Cold Is The Grave

explaining the cut by his eye by saying he had fallen and cut it on a piece of glass, and he had never relied on anyone to help him out of trouble again in his life.

“I was wrong. I should have told my parents, Annie. They would have made me report it to the police, and they might have caught him before he did any more harm. There was a dangerous man out there, and my fear and shame left him free to do as he pleased.”

“You blamed yourself for what happened to Graham Marshall? For the acts of a child molester?”

Banks turned away from the beer-colored water to face Annie. “When he went missing, all I could think of was the tall man with the greasy dark hair and the body odor.” Banks shivered. Sometimes he still woke in the night gagging on the taste of the dirty cloth of the man’s sleeve, and in the dream, when he looked at the river, it was full of dead boys all floating in the same direction, in perfectly matched rows, and Graham Marshall was the only one he recognized. So much guilt.

“But you don’t know that it was the same man.”

“Doesn’t matter. I still took the guilt on myself. I’d been attacked by an older man, possibly a pervert, and I didn’t report it. Then a boy was abducted, possibly by a pervert. Of course I blamed myself. And I certainly couldn’t say anything about it later.”

Annie put her hand on his arm. “So you made a mistake. So you should have reported it. You can’t spend your life sulking over all the mistakes you’ve made. You’d never bother getting out of bed in the morning.”

Banks smiled. “You’re right. I try not to let it get me down too much. It’s only when something like this happens, something I think I could have prevented.”

Annie started walking again. “You’re not God,” she said over her shoulder. “You can’t change the way things are.”

Banks flicked his cigarette in the river and followed her. Annie was right, he knew; he only wished he could feel better about it.

They turned left at the main road by the pre-Roman site, a sort of barrow where ancient graves had been discovered, and then left again, back toward the station, toward whatever other horrors Ruth Walker had in store for them.

Banks started the tape recorders again. “All right, Ruth,” he said, “you’ve had some food and rest. Ready to talk to us again?”

Ruth nodded and retracted her hands deep into the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

“For the record,” Banks said, “Ms. Walker nodded to indicate that she is ready to resume the interview.”

Ruth stared down at her lap.

“Before the break, Ruth, you told us that Barry Clough is your father. I’m sure you know that gives rise to a lot more questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“First of all, is it true?”

“Of course it is. Why should I lie about it?”

“You’ve lied before. Remember, right at the beginning you told me your life has been a lie?”

“This is true. He’s my father. You can check.”

“How did you find out about this if it wasn’t on the birth certificate?”

“I talked to Ros’s parents.”

“And they told you, just like that?”

“It wasn’t as easy as that.”

“How easy was it, then?”

“It was a matter of finding out what name he was using now.”

“What do you mean?”

“All they could tell me was that Ros got herself made pregnant by some punk. He hung around with bands, worked as a roadie, played bass a bit, something like that. Ros had told them his name, but he was long gone by the time she even found out she was pregnant. He was in America, they told me. And she didn’t want anything to do with him anyway. Neither did her parents. Everybody just did their best to forget him, and it seems as if that was pretty easy.”

“What was his name?”

Ruth laughed. “You know what they were like back then, all using silly names, thinking they sounded tough? Rat Scabies. Sid Vicious. Johnny Rotten.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“Well, this bloke was going by the name of Mal Licious. I ask you. Mal Licious.”

What an apt name for Barry Clough, Banks thought. “So nobody knew his real name?”

“Ros’s parents and uncle and aunt didn’t.”

“Did you ask Rosalind herself?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She didn’t know, either. Mal Licious was all he went by. She just called him Mal. Seems she hadn’t known him that well. I think it was a one-night stand. She didn’t really want to talk about it.”

“How did you find out, then?”

Ruth shifted in her chair. “Easy. Information technology. I know a bit about the music scene, I’ve been to a lot of clubs and raves and stuff, and Craig had a few contacts, he’d taken band photos, that sort of thing. I asked around. It seemed a logical way to start. There was always a chance that this Mal Licious was still on the scene somewhere. A lot of these people never grow up. Look at Rod Stewart, for Christ’s sake. Clough was a pretty well- known name on the scene, partly because of his trendy bar and partly because of the bands he promoted. There were still people around who’d known him way back, and someone told me he used to be called Mal Licious. Thought it was a bit of a laugh. Well, there can’t have been two of them, can there? Stands to reason.”

Indeed it did, thought Banks. Bright girl. Or woman. A lot of things were starting to make sense now. “So none of what happened since Emily went to London was coincidence, then?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Emily shacking up with Barry Clough, Clough finding out about Riddle, the article in the newspaper linking them together.”

A look of triumph filled Ruth’s eyes. “No,” she said. “None of it was coincidence. It was all me. I set things in motion. Beyond that, they took on a life of their own. I soon found out that Clough liked young girls, and it wasn’t hard to get an invitation to one of his parties. What happened next was up to nature, not me. It really pissed off Craig.”

“Did you ever approach Clough? He’s a wealthy man. Wealthier than Rosalind, I should imagine.”

Ruth frowned at him. “It’s not all about money, you know. No, I didn’t approach him. What was he going to say? Probably didn’t even remember Ros’s name, let alone that he’d shagged her. They were probably stoned out of their minds.”

“Did you tell Rosalind about Emily and Clough?”

“No.”

“Why on earth not? He was her…” Banks had to pause and think for a moment. No matter how terrible it seemed for Rosalind’s daughter to be sleeping with a man her mother had slept with, and whose child she had given birth to, Emily wasn’t any relation to Clough whatsoever. “Emily was your half-sister,” was all he could manage.

Ruth smiled. “Information management. Knowledge is power, as I’m sure you know. If you use it only a little at a time, it can go a long way. I might have had a use for that information eventually. But I was enjoying myself plenty with what I already had. I think if I’d told Ros about them, everything would have come tumbling down, and it wasn’t time for that yet.”

You’re damn right the whole house of cards would have come tumbling down, Banks thought. Before he could respond, Annie eased in. “You said you were enjoying yourself, Ruth. In what way?”

Ruth faced her for a moment before her eyes went off in another direction. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself? I’ve had little enough fun in my life. Why not have a bit for a change?”