Cold Is The Grave

10

“Barry Clough,” said Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, chewing on a piece of particularly tough steak. “Now there’s an interesting bloke.”

It was Saturday lunchtime, and Banks and Burgess were sitting in a pub just off Oxford Street, the air around them laced with smoke and conversation. It was a mild day, much warmer than the last time Banks had been to London in early November. The pub was crowded with Christmas shoppers taking a break, and one brave couple actually sat at a table outside. Burgess was drinking lager and lime, but Banks had only coffee with his chicken in a basket. He had a busy day ahead and needed to stay alert.

He had phoned Burgess before leaving Eastvale that morning. If anyone could uncover information on Clough, it was Dirty Dick Burgess. He had recently got himself into a bit of trouble for dragging his feet over the investigation into the murder of a black youth. As a result, he’d been shunted off to the National Criminal Intelligence Service, where he couldn’t do so much harm. It didn’t seem to bother Burgess that he had been identified as a racist; he took it all in his stride with his usual lack of concern.

The two had known each other for years, and while they had tentatively come to enjoy each other’s company, their relationship remained mostly confrontational. Banks especially didn’t share Burgess’s strong right-wing leanings, nor did he concur with his racist and sexist opinions. In his turn, Burgess had called Banks a “pinko.” About the only thing they had in common was that both were from working-class backgrounds. Burgess, though, unlike Banks, was the Margaret Thatcher kind of working-class lad who had come to the fore in the eighties; someone who had triumphed over a deprived background, then devoted himself to the pursuit of material benefits and felt no sympathy or solidarity with any of his class who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow suit.

Banks, or so he hoped, retained some compassion for his fellowman, especially the downtrodden, and occasionally even the criminal. It was difficult to maintain such a view, being a copper all those years, but he had sworn to himself not long after finding Dawn Wadley’s dismembered body in the Soho alley that as soon as he stopped caring, he would quit. He had thought that his move from the Met to the softer patch of Eastvale would have made life easier, but somehow, without the sheer volume of human misery that had been his lot in the city, every case seemed to take more of a toll on him. It was similar to the way people found it hard to respond to the deaths of millions of foreigners in a flood or an earthquake, but fell to pieces when a kindly old neighbor was run over.

“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,” as John Donne had said, and Banks knew exactly what he meant.

The odd thing about working day-in, day-out against murderers, pimps, drug dealers, muggers and the rest was that you could distance yourself. Partly you did it by developing a dark sense of humor, telling tasteless jokes at crime scenes, getting pissed with the lads after attending a postmortem, and partly you just built a wall around your feelings. But in Eastvale, where he had more time to devote himself to important cases – especially murders – his defenses had been slowly eroded until he was nothing but a bundle of raw nerve ends. Each case took a little bit more of his soul, or so he felt.

Banks remembered some of the victims, especially the young ones – Deborah Harrison, Sally Lumb, Caroline Hartley. He had come to know and care about all these victims. Even Gloria Shackleton, murdered long before Banks had been born, had come to obsess him only a few months ago. And now Emily Riddle. It didn’t matter what anyone said about not becoming personally involved with cases, Banks thought. You had to be personally involved; there had to be something more at stake than mere crime statistics.

“Problem is,” Burgess went on, “we don’t really know enough about him.”

“Any form?”

Burgess sniffed. “Minor drug bust in ’74. Half a pound of Nepalese black. Said it was for his own consumption. Well, I believed him – I could go through that much in a week easily – but the magistrates didn’t. They gave him eighteen months, out in nine.”

“Is he still dealing?”

“Not that we know of. If he is, he’s not in the premier league.” Burgess pushed his plate away. “Too bloody tough for my teeth,” he said. Apart from his crooked and stained teeth, Banks noticed, Burgess seemed in better shape than the last time they had met. He had even lost a little weight. He still had his graying hair tied in a ponytail, which irritated Banks, who thought that middle-aged men with ponytails looked like prize wankers, and his gray eyes were as sharp, as cynical and as world-weary as ever.

The last time they had met, Banks remembered, was in Amsterdam over a year ago, when Burgess had got pissed and fallen in a canal. Banks had helped him out and taken him back to the hotel, and the last he had seen of him, Burgess was trailing dirty canal water across the lobby, his shoes squelching as he went, head held high, trying to walk in a straight line, with dignity. He had been wearing the same scuffed leather jacket he was wearing today.

“How does he pay for that bloody great villa of his?” Banks asked.

“Which one?”

“Little Venice. You mean he’s got more than one?”

“Sure. There’s two that we know of. The one in Little Venice and one outside Arenys de Mar, in Spain.”

“So where does his money come from?”

“He’s a gangster.”

“So I’ve heard. I didn’t know they were back in fashion.”

“They never really went away. They just adapted, changed names, switched rackets.”

“What sort of a gangster is Clough, then?”

Burgess lit one of his small cigars before answering. “First off,” he said, “he’s got a legitimate front. He owns a very successful bar in Clerkenwell. Popular with the City Boys. Gets some good bands, serves first-class food and booze. You know the type of place: ‘How about a little coke and crème caramel to end the perfect evening, darling?’ Then they go off home for the perfect shag. We know he’s into all sorts of things, but we’ve never been able to get him on anything. He runs things, delegates, doesn’t get his hands dirty. Basically, he bankrolls dodgy or downright criminal operations and rakes in a big cut. As far as we know, he made a pile of money managing and promoting bands in the music business years ago and invested it in a life of crime.”

“Bootlegging.”

“What?”

“That’s how he made his pile,” Banks explained. “Making bootleg recordings of live concerts, getting them pressed and selling them.”

Burgess narrowed his eyes. “You seem to know a lot about him. Sure you want me to go on?”

Banks smiled. “It’s a matter of making a little go a long way. That’s all I know. Anyway, it looks as if it paid off.”

