Cold Is The Grave

6

The Black Bull was a young people’s pub at night, with live music and a steady supply of illegal drugs, mostly Ecstasy and crystal meth. It had been targeted by the Eastvale police’s “Operation Pubwatch” on more than one occasion, never without a few arrests being made. At lunchtime, though, it had a totally different character, and most of the customers worked in the various offices and shops along York Road. The only music issued quietly from the jukebox, and the only drugs being consumed were nicotine and alcohol, with perhaps a little caffeine for those who preferred tea or coffee with their pie and chips.

When Banks arrived spot on one o’clock, Emily was nowhere in sight. He bought himself a pint and found a table near the window. The road outside was busy, and the traffic splashed up dirty water from the roadside puddles.

As he was studying the blackboard and trying to decide between Bar BQ Chicken and Thai Red Curry, Emily breezed in, out of breath, the way Jenny Fuller always seemed to do, as if it had been a great effort getting there only fifteen minutes late. She plonked her bulging handbag on the chair beside Banks, gave him an impish grin and made for the bar. When she came back she was carrying one of those strange cocktails that young drinkers, especially female, seem to think are really interesting: in this case, Kahlua and Coke. She must have charmed the landlord into believing she was old enough to drink, Banks thought, though in all honesty she did look well over eighteen. She had a cigarette in her mouth almost before she sat down, a maneuver Banks was surprised she could make, given that her slightly flared blue jeans looked painted on. Still, it was a testament to Emily’s natural style that she didn’t look in the least bit tarty, and she had chosen to wear no makeup at all. Not that she needed any. Once she had lit her cigarette and had taken a sip of her drink, she shucked her mid-length jacket to reveal a black silk blouse. After she had tidied her hair, she seemed ready to talk, but she kept on fidgeting.

There were moments when Banks looked at her and saw a sophisticated young woman looking back, wise enough in the ways of the world to exploit them for her own ends. Other times, he saw the gauche, nervous teenager, unable to look an adult in the eye. She was still too close to her childhood to recognize its value. When you were Emily’s age, Banks remembered, all you wanted to do was enter that magical world of privilege and freedom you saw all around you – adulthood. Hence the smoking, the drinking, the sex. You didn’t realize until much, much later – too late, some might say – that the privileges and freedoms you coveted came with a very high price tag indeed.

“Have you decided yet?” she asked.

“Decided what?”

“What you’re having for lunch. It’s my treat. I told you on the phone.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Daddy probably paid you well already for bringing me home. But I want to.”

“I’ll have the Thai Red Curry, then.” Banks didn’t usually go for more exotic food in pubs, but the Bull had a good lunchtime reputation. “And he didn’t pay me anything.”

She raised a neatly plucked eyebrow.

“Just so you know.”

Emily paused, then said, “All right.” She gestured for the woman delivering food at the next table to come over and started to give her order. The woman frowned, told her to go and order it herself at the bar, then stalked off.

“Get her,” said Emily, pulling a face. Kid again.

Banks scraped his chair against the stone floor. “I’ll go.” He didn’t want her to have to go through the agony of getting up and sitting down again; wearing those jeans, she might rupture her spleen or her bladder.

“No.” She jumped to her feet with surprising agility. “I told you I’d get it.”

Banks watched her walk to the bar, taller than ever in her platform heels, and noticed all the men’s eyes were on her body. There wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t do anything for her. Or to her. The women, however, turned up their noses in distaste and cast disapproving frowns in Banks’s direction. What the hell, Banks asked himself, was he doing sitting in a pub with the chief constable’s daughter, who was definitely breaking one law by drinking under age – even if you could hardly call Kahlua and Coke a real drink – and God knows how many other laws simply by the way she looked? It was fortunate that none of the men could be arrested for their fantasies. Not yet.

“Done.” Emily sat again and plucked her cigarette out of the ashtray. “At least they’ll bring it to the bloody table. You don’t have to get up and fetch it yourself. Honestly, the service industry in this country.”

Banks wondered how many other countries she had experienced and realized it was probably more than his own daughter had. Chief constables were always getting junkets to America, Belgium, South Africa or Peru. He wondered if the service in Peru was better than that in Yorkshire. Probably.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“Me? Nothing. I don’t eat lunch.”

“Nor dinner, either, by the looks of you.”

“Now, now. Remember, you didn’t disapprove of ‘the looks of me’ too much in that hotel room.”

So she did remember. Banks felt himself blush, and it got all the worse when he saw Emily was laughing at him. “Look-” he said, but she waved him down.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t told Daddy.” She pouted and wiggled her shoulders. “Besides, it’s the waiflike look. Most older men like it. Don’t you?”

“What about boys your own age?”

She snorted. “They’re so immature. Oh, they’re all right for dancing and buying you drinks and stuff, but that’s about all. All most of them can talk about is football and sex.” She licked her cherry lips. “I prefer older men.”

Banks swallowed. He could see where that came from: a father who was never there, someone she desperately wanted to love and be loved by. “Like Barry Clough?” he said.

A shadow crossed her fine porcelain features. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. Then her face brightened into a smile. “But first I really do want to thank you. I mean it. I know I wasn’t very nice at the time, but I appreciate what you did, taking care of me like that. I was really fucked up. Big-time.”

