Cold Is The Grave

It was Dirty Dick Burgess calling from London. “Guess what, Banks.”

“You’ve been made head of the Race Relations Board?”

“Very funny. No. But Andy Pandy’s turned up at last.”

“Has he, indeed?”

“Thought you’d be interested.”

“Any chance of a chat with him in the near future?”

“Not unless you fancy holding a seance. He’s dead. Dead as the proverbial doornail, though I never could see how a doornail could be dead as it was never alive in the first place. Anyway, enough philosophical speculation. He’s dead.”

“Where?”

“Pretty remote spot on the edge of Exmoor. I tell you, Banks, if it weren’t for the anorak brigade and the dogwalkers, bless their souls, we’d never find half the corpses we do.”

“The long ride?”

“Indeed so.”

“Shotgun?”

“Wound to the upper body. Pretty close range. Not much left.”

“Same as Charlie Courage. Any signs of torture?”

“Christ, Banks, there’s hardly any signs of the poor bugger’s chest. What do you expect? Miracles?”

“So what do you think?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Humor me.”

“Andy Pandy’s been a naughty boy. He’s ripped off Mr. Clough. Mr. Clough doesn’t like being ripped off, so he sends Andy on the long ride. Way I see it.”

“And Charlie Courage?”

“Part of it. Hardly an innocent bystander, from what you told me.”

“He was taking money from Clough, or from Clough’s local oppo Gregory Manners, to make sure PKF operated without hassles. Then suddenly, PKF is moving and Charlie’s bonuses are gone. I think Charlie knew where PKF was moving to, and when. And I think Andy Pandy came along with a better offer.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s pissed off with Clough for taking him for granted. He wants more respect.” And he’s also angry with Clough over the incident with Emily, when she kneed him in the balls, Banks thought.

“Maybe,” said Burgess, sounding unconvinced.

“So he hijacks the van to set up his own business. The van’s full of PKF stock, but more important than that, it’s also carrying two or three multidisc copying machines, very valuable pieces of equipment. He thinks Clough will never guess in a million years that he did it. But Clough’s no fool. He sends a couple of goons up to push Charlie around a bit. Now, Charlie might have been a crook, but no one ever said he was a brave man. Charlie rats Andy Pandy out under torture, and they’re both history. I wondered why Gregory Manners is still alive.”

“Come again?”

“Manners was in charge of PKF, so he must have been Clough’s first suspect. Clough put the frighteners on him and Manners must have convinced him he had nothing to do with the hijack. Maybe Manners told him Andy Pandy had been hanging about asking questions. We’ll probably never know for sure now.”

“So what do we do next?”

“We’ll keep showing the photographs around Daleview. I’ve also got Gregory Manners kicking his heels in the cells here waiting for his lawyer, so maybe I’ll have another chat with him first.”

“He won’t tell you anything. Too shit-scared of Clough.”

“Probably, but I can push him a bit harder. It’d be nice to threaten him with conspiracy to commit murder or something juicy like that. At the moment there’s nothing much except pirating software to hold him on, and that’ll probably never stick. Minute his lawyer gets here he’ll be off.”

“And what’s the betting you’ll never see him again?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“So where do we go with Andy Pandy?”

“We’ll have a hell of a job proving it’s anything to do with Clough,” Banks said. “Anything at the scene?”

“Tire track.”

Banks thought for a moment, then said, “I think it’s about time we brought Mr. Clough up north for a chat. But first, I’ve got an idea.”

It was late, and Banks was listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Spring violin sonata and reading a biography of Ian Fleming when he heard a car draw up outside. That was unusual in itself. The dirt lane that ran in front of his cottage ended at the woods about ten yards farther, where it became a narrow path between the trees and Gratly Beck. Occasionally, tourists would take the wrong road and have to back out, but not usually at that time of night, or that time of year.

Curious, Banks put down his book, walked over to the window and opened the curtains a few inches. A sporty- looking car, to judge from its shape, had pulled up in front of the cottage and a woman was getting out. He couldn’t make out her features, as it was pitch-black outside, she was wearing a scarf, and there were no street lamps on the isolated lane. He would soon find out, though, he thought, as she walked up to his front door and knocked.

When he opened it and saw Rosalind Riddle take off her scarf, he must have looked surprised enough to embarrass her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“No,” said Banks. “No, not at all.” He stood aside. “Come in.”

As she passed close to him in the doorway he felt her breast brush lightly against his arm, and he thought he could smell juniper berries on her breath. Gin, most likely. He took her fur coat and hung it in the cupboard by the door. Underneath, she was wearing a simple blue pastel dress, more suitable, Banks thought, for summer, than for a miserable winter’s night like this one. Still, with a mink on top, you didn’t really need anything underneath. He stopped that line of thought before it went any further.

“This is nice,” she said, standing and looking around the small room, with its blue walls and melting-Brie ceiling. Banks had hung a couple of watercolors he had picked up at auctions on the walls, and a blow-up of what he thought the best of Sandra’s photographs took pride of place over the mantelpiece. It had been taken, coincidentally, not far away from the cottage where Banks now lived alone, and it showed the view down the daleside to Helmthorpe in late evening, with a red-and-orange sunset sprawled across the sky, smoke drifting from the chimneys, the church with its square tower and odd little turret attached to one corner, the dark graveyard where sheep grazed among the lichen-stained tombstones, and crooked rows of flagstone roofs. He and Sandra might no longer be together, but that didn’t mean he rejected her talent. There wasn’t much furniture in the room, just a sofa under the window and two matching armchairs arranged at angles to the fireplace, where a couple of lumps of peat burned and cast shadows on the walls.

“Do you live here alone?” she asked.

“There’s hardly room enough for two.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. Of course, I do know something of your circumstances. Your wife…”

“Cup of tea or something?”

“Or something. After a day like this one, I need something a bit stronger than tea. Gin and tonic, if you’ve got it.”

“Coming up.” Banks went into the kitchen and took the gin out of the cupboard where he kept his haphazard selection of spirits – some rum, a few ounces of vodka, half a bottle of cognac and the Laphroaig single malt, that smoky Islay, his favorite and a constant drain on his wallet.

“How strange.”

“What?” Banks turned to see that Rosalind had followed him into the kitchen. She was standing at its center with an odd expression on her face, as if she were listening to a distant voice.

“It feels… I don’t know… sort of haunted, but in a good way.”

Banks was gob-smacked. One of the reasons he had bought the house in the first place was that he had