Cold Is The Grave

14

Alot of people, Banks mused, thought that the police attended the funerals of murder victims in the hope of finding the killer there. They didn’t. That only happened in books and on television. On the other hand, given that a victim’s close relatives were likely to be at the funeral, and given that by far the largest percentage of murders were committed by close family members, then the odds were pretty good that the murderer would be at the funeral.

Not this one, though. Barry Clough wasn’t there, for a start, and he was the closest they had to a suspect so far, even though Riddle was probably right about Emily being of far more value to him alive. Was Banks wearing blinkers when it came to Clough, or was he going off half-cocked, as Gristhorpe had warned him against doing? He didn’t think so. He knew it didn’t make sense for Clough to kill Emily just after he had used her to attempt to blackmail her father, but he was sure there must be something he was missing, some angle he hadn’t considered yet. The only thing he had thought of, but didn’t really believe in, was that Clough was some sort of psychopath and simply hadn’t been able to stop himself. If that had been the case, he would have made damn sure he was there to watch and participate in Emily’s murder.

Craig Newton and Ruth Walker had traveled up together; they stood looking puzzled and miserable in the rain as the vicar intoned the Twenty-third Psalm. Banks caught their eyes; Craig gave him a curt nod and Ruth gave him a dirty look.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.” There was nothing green about the Dales pastures that morning – everything, from sky to houses to the unevenly shaped fields and drystone walls was a dull slate-gray or a mud-brown – nor was there anything still about the River Swain, which tumbled over a series of small waterfalls beside the graveyard and, along with the wind screaming through the gaps in the drystone wall like a Stockhausen composition, almost drowned out the vicar’s words. The wind also drove the rain hard across the churchyard, and the mourners seemed to draw as deeply into their heavy overcoats, gloves and hats as they could.

At least the vicar was using the old version, Banks noticed. “The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack nothing” had about as much resonance as “as in a mirror, dimly,” he thought. Not that he went to church very often, but like many people, he remembered the powerful church language of his youth and anything less fell far short. He hadn’t known what half of it meant, either then or now, but it never seemed to matter; religion, he thought, was mostly a matter of mumbo-jumbo, anyway. Chants, mantras, whatever. Comforting mumbo-jumbo, in this case, though nobody was fooled. Rosalind Riddle dabbed at her eyes with a white hanky every now and then, Benjamin stood next to her, looking confused, and her husband looked as if he had been up all night grappling with his conscience.

When Riddle caught Banks’s eye briefly on the way out to the graveside, he looked away guiltily. And well he might, thought Banks, who still felt a residue of anger toward him for stalling the investigation. He had realized after his interview with Riddle the previous day, though, that he had also been guilty of hiding too many things; he hadn’t told Annie about the lunch with Emily at first, and he still hadn’t told her about the night in the hotel room. With any luck now, she wouldn’t find out about that. Of course, he could rationalize his own shortcomings a lot more easily than he could Riddle’s, but he could at least understand why Riddle might not like to admit to him that he had kept a dinner engagement with his daughter’s lover, a man who also happened to have a criminal reputation. Would Riddle have capitulated with whatever Clough wanted from him in order to protect himself and Emily? What kind of man was he when it came to the crunch? He would never have the chance to find out now. Virtue can’t prove itself until it’s tested.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” The valley of the shadow of death was a phrase that had always moved Banks, sent a shiver up his spine, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain what it meant to him. It was one phrase they hadn’t got rid of in the new translation, too. He thought of poor Graham Marshall all those years ago, walking through the valley of the shadow of death. They had never found his body, so he never had a funeral like Emily. There had been some sort of memorial service at school, Banks remembered, or a remembrance service, he wasn’t sure which. The headmaster had recited the Twenty-third Psalm. So much death. Sometimes his head seemed full of the voices of the dead.

Banks found himself wishing the funeral would soon be over. It wasn’t only the weather, the rain dripping down the back of his neck and the wet, cold wind that cut right through three layers of clothing to the bone, but the sight of the coffin perched at the graveside ready to be lowered, knowing that Emily was in there, the once-vital, mischievous spirit who had curled up and slept like a little child with her thumb in her mouth in a hotel room once, with him sitting in the chair listening to Dawn Upshaw’s song about sleep. Cold, cold is the grave, a line from an old folk ballad passed through his mind. The grave looked cold indeed, but the only one not feeling it now was Emily.

When it was over, the body lowered into its final resting place, people started drifting toward the car park. Ruth and Craig approached the Riddles. The chief constable seemed oblivious to them, and Craig hung back. Ruth said something to Rosalind, something that looked deeply earnest. Rosalind uttered a few words and touched her arm. Then Rosalind saw Banks alone and walked over to him with an elderly couple in tow.

“My mother and father,” she said, introducing them.

Banks shook their hands and offered his condolences.

“Are you coming to the house?” Rosalind asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t. Too much work.” He could probably have spared half an hour or so, but the truth was that he didn’t fancy making small talk with the Riddle family. “What did Ruth want?” he asked.

