Cold Is The Grave

pasty and dry.

Unlike Barry Clough, who was now back at his Little Venice villa, Ruth didn’t have an expensive lawyer in tow. They had offered to bring in a duty solicitor for her, but she said she didn’t need anyone. Banks set the tape recorders going, gave details of the session and began. Annie sat beside him. He had the answers to most of his previous day’s questions – including two calls from Darren’s mobile, only one of which had been to Banks – in a buff folder on the desk in front of him, and he didn’t like the story they told one bit.

“I suppose you know why you’re here, don’t you, Ruth?” Banks began.

Ruth stared at a squashed fly high on the opposite wall.

“We’ve been doing a bit of digging.”

“Not really the season for that, is it?” Ruth said.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Banks said. “So drop it, Ruth. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Whatever.”

“You’ve told me a lot of lies.”

“Lies? Pork pies. They’re what I’ve been living. What else have I got to tell you?”

“It’s my job to try and sort out a few truths. Let’s start with the fire.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“With what?”

“With why I’m here.”

“I told you, I’m trying to get at some truths.”

“There was a fire. I woke up and my room was full of smoke. I had to jump out of the window. I broke my ankle really badly. You might have noticed I’ve still got a limp.”

“What else can you tell us about the fire?”

“What’s to tell? It was an accident. I couldn’t walk for weeks.”

“What caused the fire?”

“They said it was a cigarette. It can’t have been mine. I put it out. I remember.”

“Whose was it then?”

Ruth shrugged. “Dunno. It wasn’t mine.”

“Ruth, it must have been your cigarette. Your parents died in that fire, and all you can think about is your broken ankle. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“You tell me. And they weren’t my parents. Everyone says I was the lucky one, so I suppose they must be right.”

“Did you feel lucky?”

“‘Do you feel lucky today, punk?’ Sorry. Bad joke again. Blame it on being deprived of humor throughout my childhood and adolescence.”

“Were you deprived of humor?”

“It wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“You know. The one where you’re not supposed to dance, sing, laugh, cry, love, fuck. The religious deal. I sometimes think the reason they had to adopt a child was that they thought it was a sin to do what they had to do to produce one naturally.”

“How did you feel toward your parents?”

“I told you, they weren’t my parents. They were my adoptive parents. Believe me, it does make a difference. Do you know, they never even told me I was adopted?”

“How did you find out?”

“The papers.”

“But surely they must have been destroyed by the fire?”

“They were kept in a safety deposit box at the bank. I only found out after they died and I had to open it. That’s where they kept me. In a box.”

“But they were the only parents who brought you up.”

“Oh, yes. Everyone says they were decent, honest, God-fearing folk. Salt of the earth.”

“What do you say?”

“They were stupid imbeciles, too brainwashed to make their own decisions about anything. They were scared of everything except the chapel. Their bodies. The world beyond the street. Their lives. They inflicted all that on me. And more. They made my life miserable, made me a laughingstock at school. I had no friends. I had no one to talk to. They didn’t like me hanging around with the other kids. They said God ought to be enough of a friend for anyone. What do you expect me to say about them?”

“Were you glad they died?”

“Yes.” Ruth’s left hand shot out of the end of her sleeve and scratched the side of her nose. Her grubby fingernails were bitten to the quick.

“What about your birth mother?”

“Ros? I call her that, you know. It’s a bit late to be calling her ‘Mother,’ don’t you think? And Mrs. Riddle seems just a wee bit too formal.”

“How did you find her?”

The edges of Ruth’s lips curled in an ugly smirk. “You ought to know that, if you’ve done so much digging. My degree’s in information technology. You can find out anything these days if you know where to look. The telephone directory is usually pretty reliable, you know. A good place to start. But there’s the Internet, too. Lots of information out on that superhighway.”

“Where did you begin?”

“With the Registrar General’s office. They’ll let you see your original birth certificate if you ask them nicely. From there it’s pretty easy.”

“What did the birth certificate tell you?”

“That I was born at seventy-three Launceston Terrace, Tiverton, on the twenty-third of February, 1977.”

“What else?”

Ruth stared at the walls again, looking bored. “That my mother was Rosalind Gorwyn and that there was a blank space where my father’s name was supposed to be.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went to seventy-three Launceston Terrace, Tiverton, and found an elderly couple by the name of Gorwyn living there. It’s not a very common name, even in Devon. I knew they couldn’t be my real parents – they were too old – so I pushed them a bit and found out they were her aunt and uncle and that she had stayed with them while she had the baby. Me. Hid away from the world while she gave birth to me.”

“What else did they tell you?”

“That my mother had married a man called Jeremiah Archibald Riddle, an important policeman, that she was a solicitor now, and they lived in North Yorkshire. By then they’d have told me anything to get rid of me. After that it was really easy. A child could have found them.”

“Did you speak to Rosalind’s parents at all?”

“Not right at first. But I found out that they’d retired to Barnstaple. He was a vicar. Which probably explains why my mother let me live.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

Ruth looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. She didn’t seem to mind what she saw. “Well, either way I didn’t have much of a chance, did I?” she said. “She could’ve just got rid of me, had an abortion. That’s what I’d have done in her place. Then I would never have existed at all and none of this would have happened.”

“Or?”

“She could have kept me. Then I’d have been an unwanted baby with a single mother and your chief constable would never have married her. I’d probably have been brought up in some sort of punk commune or something, with people shooting heroin all around my cot, getting high and forgetting me, so I’d have crawled to the edge of the stairs and fallen over and died anyway. So I imagine she thought putting me up for adoption was a better choice for her. Pity it didn’t turn out that way for me. I’ve been told the adoption people are pretty good, very strict in their standards, but some of us slip through the cracks. Like I said, everyone thought the Walkers were the salt of the