Cold Is The Grave

8

“Alan?” The voice seemed to reach Banks’s ears from a great distance. “Alan? So now you’re hanging around ladies’ toilets, eh?”

Banks felt someone touch his sleeve, and he turned to see Annie Cabbot standing in the doorway. Never had he seen a more welcome sight. He wanted to fall forward into her arms, have her stroke his head and kiss his face and tell him everything was all right, he’d just had a bad dream, that’s all, and it would all be gone in the morning.

“Alan, you’re pale as ashes. Are you all right?”

Banks moved away from the doorway to let Annie have a look. “I’ve got a daughter not much older than her,” he said.

Annie frowned and edged forward. Banks watched her and noticed the way her eyeballs flicked around, taking in all the details: the body’s unusual position, the broken mirror, the white powder, the spilled cosmetics, the contusions. Some of the buttons on Emily’s black silk blouse had popped, and the dark spider tattoo was visible against the pale skin below her navel ring. Annie touched nothing but seemed to absorb everything. And when she had finished, even she was pale.

“I see what you mean,” she said when they had both gone to stand outside the toilet again. “Poor cow. What do you think happened?”

“It looks as if someone got in there with her and beat the living shit out of her, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” said Annie. “There’s hardly enough room for one, let alone space to swing a few punches.”

“And the stall was locked,” Banks added. “I suppose she could have been beaten elsewhere, then crawled inside and locked it herself before she died, maybe in a vain attempt to keep her attacker out…” He shrugged. It seemed a pretty thin thesis. Even if she had locked herself in there to escape a beating, how had she ended up arched crabwise over the toilet? It was the most unusual body position Banks had ever seen, and though he had a glimmer of an idea about what might have caused it, he needed the expert knowledge of a doctor. “We’ll have to wait for the doc. Ah, speak of the devil.”

Dr. Burns walked across the dance floor and greeted them. “Where is she?” he asked.

Banks pointed toward the ladies’. “Try not to disturb things too much. We haven’t got photographs yet.”

“I’ll do my best.” Burns passed under the tape.

“Call the SOCOs and the photographer,” Banks said to Annie. He gestured toward Rickerd and lowered his voice. “DC Rickerd phoned me, and I wanted to be certain we really had a crime on our hands before making a hue and cry.”

“What about the people in the club?”

“Nobody leaves. Including the bar staff. Chris Jessup’s lads have instructions to keep them all where they are. There’s no telling how many left between the boyfriend’s phone call and Jessup’s arrival, though.”

“It’s still early for this kind of place,” said Annie. “People would be more likely to be arriving than leaving.”

“Unless they’d just killed someone. Ask one of the uniforms to take everyone’s name and address.”

Annie turned to go.

Banks called after her. “And, Annie?”

“Yes?”

“Be prepared for one of the biggest shitstorms that’s ever come your way as a copper.”

“Why?”

“Because the victim’s Emily Riddle, the chief constable’s daughter.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Annie.

“Exactly.”

Annie went off to attend to her duties while Banks collared Darren Hirst, the boy who had found the body. He seemed still in shock, trembling, tears in his eyes. Banks could understand that, having seen Emily’s body himself. He had seen many forms of death in his years as a policeman, and though he never quite got inured to it, he certainly had an advantage over the boy. Leaving a uniformed constable guarding the entrance to the toilet, Banks led Darren to an empty table. The club’s manager hovered nearby, clearly wanting to know what was going on but not daring to ask. Banks waved him over.

“What time did you open tonight?” he asked.

“Ten o’clock. It starts slow. We don’t usually get much of a crowd until after eleven.”

“Has this place got surveillance cameras?”

“On order.”

“Great. Bar still open?”

“The other policeman said I shouldn’t serve any more drinks,” he said.

“Quite right, too,” said Banks, “but this lad’s had a bit of a shock and I can’t say I’ve had a pleasant surprise, either, so bring us a couple of double brandies, will you?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on duty.”

“Just bring the drinks.”

“All right, mate. No need to get shirty.” The bartender strode off. When he came back, he plonked the drinks down on the table. The measures looked small, but Banks paid him anyway.

“When can I go home?” the man asked. “Only, if we’re not serving drinks, we’re not making any money, see, and there’s not a lot of point staying open.”