“Oh, so that’s who it is,” said Rosalind. “I wondered. She said she was a friend of Emily’s and wondered if she might have some sort of keepsake.”

“And?”

“I suggested she drop by the house and I’d see what I could do. Why?”

“No reason. The boy with her’s Craig Newton. Emily’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“Technically, yes. He pestered her after they split up, and he doesn’t have an alibi.”

“But realistically?”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Rosalind glanced over at the two of them. “Then I suppose I should invite them both back to the house, shouldn’t I?”

“They’ve come a long way.”

“How did they know it was today?”

“I phoned Craig last night. The last time I interviewed him he said he’d like to be there, and I could see no reason why not. He must have contacted Ruth.”

Rosalind shook Banks’s hand and walked over with her mother and father toward Ruth’s car. Banks also saw Darren Hirst and the others who had been in the Bar None with Emily on the night of her death, Tina and Jackie. They all looked shell-shocked. Darren nodded and walked by. That reminded Banks of a glimmer of an idea he’d had, something he wanted to ask Darren. Not now, though; it would keep. Leave the poor lad to his grief for a while.

Back at the office, before Banks could even get his overcoat off and sit down, DS Hatchley knocked on his door and entered.

“How’s it going, Jim?” Banks asked.

“Fine. The funeral?”

“What you’d expect.”

Hatchley shut the door behind him and sat down opposite Banks. He was the opposite of Annie when it came to looking comfortable, always perched at the edge of the chair, squirming as if something sharp were digging into his arse. He took his cigarettes out and glanced at Banks for permission. Banks got up and opened the window, despite the cold, and both of them lit up.

“It’s about Castle Hill Books,” said Hatchley. “I sent young Lose-Some out there yesterday afternoon and she came back with an interesting haul.”

“Go on.”

“The owner’s a slimy little sod called Stan Fish. He’s been selling porn on the side for years. Anyway, it turns out he’s got a whole cupboardful of pirated computer software, games and music CDs. He says he got them from a chap he knows only as Greg. This Greg comes around every couple of weeks in a white van with a selection. So Lose-Some whips out her picture of Gregory Manners, and bob’s-your-uncle.”

“Good,” said Banks. “That’ll give us a bit of extra ammunition.” He looked at his watch. “Manners is on his way here as we speak.”

“Lose-Some also brought in a few samples of the goods,” Hatchley went on. “Vic Manson’s checking them for prints now. I’ll get him to put a rush on it. If he can match them with Manners’s…”

“It still doesn’t give us much, though,” said Banks. “Even if we can do Manners for pirating and distributing copyrighted software, it’s hardly a serious charge.”

“It might give you a handle on this other villain you’re after, though.”

“Barry Clough?”

“Aye.” Hatchley stubbed out his cigarette. “Yon Lose-Some has also been showing Manners’s picture around Daleview and a couple of people recognized him.”

“Nobody’s seen Clough, Andy Pandy or Jamie Gilbert around there, though?”

“Not yet, but we’re still asking.” Hatchley got up to leave. Before he could go, the door opened and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe barged in brandishing one of the more notorious London tabloids. Gristhorpe sniffed the air, scowled at both of them, then said, “Seen the papers this morning, Alan?”

Banks looked at the newspaper. “Even if I’d had time,” he said, “it wouldn’t have been that one.”

A smile split Gristhorpe’s ruddy, pockmarked face. “Wouldn’t be my first choice either,” he said. “More the sort of thing you’d be reading, eh, Sergeant Hatchley?”

“If I’d time, sir,” muttered Hatchley, edging his way out of the office, winking at Banks as he shut the door behind him.

Gristhorpe dropped the tabloid on Banks’s desk. “You’d better have a gander, Alan,” he said. “It looks as if I’m going to be on damage control for the rest of the day.” Then he left as abruptly as he’d entered.

The color cover photo in itself was almost enough to give Banks a heart attack. There were two photos, actually, one of Barry Clough leaving a Soho restaurant, thrusting his palm toward the cameraman, and one of Jimmy Riddle leaving police headquarters. The way the photos were arranged together made it look as if the two men were meeting face-to-face. Centered below them was a photograph of Emily. It was a good one, professional, and it featured her “sophisticated” heroin-chic look. She had her blond hair piled up in an expensive mess and wore a strapless black evening gown. Not the same dress she’d been wearing the night of the hotel room, but a similar one. Banks had seen the picture before, or one very much like it, in Craig Newton’s house. Could Craig have sold it to the newspapers? Was he still that bitter over his split-up with Emily? More likely, Banks thought, that Barry Clough had got hold of some copies when Emily was living with him and that this was his response to Emily’s death and Riddle’s silence.

