Cold Is The Grave

“Couldn’t even hold a bloody gun, her, let alone shoot one. Still, I must say she seemed a nice-enough lass, especially for a pop singer. Polite. And far too nice, not to mention too young, for the likes of Clough.”

“Was she with him?”

“What do you mean? Were they sleeping together?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Whatever they get up to when the bar closes is none of my business.”

“Did you get the impression that they were sleeping together?”

“Well, they did seem a bit close, and I did see him touch her every now and then. You know, put an arm around her, pat her bum, that sort of thing. More as if she were a possession he kept wanting to touch than anything else.”

That sounded like Clough, Banks thought. It hadn’t taken him long to get another girl. “Who else?”

Ferguson scratched his head again. Banks took another sip of the fiery malt. “I didn’t recognize any of the others. I’m sure our Mr. Lacey will let you have a look at the registration book, or bloody diskette or whatever he calls it now. Used to have a nice big black leather-bound book. Must’ve been worth a bob or two. But now it’s all bloody computer discs and Web sites. I ask you. Web sites.”

Banks slipped the photograph of Emily Riddle out of his briefcase. “Did he ever meet with this girl?”

Some of the color left Ferguson’s face. “So that’s what it’s all about, is it? I know who she is, poor lass. I read about her in the papers. You think he did it? Clough?”

“We don’t know,” said Banks. “That’s why we’re asking these questions.”

“I can’t give him an alibi,” said Ferguson. “Like I said, I saw him most evenings, but never during the day. He could have slipped out anytime, really.”

“An alibi’s not much use in a case like this,” Banks said. “At the moment it’s enough to know that he was in the area at the time.”

“Oh, he was in the area, all right.”

“Did you see him meet with anyone outside his party?”

“Only the once.”

“When was this?”

“I can’t recall if it was Sunday or Monday. I think it must have been Sunday. That was the day we had the saddle of lamb. Would have been nice, too, if it hadn’t been for all them fancy herbs and sauces cook sloshes over everything he makes. Freshen your drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Sure you won’t have a drop, miss?”

“No, thanks, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Gerald. I told you, it’s Gerald.”

Annie smiled that non-smile again. “No, Gerald.”

He beamed at her. “That’s better.”

“This person Clough met,” Banks said. “Man or a woman?”

“Man. You know, there was something familiar about him, but I just can’t put my finger on it right now.”

“A media personality?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ve seen him in the papers.”

“What did he look like?”

“About six-foot-something. Bit dour-looking, as if he’s just been sucking on a lemon. Didn’t seem at all comfortable to be there. Only drank mineral water. Kept looking around.”

“Could you tell if they’d met before?”

“Hard to say, really. If I had to guess, I’d say it was their first meeting. I don’t know why, but there you are. What you lot would call a hunch.”

“Did you hear any of what they said?”

“No. I was here, behind the bar, and they had a window table.”

“Did they seem friendly?”

“As a matter of fact, no, they didn’t. The bloke got up and left before his main course had even arrived.”

“Were they arguing?”

“If they were, they were doing it quietly. He was certainly red in the face when he left, I can tell you that.”

“Clough?”

“No, the other fellow. Clough were cool as a cucumber.”

“Anything else you can tell me about this man?”

“Bald as a coot, heavy eyebrows. There was something else familiar about him, too, about his bearing, as if maybe he was a military man or something. No… there’s still something missing.”

“A uniform, perhaps?” Banks suggested, feeling the tingle at the bottom of his spine. “A police uniform?”

Ferguson’s eyes opened wide. “By George, I think you’ve got it. He was wearing a suit that night, but if you picture him in a uniform… You’re right. I’ve seen him on telly opening farm shows and spouting about crime figures being down. Mr. Riddle, that’s who it was, now I think back. Your own chief constable. I wonder what all that was about.”

Great, thought Banks, with that sinking feeling. Just what we need. He had sensed something odd about Riddle the night he went to break the news of Emily’s murder. Riddle had mentioned Clough immediately, though Banks had never told him the man’s name, and he was damn sure Emily hadn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” he said, slugging back the last millimeter of Port Ellen. “Thank you very much. We might need to talk to you again, if that’s all right?”

“You know where I am. We’ll try the Caol Ila twenty-two-year-old next time you drop by. Lovely drop of malt. It’ll knock your socks off.”

Banks felt as if his socks had been knocked off already as he walked out into the evening darkness. Neither he nor Annie could think of anything to say. He felt tired. His brain couldn’t even grapple with the consequences of what Gerald Ferguson had just told him about Chief Constable Riddle dining with Barry Clough. There was too much to take in. But he couldn’t let it lie; he had to confront Riddle, and the sooner the better.

Banks still felt tired when he pulled up yet again in front of the Old Mill that night. Annie had seemed annoyed back at the station when he told her he wanted to confront Riddle alone with Ferguson’s story, but she hadn’t argued. Riddle was chief constable, after all, and Banks didn’t want to give the appearance of a formal interrogation, the way it would appear if two detectives turned up on his doorstep. He wanted an honest explanation, though he had his own ideas about what had transpired, and he believed that Riddle would give him one. It was a job he would have gladly delegated if he thought that was at all possible, but it wasn’t. He was still SIO, and if anyone was going to face Chief Constable Riddle with this new development, then it had to be Banks.

Riddle himself answered the door and invited Banks in.

“Ros is out, I’m afraid,” he said. “She’s visiting with Charlotte King, our neighbor. Benjamin’s in bed.”

They walked through to the large living room and sat down. Riddle didn’t offer anything in the way of refreshments, which was fine; Banks didn’t want anything. He blamed the small whiskey he’d had at Scarlea for his tiredness. “How’s he taking everything?” he asked. “Benjamin.”

“He doesn’t know what’s happened. He knows that his sister has gone to live with Jesus, and he misses her terribly. He keeps asking if it’s something to do with the funny pictures of her in the computer.”

“What do you tell him?”

“That it’s not. To forget about that. But it seems he can’t. We’re going to send him to stay with his grandparents – Ros’s mother and father down in Barnstaple – after the funeral. He’s always got along well with them and we think a change of scene will do him good.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow morning. The coroner released the body as quickly as she could.” He paused. “Will you be there?”

“If I wouldn’t be intruding.”