“Do you remember much about it?”

“In the hotel room? Yes. Until I fell asleep. You were the perfect gentleman. And the next morning you went and bought me a tracksuit. A pink one. It was ugly, but that was sweet of you. I’m sorry I wasn’t very friendly on the way home, but I was really down.”

“Thai curry?”

The woman held out a dish of steaming curry. Banks admitted to ownership, and she set it down, narrowly avoiding spilling it on the table, gave Emily a hard glare and walked off.

“What is her problem?” Emily said. “I mean, really! The stupid cow.”

“She doesn’t like you,” said Banks. “She doesn’t like the way you treated her, and I’d guess she doesn’t like your looks much, either.”

“What the fuck do I care if she likes my looks?”

“You asked. I’m simply telling you.”

“Anyway, what’s she supposed to be here for if not to serve people food? It’s not as if she’s not getting paid or anything.”

“Look,” said Banks. “I’m not going to argue. It’s not her job to take orders, and you’ve got a pretty snotty attitude, when it comes right down to it.” Banks dipped into his curry. It was good and hot.

Emily glared at him for a few seconds, sulking, then started fidgeting with the large ring on her right index finger. “Stupid old bitch,” she muttered.

Banks ignored her and tucked in, easing the heat with an occasional swig of beer. He finished the pint quicker than he had intended to and, before he could stop her, Emily had jumped to her feet and bought him another one. It was the barmaid who served her this time, not the landlord, and Banks noticed them talking, Emily taking something out of her handbag and showing it to her.

“What was all that about?” he asked when she came back.

“Nothing,” she said, putting her drink down. “Christ, this place is in the fucking dark ages.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only asked for a TVR, didn’t I, and do you think the sad bitch behind the bar had any idea what I was talking about?”

“I can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about, either.”

Emily looked at him as if he came from another planet. “Well, I had to explain it to her, too. It’s tequila, vodka and Red Bull. Great stuff, gives you a real alcohol high without all that slurring and stumbling. Me and… well, you know who… we used to drink it in the Cicada Dust in Clerkenwell.”

“And?”

She pulled a face. “What do you think?”

“They didn’t have it?”

“Of course they didn’t.”

“So what did you settle for?”

“A Snowball.”

Banks had heard of that one: Advocaat and lemonade. He had thought it long out of fashion. He remembered that his mother sometimes used to drink a Snowball at Christmas when he was a kid. Just the one, usually, as she was never much of a drinker. “Mmm, it’s good.” Emily held out the glass. “Want a sip?”

“No, thanks. Have you been in touch with any of the crowd down there? Craig? Ruth?”

Emily shook her head. “Not much.”

“Craig said Barry’s minders beat him up outside a pub in Soho while you looked on laughing.”

“The lying bastard.”

“It didn’t happen?”

“Oh, it happened, but not the way he told it.”

“You tell me, then.”

“It was in Clerkenwell, outside Barry’s club. Craig found out about the place and he started hanging around there, pretending to be taking photographs. He was obsessed. He just wouldn’t let go. I told him to stay away, but he wouldn’t listen. He even started coming in, but Barry had him barred. When he came up to me, it was the last straw. I wouldn’t have let them hit him like that if I could have stopped them, but it all happened so quickly. It was his own fault, really.”

“He said he didn’t know where you lived.”

“He didn’t. I told Ruth to make sure she didn’t tell him. He knew about the club from before, though, from the party.”

“Which party?”

“The one where I met Barry. At some promoter’s house. Ruth took us. She knows people in the music scene and all that.”

“Craig was there, too?”

“Yes. That’s how he knew Barry owned a club in Clerkenwell. I started seeing Barry after that night and a week or so later I left Craig. He was just getting to be too much.”

“I see. And were you laughing when they beat him up?”

“I wasn’t laughing. I was crying. The fool.”

“Why would he lie to me?”

“The truth would hardly make him look good, would it? Craig might seem so nice and well-balanced on the surface, but he’s got a mean streak, too, you know.”

“Did he ever hit you?”

“No. He knew I wouldn’t stand for that. It was just… oh, you know, if I came home late or something, he’d always be waiting up and go on at me, calling me a slut and a whore and stuff. It was mean. Nasty. Then he was all pathetic the next morning, telling me he loved me and buying me presents and all that when all he really wanted was to get into my knickers.”

“I still don’t understand why he would lie to me. He believed I was your father. Surely he must know I’d find out the truth when I found you?”

Emily laughed. “Silly. It’s the last thing I’d tell my father. Think about it.”

Banks did. She was right. “But you’re telling me.”

“That’s different. You’re not my father. You’re not like him at all. You’re…”

“I’m what?”

“Well, you’re more like a friend. Cute, too.”

“I’m flattered, Emily, but you’d better not tell your father that.”

She giggled and put her hand to her mouth, as if embarrassed to catch herself out in a juvenile act. “You’re right about that.”

“Have you heard from Craig at all since you’ve been back in Yorkshire?”

“No. I’ve not seen or heard from him since that night outside the club.”

“What about Ruth?”