The headline screamed up at him: “CHIEF CONSTABLE’S DAUGHTER MURDER CASE: WHAT ARE THEY HIDING?” The story went on to tell of Emily’s association with “well-known club owner and man-about-town Barry Clough,” a man “the same age as her senior policeman father.” After a couple of not so subtle indications that “well-known club owner and man-about-town” was sort of shorthand for gangster, there were a couple of morally high-handed digressions of the “Do you know what your daughter’s doing and who she’s with tonight?” sort before the reporter got the real nitty-gritty: speculation about Clough’s expanding his “business empire” up north, and about his and Riddle’s being involved in some sort of crooked partnership. Emily’s role in all this was left to the readers to guess.

The article had obviously been vetted by the paper’s solicitors, and it stopped just short of libel. For example, never at any point did the reporter state that Riddle and Clough had met and talked, or that Riddle had known about Emily’s relationship with Clough – the reporter clearly hadn’t found out about Scarlea House yet – but the whole thing was a masterpiece of innuendo, and the implications in themselves were damaging enough. Banks could only imagine how Riddle’s political cronies would react to it.

Banks also realized that the damage wouldn’t stop with the political set either; this sort of thing could also easily make Riddle a pariah on the Job. Whether there was anything in them or not, such rumors could effectively end his police career. Already Banks suspected there were mutterings at high levels about a chief constable so careless as to let his own daughter get murdered while snorting cocaine in a nightclub. Not to mention the rumors of drugs and sex that went with it all. One way or another, as a politician or as a high-ranking copper, Banks imagined that Jimmy Riddle’s tenuous reign had come to an end. Humpty-Dumpty.

What surprised Banks was that he felt sorry for the poor bastard.

And what about Rosalind and Benjamin? What would all this do to them?

Banks still remembered Ruth Walker’s final question to him only last Saturday: Why did Emily’s father want her back, when he hadn’t appeared to care about her before? Banks had thought about that a lot since. At first he had suspected Riddle wanted her back to avoid more damage to his career and, to credit him with some fatherly feelings, because he was worried about her after he saw the photos on the porno Web site. Perhaps he was wrong about that. At some point in the investigation, the Riddles themselves had joined the group of suspects in Banks’s mind.

The big problem with Jimmy Riddle as a suspect was that whichever way you looked at it, Emily’s murder only made things worse for him. Sure, her continuing existence had always held out the risk of scandal, but her death guaranteed it. On the other hand, given the pressure that Riddle might have been under since Clough’s approach at Scarlea, something could have snapped in him.

And what about Rosalind? She hadn’t particularly wanted Emily back at home. She had made that clear from the start. What if she had a good reason for it, and Emily had become, somehow, a threat to her? But how? Why? It still didn’t feel right, especially given the method, but perhaps it was time to start pushing the grieving parents a bit harder.

A knock at his door jolted him out of his musings. It was DC Templeton.

“Yes, Kev?”

“Thought you’d like to know, sir, uniformed just brought Gregory Manners in. He’s waiting in interview room three.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there. Ask DS Hatchley to sit in, too, will you?”

“Will do, sir.”

“By the way, where’d they find him?”

“Strangest place you could imagine.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

DC Templeton grinned. “At home, sir. Nice little flat out Thirsk way.”

Banks grinned back. “Oh, and Kev, there’s one more thing I’d like you to do.”

Gregory Manners was a smoothie, right from his carefully combed, impossibly brown hair to the soles of his Italian loafers. He was good-looking in a way, and Banks could see that he might appeal to a certain kind of woman.

The interview room was a dingy, airless sort of place with whitewashed walls, a tiny wire-mesh window and metal table and chairs bolted to the floor. The old blue ashtray, stolen from the Queen’s Arms, was gone now that smoking had been banned from the building, but the air still seemed to smell of stale smoke, sweat and fear. Manners sat there coolly, legs crossed, idly staring into space. When Banks and Hatchley entered he asked why he had been brought there.

Banks ignored him and checked the tapes in the recording machine. Hatchley sat impassive as Buddha, and almost as fat.

The tapes worked. Banks went through the time, date and place routine, naming those present in the room, then he turned to Manners and said, “You’re here to help us with our inquiries, Mr. Manners.”

“What inquiries?”

“Things will become clear as we move along.”

Manners leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Should I have my lawyer present?”

“I understand you put in a call to your solicitor before you left home?”

“Before I was brought here, yes. And all I got was his answering machine.”

“They’re busy people. You left a message?”

“I told him to get up here sharpish.”

“In the meantime, you’ve been offered the services of a duty solicitor?”

“Some wet-behind-the-ears little pillock who can’t get a proper job?”

“And you’ve declined?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, Mr. Manners, let’s proceed with the interview. Just for the record, you haven’t been charged with anything yet so there’s no need to get overexcited. I’m sure your own solicitor will get here as soon as he possibly can, but in the meantime let’s just have a little chat, all right?”

Manners narrowed his eyes but sat back in his chair and relaxed, crossing his legs again. “What do you want to know? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.” Banks took the CD case that Annie had found at PKF out of its envelope and pushed it over the rickety metal table to Manners. “Know what this is?”

Manners looked at it. “It’s a CD container.”

“Good. Maybe you can tell me what your fingerprints are doing on this particular CD container?”