“You’re not open,” said Banks. “And if I get much more of that crap out of you, you won’t be opening again in the foreseeable future. There’s a dead girl in your toilets, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“Fucking drug addicts,” the bartender muttered as he stalked away.

“All right, Darren,” said Banks when the bartender was out of earshot. “Like to tell me what happened?” He lit a cigarette. Darren refused his offer of one. The brandy was poor quality, but its bite put a bit of warmth back in Banks’s veins.

“She said she wasn’t feeling well,” Darren began, after a sip of brandy. A little color crept back into his cheeks.

“Back up a bit,” said Banks. “How well did you know her? Was she your girlfriend?”

“No, nothing like that. I mean, I know her, like, in the group. We were just friends, that’s all. We all hang out together. She’s a bit weird and wild, is Emily, but she can be a lot of fun. We started in the Cross Keys, down Castle Hill.”

“I know it.”

“After that we just walked around town a bit and dropped in for a quick drink at the Queen’s Arms. Then we came here.” He pointed to a group of shell-shocked kids at a table across the room. “The others are over there.”

“What time did you meet in the Cross Keys?”

“About half past six, seven o’clock.”

“Do you remember what time Emily got there?”

“She was the last to arrive. Must’ve been about seven, maybe a few minutes later.”

So that left Emily four hours unaccounted for between the three-o’clock appointment she had mentioned to Banks and meeting her friends in the Cross Keys.

“How did she seem?”

“Fine.”

“Normal?”

“For Emily.”

“And what time did you come here?”

“About half ten. It was pretty quiet. Like the barman says, it doesn’t usually get going till half past eleven or so. But they serve drinks, and there’s music, so you can dance.”

“How many people would you say were here?”

“Not a lot. They kept coming in, like, but it wasn’t that busy.”

“More than now?”

Darren looked around. “No, about this many.”

“What happened next?”

“We got some drinks in, then Emily went to the toilet. We were dancing after that, I remember, then she said she wasn’t feeling very well.”

“What did she say was wrong with her?”

Darren shook his head. “Just that she didn’t feel well. She said she was getting a stiff neck.” He rubbed his own neck and looked at Banks. “Was it drugs? It was drugs, wasn’t it?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Just the way she was behaving. You know, like she was flying up there in her own world. Like I said, she’s pretty wild.”

“How well did you know Emily, Darren?”

“I told you, hardly at all. When she was home from school for the holidays she’d hang out with me and Rick and Jackie and Tina over there. That’s all. I was never her boyfriend or anything. She wasn’t interested in me like that. We just danced sometimes, went out with the gang. Had fun.” He ran his hand over his greasy dark hair.

“Did you ever supply her with drugs, Darren?”

“Me? Never. I don’t touch them.”

There was something in his tone that made Banks believe him. For the moment. “Okay. So she felt poorly. What happened next?”

“She said she thought she might need some more medicine.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“More drugs, I assumed. Whatever she was taking.”

“Go on.”

“So she went back to the toilet.”

“How long after her first visit?”

“Dunno. Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe.”

Banks looked up and saw Peter Darby, the photographer, come in with his battered Pentax hanging around his neck. Banks pointed toward the toilets, where the uniformed policeman still stood on guard, and Darby nodded as he headed toward the tape. Annie dropped by the table and told him the SOCOs were on their way. Banks asked her to take statements from Darren and Emily’s friends across the room. He drank down the rest of his brandy and asked, “What happened next?”

“She was a long time. I started to get worried, especially with her saying she wasn’t feeling well.”

“When you say a long time, just how long do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Ten minutes. Quarter of an hour. Maybe longer. You don’t expect someone to stay in the toilet that long if they’re all right. I thought maybe she was being sick. She’d been drinking steadily most of the evening, a really weird mix of stuff, and she didn’t eat anything in the Cross Keys.”

Or at lunchtime in the Black Bull, Banks remembered, where she had also been drinking some odd concoctions. “Were many people going in and out of the ladies’ toilet during that time?”

“I never really looked. But the place wasn’t that busy, so maybe not.”

“You didn’t ask anyone to check on her? Jackie or Tina?”

“Tina went in after about five minutes and came right back out. She said Emily was making funny sounds, as if she was being sick or something, and she wouldn’t open the door of the stall.”

“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?”

Darren shrugged.

“What did you do then?”

