Cold Is The Grave

“I still wish you’d talk to him.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, he’d hardly listen to me.”

“He might. At least you’re a man. He doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“What about his political colleagues? He must have friends there.”

Rosalind sipped some more gin and tonic. “They’re dropping him like a hot potato. It started with Emily’s murder, but it’s got worse ever since the newspaper article with all those innuendoes. Plenty of phone calls, lots of sympathy, then the old ‘…perhaps it would be best for all us if… for the good of the party.’ Hypocrites!”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will only contribute more proof to your poor theory of human nature, especially the human nature of Conservatives.”

Banks said nothing. He looked into the fire and watched the burning peat shift and sigh out a breath of sparks.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Rosalind laughed harshly. “I’m talking about me more than about you. I must admit my own view of human nature has taken a bit of a nosedive over the past few days.”

The music ended and Banks let the silence stretch.

“If you want to put something else on, that’s all right,” said Rosalind. “I like classical music.”

Banks went to the stereo and picked another Beethoven violin sonata, the Kreutzer this time.

“Mmm,” said Rosalind. “Lovely.”

Banks marveled at how much she resembled Emily, especially her lips; they were the same full but finely outlined shape and the same natural pinkish red color; they even moved in the same way when she spoke. “I still don’t see that there’s anything I can do,” said Banks. “Even if I do talk to him. And I’m not saying I will.”

“You can at least try. If it does no good…” Rosalind shrugged.

“What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m coping. Surviving. Sometimes I feel as if I’m being pulled apart by millions of little red-hot fishhooks, but other than that, I’m fine.” She smiled. “Someone has to be. I went back to the office this afternoon, after everyone had gone. I know it sounds odd, but boring estate deals help keep my mind off more serious matters. But Jerry hasn’t even got his work now. He’s got nothing. He just sits at home all the time brooding. It’s frightening watching someone like him unravel. He’s always been so strong, so solid.”

How the mighty are fallen, thought Banks, but he didn’t voice it because it would have been cruel. Even so, he had thought it, and that made him bad; was he such a rotten person? He understood what Rosalind meant, of course; it is far more terrifying to see someone you have always depended on, your rock, crack apart than it is to watch someone who was fragile to start with have yet another breakdown. Banks had a distant aunt who kept having “funny turns,” as his mother called them, but as she was mentally flimsy to begin with, no one was much surprised. It wasn’t that people didn’t sympathize or care, just that her “turns” lacked any sort of tragic dimension.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll try to make time to go over tomorrow and have a talk with him. I can’t promise anything, mind you.”

Her face lit up. “You will? But that’s wonderful. That’s all I ask.”

How do I let myself get talked into these things? Banks wondered. Do I look like a sucker? First I give up a weekend in Paris with my daughter – abandoning her to the clutches of the monosyllabic Damon – and head off to London to look for Emily Riddle, now I’m playing visiting shrink to Jimmy Riddle, the man who’s done about as much for my career as Margaret Thatcher did for the trade unions.

“While you’re here, there are a couple of things I’d like to ask you, if I may.”

“Really?” Rosalind looked away from him and started twisting the wedding ring on her finger. She had finished her drink and let the empty tumbler stand on the arm of the chair.

“Another g and t?”

“No, thanks. I have to drive.” She glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch and sat forward. “Besides, I really should be getting back. I told Jerry I was going for a drive. I don’t like to leave him alone for too long at night. It’s a bad time for him.”

“I understand,” said Banks. “I promise I won’t keep you more than a couple of minutes more.”

She sat back in the chair but didn’t relax. What was she so nervous about? Banks wondered. What was she holding back?

“Ruth Walker told me that you had answered when she phoned to talk to Emily, but you said you’d never heard of her. Why?”

“You surely can’t expect me to remember the name of every single person who calls and asks for Emily, can you? Perhaps she never even said what her name was.”

“People usually do, though, don’t they. I mean, it’s only polite to say who you are.”

“You’d be surprised how many people lack basic politeness. Or maybe you wouldn’t. What exactly are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. I just get this funny feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe it’s to do with Ruth Walker and maybe it’s not, but you get very vague every time her name comes up.”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Maybe. I’ve been told more than once that I’ve got too much of it for my own good. Your husband’s told me often enough.” Banks leaned forward. “Look, Mrs. Riddle, you probably don’t think it’s very relevant or important, but I’ve got to warn you that you’re making a poor judgment here. The best course of action is to tell me everything you know and let me be the judge. That’s my job.”

Rosalind stood up. “Thanks for the advice. If I did know anything of relevance to your investigation, you can be sure I’d take it, but as I don’t… Anyway, I really must be going now. Thank you very much for your hospitality. You will call in on Jerry tomorrow?”

“Barring any emergencies, yes, I’ll call. Don’t tell him, though; he might board up the doors and bar the windows.” Rosalind smiled. It was a sad smile, Banks thought, but nice nonetheless. “And please think about what I said? If there’s anything…”

Rosalind nodded quickly and left. Banks stood in the doorway and watched her drive back toward the Helmthorpe road, then he poured another Laphroaig and returned to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Beethoven.

15

Banks and Annie watched Barry Clough walking along the corridor toward them, his police escort following behind, along with another man. Banks noted the Paul Smith suit, the ponytail, the matching gold chain and bracelet, the cocky, confident strut, and thought: pillock.

“Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Barry,” he said, opening the door to interview room 2, the smallest and smelliest interview room they had. It passed the PACE regulations about the same way Banks’s old Cortina had passed its final MOT test: barely.

“You’d better have a damn good reason for dragging me halfway across the country,” Clough said cheerfully. “One my lawyer will understand.” He gave Annie an appraising look, which she ignored, then turned to the man who had followed him down the corridor.

“Simon Gallagher,” the man said. “And I’m the lawyer in question.”

And very questionable indeed you look, thought Banks. For once, the client looked better-dressed than the lawyer, but Banks was willing to bet that Gallagher’s casual elegance cost every bit as much as Clough’s Paul Smith, and that it had been thrown together at short notice. He was also willing to bet that, appearances aside, Gallagher was sharp as a tack and very well-versed in the intricacies of criminal law. He was in his late twenties, Banks guessed, with a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his dark hair hung in greasy strands over his collar. He also had that edgy, wasted look of someone who stays up too late at too many clubs and takes too many class-A drugs. He sniffed the stale air of the interview room and pulled a face.