“I suppose I must have touched it.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Indeed, you must have touched it. Can you tell me what you were doing at the Daleview Business Park?”

“Daleview? Working. Why?”

“I don’t know, Gregory. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, that’s what I was doing. Working. I don’t understand this. I haven’t done anything illegal. Why are you questioning me?”

“We want to know about the operations of PKF Computer Systems.”

“What about it?”

“Is that who you worked for at Daleview?”

“Yes. But I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“And what if I told you that it’s dummy company? That it doesn’t exist?”

“Then I’d be very surprised indeed.”

“Who set it up?”

“What?”

“PKF.”

“I did, of course. The whole thing’s me. Just me. Look, there must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake.”

“A mistake with the paperwork. I was sure I did it right.”

“There is no paperwork, Gregory. Bugger all. PKF doesn’t exist.”

“Well, if it doesn’t exist, then I can hardly know anything about it, can I? So why don’t I just leave now?”

“Sit down!” Hatchley slammed his ham-sized fist on the table and the noise made Manners jump.

“Hey,” said Manners. “There’s no need for that. That’s intimidation.”

“Any more of this bollocks, and I’ll show you what intimidation is,” growled Hatchley.

“I’m sure if you just answer my questions as clearly and fully as you can, DS Hatchley will listen as eagerly as I will, won’t you, Sergeant?”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, “soon as he stops trying to feed us this crap.”

Manners swallowed. “Look, what do you want to know? I’m sorry if I ballsed up the paperwork. Is it a criminal offense?”

“Probably,” said Banks, “but we’ll worry about that later. What did you do at PKF?”

“Developed, produced and marketed a commercial database program.”

“Called?”

“PKF.”

“You invented this?”

“I did.”

“You worked alone?”

“For the most part.”

“It sounds like a lot of work for one person.”

“I’ve never been afraid of hard work. On occasion, I hired casual labor to help with distribution and such things.”

“People like Jonathan Fearn?”

Manners frowned. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I might have, yes.”

Banks took the photographs of Andrew Handley, Jamie Gilbert and Barry Clough out of his file folder and slid them across to Manners. “Ever seen any of these men?”

“No.”

Banks tapped the picture of Clough. “This one in particular,” he said. “Go on, have a good look. Think about it.”

“I told you. No.”

“Didn’t you do six months for smuggling offenses down south not long ago?”

“I just happened to get caught doing something people get away with every day.”

“You must be a heavy smoker and drinker, then.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So you were going to sell the goods you smuggled?”

“Of course I was going to sell them. People go over to Calais and load up their cars every bloody weekend, for crying out loud. What’s this got to do with anything?”

Banks tapped Clough’s photo again. “We have information that leads us to believe this man was behind both the smuggling operation and whatever PKF was up to.”

“Then your information is wrong. I’ve never seen him in my life. Or the other two. I imported the stuff myself, and I also ran PKF. Which wasn’t up to anything, by the way. Maybe I got the paperwork wrong, maybe I just forgot to make everything all official, but if that’s why I’m here, just charge me and get it over with. You know I’ll be walking out the minute my lawyer gets here.”

“Who said anything about charging you?”

“I can’t understand why else you had me brought here.”

“What’s happened to PKF?”

“I’m sure you know already,” said Manners. “The van was hijacked on its way to our new business’ premises in Northumbria and everything was stolen. There is no PKF anymore.”

“And the driver was killed.”

“Yes. Very unfortunate, that.”

“A Mr. Fearn. Jonathan Fearn.”

“Yes, well, as I said, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember his name. I simply hired him to do the job.”

“Where did you find him?”

“Mr. Courage, the night watchman at Daleview, recommended him.”

“Ah, yes,” said Banks, shuffling some papers in his folder. “Charlie Courage. Small-time villain. Must have got in over his head.”

Manners frowned. “Come again?”

“Funny you should mention Mr. Courage, Greg. He also met with an unfortunate accident, shortly after Mr. Fearn. He found himself at the wrong end of a shotgun.”

“Yes, I read about that in the paper,” said Manners. “It was a terrible shock. He seemed a decent-enough bloke.”

“He was a crook, but you know all about that. Let’s move on.”

“By all means.” Manners shifted in his chair and rearranged his legs.

“Do you believe in coincidences?”

“They happen all the time.”

“And do you believe that the van getting hijacked, Jonathan Fearn dying of injuries received, and Charlie Courage being shot just happen to be coincidences?”

“They could be.”

“Why were you leaving Daleview?”

“The rent was too expensive. This new place was cheaper, and the space was better. Bigger.”

“Tell me again what PKF actually did.”

“I manufactured and distributed a database system I invented.”

“Background in computers? College?”

“Self-taught. A lot of people in the business are.”

“To whom did you distribute this software?”

Retailers.”

“Names?”

“Look, I’m sure I have a list somewhere. What is this all about?”

The knock came at the door, as arranged, and it couldn’t have been better timed. Banks announced DC Templeton’s arrival and paused the tape. “What is it, Kev?”