“Big-time.”

“What kinds of things is he interested in now, if it’s not drugs?”

“All sorts. I’ll give him his due; he’s innovative. Prefers newer, safer rackets to the old true, tested and tried. That’s why I don’t see him dealing drugs. Taking them, yes, but not dealing them. Not his style. You won’t find him running girls or protection rackets, either. Not Barry Clough. Guns, though, now there’s another matter. Remember that business with the reactivated firearms a year or so back? Up around your neck of the woods, wasn’t it?”

“Thirsk,” said Banks. “Yes, I remember.” Undercover policemen posing as London gangsters had arrested four men on charges of conspiracy to transfer firearms and ammunition, and for selling prohibited weapons. Since stricter gun laws were introduced after the Dunblane school massacre, firearms became harder to get because the risk attached to possessing or selling them was far greater. That also put their price up. To fill the gap, workshops like the one near Thirsk sprang up. It took about two hours to reactivate an Uzi that had been disabled for legal sale to a collector, and you could sell it for about £1,250. Tanfoglio pistols went for about a grand apiece. Discount for bulk. Needless to say, the weapons were especially popular with drug gangs.

“We thought we had Clough on that but we couldn’t prove he was involved.”

“What made you think he was?”

“Circumstantial evidence. Tidbits from informers. He’d made a couple of trips to the area shortly prior to the arrests. One of the men arrested had been observed visiting Clough’s house. He was a collector of disabled firearms himself. He had connections in both the drugs and firearms worlds. That sort of thing.”

Banks nodded. He knew what Burgess meant. You could know it in your bones that a man was guilty of something, but if you couldn’t get enough evidence to interest the Crown Prosecution Service, then you might as well forget it. And the CPS was notoriously difficult to interest in anything other than a dead cert. He also remembered the guns in the case on Clough’s wall. Still, not evidence.

“What happened?”

“We leaned on him a bit. Not me personally, you understand, but we leaned. I think he shied away from that line of business, at least for a while. Besides, I think he found out that it’s not as lucrative as he’d hoped. Reactivating guns is more trouble than it’s worth, when you get right down to it. And it’s not as if they aren’t still being smuggled in by the cartload. Christ, I know where you could buy an Uzi for fifty quid not twenty minutes from here.”

“And after that?”

“We suspect, and you know what I mean when I stress that it’s just a suspicion, don’t you?” Burgess flicked some ash and winked at Banks. “We suspect that, for one thing, he’s behind one of the big smuggling operations. Booze and fags. High profit, low risk. You might not know this, Banks, but I’ve done some work with Customs and Excise, and about eight percent of cigarettes and five percent of beer consumed in this country are smuggled. Have you any idea what sort of profits we’re talking about here?”

“Given the amount people smoke and drink, I should imagine it’s pretty huge.”

“Understatement.” Burgess pointed his cigar at Banks. “A player like Clough might employ fifty people to get the stuff from warehouses in Europe to his retail outlets over here. Once they get it through customs at Dover, they go to distribution centers – industrial estates, business parks and the like – then their fleet of salesmen pick up their supplies and sell to the retailers. Shops, pubs, clubs, factories. Even schools. Christ, we’ve even got fucking pet shops and ice cream vans selling smuggled booze.”

“And Clough’s in it that big?”

“So we suspect. I mean, it’s not as if he drives any of the freighters himself, or drops off a carton or two at the local chippie. Whenever Clough comes back from a month at his villa in Spain you can be damn certain he’s clean as a surgeon’s scalpel. It really pisses me off, Banks, that when a law-abiding citizen such as me drinks his smuggled French lager, there’s probably a share of the profits going to a gangster like Clough.”

“So what have you got on him?”

“Precious little, again. Mostly circumstantial. Earlier this year customs stopped a lorry at Dover and found seven million cigarettes. Seven fucking million. Would’ve netted a profit of about half a million quid on the black market – and don’t ask me how much that is in Euros. Clough’s name came up in the investigation.”

“And what else is he into?”

Burgess flicked some more ash on the floor. “Like I said, we don’t know the full extent of his operations. He’s cagey. Has a knack of staying one step ahead, partly because he contracts out and partly because he operates outside London, setting up little workshops like that one near Thirsk and then moving on before anyone’s figured out what he’s doing. He uses phony companies, gets others to front for him, so his name never appears on any of the paperwork.”

Something in what Burgess had said rang a bell for Banks. It was very faint one, a very poor connection, but it wasn’t an impossible one. “Ever heard of PKF Computer System?” he asked.

Burgess shook his head.

“Bloke called Courage? Charlie Courage?”

“No.”

“Jonathan Fearn?”

“Nope. I can look them up if you like.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “One’s dead and the other’s in a coma. Would murder be Clough’s style at all?”

“I’d say a man who does as high a volume of crime as he does has to maintain a certain level of threat, wouldn’t you? And if he does that, he has to make good on it once in a while or nobody’s intimidated. He has to keep his workers in line. Nothing like a nice little murder for keeping the lads focused.” He slurped down some lager and lime. “Two weeks after Clough’s name came up in connection with that seized shipment, two known baddies got shot in Dover city center. No connection proven, of course, but they were business rivals. It’s a fucking war zone down there.”

Banks pushed aside the rest of his chicken, which was too dry, and lit a cigarette. He fancied a pint but held off. If he was going to see Barry Clough tonight, as he planned, then he’d need to be sharp, especially after what Burgess had said. “What about women?” he asked.

Burgess frowned. “What do you mean?”

“From what I can gather, Clough’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“So I’ve heard. And apparently he likes them young.”

“Has he ever been under suspicion of hurting or killing a woman?”