“I thought about it for a bit, then I decided to go in and see what was up.”

“When was this?”

“Must’ve been about five or ten minutes later, when she still hadn’t come out.”

“Had others been in and out in the meantime?”

“Like I said, I didn’t keep an eye on the place all the time, but I saw a couple of girls come and go.”

“Are they still here?”

Darren pointed out two of the girls at separate tables. “Okay,” said Banks, “we’ll talk to them later. They didn’t say if anything was wrong, though?”

“No. Just Tina thought she was being sick.”

“So you went in the ladies’ yourself?”

“Eventually, yes. I was worried. I mean, I’d been dancing with her. I felt she was sort of…”

“Your responsibility?”

“In a way. Yes.”

“Even though she wasn’t your girlfriend?”

“She was still a friend.”

“What did you find in there?”

Darren looked away and turned pale again. “You know. You’ve seen it. God, it was horrible. It’s like she wasn’t even human.”

“I’m sorry to put you through it, Darren, but it could be important. Describe to me what you found. Was anyone else in there at the time?”

“No.”

“Was the stall door locked?”

“Yes.”

“So how did you know there was something wrong?”

“First I called her name and she didn’t answer. Then I just, like, listened at the door and I couldn’t hear anything. No sounds of her being sick or even breathing. I got really scared then.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went into the next stall and climbed on the toilet. The walls don’t come right up to the ceiling, so you can lean over and look down. That’s when I saw her. She was looking up at me… all bruised and twisted… and her eyes…” He put his head in his hands and started to sob.

Banks touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, Darren. Go ahead and cry.”

Darren let his tears run their course, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve and looked up. “Who could do something like that?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know how, either. Apart from the two girls you mentioned, did you see anyone else go in the toilet while Emily was in there sick?”

“No. But I told you I wasn’t looking all the time.”

“You must have been looking quite often, though, if you were worried. You must have been keeping an eye on the door to see if Emily came out again.”

“I suppose so. But I didn’t notice anyone else, no.”

“See any men go in?”

“No.”

“Did anyone come in and out while you were there checking on her?”

“No. Look, I didn’t do this. You’re not-”

“Nobody’s suggesting that, Darren. I’m just trying to get everything clear, that’s all. When you saw her, did you know that she was dead?”

“I couldn’t know. I mean, I didn’t take her pulse or anything. I didn’t touch her. But her eyes were open, staring, and her neck was in a weird position, as if someone had broken it or something. And I couldn’t see any signs of life.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to the manager and he phoned the police.”

“Did anyone else enter the toilet before Inspector Jessup and DC Rickerd arrived?”

“I don’t think so. The manager had a quick look – I was with him the whole time – then he phoned the police and the ambulance. He stayed by the door until the policemen arrived, and he wouldn’t let anyone in the ladies’. He made a couple of girls use the men’s toilet. They complained. I remember that. But the police were quick.”

“They didn’t have far to come. Did anyone leave the club?”

“A couple of people might have left. But mostly people were arriving. It was still early. And I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just worried about Emily, and afterwards I was sort of in shock. The music kept going for quite a long time after… after I found her. People were still dancing. Even after the police came. They didn’t really know anything serious had happened.”

“Okay, Darren, nearly finished. You’re doing really well. Did anything at all odd happen during the evening, either here or when you were at the Cross Keys or the Queen’s Arms, that gave you cause for concern about Emily?”

“No. Nothing I can think of.”

“She seemed in good spirits?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t get into an argument with anyone?”

“No.”

“Did she make any telephone calls?”

“Not that I remember. Everything was fine.”

“Did she mention drugs at all?”

“No.”

“Did you get the impression she was on drugs before you got here?”

“She might have been a bit high when she arrived at the Cross Keys.”

“At seven?”

“Yes. I mean, she wasn’t out of it or anything, just a bit giddy. But it wore off.”

That was probably when she got the drugs, Banks thought: between leaving him in the Black Bull and arriving at the Cross Keys four hours later. She’d been smoking grass or snorting coke with someone in the meantime. Christ, why hadn’t he asked her where she was going? Would she have told him, anyway? “Did you see her talking to anyone in here before she went to the toilet?” he asked.

“Only us. I mean, we got a table together. We didn’t know anyone else here. I went to get the drinks in.”