“Thought you might be interested in this, sir,” said Templeton, glancing at Manners as he spoke. “It’s just come in from fingerprints. Those CD cases.”

“Ah, yes,” said Banks. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He opened the file. Templeton left the office. Banks pored over the file frowning for a while, showed the papers to Hatchley, then he set the tapes going again.

“This is interesting,” he said to Manners.

“What is it?”

“Fingerprint results. Another CD case.”

“But I don’t understand. You’ve already found my prints on the CD case. I’ve explained that to you already.”

“But this is different, see, Greg,” said Banks. “This is another case entirely.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ve touched more than one.”

“Yes, but it’s where we found it and what it contained that interests me.”

Manners seemed to turn a little pale. “I don’t… where did you find it?”

“Shop called Castle Hill Books. Run by a man called Stan Fish. Ring any bells?”

“He might have been one of my retailers.”

“For your PKF database software?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come this particular case contained a brand new Sony PlayStation game?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the owner of the shop switched them around.”

“Could be,” said Banks. “In fact, I’d be inclined to believe that would be exactly the case, except…”

“Except what?”

“Except we found your prints on six other cases containing the same game, and we have a lot more to test before we’re finished. Some of them contain a brand-new music CD by REM. Hardly even in the shops yet. Then there are a few word-processing programs and so forth. Funny, though, Greg, no PKF database system.”

Manners crossed his arms. “Right, that’s it,” he said. “I’m not saying another word until my lawyer gets here.”

Two hours later, toward the end of the afternoon, Manners was still in custody waiting for his solicitor and Banks was in his office reading through witness statements when his telephone rang.

It was Dirty Dick Burgess calling from London. “Guess what, Banks.”

“You’ve been made head of the Race Relations Board?”

“Very funny. No. But Andy Pandy’s turned up at last.”

“Has he, indeed?”

“Thought you’d be interested.”

“Any chance of a chat with him in the near future?”

“Not unless you fancy holding a séance. He’s dead. Dead as the proverbial doornail, though I never could see how a doornail could be dead as it was never alive in the first place. Anyway, enough philosophical speculation. He’s dead.”

“Where?”

“Pretty remote spot on the edge of Exmoor. I tell you, Banks, if it weren’t for the anorak brigade and the dogwalkers, bless their souls, we’d never find half the corpses we do.”

“The long ride?”

“Indeed so.”

“Shotgun?”

“Wound to the upper body. Pretty close range. Not much left.”

“Same as Charlie Courage. Any signs of torture?”

“Christ, Banks, there’s hardly any signs of the poor bugger’s chest. What do you expect? Miracles?”

“So what do you think?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Humor me.”

“Andy Pandy’s been a naughty boy. He’s ripped off Mr. Clough. Mr. Clough doesn’t like being ripped off, so he sends Andy on the long ride. Way I see it.”

“And Charlie Courage?”

“Part of it. Hardly an innocent bystander, from what you told me.”

“He was taking money from Clough, or from Clough’s local oppo Gregory Manners, to make sure PKF operated without hassles. Then suddenly, PKF is moving and Charlie’s bonuses are gone. I think Charlie knew where PKF was moving to, and when. And I think Andy Pandy came along with a better offer.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s pissed off with Clough for taking him for granted. He wants more respect.” And he’s also angry with Clough over the incident with Emily, when she kneed him in the balls, Banks thought.

“Maybe,” said Burgess, sounding unconvinced.

“So he hijacks the van to set up his own business. The van’s full of PKF stock, but more important than that, it’s also carrying two or three multidisc copying machines, very valuable pieces of equipment. He thinks Clough will never guess in a million years that he did it. But Clough’s no fool. He sends a couple of goons up to push Charlie around a bit. Now, Charlie might have been a crook, but no one ever said he was a brave man. Charlie rats Andy Pandy out under torture, and they’re both history. I wondered why Gregory Manners is still alive.”

“Come again?”

“Manners was in charge of PKF, so he must have been Clough’s first suspect. Clough put the frighteners on him and Manners must have convinced him he had nothing to do with the hijack. Maybe Manners told him Andy Pandy had been hanging about asking questions. We’ll probably never know for sure now.”

“So what do we do next?”

“We’ll keep showing the photographs around Daleview. I’ve also got Gregory Manners kicking his heels in the cells here waiting for his lawyer, so maybe I’ll have another chat with him first.”

“He won’t tell you anything. Too shit-scared of Clough.”

“Probably, but I can push him a bit harder. It’d be nice to threaten him with conspiracy to commit murder or something juicy like that. At the moment there’s nothing much except pirating software to hold him on, and that’ll probably never stick. Minute his lawyer gets here he’ll be off.”

“And what’s the betting you’ll never see him again?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“So where do we go with Andy Pandy?”

“We’ll have a hell of a job proving it’s anything to do with Clough,” Banks said. “Anything at the scene?”

“Tire track.”

Banks thought for a moment, then said, “I think it’s about time we brought Mr. Clough up north for a chat. But first, I’ve got an idea.”

