Cold Is The Grave

“A hijacked van’s pretty obvious, too, if you ask me,” said Burgess.

“Charlie wasn’t that bright.”

“Obviously not. Anyway, it all sounds possible. It must have been valuable merchandise, though, to make it worth the risk.”

“There wasn’t much risk to speak of, believe me. Not on the road up there at that time on a Sunday night.”

“Ah, the provinces. They never cease to amaze me. Ever wondered where the stuff’s got to?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Whatever it was, I’m assuming it’s either been sold or it’s in someone’s lockup waiting to cool down. I’m trying to run a check on other business parks around the country, see if there’ve been any more PKF-type scams lately, but that’ll take forever.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Can you fax me what you’ve got on Gregory Manners, for a start?”

“Sure.”

“And have you any photos of Andrew Handley and Jamie Gilbert on file?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Could you fax them up here, too? It might not be a bad idea to have someone show them around Daleview and Charlie Courage’s neighborhood along with Clough’s.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. And will you keep a close eye on Clough?”

“It’s being done as we speak.”

“Because I’ll be wanting to talk to him again soon, if anything breaks, and this time I think we’ll have him up here.”

“Oh, he’ll like that.”

“I’ll bet. Anyway, thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

“My pleasure. By the way, there’s nothing on Andy Pandy yet. It seems that when he wants to hide, he stays hidden. The lads are still on it, though. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Thanks.”

Banks hung up the phone and tried to piece together what he’d got. Not much, really, just a lot of vague suspicions as far as both cases were concerned. There was still something missing: the magnet, the one piece that would rearrange the chaotic jumble of iron filings into a discernible pattern. Until he had that, he would get nowhere. He had a feeling that part of the answer, at least, lay with PKF and whatever it had been doing. At least he could have Gregory Manners brought in and find out what he had to say about the operation.

Annie found a place to park outside number 37 Sebastopol Avenue, walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell to flat number 4.

Luck was still with her; they were in.

The flat was quite nicely done up, Annie thought, when they let her in and offered her a cup of tea. The furniture looked used, probably secondhand or parental donations, but it was serviceable and comfortable. The small living room was clean and uncluttered, and the only decoration was a poster of a Modigliani nude over the tiled mantelpiece. Annie recognized it from one of her father’s books; he had always been a big fan of Modigliani, and of nudes. Under the window was a desk with a PC, and a mini stereo unit stood in a cabinet along with stacks of compact discs. There was no television.

“What are you studying?” Annie asked as Alex brought the tea.

“Physics.”

“Beyond my ken, I’m afraid.” She nodded toward the painting. “Someone likes art, though, I see.”

“That’s me,” said Carly. “I’m studying art history.” She was a slight girl with dyed black hair, a ring through the far edge of her left eyebrow and another through the center of her lower lip, which gave her voice a curious lisp.

They talked about art for a while, then, when they both seemed relaxed, Annie got down to business. It wasn’t as if she was there to interrogate them, but people often got nervous around the police, the way Annie did around gynecologists.

“Have you any idea why I’m here?” she asked.

They shook their heads.

“I found someone in the Jolly Roger who told me where you lived. Why haven’t you come forward before now? You must know of all the appeals for information we’ve had out.”

“Information about what?” Alex asked, a puzzled expression on his face. He was good-looking enough, in a boyish sort of way, though his hair looked as if it needed a wash and he had an Adam’s apple the size of a gob- stopper. Could do with a shave, too, Annie thought, or was she just getting conservative in her old age? There was a time, she reminded herself, when she hadn’t minded a little stubble on a man. She had even worn a stud through her nose. It wasn’t that long ago, either.

“About the murder,” she went on. “Emily Riddle’s murder. Surely you know it happened at the Bar None shortly after you left on Thursday night?”

Alex and Carly looked blank. “No.”

“It was in all the papers. On telly. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“We don’t have a TV set and, well, to be honest,” Alex said, “we haven’t looked at a paper in days. Too busy at college.”

Seems like it, Annie thought. “But haven’t you heard anyone talking about it?”

“I’ve heard people talking about a drug overdose,” Carly said. “But I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t pay much attention. It’s so negative. I never read about things like that. It upsets my balance. Why are you here?”

“Why did you leave the club so early?”

They looked at one another, then Carly lisped, “We didn’t like the music.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it. I mean, you wouldn’t like to have to listen to that crap all night, would you?”

Annie smiled. She certainly wouldn’t. “So why go in the first place?”

“We didn’t know what sort of music they played,” Alex answered. “Someone at college said it was a pretty good place to have a few drinks and dance, and you know… unwind.”

“And buy drugs?”

Carly reddened. “We don’t do drugs.”

“Is that why you went? To buy drugs? And when you’d bought them you left?”

“She said we don’t do drugs and we don’t,” said Alex. “Why can’t you just believe us? Not every young person’s some sort of drug addict, you know. I knew the cops were prejudiced against blacks and gays, but I didn’t think they were prejudiced against the young in general.”

Annie sighed. She’d heard it all before. “I’d love to believe you, Alex,” she said. “In a perfect world, maybe. But a girl died a very nasty death after taking some adulterated cocaine in the Bar None not more than half an hour after you left and, as yet, we don’t know when she got it or where she got it from. If you can give me any help at all, then surely that gives me the right to come here and ask you a few simple questions, doesn’t it?”

“It still doesn’t give you the right to accuse us of being druggies,” said Alex.

“Oh, for crying out loud! Grow up, Alex. If I were accusing the two of you of being junkies you’d be down in the cells now waiting for your legal aid solicitor.”

“But you said-”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

They both sulked for a moment, then nodded.

“What kind of music do you like?”

Alex shrugged. “All sorts, really. Just not that technorave-disco crap they play at the Bar None. It gives me a headache.”

Annie got up and wandered over to look at their CD collection to see for herself. Hole, Nirvana, the Dancing Pigs, even an old Van Morrison. There was quite a variety, but certainly no dance mix. One odd thing she noticed was that some of the CDs had no covers, only typed labels stuck on the cases identifying the contents. When she looked more closely, she also saw that the CDs themselves didn’t all have record-company logos. She glanced at