“Nope. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t done it and got away with it, though. Like I said, Clough’s good at staying ahead of the game. The thing is, with someone like him, people don’t like to come forward and make themselves known, if you catch my drift.”

“Right.” Banks sipped some black coffee. It tasted bitter, as if it had been left on the burner too long. Still, it beat instant. “Heard of Andrew Handley?”

“Andy Pandy? Sure. He’s one of Clough’s chief gofers.”

“Dangerous?”

“Could be.”

“Anything on him hurting women?”

“Not that I know of. Is this about Jimmy Riddle’s daughter?”

“Yes,” said Banks. Emily Riddle’s murder was all over the newspapers that morning. As Banks had guessed, it hadn’t taken the press long to ferret out that she had died of cocaine laced with strychnine, and that was far bigger news than another boring drug overdose.

“You’re SIO on that?”

“Yes.”

Burgess clapped his hands together and showered ash on the remains of his steak. “Well, bugger me!”

“No, thanks. Not right after lunch,” said Banks. “What’s so strange about that?”

“Last I heard, Jimmy Riddle had you suspended. I had to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”

“It was you who put them in there in the first place with all that cloak-and-dagger bollocks,” said Banks. “But thanks all the same.”

“Ungrateful cunt. Think nothing of it. Now he’s got you working on his daughter’s case. What’s the connection? Why you?”

Banks told him about finding Emily in London.

“Why d’you do that? To get Riddle off your back?”

“Partly, I suppose. At least in the first place. But most of all I think it was the challenge. I’d been on desk duties again for a couple of months after the Hobb’s End fiasco, and it was real work again. It was also a bit of a rush going off alone, working outside the rules.”

Burgess grinned. “Ah, Banks, you’re just like me when you get right down to it, aren’t you? Crack a few skulls?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Did you fuck her? The kid?”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Banks, his teeth clenching. “She was sixteen years old.”

“So. What’s wrong with that? It’s legal. Tasty, too, I’ll bet.”

It was at times like this Banks wanted to throttle Burgess. Instead, he just shook his head and ignored the comment.

Burgess laughed. “Typical. Knight in bloody shining armor, aren’t you, Banks?”

That was what Emily had called him in the Black Bull, Banks remembered. “Not a very successful one,” he said.

Burgess took a long drag on his cigar. He inhaled, Banks noticed. “She was sixteen going on thirty, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine.”

“What have you heard?”

“Just that she was a crazy kid, bit of an embarrassment to the old man.”

“That’s true enough.”

“So he wanted you to head off any trouble at the pass?”

“Something like that.”

“Any ideas?”

“I’d have to put Barry Clough very high on my list.”

“That why you’re here? To rattle his cage?”

“It had crossed my mind. I’m thinking of paying him a visit tonight.”

Burgess stubbed out his cigar and raised his eyebrows. “Are you indeed? Fancy some company?”

It was a different bridge, but almost a repeat of his previous trip, Banks thought, as he walked across Vauxhall Bridge on his way to visit Kennington. He looked at his watch: almost three. Ruth had been at home last time; he just hoped she had a Saturday routine she stuck to.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Ruth answered the intercom at the first press of the button and buzzed him up.

“You again,” she said, after letting him into the room. “What is it this time?”

Banks showed her his warrant card. “I’ve come about Emily.”

A look of triumph shone in her eyes. “I knew there was something fishy about you! I told you, didn’t I, last time you were here. A copper.”

“Ruth, I was here unofficially last time. I apologize for pretending to be Emily’s father – not that you believed me anyway – but it seemed to be the best way to get the job done.”

“End justifies the means? Typical police mentality, that is.”

“So you knew her real name?”

“What?”

“You didn’t seem at all surprised when I called her Emily just now.”

“Well, that’s the name they used in the papers yesterday.”

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I knew her real name. She told me. So what? I respected her right not to want to use it. If she wanted to call herself Louisa Gamine, it was fine with me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

Banks sat. Ruth didn’t offer him tea this time. She didn’t sit down herself, but lit a cigarette and paced. She seemed edgy, nervous. Banks noticed that she had changed her hair color; instead of black it was blond, still cropped to within half an inch of her skull. It didn’t look a hell of a lot better and only served to highlight the pastiness of her features. She was wearing baggy jeans with a hole in one knee and a sort of shapeless blue thing, like an artist’s smock: the kind of thing you wear when you’re by yourself around the house and you think nobody’s going to see you. Ruth didn’t seem unduly concerned about her appearance, though; she didn’t excuse herself to change or apply makeup. Banks gave her credit for that. The music was playing just a little too loud: Lauryn Hill, by the sound of it, singing about her latest mis-adventures.

“Why don’t you sit down and talk to me?” Banks asked.

Ruth glared at him. “I don’t like being lied to. I told you last time. People always seem to think they can just walk right over me.”

“Once again, I apologize.”

Ruth stood a moment glaring at him through narrowed eyes, then she turned the music down, sat opposite him and crossed her legs. “All right. I’m sitting. Happy now?”

“It’s a start. You know what happened?”

“I told you. I read about it in the paper, and saw it on telly.” Then her hard edges seemed to soften for a moment. “It’s terrible. Poor Emily. I couldn’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry. I know you were a friend of hers.”

“Was it… I mean… were you there? Did you see her?”

“I was at the scene,” said Banks, “and yes, I saw her.”

“What did she look like? I don’t know much about strychnine, but… was it, you know, really horrible?”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea-”

“Was it quick?”

“Not quick enough.”

“So she suffered?”

“She suffered.”

Ruth looked away, sniffled and reached for a tissue from the low table beside her. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not like me.”

“I just want to ask you a few questions, Ruth, then I’ll go. Okay?”

Ruth blew her nose, then nodded. “I don’t see how I can help you, though.”

“You’d be surprised. Have you spoken with Emily since she left London?”