It was late, and Banks was listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Spring violin sonata and reading a biography of Ian Fleming when he heard a car draw up outside. That was unusual in itself. The dirt lane that ran in front of his cottage ended at the woods about ten yards farther, where it became a narrow path between the trees and Gratly Beck. Occasionally, tourists would take the wrong road and have to back out, but not usually at that time of night, or that time of year.

Curious, Banks put down his book, walked over to the window and opened the curtains a few inches. A sporty-looking car, to judge from its shape, had pulled up in front of the cottage and a woman was getting out. He couldn’t make out her features, as it was pitch-black outside, she was wearing a scarf, and there were no street lamps on the isolated lane. He would soon find out, though, he thought, as she walked up to his front door and knocked.

When he opened it and saw Rosalind Riddle take off her scarf, he must have looked surprised enough to embarrass her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“No,” said Banks. “No, not at all.” He stood aside. “Come in.”

As she passed close to him in the doorway he felt her breast brush lightly against his arm, and he thought he could smell juniper berries on her breath. Gin, most likely. He took her fur coat and hung it in the cupboard by the door. Underneath, she was wearing a simple blue pastel dress, more suitable, Banks thought, for summer, than for a miserable winter’s night like this one. Still, with a mink on top, you didn’t really need anything underneath. He stopped that line of thought before it went any further.

“This is nice,” she said, standing and looking around the small room, with its blue walls and melting-Brie ceiling. Banks had hung a couple of watercolors he had picked up at auctions on the walls, and a blow-up of what he thought the best of Sandra’s photographs took pride of place over the mantelpiece. It had been taken, coincidentally, not far away from the cottage where Banks now lived alone, and it showed the view down the daleside to Helmthorpe in late evening, with a red-and-orange sunset sprawled across the sky, smoke drifting from the chimneys, the church with its square tower and odd little turret attached to one corner, the dark graveyard where sheep grazed among the lichen-stained tombstones, and crooked rows of flagstone roofs. He and Sandra might no longer be together, but that didn’t mean he rejected her talent. There wasn’t much furniture in the room, just a sofa under the window and two matching armchairs arranged at angles to the fireplace, where a couple of lumps of peat burned and cast shadows on the walls.

“Do you live here alone?” she asked.

“There’s hardly room enough for two.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. Of course, I do know something of your circumstances. Your wife…”

“Cup of tea or something?”

“Or something. After a day like this one, I need something a bit stronger than tea. Gin and tonic, if you’ve got it.”

“Coming up.” Banks went into the kitchen and took the gin out of the cupboard where he kept his haphazard selection of spirits – some rum, a few ounces of vodka, half a bottle of cognac and the Laphroaig single malt, that smoky Islay, his favorite and a constant drain on his wallet.

“How strange.”

“What?” Banks turned to see that Rosalind had followed him into the kitchen. She was standing at its center with an odd expression on her face, as if she were listening to a distant voice.

“It feels… I don’t know… sort of haunted, but in a good way.”

Banks was gob-smacked. One of the reasons he had bought the house in the first place was that he had dreamed of the kitchen before he knew it existed – a dream full of warmth and feelings of extreme well-being – so that when he saw it, he knew he had to have it. Luckily the old lady who was selling didn’t want it to fall into the hands of an absentee landlord, so she let him have it for the ridiculously low price of £50,000 – a gift when you considered that there were semis and terrace cottages smaller even than this one going for £70,000 and above in some of the more popular Dales villages.

All Banks sensed about the kitchen was that there was definitely some sort of presence, that it was benevolent, and – only God knew why – that it was feminine. He didn’t really believe in gods and ghosts, had never thought much about them, being a more practical sort of man, but this was another change that had taken place since Sandra left. In the end, he accepted, even embraced, whatever the presence was, and came to believe it was some sort of spirit of the house, the way places are said to have spirits. He had read a little about the subject and named his spirit Haltia, after the Finnish, generally believed to be the spirit of the first person to lay claim to a site either by lighting a fire on it, by building a house on it, or even, in some cases, the first person to die there.

Rosalind was the first person other than Banks to feel it. Others had been there – Tracy, Brian, Sandra, Annie, Superintendent Gristhorpe, Jim Hatchley – but none of them had felt the preternatural appeal of the kitchen. Banks felt almost inclined to tell Rosalind about the dream, but he held back for some reason. He hadn’t told anyone about it yet for fear of seeming foolish or mad, and there was no point starting now.

“It’s a comfortable room to be in,” he said, pouring the drink. “You should see it when the sun’s shining through the windows. Glorious.” That was his favorite time in the kitchen, when the morning sunlight came skipping over Low Fell and sliding down the green daleside, spilling into the kitchen like honey. that wouldn’t happen again for a few more months.

“I’d like that,” said Rosalind. Then she looked away and blushed. She had dark semicircles under her eyes, Banks noticed, which made her look mysterious, tragic, even, which was hardly surprising given what she had been through this past while. Despite the poor first impression Rosalind had made on him, Banks found himself thinking that she was a woman he would like to have known, perhaps in another time, another life. Also, in another part of his mind, he suspected that she might have had something to do with her daughter’s murder.