“Could she have bought the drugs from someone here?”

“I suppose she couldn’ve done, but I didn’t see her.”

“Inside the toilets, maybe?”

“It’s possible.”

“What about the Cross Keys?” The Cross Keys wasn’t exactly the mecca of drugs in the way the Black Bull was, but it wasn’t an innocent either. “Did you see her talking to any strangers there?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Did she disappear for any length of time?”

“No.”

“Okay, Darren. You’ll have to give a formal statement later, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Can I go now?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Can I sit with my friends?”

“Of course.”

“Is it okay if I use my mobile? I’d like to call my mum and dad, tell them… you know, I might be late.”

“Sorry, Darren,” said Banks. “Not yet. If you really need to let them know, just tell one of the uniformed officers and he’ll see to it for you. Go sit with your friends now.”

Darren slouched off to the table and Banks got up and turned to see Dr. Burns coming out of the toilet. Peter Darby’s camera flashed in the open door behind him.

“So what is it?” Banks asked Dr. Burns when they found a table at which they couldn’t be overheard. He had his own suspicions, though he had never seen an actual case before, but he wanted Dr. Burns to get there first. It was partly a matter of not wanting to look like an idiot, not jumping to conclusions. After all, she could have been beaten to death.

“I’m not certain yet,” said Burns, shaking his head.

“But your immediate impression. I’ll bet you’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Burns grimaced. “We doctors don’t like giving our immediate impressions.”

“Was she beaten up?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“The bruising?”

“At a guess I’d say that happened from her head banging into the walls during the convulsions. Hang on a minute; are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Banks fumbled for another cigarette to take the taste of bile out of his mouth. “What do you mean, convulsions?”

“As I said, I don’t think anyone attacked her. She was alone in there. You noticed the white powder and the broken mirror.”

Banks nodded.

“Cocaine, most likely.”

“Are you saying she died of a cocaine overdose?”

“Hold on a minute. I never said that.”

“But it’s possible?”

Burns paused. “Hmm. Possible. A cocaine overdose can cause spasms and convulsions in extreme cases.”

“But?”

“It would have to be extremely pure. As I said, it’s possible, but it’s not the most likely explanation.”

“What is, then?”

“How long has she been dead?”

“They called the police at six minutes after eleven, so it must have happened a bit before then. I got here at ten to twelve.”

Burns looked at his watch. “And it’s twenty past now. That means she can’t have been dead much more than, say, an hour and a half. Yet rigor’s complete. That’s highly unusual. I assume you also noticed the stiffness?”

“Yes. So what do you think killed her?”

“At a guess, and it’s just a guess until we get toxicology results, I’d say it was strychnine poisoning.”

“It crossed my mind, too, though I’m far from being an expert. I’ve never actually seen a case before. I’ve only read about it in textbooks.”

“Me, too. It’s really quite rare these days. But that would cause the convulsions. She’d have been thrashing herself about the tiny stall quite enough to cause the bruises and contusions you saw on her body. Her back was also arched in a way indicative of final strychnine spasms – it’s called opisthotonos – and you must have noticed the way the facial muscles were twisted in a sort of extreme grimace, or grin – risus sardonicus – and the darkness of the face, the wild, staring eyes?”

The images were impossible to forget, and Banks knew he would have nightmares about them for years, the way he still had about the disemboweled Soho prostitute, Dawn Wadley.

“I’m hesitant to commit myself without a full tox check, but that won’t take long. It’s one of the easiest poisonous substances to test for. I’ve never investigated a death by strychnine before, but that’s what it looks like to me. Only my immediate impressions, mind you. I also touched a little of the powder to my tongue. Along with the numbness caused by the cocaine, there’s a bitter taste, associated with strychnine.”

“What killed her? Heart?”

“She’d have died of asphyxiation, most likely, or maybe just sheer exhaustion from the convulsions. Her neck may be broken too, but you’ll have to wait for the postmortem to confirm that. Not pretty, whichever way you look at it.”

“No. Deliberate, though?”

“Oh, I would think so, wouldn’t you? And I’d pretty much rule out suicide, for a start. Even if she did want to kill herself, strychnine is hardly the drug of choice. I’ve never heard of a case. Besides, from what I can tell, it was mixed with cocaine. That means she was looking for a good time, not for death.”