“Only on the phone a couple of times. I think when she split up with this Barry she felt a bit guilty about neglecting me. Not that I cared, mind you. It was her life. And people always do. Neglect me, that is.”

“When was the last time you talked?”

“A week, maybe two weeks before… you know.”

“Was there anything on her mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she confide any of her fears in you?”

“Only about that psycho she’d been living with.”

“Barry Clough?”

“Yeah, him.”

“What did she say about him?”

“She didn’t give me any gory details, but she said he’d turned out to be a real waste of space, and she sounded worried he was going to come after her. Did she steal some money from him?”

“Why do you ask that?”

Ruth shrugged. “Dunno. He’s rich. It’s the sort of thing she’d do.”

“Did she ever steal from you?”

“Not that I know of.” Ruth managed a quick smile. “Mind you, I can’t say I’ve much worth stealing. Someone ripped the silver spoon out of my mouth at a pretty early age. I’ve always had to work hard just to make ends meet.”

“When did you miss your driving license, Ruth?”

“My license? How did you know about that? It was ages ago.”

“How long?”

“Five, six months?”

“While Emily was here?”

“Yes, just after, but… you don’t mean…? Emily?”

“When the report came to me over the phone, the first officer on the scene told me the victim was Ruth Walker. He’d read the name off her driving license.”

“Bloody hell. So that’s what happened. I just thought I’d lost it. I do lose things. Especially bits of paper.”

“What did you do?”

“Applied for a new one. The new kind with the photo on it. But what possible use could the old one be to Emily?”

“I think she used it to help her get one of those proof-of-age cards the clubs give out. She wouldn’t have had much difficulty from what I’ve heard. They practically give them to pretty young girls, whether they’ve got any proof in the first place or not. The card has her photo on it, but your name and, I assume, your date of birth. Twenty-third of February, 1977.”

“Bloody hell.” Ruth shook her head. “I knew nothing about it.”

“And maybe she also wanted to drive a car.”

“She was too young to learn.”

“That doesn’t always stop people.”

“I suppose not.”

“Some of the most skilled car thieves I’ve met have been between ten and thirteen.”

“You’d know about that.”

“What did she say about Barry Clough?”

“Just that she thought she’d pissed him off big-time when she left without saying good-bye, and he wasn’t the kind of man just to let it go by.”

“Did she sound scared?”

“Not really scared. Bit nervous, maybe, in a giggly sort of way. She could put a brave face on things, could Louisa. Emily.”

“When did she tell you her real name?”

“Shortly after she came to stay with me. She asked me not to tell anyone, that she wanted to be called Louisa, so I respected her wishes.”

“Did you tell Clough what her real name was?”

Ruth jerked forward. “Give me a break! Why would I do something like that?”

“Only asking. So you didn’t?”

“No fucking way.”

“Has he been in touch with you at all, asking about her?”

“No. I haven’t seen anything of him at all.”

“What about Craig? Did you tell him?”

“No, but he might have known. She might have told him herself.”

“But you didn’t?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. I can keep a secret.”

Banks lit a cigarette and leaned back in the armchair. “How have you been, Ruth?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just a simple question. Healthy? Happy?”

“I’m doing all right. As well as can be expected. Why do you want to know?”

“How’s work?”

“Fine.”

“What exactly is it that you do?”

“Computers. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

“But steady? Well-paid?”

“It’s steady. That’s about the best you can say.”

“Do you own a car?”

Ruth got up and Banks followed her to the window. “There,” she said pointing, “that clapped-out cream Fiesta down there.”

Banks smiled. “I had one like that a few years back,” he said. “Cortina, actually. Nobody believed I could possibly be driving such a thing. They’d stopped making them years ago. But it was a good car, while it lasted.”

“Well,” said Ruth, folding her arms at the window. “It’ll have to last me a few years longer, that’s for sure.”

They sat down again. “Been on any trips lately?” Banks asked.

“Nope.”

“Seeing anyone?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just being friendly.”

“Well, you don’t have to be. Remember, you’re a copper and I’m a suspect.”

“Suspect? What makes you think that?”

A nasty smile twisted Ruth’s features. “Because I know you coppers. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, asking all sorts of questions. No matter. I didn’t do it. You can’t blame me.”

“I’m not trying to. How do you know coppers, Ruth? Ever been arrested?”

“No. I read the papers, though, watch the news. I know what racist, sexist bastards you are.”

Banks laughed. “You must be thinking of Dirty Dick.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Seeing as how you think you’re a suspect, though, you might as well tell me where you were on Thursday.”

“I was here. At home.”

“Not at work?”

“I had a cold. Still have. I was off Thursday and Friday. Does that mean I’ve got no alibi?”

“You haven’t been on any trips recently?”

“No. I told you. I haven’t been anywhere. And for your information, no, I’m not screwing anyone, either. You’ve got to be careful these days. It’s a lot different from when you were young, you know. We’ve got AIDS to think about. The worst you had to worry about was crabs or a dose of clap. Either way, it wasn’t going to kill you.”

Banks smiled. “I suppose you’re right. Did you ever go up to visit Emily in Yorkshire over the past month?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too busy at work. Besides, she never asked me.” Ruth snorted. “I can see why now.”

“Why?”

“It said in the paper that her father’s a chief constable and her mother’s a solicitor. They don’t sound exactly the sort of people she’d want to introduce someone like me to.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks. “You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”

Ruth flushed. “I know what I am.”

“Do you know Emily’s mother at all? Rosalind?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Just wondering.”

“Like I said, she’d hardly take me home to meet her mum and dad.”

“I suppose not. So you never spoke with her?”

“She answered the phone a couple of times when I called.”

“So the two of you have spoken?”

“Only to say hello, like, and ask for Emily.”

“Rosalind didn’t ask you any questions?”