“I’ve talked to her a couple of times on the phone. But I didn’t give her much cause to like me, did I? I think she fancied Craig and I took him away from her.”

“It was as much his choice. Besides, she’ll get over it.”

“Yeah… well… Ruth’s got enough problems without me adding to them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. She’s just a bit fucked up. Couldn’t you tell?”

“She did seem strange.” Not much stranger than Emily herself, though, Banks thought. He pushed his empty plate aside and lit a cigarette. It wasn’t as if there was anything to be gained by trying to act as a positive, nonsmoking role model to Emily. “Are you going to tell me what happened in London that night?” he asked. “Before you arrived at the hotel.”

Emily licked at the rim of her glass. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“And?”

She looked around, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve decided I will.”

Banks could smell the Advocaat on her breath. He leaned back. “I’m all ears.”

Annie had not been completely honest with Banks, she admitted to herself the next afternoon as she drove out to the Daleview Business Park to meet Charlie Courage’s boss at SecuTec, Ian Bennett. As usual, when she found it difficult to talk about something, she had been flip, all style and no substance. Working out of Eastvale, with Banks, bothered her more than she had been able to tell him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t separate her job from her personal life – she felt she could do the job perfectly well, no matter with whom she worked – but so much proximity to Banks might weaken her resolve to end their relationship. After all, she had given him up not because she didn’t feel anything for him, but because she found herself feeling too much too soon, and because he brought too many complications from his previous relationship with him, a marriage of over twenty years. Working with him again, she had to admit to herself that she still fancied him.

To hell with it, she told herself, sneaking a quick glance at the map on the car seat beside her. Almost there. She would just do her bloody job and let the rest take care of itself. One thing her brief romance with Banks had done was renew her faith in the Job, make her think about why she had become a policewoman in the first place. Now she had a better sense of herself, more confidence, and she was damn well going for inspector. Not that the Job was everything, mind you – she wasn’t going to make that mistake and end up a dried-up old spinster with no life other than work – but she was willing to commit herself as much as it took. And because her work life was going to be hard, she wanted to keep her personal life simple. With Banks in her bed, it wouldn’t be.

The black wrought-iron railings to her left bore a large painted sign saying DALEVIEW BUSINESS PARK, along with a list of businesses located there. Annie turned through the gates, which were probably intended more for decoration than security, she thought, and looked for the SecuTec office.

The business park consisted of a large, one-story red brick building, built in the shape of a pentagon and divided into a number of different units, each with its own logo, and some with showcase windows and parking spots for two or three cars out front. Though it wasn’t a shopping precinct as such, the pottery shop and the needlecraft center had outlets there, along with a stair-lift company, a furniture workshop and an Aga center. The other units were taken up by offices: a company that rented holiday cottages, for example, and a mail-order exercise-video distribution company, Annie noticed. She wondered if that was some sort of euphemism for what they really sold. If it was a front for a porn operation, then it might be connected with Charlie Courage’s murder.

Ian Bennett opened the office door for her before she even reached it.

“DS Cabbot,” she said, fishing for her warrant card.

“It’s all right,” said Bennett, smiling. “I believe you. Come on in.”

She followed him into the small office.

“So this is what the well-dressed young policewoman is wearing these days,” he said, looking her up and down.

Under her navy-blue raincoat, which hung open, she was wearing boots, black tights, a short denim skirt and a white sweater, none of which she felt was particularly weird. What did he expect? A uniform? A twinset and pearls?

Bennett was younger than she had expected from the voice on the telephone, probably about her age, early thirties, with thick curly dark hair and more of a tan than you can get hanging around Yorkshire in winter. He looked as if he played sports to keep in shape, something that involved a lot of running around, such as tennis or squash, and while his salary probably didn’t stretch as far as Armani, he was wearing high-end designer casuals that must have set him back a bob or two. A mobile phone bulged ostentatiously from the pocket of his zip-up suede jacket. Annie guessed that the BMW she had parked next to was probably his.

“So this is what the well-dressed young yuppie-on-the-go is wearing to impress the girls these days,” she countered, aware as soon as she had done so that it wasn’t the best way to start an interview. Big problem, Annie: You’ve never been able to suffer fools gladly, which gives you at least one thing in common with Alan Banks. Stop thinking about him.

SecuTec had only a small office at Daleview, where Charlie Courage had spent his nights on guard duty. Annie glanced around and saw that he’d had a small television for company, along with facilities for making tea and a microwave oven for heating up his midnight snack. The office was too small for the two of them, and it smelled of warm plastic. Annie sat on what would have been Charlie’s desk and Ian Bennett leaned against the opposite wall by a company calendar. Like so many of those things, it showed a buxom, skinny-waisted smiling blonde in a bikini. She was holding a spanner.

Bennett flushed at her insult. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said, running his hand over his hair. “I always say something silly when I meet an attractive woman. Sorry. Can we start again?”

Annie gave him a low-wattage smile, the kind she reserved for the masses. “Best all round,” she said.

Bennett cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much,” he began. “I didn’t know Mr. Courage well.”

“When did he last work?”

“Sunday night. He was on the four-to-midnight shift.”

“Are you certain? Did you see him?”

“No, but he logged in. I mean, he has to log in with us so we know someone’s there.”