“Any chance it could just be a bad batch?”

“There’s always a chance of that. Dealers use all kinds of weird substances to step on the drugs they sell, including strychnine. But not usually enough to kill a person.”

“How much would that be?”

“It varies. Doses as low as five milligrams can kill, especially if they’re absorbed directly into the bloodstream and bypass the digestive system. We’ll soon find out if it was a bad batch, anyway.”

“You mean we’ll have a whole spate of them?”

“It’s possible.”

“Good forbid,” said Banks.

“It depends on a number of factors. As I said, a fatal dose can vary widely. What killed this girl might not kill just anyone. She was pretty thin, and it doesn’t look as if she ate much. Somebody with more body weight, someone more solid, more robust… who can say? But we’ll hear about it if it happens.”

Banks remembered how Emily hadn’t eaten lunch. Darren said she hadn’t eaten dinner, either. “But if she inhaled it, the stomach contents wouldn’t matter.”

“Not as much as if she’d ingested it, no. But general health and stomach contents are all factors we have to take into account.”

“And if it’s not a bad batch, then someone had it in for her specifically.”

“That just about sums it up. Either way you look at it, somebody killed her. But that’s your realm, isn’t it? Ah, here come the cosmonauts.”

Banks looked up and saw the SOCOs entering in their white protective overalls.

“I’ll arrange for the mortuary wagon,” said Dr. Burns. “I’d better tell them they’ll probably need a crowbar to prize her out of there. And I’ll get in touch with Dr. Glendenning first thing in the morning. Knowing him, he’ll have her opened up by lunchtime.” He stood, but paused a moment before leaving. “Did you know her, Alan? You seem to be taking this very much to heart.”

“I knew her slightly,” said Banks. “I might as well tell you now. You’ll find out soon enough. She’s the chief constable’s daughter.”

Dr. Burns’s reaction was exactly the same as Annie’s.

“And, Doc?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s keep this under our hats for the time being, shall we? The strychnine.”

“My lips are sealed.” Dr. Burns turned and left.

For a moment, Banks stood alone watching the spinning disco lights and listening to mumbled conversations around him. Peter Darby came out of the toilet and said he’d got what he wanted. The SOCOs were in there taking the place apart, collecting samples for analysis. Banks didn’t envy them the task of working in a toilet; you never knew what you might catch. Vic Manson would soon be dusting for prints, of which he’d probably find as many as the SOCOs would public hairs, and before long the mortuary wagon would come and whisk Emily Riddle’s body off to the basement of Eastvale Infirmary.

All so bloody predictable. Routines Banks had been part of time and time again. But this time he wanted to cry. Cry and get rat-arsed. He couldn’t help but remember Emily’s excited talk about her future that lunchtime, about how she didn’t fancy Poughkeepsie or Bryn Mawr because of the sound of their names. He remembered the time she turned up at the hotel in London, passing herself off as his daughter, how her dress slid to the ground and he saw her white and naked. Remembered her stoned, adolescent attempt at seducing him. God, if only she knew how close she’d come. Then the way she curled up in the fetal position like a little child on the bed, her thumb in her mouth, the blanket covering her, while he sat in the armchair smoking and listening to Dawn Upshaw sing about sleep and the windows rattled and the winter sun rose and tried to claw its way through the gray, greasy clouds.

Dead.

And perhaps because of him, because he had respected his vow of discretion and done nothing, despite all his misgivings.

Annie came over from the table where she had been talking to Emily’s friends. Banks told her what Dr. Burns had said about strychnine. Annie whistled. “Learn anything over there?” he asked.

“Not a lot. They say she seemed a bit high when she arrived at the Cross Keys, and they’re certain she took something here the first time she went to the toilet.”

“Same as Darren says. Can’t have been the same batch, though, can it?”

“I suppose not. Do you believe them?”

“For the most part. Maybe we’ll lean on them a bit harder tomorrow. What it looks like is that the first time she snorted made her feel ill shortly afterwards, so she went back for more and the convulsions hit.”

“So what now?”

“We can start by searching everyone on the premises. They’re all suspects at the moment, including the bar staff. Can you get that organized?”

“Of course. I very much doubt we’d have any problems arguing reasonable suspicion, do you?”