“No. Just my name, that’s all.”

“And you told her?”

“Why wouldn’t I? What is this? Are you trying to make out her mother killed her now?”

“I hardly think so. Just trying to get things clear, that’s all. Have you seen anything of Craig?”

Ruth made herself more comfortable in the armchair, sitting with her legs curled under. “As a matter of fact, he phoned me after he heard about Emily on the news yesterday morning. We had lunch together. He had to come into town.”

“What for? To pay a call at GlamourPuss?”

“How would I know? He didn’t say.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine, I guess. I mean, we were both upset. Emily breezed in and out of both our lives. But if you’ve met her, then you’d know she certainly leaves an impression. The thought of somebody doing that to her… it’s too much to bear. You are certain it wasn’t just an accident, aren’t you? An overdose?”

“We’re certain.”

“Like I said, we were… you know, we couldn’t believe it. What about her father?”

“What about him?”

“Do you think he might have done it? I mean, she used to go on about how horrible he was, and if anyone can get hold of drugs and poisons, it’s the police.”

“Remember, he’s the one who wanted her back.”

“Yes,” said Ruth, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a whisper. “You told me that. But why did he want her back? Have you ever thought about that?”

Though it was Saturday, there was no time off for Eastvale CID that weekend. It would cost a fortune in overtime, but ACC McLaughlin and Superintendent Gristhorpe would hardly hesitate to approve the budget; there would be no stinting on this case. If Annie hadn’t seen the body for herself, she might have felt a little uncomfortable about the favoritism of it all, but having seen it, she knew that even if the victim had been a pox-ridden whore she would have been working on the case today, and working for nothing if she had to.

And Banks, the SIO, was down in London. Which left Annie in charge. She understood that he had to go and follow the leads he already knew about, but it left her with an unbearably heavy load, especially after so little sleep, and she couldn’t help but still feel irritated with him. After their little talk the previous day, she had softened toward him, but she still felt that he was holding something back. She didn’t know why or what it was about – something to do with Emily’s sojourn in London, she suspected – but it gave her the feeling that he knew something she didn’t. And she didn’t like that.

Already that morning she had called in at the incident room and found it the usual hive of activity. Winsome was sitting at the computer looking flustered as the pile of green sheets for entry into HOLMES rose quickly beside her, and Gavin Rickerd looked as if he had found his true calling in life making sure every scrap of information was neatly logged and numbered. He also looked as if he hadn’t slept since the murder.

After that, Annie had organized the investigation into Emily’s whereabouts between three and seven. She had ordered the posters the previous day and they were waiting when she got in. Banks had given her the photo he wanted used, and Annie thought it made Emily look a bit slutty. He said that was how people would remember her, and there was no point asking her parents for the sort of sanitized school photo or studio portrait they were likely to have. He also insisted that her description stressed that she looked older than her sixteen years.

The photo came above the question, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?” and that in turn was followed by the description, the hours they were interested in, and a telephone number to contact. She had sent out half a dozen uniformed officers to fix them to hoardings and telegraph poles along all the main streets and in as many shop windows as they could manage. After that, the officers were engaged in conducting a house-to-house in central Eastvale and the area around the Black Bull. Despite the stolen driving license, Emily didn’t drive or have access to a car, as far as anyone knew, so the odds were that she had stayed in town. She could have taken a bus or a train, of course, so both stations were being thoroughly covered. There was every chance that a bus driver, fellow passenger, or ticket vendor would remember her if she had traveled anywhere in the missing four hours.

Annie herself was set to go on the evening news program, she remembered, with a little twinge of fear. She didn’t like television, wasn’t comfortable with it at all, the way that, no matter how serious and public-spirited your appearance was, you knew you were only there to make the presenter look good. But that was one little prejudice she would have to swallow if she was to get the appeal for information across.

It was close to lunchtime, Annie’s first real chance that day to sit down at her own desk and do a bit of detective work, with Kevin Templeton making phone calls in the background. Though it was a long shot, she thought she should check and see if there were any other crimes with similar MOs, using cocaine laced with strychnine as a murder weapon. The PHOENIX system, set up by the National Criminal Records Office, Offered her nothing. But then there was every chance this killer hadn’t ever been convicted.

CATCHEM offered a few more options. Essentially, you could enter the victim details, stressing the salient features of the crime, and the system presented you with a potential scale of probability in several categories. After a little tinkering, Annie discovered that it was not necessarily likely that Emily knew her killer and that the killer might well be someone who felt slighted by society and had sadistic tendencies.

So much for computers.

She was just about to go to lunch when DS Hatchley came in. Annie was one of the few women in Eastvale Divisional Headquarters, or Western Divisional Headquarters, as it was now officially known, who didn’t particularly mind Sergeant Hatchley. She thought he was all show, all Yorkshire bluff. She knew he wasn’t soft underneath it all – Hatchley could be a hard man – but she didn’t think he was as daft as he painted himself, either, or as prejudiced as he pretended to be. Some men, she had come to realize over the years, act the way they think they’re supposed to act, especially in institutions such as the police and armed forces, while inside they might be desperate to be someone different, to be what they really feel they are. But they deny it. It was a kind of protective coloration. Hatchley was no pussycat, but she thought he had a depth of understanding and sympathy that he didn’t know quite what to do with. Marriage and fatherhood, too, had knocked off a few of the rough edges, or so she had heard.

Of course, despite Banks’s little crack the previous day, Annie hadn’t tracked down Dalton at the Fox and Hounds, and she felt a little guilty about palming Hatchley off on him. But not that guilty. Hatchley’s eyes had certainly lit up at the prospect of a pint. Annie knew that if Dalton stayed around much longer, it was only a matter of time before they bumped into each other. He might even walk into the detectives’ office this very moment, and then there would be no avoiding him. She didn’t want to meet him, didn’t want to talk to him, but she wasn’t scared of him, and she was damned if she was going to go around the place trying to avoid him anymore.

