Cold Is The Grave

“We can check.”

“Okay, okay. So maybe I own a shotgun.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“Because the way things are going it looks as if you’re trying to pin a fucking murder on me and my fucking lawyer is-”

“Barry!” said Gallagher. “shut up. Just shut up. Okay? Let me take care of it.”

“Lying just makes it worse,” said Banks. He tipped Annie the nod and she officially terminated the taped interview.

“What’s going on?” Clough asked. “Can I go now?”

“Afraid not, Barry,” said Banks. “We’ll be issuing a warrant for your shotgun to be examined by forensic experts in the murders of Andrew Handley and Charles Courage.”

Clough smiled. “Go ahead. If I did have anything to do with those murders, which I didn’t, do you think I’d be stupid enough to use my own shotgun and leave it lying around the house?”

Banks smiled back. “Probably not,” he said. “But it doesn’t really matter. At least a forensic examination will settle things one way or another, won’t it? We’re also looking into some tire tracks found at the murder scenes. In the meantime you can sample some of our legendary northern hospitality.”

“You mean I can’t go?”

Banks shook his head.

“Simon?”

“Your lawyer will tell you we can detain you for twenty-four hours, Barry. Any period of time after that has to be okayed by a more senior officer than me. But if you think that’s likely to be a problem, remember that Emily Riddle was our chief constable’s daughter, you know.”

“He can’t do this, can he, Simon?”

“I’m afraid he can,” said Gallagher, staring at Banks. “But any detention longer than twenty-four hours will come under very severe scrutiny, I can assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better cancel my appointment.”

Banks opened the door and asked the uniformed officers to escort Clough to the custody suite in the station’s basement. “You’ll be well taken care of, Barry,” Banks said. “Soon be lunchtime. Beefburger and chips, I think it is today. Sorry there’s no Chateau Margeaux to accompany it. You might be able to get a mug of tea. Careful you don’t crease your Paul Smith.”

While Banks went to pay another visit to the Riddle house, Annie wandered into the incident room to see what was going on. It was a hive of activity; most of the phone lines were busy and the fax machines were churning stuff out. DC Rickerd held sway over it all, a man who had truly found himself. He blushed when Annie gave him a wink.

Poor Winsome was back at the computer, a stack of green sheets for input and another stack she had already entered.

“How’s it going?” Annie asked, picking up the entered stack and idly leafing through it. Just because everything went into HOLMES didn’t mean any of it was ever seen again, not unless some sort of link or connection came up, and then you had to be looking for it.

Winsome smiled. “Okay, I suppose. Sometimes I wish I’d never done that damn course, though.”

“I know what you mean,” said Annie. “Still, it’ll come in useful when you sit your boards.”

“I suppose so.”

Annie was hardly reading the information on the entered sheets, more just letting her gaze slip over them, but something she saw on one of them reached out and smacked her right between the eyes. “Winsome,” she said, picking it out and putting it on the desk. “What happened with this?”

Winsome scrutinized the sheet. “DCI Banks signed off on it yesterday,” she said. “No further action.”

“‘No further action,’” Annie repeated under her breath.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” said Annie quickly, replacing the sheet in the pile. “Nothing. Just curious, that’s all. See you later.”

Annie hurried back to her office, aware of Winsome’s puzzled gaze, noticed she had it all to herself, picked up the telephone and dialed an outside line.

“Hotel Fifty-Five,” the answering voice said. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Poulson?”

“Oh, you want Roger. Just a minute.”

Annie waited a minute and another voice came on the line. “Roger Poulson here. Can I help you?”

“Detective Sergeant Cabbot, Eastvale CID. I understand you phoned our incident room yesterday with information relating to the death of Emily Riddle?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Poulson said. “It was just an odd coincidence, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it anyway, Mr. Poulson.”

“Well, as I said to the gentleman yesterday-”

“What gentleman?”

“The policeman who called me back yesterday. I didn’t catch his name.”

I’ll bet you didn’t, thought Annie, and we’d have heard no more about it if I hadn’t come across the name and number by accident. Hotel Fifty-Five. It was where she had stayed with Banks when they visited London in connection with the Gloria Shackleton case. When they were lovers.

“What did he say?” Annie asked.

“He simply took the details and thanked me for calling. To be honest, I didn’t expect to hear any more of it. He didn’t sound very interested. Why? Has something turned up?”

Annie felt a tightness in her chest. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. It’s just down to me to keep the paperwork up-to-date. You know what it’s like.”

“Tell me about it,” said Poulson. “How can I help you?”

“If you’d just go over the information again briefly…?”

“Of course. As I said, it’s nothing, really. It was about a month ago, when I was on night duty. I think I saw her, the girl who was killed.”

“Go on.”

“At least, she looked sort of like the girl in the newspaper photo yesterday, with her hair up, a nice evening gown. Mostly it’s the eyes and lips, though. I’d almost swear it was her.”

“You say you saw her at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a guest?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she walked in – I think she’d just got out of a taxi – and said she wanted to see her father.”

“Her father?” Annie was confused. She didn’t know that Jimmy Riddle had been down to London looking for his daughter, only Banks. She felt icy water rising fast around her ankles.

“That’s right. She said he was staying here. I had no reason not to believe her.”

“Of course not. What did you do?”

“I called his room and told him his daughter was in the lobby, wanting to see him, and she was in a bit of a state. Naturally, he told me to send her up. The thing was, you see, she looked very disheveled, as if she’d been attacked or involved in some rough stuff. Natural to come to Daddy under such circumstances, even if it was three o’clock in the morning.”

“When you say rough stuff, what exactly do you mean?”

“Nothing really serious, but there was a tear in her dress and a little blood at the corner of her lip.”

“What happened after she’d gone up?”

“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t see anything. I was on duty until eight o’clock the next morning, and I didn’t see either of them again.”

“So she stayed in his room the rest of the night?”

“Yes.”