“I doubt it.” PACE rules stated that you had to have “reasonable suspicion” before searching people, and if you searched them somewhere other than at the police station without first arresting them, you had to have reasonable grounds for assuming they might be a danger to themselves or others. With the chief constable’s daughter lying dead of possible strychnine poisoning only a few yards away, Banks didn’t think they’d have much trouble arguing their case. “Take it easy, though. If anyone kicks up a fuss, take him over to the station and have the custody officer deal with him. I want this done by the book. You’d better let Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe know, too.”

“Will do.”

“I also want all the known coke dealers in the area brought in for questioning. And we’ll need to activate the incident room over at the station.” He looked at his watch. “We might not be able to get everything in order until morning – especially as far as the civilian staff are concerned – but in the meantime we’ll need an office manager.”

“DC Rickerd?”

Banks looked at Rickerd, who was taking a statement at the other side of the club. “Good idea,” he said. “Let him show his mettle.”

While Rickerd demonstrated only minimal detective skills, he had an almost obsessive interest in details and the minutiae of organization: exactly what a good office manager needed, as it was his job to supervise the recording and tracking of all information retrieved both from a crime scene and during an investigation.

If truth be told, you needed more than a skill for organization, but Rickerd would do. Maybe he would find his true métier. Banks knew that having a train-spotter in the department would come in useful one day. Rickerd was just the kind to carry around that little book full of printed train numbers and draw a neat line with pen and ruler through each one he actually saw. He was too young for the steam trains, though. When Banks was a kid, there were still a few of them in service, many with exotic names like The Flying Scotsman, sleek, streamlined beauties. Many of Banks’s friends had been train-spotters, but standing on a windy station platform all day and noting down numbers to cross off later in a little book had never appealed to him. These days, with all the diesels looking like clones of one another, there didn’t seem to be much point in train-spotting anymore.

Banks called Rickerd over and explained what he wanted him to do. Rickerd went off looking pleased with himself to be given such responsibility. Then Banks lit a cigarette and leaned against a pillar. “I’d better go tell her parents,” he sighed.

“One of the uniforms can do that.” Annie put her hand on his arm in a curiously intimate gesture. “To be quite honest, Alan, you look all in. Maybe you should let me take you home.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? Banks thought. Home. Annie. Maybe even bed. The adagio from Concierto de Aranjuez drifting up from downstairs. The clock put back so that none of this had ever happened. “No,” he said. “I’ve got to tell them myself. I owe them that much.”

Annie frowned. “I don’t understand. What do you owe them?”

Banks smiled. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” Then he walked up the stairs to the deserted market square.

Banks felt sick and heavy with dread as he approached Riddle’s house close to one-thirty that morning. The Old Mill stood in almost complete darkness behind the privet hedge, but a glimmer of light showed through the curtains of one of the ground-floor rooms, and Banks wondered if it had been left on as a means of discouraging burglars. He knew it hadn’t when he saw the curtain twitch at the sound of his car on the gravel drive. He should have known Jimmy Riddle would be up working well after midnight. Hard work and long hours were what had got him where he was in the first place.

When he turned the engine off, he could hear the old millrace running down the garden. It reminded him of Gratly Falls outside his own modest cottage. He hardly had time to knock before a hall light came on and the door opened. Riddle stood there in an Oxford shirt and gray chinos; it was the first time Banks had seen him in casual dress.

“Banks? I thought that was your car. What on earth…?”

But his voice trailed off as recognition that something was seriously wrong crept into his features. Whether he’d been a good one or not, Riddle had been a copper for long enough to know that the call in the middle of the night was hardly a social one; he knew enough to read the expression on Banks’s face.

“Maybe we could sit down, have a drink,” Banks said, as Riddle stood aside to let him in.

“Tell me first,” said Riddle, leaning back on the door after he closed it.

Banks couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. The honorific sounded odd even as he spoke the word; he had never called Riddle “sir” before, except in a sarcastic tone.

“It’s Emily, isn’t it?”

Banks nodded.

“My God.”

“Sir.” Banks took Riddle’s elbow and guided him into the living room. Riddle collapsed into an armchair and Banks found the cocktail cabinet. He poured them both a stiff whiskey; he was beyond worrying about drink driving at that point. Riddle held the glass but didn’t drink from it right away.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“What happened? How?”

“We’re not sure yet, sir.”