Hatchley said hello and grumbled about his aching feet.

“Where’ve you been?” Annie asked, feeling conciliatory after asking the favor of him. “Not another alien abduction?”

“No such luck. Charlie bloody Courage. You know, some people just don’t seem to care how much inconvenience they cause by getting themselves murdered.”

Annie smiled. “Daleview again?”

“Aye. And about as much use as the time you were there.”

“Nobody saw the van?”

“On a Sunday night about ten o’clock? Nobody there.”

“Except Charlie.”

“Except the PKF people, who we’re trying to find, Charlie himself, and Jonathan Fearn, the van driver, who’s still languishing in a coma in Newcastle.”

“Best way to be, in Newcastle,” said Annie.

“Nay, lass, it’s not such a bad place. Some grand pubs there. Anyway, according to my sources, Charlie did know Jonathan Fearn, so we’ve got a connection there, however tenuous. Peas in a pod.”

“Maybe Courage lined up the job for him, thought he was doing him a favor?”

“Could be.”

“What did you find out from this DI… what’s his name?”

“Dalton. DI Wayne Dalton. Seems a nice-enough sort of bloke. You ask me, though, he’s down on a weekend break.”

“In December?”

“Why not? The weather’s not so bad. He’s a bit of a rambler, apparently. Talking about going walking up Reeth way on Sunday morning. Says if he gets a nine-o’clock start, he’ll just about be ready to enjoy a pint and roast beef dinner at The Bridge in Grinton by twelve. The Bridge does a lovely roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Nice pint, too. Not that you’d catch me walking, mind you.”

Looking at him, Annie could believe it. Hatchley was about six feet two, with fine fair hair starting to thin a bit on top, the “roast beef” complexion of someone with blood-pressure problems and about thirty or forty pounds excess baggage, to be generous.

Her thoughts drifted off at what he said. Maybe that was the answer. If Dalton was indeed planning a walk on Sunday, the odds were that there wouldn’t be many people around. The middle of nowhere might be the best place to confront him. The idea excited her. It would mean making herself scarce on Sunday morning, but she thought she could probably manage that if she had everything in order by then. After all, with Banks away, she was in charge, so nobody was going to question her if she was out of the station for a few hours.

Dare she do it? What would she say if she stepped out in front of him on a deserted footpath? What would he do? Would he get physical, perhaps even try to get rid of her permanently? Having seen him again, Annie didn’t think she need worry on that score.

But perhaps, when it came down to it, what worried her more than what he might do to her in a lonely place was what she might do to him.

The lights were blazing in Barry Clough’s Little Venice villa when Banks and Burgess arrived shortly after eight that Saturday evening. Someone had even rigged up some Christmas lights on the facade of the house and put up a big tree in the garden.

“Bit early for a party, isn’t it?” said Burgess, glancing at his watch.

“It’s never too early for this lot,” said Banks. “Their whole life is one long party.”

“Now, now, Banks. Isn’t envy one of the seven deadly sins? Thou must not covet thy neighbor’s arse, and all that.”

The iron gates were open, but a minder stood at the front door asking for invitations. He wasn’t one of the two Banks had seen on his previous visit. Maybe Clough went through minders the way some people went through chauffeurs or maids. Hard to get good help these days. Banks and Burgess showed him their warrant cards, but he clearly wasn’t programmed to deal with anything like that. The way he screwed up his face in concentration as he looked at them, Banks wondered if he even got past the photographs.

“These mean we get in free,” said Burgess.

“I’ll have to check with the boss. Wait here.”

The minder opened the door to go inside, and before he could close it, Burgess had followed him, with Banks not far behind. Banks realized he had to remember whom he was with, what a loose cannon Burgess could be, and how he’d have to be on his toes. Still, he had invited the bastard, and it was good to have company you could depend on if the shit hit the fan. Burgess wasn’t one to shirk trouble, no matter what form it came in.

There were people all over the place. All sorts of people. Young, old, tough-looking, artsy-fartsy, well-dressed, scruffy, black, white – you name it. Music blasted through speakers that seemed to be positioned, discreetly out of sight, just about everywhere. Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” Banks noticed. How retro. Still, Clough would have been in his mid-twenties when he was a roadie for the punk band, which meant he had been in his teens when Cream came along, pretty much the same age as Banks. The air reeked of marijuana smoke.

The minder, who had noticed his mistake, elbowed his way roughly through the crowds in the hallway, upsetting one or two less-than-sober guests, whose drinks he spilled, and returned before the song finished with Barry Clough in tow.

The man himself.

“Did we come at a bad time, Barry?” Burgess asked.

After the initial cold anger had fleeted across his chiseled features, Clough smiled with all the warmth of a piranha, clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Not at all. Not at all.” The black T-shirt he was wearing stretched tight over his biceps, and other muscles bulged at the chest and shoulders. All he needed for the complete rebel look was a cigarette packet shoved up the sleeve. He wore no jewelry this time, and he was wearing his graying hair loose, tucked behind his ears on each side and hanging down to his shoulders. Banks was glad of that; he didn’t think he could handle matching ponytails. The loose hair made Clough look younger and softened his appearance a little, but there was still no mistaking the icy menace in his eyes and the feral threat in his sharply angled features.

“Tales of Brave Ulysses” segued into “swlabr.” Someone bumped into Banks from behind and muttered an apology. He turned and saw it was an attractive young girl, not much older than Emily had been. He vaguely recognized her from somewhere, but before he could remember where, she had disappeared into the crowd.

“Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?” Banks asked Clough.

Clough appeared to consider the question for a moment, head cocked to one side, as if it were his decision, a not-so-subtle way of gaining a psychological edge in an interview. It was wasted on Banks. He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Up there, for example,” he said.