“How does he do this?”

Bennett pointed at the desk beside her. “Computer.”

“Could someone else have done it? Pretended to be him?”

“I suppose it’s possible. But they’d have to know his user name and his password.”

“I see. Was this the shift he always worked?”

“No. Other days he worked from midnight till eight in the morning.”

“Was he the only night watchman?”

“No. It works like this. Every day the units are open, we have the other security guard, Colin Finch, work four to midnight and Mr. Courage work midnight till eight, when the units start opening in the morning. Then, when we get to Sunday, they alternate. Colin does four to midnight Saturday, Charlie does midnight to eight. Then Colin does eight to four, and so on.”

“I see,” said Annie, who remembered the horrors of shift work very well indeed. Most of the time she hadn’t known whether she was coming or going. “So Colin Finch would have seen Mr. Courage when they changed shifts at four on Sunday?”

“Yes. I should think so.”

“Can you give me his address?”

“Of course.” Bennett fiddled with the computer and gave Annie a Ripon address. “He’ll be in at four today, though, if you’re still around.”

Annie looked at her watch. It was half past two. “Did you know that Mr. Courage had a criminal record?”

The question seemed to embarrass Bennett. “He had? Er, actually, no, we didn’t know.”

“Surely a security firm like yours runs checks on potential employees?”

“Normally we do. Yes, of course. But this one… well… it seems he slipped between the cracks.”

“‘Slipped between the cracks’?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Annie made a note in her brand-new notebook. What she actually wrote was, “Don’t forget to pick up something for dinner at Marks amp; Sparks,” but Bennett wasn’t to know that. “Have there been any incidents at the park over the past few months, since Mr. Courage started working here?”

“No. Nothing at all. As far as SecuTec is concerned, Mr. Courage seemed to be doing his job well.”

“Nothing gone missing?”

“Nothing.”

“The other tenants, are they all satisfied?”

“Yes. As I said, we’ve had no problems, no complaints at all. I don’t suppose it’s something you police ever consider, but have you thought at all that Mr. Courage might indeed have gone straight, as they say? I mean, just because a man makes a couple of mistakes, it doesn’t mean he’s marked forever, does it?”

Annie sighed. This wasn’t going to work, she could tell. “Mr. Bennett,” she said, “why don’t you leave the recidivism-versus-rehabiliation argument to people who know what they’re talking about and just answer my questions?”

He smiled. “I thought that’s what I was doing. I mean, I’ve told you there were no problems. I was only suggesting that it might indicate Mr. Courage had changed his ways. You do believe that criminals can change their ways, don’t you, Detective Constable Cabbot?”

“It’s detective sergeant,” Annie corrected him, adding a silent “pillock” under her breath. “And I’m merely suggesting that we’ll get you back in your Beemer and on your way to your next meeting much faster if you simply answer my questions.”

Bennett fiddled with his mobile, as if hoping it would ring. “Carry on,” he said, with a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh.

Annie smiled to herself. He would no doubt tell his guests at tonight’s dinner party or whatever about his brush with police brutality. “What exactly were his duties?” she asked.

“He was supposed to walk around the park, check doors and everything once an hour. To be honest, though, it wasn’t much of a job; there wasn’t a lot for him to do.”

“I shouldn’t think so with all these modern security gizmos. Why bother hiring a night watchman at all, then?”

“It was a matter of appearances, really. The tenants like it. Believe it or not, no matter how many sophisticated alarm systems you put in place, people always feel a bit more confident if there’s human being around.”

“That’s comforting,” said Annie. “I don’t suppose I need to worry about Robocop much anymore.”

“Sorry?”

“A joke. Never mind. Carry on.”

“Oh, I see. A copper with a sense of humor. Anyway, having someone on the premises discourages vandals, too.”

“What about a dog?”

“They can be effective, but you can’t just leave them alone. Besides, there’s the whole problem of lawsuits if they actually bite anyone.”

“How did Mr. Courage get the job?”

“He applied through normal channels. I must say, he seemed credible enough.”

“The mark of a master criminal.”

“You’re joking again?” Bennett smiled.

Annie didn’t smile back. “Mr. Courage was paid by check, am I correct?”

“Actually, no. His wages were paid directly into his bank account.”

“Were there ever any cash bonuses?”

Bennett frowned. “Cash bonuses? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cash in hand.”

“Certainly not. That’s not SecuTec’s policy.”

“And no money has ever been reported missing by any of the businesses operating out of this park during the period of Mr. Courage’s employment as night watchman?”

“No.”

Annie closed her notebook. “Very well, Mr. Bennett,” she said. “You can go now. We might need to get in touch again later.”

“Fine. Feel free to do whatever you need here, but please remember to lock up when you leave.”

Bennett practically ran out of the office. Annie stood in the doorway and watched him reverse the BMW, then take off in what would have been a cloud of dust, had the ground not been so wet. As it was, one of the puddles he hit sent a sheet of water over a woman just walking into the needlework-center shop a few units down. She looked down at her soaked raincoat and tights and glared after the car, shaking her fist.

