Cold Is The Grave

busy, but I’m sure we can fit in a lunch or something.”

“Sorry,” said Brian. “We’ve got some gigs in Southampton.”

“Ah, well, you can’t blame a father for trying. One of these days, maybe. Take care, and I hope you’re a big success.”

“Thanks. Oh, Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You remember that bloke you were asking about a while back, the ex-roadie?”

“Barry Clough?”

“That’s him.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing, really, but I was talking to one of the producers at the recording studio, name of Terry King. Old geezer like you, been around a long time, since punk. You know: The Sex Pistols, The Clash, that sort of thing? Surely you must remember those days?”

“Brian,” said Banks, smiling to himself, “I even remember Elvis. Now cut the ageism and get to the point.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just that he remembered Clough. Called himself something else, then, one of those silly punk names like Sid Vicious – Terry couldn’t remember exactly what it was – but it was him, all right. Apparently he got fired from his roadie job.”

“What for?”

“Bootlegging live concerts. Not just the band he worked with, but all the big names.”

“I see.” Banks remembered the booming business in bootleg LPs in the seventies. First Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and other popular bands were all bootlegged, and none of them made a penny from the illegal sales. The same thing also happened later with some of the punk bands. Not that any of them needed the money, and most of them were too stoned to notice, but that wasn’t the point. Clough’s employers had noticed and given him the push.

“Like I said, it’s not much. But he says he’s heard this Clough bloke is a gangster now. A tough guy. Be careful, Dad.”

“I will. I’m not exactly a five-stone weakling myself, you know.”

“Right. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“There’s this car a mate of mine’s selling. Only three years old, got its MOT and everything. I got another-”

“Brian, what do you want?”

“Well, I’ve got the asking price down a couple of hundred from what it was, but I was wondering, you know, if you could see your way to helping me out?”

“What? Me help out my rich and famous rock-star son?”

Brian laughed. “Give us a break.”

“How much do you need?”

“Three hundred quid would do nicely. I’ll let you have it back when I am rich and famous.”

“All right.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s great! Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you later.”

Banks hung up. Three hundred quid he could ill afford. Still, he would come up with it somehow. After all, he had saved a bundle by missing out on Paris, and he had given Tracy a bit of spending money that weekend. He remembered how much he had wanted a car when he was young; the kids with cars seemed to get all the girls. He had finally bought a rusty old VW Beetle when he was at college in London. It lasted him the length of his course there, then clapped out on the North Circular one cold, rainy Sunday in January, and he hadn’t got another one until he and Sandra were married. Yes, he’d find a way to help Brian out.

Next, Banks tried Tracy’s number and was surprised when she answered right away: “Dad! I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I just heard about Mr. Riddle’s daughter on the news. Are you all right? I know you didn’t get along with him, but… Did you know her?”

“Yes,” said Banks. Then he told Tracy the bare details about going to London to find Emily instead of going with her to Paris that weekend.

“Oh, Dad. Don’t feel guilty for doing someone a favor. I was disappointed at first, but Damon and I had the most wonderful time.”

I’ll bet you did, thought Banks, biting his tongue.

Tracy went on. “All I heard was that she died after taking an overdose of cocaine in the Bar None, and they’re all saying she lived a pretty wild life. Is it something to do with what happened in London?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “Maybe.”

“That’s terrible. Was it deliberate?”

“Could have been.”

“Do you have any idea who…? No, I know I shouldn’t ask.”

“It’s all right, love. We don’t at the moment. A few leads to follow, that’s all. I’m going back to London tomorrow. I just wanted to talk to you first, see if you were still on for Christmas.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good.”

“She was only sixteen, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

Tracy paused. “Look, Dad… I just want you to know… I mean, I know you worry about me sometimes. I know you and Mum worried about me when we were all together, but you didn’t really need to. I’m… I mean, I never did anything like that.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“No, Dad. You don’t know. You can’t know. Even if you knew what signs to look for, you weren’t there. I don’t mean to be nasty about it. I know about the demands of your job and all, and I know you loved us, but you just weren’t there. Anyway, I’m telling you the truth. I know you think I’ve always been little Miss Goody Two-shoes, but it’s not true. I did try smoking some marijuana once, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel. And once a girl gave me some Ecstasy at a dance. I didn’t like that, either. It made my heart beat too fast and all I did was sweat and feel frightened. I suppose you could say I’m a failure as far as drugs are concerned.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Banks wanted to ask if she’d been sexually active at fourteen, too, but he didn’t think it would be a fair question to put to his daughter. She would tell him what she wanted when she wanted to.

“Anyway,” Tracy went on, “I’m sure you’re very busy. And I’m sure if anyone’s going to catch him, it’ll be you.”

Banks laughed. “I appreciate your confidence in me. Take care, love. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Banks hung up the phone gently and let the silence enfold him again. He always had that same empty, lonely feeling after he’d spoken to someone he loved over the telephone, as if the silence had somehow become charged with that person’s absence. He shook it off. It was a mild enough night outside and he still had time to go to his little balcony by the falls for a cigarette and a finger or two of Laphroaig.

10

“Barry Clough,” said Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, chewing on a piece of particularly tough steak. “Now there’s an interesting bloke.”

It was Saturday lunchtime, and Banks and Burgess were sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street, the air around