Finally, Clough gave a minuscule nod and led them up the stairs. The first room they went into turned out to be occupied by a couple squirming and moaning on a pile of the guests’ coats.

“It’s unhygienic, that,” said Burgess. “I go to a party, you know, I don’t expect to go home with my raincoat covered in other people’s love juices.”

Clough twisted one corner of his tight lips into what passed for a smile. “They’ll be too fucking stoned to notice,” he said, then he turned to Banks. “You’re not drugs squad, are you?”

Banks shook his head.

“It’s just that there are a lot of important people here. Even a few coppers. Anything like that would be terribly messy. It would make the Stones drugs bust look like a vicarage tea party.”

“I remember that one,” said Burgess. “I wasn’t there, but I always wanted to meet the young lady with the Mars bar.” A skinny young girl with a joint in her hand walked past them in the hallway. “In fact,” Burgess went on, grabbing the joint from her, “some of us coppers quite enjoy a little recreational marijuana every now and then.” He took a deep toke, held the smoke awhile, then let it out slowly. “Paki black? Not bad.” Then he dropped the joint on the carpet and trod on it. “Sorry, Banks,” he said when he’d done. “Forgot you might have wanted a toke. On the other hand, you don’t strike me as the toking type.”

“That’s all right,” said Banks, who actually wouldn’t have minded trying the stuff again on another occasion. But he was keeping his mind clear for Emily. Instead, he lit a cigarette.

“I see,” said Clough, staring down at the burned spot on the carpet. He looked at Burgess. “You’re the bad cop and he’s the good cop, right?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

A muscular young man with bleached-blond hair came up to them as they walked down the upstairs hall. “Everything all right?” he asked Clough. “Only I didn’t think Mr. Burgess here was on the invitation list.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine and dandy. Maybe we should remember to add him in the future. Seems like the life and soul of the party type to me.”

“Who’s that?” Banks asked Burgess.

“Jamie Gilbert. Nasty little psycho. He’s Barry’s chief enforcer.”

Gilbert walked away laughing and Clough turned to them. “Jamie’s my administrative assistant,” he said.

“Well, that covers a multitude of sins,” Burgess shot back.

They finally found an empty room on the top floor. Completely empty. No furniture. White walls. White floorboards.

“Is this the best you can do?” said Banks.

Clough shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

At least it was protected for the most part from the music downstairs, and there was a light. Trying to conduct an interview while sitting on the floor wouldn’t be very dignified, so they all chose to stand and lean against walls. It gave a strange sort of three-sided edge to the conversation.

Clough folded his arms and leaned back. “So, what’s it all about, then?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” said Banks.

“Humor me. Last time I saw you, you were a friend of Emily’s father.”

“I thought she was called Louisa?”

“No, you didn’t. You knew what her name was. I only found out from the papers.”

“So you do know what happened?”

“I know she’s dead, yes. Nothing to do with me.”

“Well, excuse us for thinking you’re a good bet,” Burgess cut in. He had agreed to let Banks do most of the interviewing, But Banks knew he would be impossible to shut up completely. Clough stared at Burgess as if he were a piece of dog shit on his shoe. He didn’t know that Burgess thrived on looks like that; they only made him better at his job.

Banks could make out the faint sounds of “White Room” coming from downstairs. A “best of” album, then, and not Disraeli Gears, as he had originally thought. The song was strangely appropriate, Banks thought, looking around the white room they were in. He wasn’t sure what he expected from this interview. Certainly not for Clough to confess. If anything, he wanted to go away with the certainty that he had the right man in his sights, a gut feeling, if that was the best he could come up with, then begin the slow painstaking grind toward finding enough evidence to prove it, knowing that was only the beginning of the struggle.

Between the Crown Prosecution Service’s reluctance to prosecute anyone, and the expensive barristers to whom Clough no doubt had access, there was every possibility that the man could get away with murder. Then what? Private vengeance? Would Riddle do it himself or try to hire Banks to kill Clough the way he had used him to find Emily? Christ, though, you had to draw the line somewhere, and Banks thought he drew his at murder, no matter how despicable the victim. He wasn’t too sure about Burgess, though; sometimes his cynical gray eyes took on the look of a stone-killer.

“What we’d expect you to say,” Banks went on, “but let’s back up a little, first. How did you feel when Emily left you?”

“What do you mean, left me? I threw her out.”

“Not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Okay.” Banks held his hand up. “I can tell you’re sensitive about it, so let’s carry on. That final night, at the party, you pushed her into a room with Andrew Handley, right?”

“I pushed her nowhere. She was so stoned she could hardly walk. She stumbled in there herself.”

“But you don’t deny she ended up in a room with Handley?”

“Why should I?”

“And that he tried to rape her?”

“Rape’s a bit strong for what happened there.”

“Attempted rape, then? I don’t think so.”

“Call it what you will. It was nothing to do with me. If Andy wanted to try it on with the little slut, that was his business.”

“And Emily escaped, ran away?”

“When did she tell you all… wait a minute.” Clough put one hand to the side of his head and made an expression of mock thinking. “Wait a minute. I get it. After she left the party, she ran to you. Right? She knew where you were staying. She spent the night with you. That’s why you’re so upset. Tell me, Chief Inspector Banks, did you like it? Did you like that wet, scaly little tongue of hers licking your-”

Clough didn’t finish the sentence because as Banks struggled with the desire to lash out, Burgess beat him to it and gave Clough a backhander that sent him staggering toward the other wall. Typical Burgess, that; it was all right for him to tease Banks about sleeping with Emily, but not anyone else. Clough looked ready to fight back, muscles twitching, wiping a little thread of blood from the side of his mouth and giving Burgess one of those looks. But he regained his composure. And to give him his due, Banks thought, he didn’t make any noise about lawsuits or revenge.