She shouldn’t have been quite so sharp with Bennett, Annie thought, as she watched him clear the gates and turn right onto the main road. He was a smug pillock, true enough, but she’d had to deal with plenty of those in her time, and she hadn’t usually resorted to bullying. He looked like the kind who’d put in a complaint, too. Would that have any effect on her attempt to make inspector? She doubted it. But she also made a mental note to watch herself and be a lot more compassionate toward fools and pillocks.

Now, she thought, it was simply a matter of deciding whether to go right or left and spend an hour or so talking to the people who operated the businesses at Daleview. They would probably know a lot more about its day-to-day operations than Mr. Ian bloody Bennett. After that, with any luck, Colin Finch would have reported for duty.

“Barry was very angry after you left,” Emily said, toying with, rather than smoking, another cigarette. “I’ve never seen him so angry. When he gets angry, he goes all cold. He doesn’t go red in the face and shout or anything, like Dad, he just gets this fixed sort of smile and does everything in a very slow, careful sort of way, like straightening the cushions on the settee or lighting a cigarette. And he talks very quietly. It’s frightening.”

“Do you know why he was angry?”

“Because you came asking questions. He doesn’t like anyone asking questions, especially strangers.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Barry? He didn’t do anything. I’m telling you. He was angry in that cold way he had. He just told me to get ready for the party, then we did another couple of lines of coke and off we went.”

“What kind of party was it?”

“The usual sort. Music-business people, a few minor bands, groupies, along with a few young entrepreneurs, other club owners. The kind of people Barry collects. There was a bonfire and fireworks outside, but mostly we stayed indoors.”

“Drugs?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. Of course. Always drugs.”

“Does Barry deal?”

“No. He just buys.”

“Go on.”

Emily paused. For all her bravado, Banks could tell she had difficulty talking about it. “Barry was weird all evening. I tried to just… you know… stay away from him until his mood had passed, keep my distance, talk to some of the guys in the bands and stuff, but he kept appearing, smiling in that cold way of his, putting his arm around me, touching me… sometimes even squeezing… hurting me…” She drank some of her Snowball, grimaced and said, “I don’t think I like this, after all. Would you get me a lager and lime or something like that? I’m thirsty.”

“I’m not buying you an alcoholic drink, Emily. You’re under age.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport. I’m already drinking one, aren’t I?”

“You’re right. I probably shouldn’t even be sitting with you. But I am. If you want me to get you a drink you’ll get a lemonade or a Coke.”

“I won’t tell you the rest of my story.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Bastard. And I thought you were supposed to be my friend.”

Banks said nothing. Emily sashayed to the bar, drawing all the male eyes again. Banks sipped some beer and lit his second cigarette. He was definitely going to make some inquiries into Mr. Barry Clough and his “business” activities over the next few days.

Emily came back with a pint of lager and lime and spilled some as she set it triumphantly on the table. For a while, she didn’t say anything, then she took a long swig, paused and said, “It was pretty late. I don’t know. Two or three in the morning. Everyone was really wasted. I was feeling weird, like someone had put something in my drink. It might have been one of those date-rape drugs I’ve read about, but I’d had so much other stuff I didn’t fall asleep. I just felt strange. Floating. Anyway, Barry took me aside and said there was something he wanted me to do for him.” As she spoke, she looked into her drink and the fingers of her right hand rubbed at the table’s surface. Banks noticed the chewed nails. “He took me upstairs toward one of the bedrooms. I thought he wanted a blow job or something. He sometimes did. I didn’t really want to, I was feeling so spaced out, but… if it would get him off my back for a while… Anyway, it wasn’t that. He opened the bedroom door and there was Andy inside. Anyway, he was stark naked and he… I mean, we’d all been taking V amp; E, so he was, you know, it was…”

“V and E?”

She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Viagra and Ecstasy. Anyway, like I said, he was… like he had a lamppost between his legs. Barry just gave me a push forward and told me to be nice to him, then I heard the door shut. Anyway, when Barry pushed me I fell on the bed and Andy started pulling at my clothes, rubbing against me. It was gross. I might have been stoned, and I’ll admit I’ve not always been a good girl, but this was seriously out of line. I mean, it ought to be my choice who I have sex with, not someone else’s, oughtn’t it? And it wasn’t even him so much. I mean, he was a pathetic creep, but the thought that Barry had given me to him as a sort of punishment for you coming and asking questions… I don’t know. It just made me sick, that’s all.”

She paused to drink some lager and lime. Banks felt his anger rise along with the guilt; it was his arrival that had caused the problems for Emily. He told himself that, no matter what, with someone like Clough she would have got to that point eventually anyway, but it didn’t help right then. He also remembered the night, not so long ago, in a London bistro, when Annie Cabbot had told him about her sexual humiliation at the hands of some CID colleagues. “Who was this Andy? Did you know him?”

“Like I said, I’d seen him around. He’s one of Barry’s gofers. At least I’ve heard Barry telling him off and ordering him to do stuff sometimes. Takes the piss out of him some-thing terrible, too. Andy has a stutter, see. I mean, that was one of the most humiliating things about it. Like, Barry had given me to one of his employees. To someone he thought was a bit of a joke. It made me feel worthless. Like shit.”

“What was his full name?”

“Andrew Handley. But everyone calls him Andy Pandy. Anyway, you know the rest. Or most of it.”