“Was there an accident? A car crash?”

“No. It was nothing like that.”

“Out with it, man. This is my daughter we’re talking about.”

“I know that, sir. That’s why I’m trying to tread softly.”

“Too late for that, Banks. What was it? Drugs?”

“Partly.”

“What do you mean, ‘partly’? Either it was or it wasn’t. Tell me what happened to her!”

Banks paused. It was a terrible thing to tell a dead girl’s father how painfully she had died, but he reminded himself that Riddle was also chief constable, a professional, and he would find out soon enough, anyway. Best he find out now. “We’re keeping this strictly confidential for the time being, but Dr. Burns thinks it might have been cocaine spiked with strychnine.”

Riddle jerked forward and spilled some whiskey on his trousers. He didn’t even bother to wipe it off. “Strychnine! My God, how…? I don’t understand.”

“She was taking cocaine at a nightclub in Eastvale,” Banks said. “The Bar None. You might have heard of it?”

Riddle shook his head.

“Anyway, if the doctor is right, somebody must have put strychnine in her cocaine.”

“Christ, Banks, do you realize what you’re saying?”

“I do, sir. I’m saying that, in all likelihood, your daughter was murdered.”

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“Believe me, I wish it were.”

Riddle ran his hand over his shiny bald skull, a gesture Banks had often thought ridiculous in the past; now it reeked of despair. He drank some of his whiskey before asking the hopeless question everyone asks in his situation: “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“No mistake, sir. I saw her myself. I know it’s no consolation, but it must have been very fast,” Banks lied. “She can’t have suffered very much.”

“Rubbish. I’m not an idiot, Banks. I’ve studied the textbook. I know what strychnine does. She’d have gone into convulsions, bent her spine. She’d have-”

“Don’t,” Banks said. “There’s no sense torturing yourself.”

“Who?” Riddle asked. “Who would want to do something like that to Emily?”

“Have you noticed anything strange while she’s been here?”

“No.”

“What about today, the last few days? Any changes in her behavior?”

“No. Look, you went to London, Banks. You found her. What about the people she was hanging around with down there? This Clough character. Do you think he could have had something to do with it?”

Banks paused. Barry Clough had been the first to come to his mind when Dr. Burns had told him about the poisoned cocaine. He also remembered how Emily had told him that Clough hated to lose his prize possessions. “That’s a distinct possibility,” he said.

Riddle plucked at the creases of his trousers, then he let out a long sigh. “You’ll do what you have to do, Banks. I know that. Wherever it leads you.”

“Yes, sir. Is there…?”

“What?”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

Riddle paused. He seemed to think hard for a few moments, then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. It’s out of my hands now.” He knocked back the rest of the whiskey. “I’ll go to the mortuary and identify her.”

“It’ll wait till morning.”

Riddle got up and started pacing the room. “But I must do something. I can’t just… I mean, Christ, man, you’ve just told me my daughter’s been murdered. Poisoned. What do you expect me to do! Sit down and cry? Take a bloody sleeping pill? I’m a policeman, Banks. I have to do something.”

“Everything possible is being done,” said Banks. “I think you’d be best off spending the time with your wife and son.”

“Don’t soft-soap me, Banks. My God, just wait till the press gets hold of this.”

Here we go again, thought Banks: his bloody reputation. It was only out of respect for Riddle’s bereavement that Banks said mildly, “They hadn’t got a whiff when I left the scene, but I don’t suppose it’ll take them long. The place will be swarming with them come morning. We want to try and keep the strychnine aspect quiet.”

Riddle seemed to collapse in on himself, all his energy gone. He looked tired. “I’ll wake up Ros and tell her. I appreciate your coming, Banks. I mean personally, you know, not sending someone else. The best thing you can do is get back to the scene and stay on top of things. I’ll be depending on you, and for once I don’t care how many bloody corners you cut or whose feet you tread on.”

“Yes, sir.” Riddle was right; probably the best thing Banks could do right now was throw himself into the investigation. Besides, people need to be alone with their grief. “I’ll need to talk to you both at some point,” he said. “Tomorrow?”

“Of course.” They heard a sound from the doorway and turned. Benjamin Riddle stood there in his pajamas clutching a battered teddy bear. He rubbed his eyes. “I heard voices, Daddy. I was scared. What is it? Is something wrong?”