He stuck his tongue out and licked the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, taking up his position against the wall again. “I got a little carried away then. Very rude of me to speak ill of the dead like that. I apologize.”

Banks relaxed and offered him a cigarette. “Apology accepted.”

Clough took it, and lit it with his own lighter. “Thanks. Forgot mine downstairs. I was in the kitchen enjoying a nice glass of Château Margaux when you two arrived.”

“We’ll make sure you get back to your wine before it turns to vinegar, Mr. Clough,” said Banks. “But no more flights of fancy, okay? Just answer the questions.”

“Yes, officer.” Clough smiled and cracked the crust of blood, sending another thin stream down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and went on smoking, blood staining the filter of his cigarette.

“After Emily left, did you check up on her, find out who she was, where she lived?”

“Why would I do that? I’d finished with her. She wasn’t worth the effort.”

“So you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Did you know who she was?”

“Not until I read it in the papers. Sleeping with a chief constable’s daughter, eh?” He laughed. “Wonder what my associates would say.”

“Your associates being criminals?”

“Now that’s close to slander, that is.”

“Sue me.”

“Not worth the effort.”

“Not much is worth the effort with you, is it, Barry?”

“What can I say? Life goes on. Seize the moment. Live for the now.”

Banks looked at Burgess. “And I never used to believe it when they said drugs could do you permanent damage.”

Burgess laughed.

“Where’d you get the strychnine, Barry?” Banks asked.

“The what?”

“You heard.”

“Never touch the stuff. I’ve heard it’s bad for your health.”

Banks sighed. “Is Andrew Handley here tonight? I wouldn’t mind a word with him.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t. Unfortunately, no, he’s not. In fact, he’s no longer in my employ.”

“You fired him?”

“Let’s say we came to a parting of the ways.”

“Have you got his address?”

“We weren’t that close. It was only business.”

“Ever heard of PKF Computer Systems?”

“What?”

Was there just a slight flicker of recognition there? Clough off-guard for a moment, letting it through? Banks knew he could easily be imagining it, but he thought his internal antennae had detected something. It wasn’t as far-fetched as he had originally thought when Burgess told him about Clough’s business practices. Move into a business park, do whatever crooked little thing it is you do and then, before anyone twigs on to it, move somewhere else. Which is where the white van rented by PKF, which didn’t exist, was going when it was hijacked. The driver still in a coma. There were plenty of business parks and trading estates in the country, most of them fairly remote. They were good places to operate from. And Emily had said something about Clough visiting Eastvale. She had also thought she saw Jamie Gilbert there. Could there be a motive for killing her in that? Something she knew about Clough’s business operations? She had a photographic memory, like her mother, Banks remembered.

“PKF,” Banks repeated.

“No, never heard of it. Why, should I have?”

“Charlie Courage?”

“I’m sure I’d remember someone with a name like that.”

“But you don’t.”

“No.”

Banks could sense Burgess getting impatient across from him. Maybe he had a point; they seemed to be getting nowhere fast. “Where were you last Thursday afternoon?” he asked.

“Why? Is that when it happened?”

“Just answer the fucking question.” Burgess did his world-weary voice.

Clough didn’t even look at him. “I was out of the country.”

“All day?”

“All week, actually. In Spain.”

“Nice for you. Sure you didn’t nip up to Yorkshire for an hour or two?”

“Why would I want to do something like that? The weather’s far better in Spain.”

“Weekend in the country, perhaps? Get your own back on Emily? After all, you don’t like losing your prized possessions, do you?”

Clough laughed. “If she told you that, then she’s got a pretty inflated opinion of herself.”

“A little overproof coke, Barry? Make her suffer?”

“You’re mad.” Clough pushed himself away from the wall. “Look, I’ve been patient with you, but this is absurd. Time for you to go wherever coppers crawl after dark and time for me to get back to my fun and games. Any more talking and my lawyer will be present.”

“Here, is he?”

Clough grinned. “As a matter of fact, he is.” Then he opened the door and gestured for them to leave. They stood their ground a moment, then, there being no point staying any longer, Banks gave Burgess the nod, and they left. As Burgess was passing Clough on the way out, Banks heard Clough whisper, “And don’t think I’ll forget what you did back there. I’ll crush you for that, little man. I own people more important than you.”

Burgess gave a mock shudder. “Ooh! I’m quaking in my boots.”

Then they pushed their way through the stream of people coming up and down the stairs, edged through the hall and said good night to the minder, who grunted. While they were still in his earshot, Banks said, “Maybe we should call in the drugs squad, after all?”

The bouncer disappeared inside the house like a shot.

“Party pooper,” said Burgess. “Besides, they’re probably already in there.”

They walked out of the gates and headed toward the canal. “It was an interesting evening, though,” said Burgess. “Very interesting indeed. Thanks for inviting me. I enjoyed myself.”

“My pleasure.”

“And, I must say, Banks. You surprise me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, listen to him. So modest. So naive. The girl, Banks. The girl in the hotel room. You’re the quiet one, aren’t you? But you’ve got hidden depths. My administration for you has just grown by leaps and bounds. I didn’t realize how close to the mark I was.”

Banks gritted his teeth. They were near the Regent’s Canal now, which gave Little Venice its name. For Banks, at that moment, it evoked fond memories not of Venice but of Amsterdam, and of Burgess flailing around cursing in the filthy water. Down the steps, a little push, a tiny trip. But no. That would be just too childish.

“Nothing happened,” Banks said.

“Like I said, leaps and bounds,” Burgess repeated, clapping his arm around Banks’s shoulder. “And, now, my old cock sparrow, the night is still young, I suggest we head for the nearest pub and get shitfaced. What do you say, Banks?”