“How did you get away?”

“We struggled. He wasn’t really expecting any resistance, so I just kneed him in the balls and he hit me and let go. The door wasn’t locked. I ran out, downstairs and out of the house without looking back. I was only worried that Barry might be lurking around at the bottom of the stairs or something and that he’d stop me, but I didn’t see him. I was lucky. We were near Victoria Station, so I ran to the taxi rank and the only place I could think of to go was your hotel. And that’s it. The sad story of Barry and Emily. Or Barry and Louisa.”

“Did he ever mistreat you before that?”

“No. But I never gave him cause to.”

“What do you mean?”

Emily thought for a moment, then said, “With Craig, it was easy. He was jealous, maybe a bit too much, and it made him a bit crazy. With Barry, it’s different. He’s possessive, not jealous. He expects loyalty. You know that there are certain lines you’re not supposed to cross. I’m not a fool. I might not know exactly what he’s into, but I know it’s probably illegal. And I know he hurts people. I saw him hurt Craig.”

“Was that part of the appeal?”

“What? That he hurts people?”

“That he’s a criminal, whereas your father’s a policeman. After all, they’re about the same age.”

Emily snorted. “That sounds just like something my father would say. Do you all take the same course in pop psychology?”

“There is a kind of logic in it.”

“It’s not that at all. Barry’s appeal is that he’s exciting to be with, he gives great parties, has great drugs and people respect him.”

“Fear him, you mean.”

“Whatever. If fear’s the only way you can get respect, what’s wrong with that? Nobody disses Barry.”

“Why aren’t you still with him, then?”

She started rubbing at the table again. “I told you.”

A confused kid. Banks had to stop himself from leaning forward and putting his hand over hers. It would have simply been a paternal gesture on his part, though he was aware that neither Emily nor the others in the pub would view it that way. He also noted that in her entire list of Barry Clough’s attributes, Emily had not mentioned sex, that he was great in bed. Sex was probably a matter of power for Clough. Banks didn’t doubt for a moment that Clough used Emily sexually – she had already said as much – but to her, he guessed, it was more a matter of the price to be paid for the high life than a joy to be shared. And the fact that she priced herself so low was a matter for concern.

“Are you afraid of him, Emily?”

“Course not. It’s just…”

“What?”

She frowned. “He’s very possessive, like I said. Barry doesn’t like to lose his prized possessions.”

An hour later, Annie was wet and miserable and none the wiser. She had walked between each of the units on the estate, talked to managers and workers and discovered absolutely nothing. If anything dodgy had been going on at the Daleview Business Park, it had been kept a very close secret.

It was with a great sense of relief, then, that she approached the last but one listed business. Banks had called for a late-afternoon meeting to pool their findings, and after that Annie had visions of a long hot bath, some microwavable Marks and Sparks concoction, and an evening alone to do as much or as little as she wished.

The needlework center was warm and dry, smelling of scented candles, predominantly rose and lemon. It was the kind of place that seemed made of nooks and crannies, all filled with such essentials as pin boxes, thread, etuis, stitch-layers, needle threaders, working frames, stitch-count converters and a thousand other more esoteric items. Finished tapestries hung on the walls. More of a showroom than a shop, it had no counter, but there was a comfortable-looking three-piece suite where clients could sit and discuss their requirements.

A young woman came out of an office at the back, the same woman Bennett had splashed in his hasty getaway. Annie introduced herself and said that she had been visiting all the units clockwise from the SecuTec office.

The woman held out her hand. “My name’s Natalie,” she said. “Welcome to my empire, for what it’s worth. I can’t tell you anything, but I’ve just put the kettle on, if you want to stay out of the rain for a few moments.”

“Please,” said Annie. “I could murder a cuppa right now.” If accepting free cups of tea counted as corruption, there wouldn’t be a copper in the whole of England not up on charges.

“Won’t be a minute.” Natalie walked back into the office.

Annie was examining the needlecraft kits and wondered if they would be relaxing or frustrating to do. She had a sudden memory of her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor, her long hair all over the place, wearing one of her flowing velvety creations covered in beadwork and embroidery. She was working on a sampler of a local village scene. It was an odd image, as Annie had never thought of her mother doing needlecraft before, though she knew she made her own clothes, and they were always beautifully embroidered. She would have to phone and ask Ray, her father. Maybe some of the samplers were down at the commune near St. Ives, and she could take one as a memento. Her mother had died when she was only five. As Annie watched, in her imagination, her mother looked up and smiled at her. Annie felt suddenly sad when Natalie returned with the tea.

It must have shown.

“What is it?” Natalie asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, love.”

“Oh, nothing. Memories, that’s all.”

Natalie looked around her showroom as if trying to search for the offending object. Annie decided it was time to get on track. “Thanks for the tea,” she said, taking a sip. “I know you said you couldn’t tell me anything, but I suppose you’ve heard what happened to Mr. Courage?”

“Oh, yes. Word gets around here pretty quickly. After all, most of us have been here since the place opened, so we’re used to each other. Shall we sit down?” She gestured to the three-piece suite and Annie sat in the armchair. She felt so weary she wondered whether she would ever be able to get out of it again.

