesty I never expected to be given it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew the deceased, sir. Only vaguely, but I knew her. And her family. I assumed we’d have to bring in someone from outside.”

“That would be normal procedure.” McLaughlin scratched his earlobe. “The chief constable did explain your involvement,” he went on. “Apparently, he asked you to go to London and find his daughter, which you did. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you then accompanied her back home?”

“Yes, sir.” Banks felt Annie staring at him but didn’t turn to meet her look.

“I hardly think that disqualifies you from acting as senior investigating officer. Do you?”

Banks thought for a moment. He would have to tell Red Ron about the lunch. Someone was bound to come forward about that, and it wouldn’t take long now that Emily’s murder had featured on the breakfast news. Enough people in the Black Bull had noticed them, and probably at least one or two of them knew who Banks was.

On the other hand, if he told McLaughlin everything, he’d be off the case for certain, no matter what Riddle wanted. It was a delicate balancing act. There was also a risk that someone from the Hotel Fifty-Five in London would see Emily’s photo in the papers and come forward, although Banks thought that had been long enough ago, and Emily had looked sufficiently different that night, dressed up for the party, her hair piled on top of her head, that it was probably very unlikely.

Still, if Banks accepted the post as SIO, he would be in the best position possible to head off any trouble at the pass. He also knew far more about Emily’s life in London than anyone else up there, which gave him an advantage when it came to tracking down possible leads. It was bloody unethical, he knew that, probably more unethical than anything he’d done before. After all, one of Riddle’s bugbears had been that Banks too often acted as a maverick. But, Banks guessed, that was why Riddle had asked him to go to London, and that was why he now wanted him to head the investigation. Riddle had said as much last night.

“No, sir,” Banks answered finally. “I’d like to take the case.” He was aware as he spoke the words that he might well be digging his own grave. The last thing he needed to do was give the new ACC a reason for hating his guts right off the bat. But it couldn’t be helped. Emily came first here; he owed her that much at least. He had said he only knew her vaguely. It wasn’t a lie, but like many unsatisfactory truths, it left too much out. How could Banks describe the bond he had felt with Emily? It wasn’t entirely paternal, but it wasn’t simple friendship either.

“As you all know, I’m new to this job and this region,” McLaughlin explained. “I’ve done my homework, studied the turf, but I can’t hope to be up to scratch this soon. According to Mr. Riddle, you’re the best man for the job. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe here agrees, and nothing I’ve seen in your file contradicts that.”

That was a surprise to Banks; he thought Riddle had weighed his file down with negative reports. But