“Ice? Lemon?”

“Just the tonic water, please.”

Banks handed her the gin and tonic and poured himself a couple of fingers of rapidly dwindling Laphroaig. They went back into the living room. The only light came from the fire and the reading lamp by his armchair. He wondered if he should turn on the overhead light and decided not to. By the look of her as she sat down wearily opposite him, Rosalind riddle looked glad of the semidarkness. He turned down the music and lit a cigarette.

“How was the get-together?”

“What you’d expect. You were fortunate you had work to keep you away.”

“I’m not good at those sorts of things. Did you get a chance at talk to Ruth and Craig?”

“A little. You know what these things are like.”

“What was your impression?”

“He seemed a nice-enough boy.”

“He probably is,” Banks said. “And Ruth?”

“I didn’t really get much chance to talk to her. I’m just glad that it’s over, that’s all.”

“Why did you want to see me? Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Tell you? No. What makes you think that?”

“What is it, then?”

She swirled her drink in her glass before answering. I’m worried about Jerry. He’s taking this all very badly.”

“It’s hardly surprising. I mean, after all, your only daughter is dead, murdered. He’s bound to take it badly. He’s not made of stone. And now this thing in the newspaper.”

“No, it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Rosalind sighed and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. It was a gesture that reminded Banks of Annie Cabbot.

“All his life,” Rosalind began, “the only thing that’s counted for Jerry was his work. The Job. You know what it’s like, what the demands are. The sacrifices he’s made… we’ve made…” She gave a quick shake of her head. “I’m not saying he doesn’t love us, his family, but we’ve taken the backseat all along. My career’s taken a backseat, too. We’ve always had to move where and when Jerry wanted, no matter what I was doing or how well the children were getting on at school. It’s been hard, but I accept it. I don’t mind. After all, I don’t have to stay if I don’t want to. But the rewards have made it worthwhile. I know you think he’s a social climber and maybe he is, but his origins are pretty humble. Like yours, I should imagine.”

Banks smoked and listened. He had never thought about Riddle’s origins before but remembered he had vaguely heard something about his coming from a farmworker’s family in Suffolk. He got the impression that Rosalind just wanted to talk, and he was quite happy to let her ramble on as long as she liked, though why she had chosen him to unburden herself on was a mystery. Still, it felt good to have an attractive woman in the house – and one who understood the spirit of the place, at that – even if she was Jimmy Riddle’s wife, and for another, there was always the possibility that he might learn something relevant to Emily’s murder.

“As I said, he’s worked hard and we’ve made a lot of sacrifices. Jerry isn’t… I mean, he’s not the most demonstrative of men. Our marriage… he finds it difficult to show emotion.” She smiled. “I know most men are the same, but he’s more so. He loved Emily dearly but he’s never been able to express it. He’s come across as overprotective, a sort of tyrant who sets the rules and leaves them to me to enforce. Which made me a tyrant in my daughter’s eyes, too. He was never there when she might have needed him; they never managed to form a strong bond of any kind.”

“Yet he loved her?”

“Yes. Dearly. He doted on her and her achievements as much as he’s capable of doting on anyone other than himself.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a good listener.”

“Go on.”

“There’s not much more to tell, really. Because of what’s happened, because of the guilt over never having been able to show his feelings, of always trying to control her rather than showing affection, he’s coming apart at the seams. He just sits there. Half the time he doesn’t even answer when I talk to him. It’s as if he’s come adrift, got lost in some inner hell and he can’t find his way out. After the funeral, it was even worse. I can’t talk to him anymore, he’s shutting me out. Fortunately Benjamin’s gone down to Barnstaple with my parents, or I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’m not explaining this very well. I’m not very good with words, but I’m worried about him.”

“Is there anything else on his mind?”

“I don’t know. Nothing he’s told me about, anyway. Isn’t it enough?”

“Maybe you should try to get him to seek help? Grief counseling. I’m sure your doctor could recommend the right sort of treatment.”

“I’ve mentioned it, but it’s no good, he won’t go.”

“Then I don’t know what to suggest.”

“Would you talk to him?”

“Me?” Banks almost laughed out loud. “I can’t see that doing him any good. You know he can’t stand the sight of me.”

“You might find that he’s softened his attitude toward you a bit lately.”

“Since I got Emily to come home?” Banks shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s just sticking to the bargain.” Banks remembered what Emily had told him about Riddle’s envy. Deep-rooted feelings like that didn’t just disappear after you’d done someone a favor or two. In most cases they intensified because people who didn’t like you to start with resented being beholden to you. Besides, Banks had caught Riddle in a lie, too, and that must rankle. He remembered the guilty expression at the funeral.

“But he wanted you in charge of the investigation.”

“That was a purely professional decision.”

“I still wish you’d talk to him.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, he’d hardly listen to me.”

“He might. At least you’re a man. He doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“What about his political colleagues? He must have friends there.”