“Did you know him at all?” she asked.

“No. But I know he hadn’t been here very long.”

“Since September.”

“Was it? If you say so. Anyway, Mr. Bennett brought him around and introduced him to everyone just before he started, so we’d recognize him, know who to call if there were any problems, but other than that I never even saw him again. You see, I’m usually gone by five o’clock most days, except Thursday and Friday, when I stay open till seven. At least I will until after Christmas, then there’s not much point until the weather starts getting better. You’d be surprised how many tourists we get just dropping by in spring and summer, but most of my trade comes from regular customers. This is a very specialized business. They know what they want and they know I have it for them. They usually telephone first, of course. Oh, listen to me rattling on. But I did warn you I didn’t know anything.”

Annie smiled and sipped some more tea. “It’s all right,” she said. “Gives me a chance to warm up and drink my tea. So far everyone I’ve spoken to says there have been no incidents at the park, not even petty theft. Is that right?”

“Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ve had a bit of shoplifting here once in a while. Nothing serious, you understand, but irritating, petty stuff. Thread, packets of needles, that sort of thing.”

“Kids?”

“I doubt it. We don’t get a lot of kids here. Needlecraft’s hardly the in thing with the younger generation these days.”

“I doubt that it ever was.”

“Still, it’s a living. Anyway, I suppose shoplifting’s the kind of thing you have to expect in a place like this, but as I said, it’s nothing serious.”

“There are some pretty organized gangs of shoplifters. Keep your eyes open. If it gets serious, let us know.”

Natalie nodded.

Annie shifted in her chair. “Much as I’d love to, I’m afraid I can’t sit here all day,” she said, with a quick glance through the window. It was still pouring down outside. She looked at the list Ian Bennett had given her and got to her feet. “One more to go.”

Natalie frowned. “Not if you went clockwise from the SecuTec office, there isn’t anyone else.”

Annie glanced at the list. “What do you mean? I’ve got something called PKF Computer Systems listed here, right next door to you.”

“The computer people? They’re gone.”

“When did they move out?”

“Over the weekend. I don’t suppose Mr. Bennett got around to updating the list yet.”

“How many people worked there?”

“Only two regulars, as far as I could tell. It’s one of the smaller units.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Sorry. I hardly saw them. They weren’t the most sociable types.”

“What about people coming and going?”

“Just delivery vans. The usual stuff.”

“Okay. Thank you very much for your time, Natalie. And for the tea.”

“My pleasure. It livens up a dull afternoon.”

Annie left the needlecraft center and walked to the next unit. If there had been a sign over the door, none hung there now. Instead of a plate-glass window, as on some of the showrooms, the old PKF unit had three smaller windows at the front. Annie peeped through one of them, and as far as she could make out the inside was empty, completely cleared out. That was all it took to trigger the little alarm bell in her cop-per’s mind. Charlie Courage, last seen alive by a neighbor on Sunday afternoon, apparently worked the four-to-midnight shift that evening and was found dead Tuesday nearly two hundred miles away. He had received five cash payments of two hundred quid each over the past month. And now this computer company had done a bunk over the weekend.

It certainly ought to be worth a quick look around their deserted premises, and by the time she had finished, Annie thought, Colin Finch would probably be in the SecuTec office. She should just have time to talk to him before heading back to the station for the meeting.

“Don’t think I want you acting like some sort of avenging angel,” Emily said. “You’ve already done your knight-in-shining-armor bit, thank you very much.”

“Why are you telling me all this, then?”

“Because you asked. And because I owe you an explanation. That’s all.”

“You admitted you’re frightened of Clough.”

“That was silly of me.” She gave a slight shudder. “It was just, you know, talking about it, remembering how he was that night. And I…”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Go on.”

“Oh, just that I thought I saw Jamie in the Swainsdale Centre.” She laughed, put her forefinger to her head and twisted it back and forth. “Me being crazy again. Paranoid Emily, that’s what they’ll be calling me.” Her nail was chewed almost to the quick, Banks noticed.

“Jamie who?”

“Jamie Gilbert. He’s one of Barry’s closest employees. Barry talks and Jamie jumps. I don’t like him. He’s good-looking, but he’s mean. He gives me the creeps.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of days ago. Monday, I think. But it can’t have been him. I must have been seeing things. Barry doesn’t even know who I really am or where I live, does he? Remember Louisa Gamine?”

“How could I forget?” Banks wasn’t certain that a man like Barry Clough lacked the resources to find out what he wanted about anyone. “Be careful, though. If you think you see him or Clough around here again, make sure you tell me. Okay?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Emily, promise you’ll tell me if you think you see either of them again.”

Emily waved her hand. “All right. All right. Don’t get your underpants in a twist about it.”

“You never did tell me what business Clough’s in.”

“That’s because I don’t know.”

“Are you certain he’s not a drug dealer?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Like I said, he’s always got drugs around. He knows people, does people favors and things, maybe gets them some stuff, but he’s not a dealer. I’m sure of that.”

“How does he make his money?”