Rosalind sipped some more gin and tonic. “They’re dropping him like a hot potato. It started with Emily’s murder, but it’s got worse ever since the newspaper article with all those innuendoes. Plenty of phone calls, lots of sympathy, then the old ‘…perhaps it would be best for all us if… for the good of the party.’ Hypocrites!”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will only contribute more proof to your poor theory of human nature, especially the human nature of Conservatives.”

Banks said nothing. He looked into the fire and watched the burning peat shift and sigh out a breath of sparks.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Rosalind laughed harshly. “I’m talking about me more than about you. I must admit my own view of human nature has taken a bit of a nosedive over the past few days.”

The music ended and Banks let the silence stretch.

“If you want to put something else on, that’s all right,” said Rosalind. “I like classical music.”

Banks went to the stereo and picked another Beethoven violin sonata, the Kreutzer this time.

“Mmm,” said Rosalind. “Lovely.”

Banks marveled at how much she resembled Emily, especially her lips; they were the same full but finely outlined shape and the same natural pinkish red color; they even moved in the same way when she spoke. “I still don’t see that there’s anything I can do,” said Banks. “Even if I do talk to him. And I’m not saying I will.”

“You can at least try. If it does no good…” Rosalind shrugged.

“What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m coping. Surviving. Sometimes I feel as if I’m being pulled apart by millions of little red-hot fishhooks, but other than that, I’m fine.” She smiled. “Someone has to be. I went back to the office this afternoon, after everyone had gone. I know it sounds odd, but boring estate deals help keep my mind off more serious matters. But Jerry hasn’t even got his work now. He’s got nothing. He just sits at home all the time brooding. It’s frightening watching someone like him unravel. He’s always been so strong, so solid.”

How the mighty are fallen, thought Banks, but he didn’t voice it because it would have been cruel. Even so, he had thought it, and that made him bad; was he such a rotten person? He understood what Rosalind meant, of course; it is far more terrifying to see someone you have always depended on, your rock, crack apart than it is to watch someone who was fragile to start with have yet another breakdown. Banks had a distant aunt who kept having “funny turns,” as his mother called them, but as she was mentally flimsy to begin with, no one was much surprised. It wasn’t that people didn’t sympathize or care, just that her “turns” lacked any sort of tragic dimension.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll try to make time to go over tomorrow and have a talk with him. I can’t promise anything, mind you.”

Her face lit up. “You will? But that’s wonderful. That’s all I ask.”

How do I let myself get talked into these things? Banks wondered. Do I look like a sucker? First I give up a weekend in Paris with my daughter – abandoning her to the clutches of the monosyllabic Damon – and head off to London to look for Emily Riddle, now I’m playing visiting shrink to Jimmy Riddle, the man who’s done about as much for my career as Margaret Thatcher did for the trade unions.

“While you’re here, there are a couple of things I’d like to ask you, if I may.”

“Really?” Rosalind looked away from him and started twisting the wedding ring on her finger. She had finished her drink and let the empty tumbler stand on the arm of the chair.

“Another g and t?”

“No, thanks. I have to drive.” She glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch and sat forward. “Besides, I really should be getting back. I told Jerry I was going for a drive. I don’t like to leave him alone for too long at night. It’s a bad time for him.”

“I understand,” said Banks. “I promise I won’t keep you more than a couple of minutes more.”

She sat back in the chair but didn’t relax. What was she so nervous about? Banks wondered. What was she holding back?

“Ruth Walker told me that you had answered when she phoned to talk to Emily, but you said you’d never heard of her. Why?”

“You surely can’t expect me to remember the name of every single person who calls and asks for Emily, can you? Perhaps she never even said what her name was.”

“People usually do, though, don’t they. I mean, it’s only polite to say who you are.”

“You’d be surprised how many people lack basic politeness. Or maybe you wouldn’t. What exactly are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. I just get this funny feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe it’s to do with Ruth Walker and maybe it’s not, but you get very vague every time her name comes up.”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Maybe. I’ve been told more than once that I’ve got too much of it for my own good. Your husband’s told me often enough.” Banks leaned forward. “Look, Mrs. Riddle, you probably don’t think it’s very relevant or important, but I’ve got to warn you that you’re making a poor judgment here. The best course of action is to tell me everything you know and let me be the judge. That’s my job.”

Rosalind stood up. “Thanks for the advice. If I did know anything of relevance to your investigation, you can be sure I’d take it, but as I don’t… Anyway, I really must be going now. Thank you very much for your hospitality. You will call in on Jerry tomorrow?”

“Barring any emergencies, yes, I’ll call. Don’t tell him, though; he might board up the doors and bar the windows.” Rosalind smiled. It was a sad smile, Banks thought, but nice nonetheless. “And please think about what I said? If there’s anything…”

Rosalind nodded quickly and left. Banks stood in the doorway and watched her drive back toward the Helmthorpe road, then he poured another Laphroaig and returned to Anne-Sophie Mutter’s Beethoven.