“I told you, I don’t know. He never talked about it to me. As far as Barry is concerned, women are purely for recreation, not business. There’s the club, I suppose, for a start. That takes up a fair bit of his time. And I think maybe he manages some bands and does some concert promotion. He’s got business interests all over the country. He was always off here and there. Leeds. Dover. Manchester. Bristol. Sometimes he took me with him, but to be honest it was pretty boring waiting for him in some hotel room or walking the streets of some dingy little dump in the rain. Once he even asked me if I wanted to come here with him.”

“Here? The Black Bull?”

“Eastvale, silly. Can you imagine it? Me and Barry walking around Eastvale? I mean, my mother works here.” She slapped the table and made the glasses wobble. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It’s over. Barry will move on to his next little girl and I’ll get on with my life.”

“How are things at home?”

She pulled a face. “Just what you’d expect.”

“What’s that?”

“Boring. They just want me to keep quiet and stay out of the way. Mother pretty much ignores me. Dad has his political cronies over most of the time. You should see the way some of them look at me. But he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy planning his future.”

“And what about you? What do you want to do?”

Emily brightened and took a long swig of her lager and lime. “I’ve been thinking I might like to go to university after all.”

“Don’t you have to do your A-Levels first?”

“Of course. But I can do that at a sixth-form college. I could even do them at home if I want to. It’s not as if they’re hard or anything.”

“Ah,” said Banks, who had found even his O-Levels hard. “And where would you go to university?”

“Oxford or Cambridge, of course.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Farthest thing from my mind.”

“Right. Yeah… well… anyway, I also thought I wouldn’t mind going to university in America. Harvard or Stanford or somewhere like that. Not Bryn Mawr. It sounds like that nasty little Welsh town we lived in for a while when I was a kid. And not that one in Poughkeepsie, either. That sounds like somewhere you keep pigs.”

“What would you study?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe languages. Or acting. I was always good in school plays. But there’s plenty of time to think about all that.”

“Yes, there is.” Banks paused and fiddled for another cigarette. Emily lit it for him with a gold lighter. “I don’t want to sound like your father,” he went on, “but this drugs thing…”

“I can take them or leave them.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. I never did much anyway. Just a bit of coke, crystal meth, V amp; E.”

“Viagra and Ecstasy?”

“You remember.”

“You took that?”

“Sure.”

“But Viagra’s… I mean, what does it do? For a woman?”

She came up with a wicked grin and tapped his arm. “Well, it doesn’t exactly give me a hard-on, but it does make fucking really good. Mostly, it gives you a real rush, sort of like speed.”

“I see. And you’ve had no problems giving up all this stuff?”

“I’m not an addict, if that’s what you’re getting at. I can stop anytime I want.”

“I’m not suggesting that you’re an addict, just that it can be difficult without outside help.”

“I’m not going on one of those stupid programs with all those losers, if that’s what you mean. No way.” She pouted and looked away.

Banks held his hands up. “Fine. Fine. All I’m saying is that if you find you need any help… Well, I know you can hardly go to your father. That’s all.”

Emily stared at him for a while, as if digesting and translating what he had said. “Thanks,” she said finally, not meeting his eyes, and managed a small smile. “You know why my dad hates you?”

Startled, Banks almost choked on his drink. When he had regained some of his composure, he suggested, “Personality clash?”

“Because he envies you. That’s why.”

“Envies me?”

“It’s true. I can tell. I’ve heard him going on to Mother. Do you know, he thinks you’ve been having it off with some Pakistani tart in Leeds?”

“She’s not Pakistani, she’s from Bangladesh. She’s not a tart. And we’ve never had it off.”

“Whatever. And the music. That drives him crazy.”

“But why?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”

“It’s because you’ve got a life. You have a woman on the side, you listen to opera or whatever, and you get the job done, you get results. You also do it the way you want. Dad’s by the book. Always has been.”

“But he’s one of the youngest chief constables we’ve ever had. Why on earth should he be jealous of my achievements?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Obviously not.”

“He’s envious. You’re everything he’d like to be, but he can’t. He’s locked himself on a course he couldn’t change even if he wanted to. He’s sacrificed everything to get where he’s got. Believe me, I should know. I’m one of the things he’s sacrificed. All he’s got is his ambition. He doesn’t have time to listen to music, be with his family, have another woman, read a book. It’s like he’s made a pact with the devil and he’s handed over all his time in exchange for earthly power and position. And there’s something else. He can handle the politics, pass exams and courses by the cartload, manage, administrate better than just about anyone else on the force, but there’s one thing he could never do worth a damn.”

“What’s that?”

“He couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.”

“Why should that matter?”

“Because that’s why he joined up in the first place.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. I’m only guessing. But I’ve seen his old books once, when we were staying at my grandparents’ house in Worthing. They’re all, like, sixties paperback editions and stuff, with his name written inside them, all very neatly. A lot of those Penguins with the green covers. Detective stories. Sherlock Holmes. Agatha Christie. Ngaio Marsh. All that boring old crap. And I looked in some of them. Do you know what he’s done? He’s made his own notes in the margins, about who he thinks did it, what the clues mean. I even read one of them while we were there. He couldn’t have been more wrong.”

Banks felt queasy. There was something obscene about this intimate look into Riddle’s childhood dreams that made him uncomfortable. “Where did you learn the pop psychology?” he said, trying to brush the whole thing off.

Emily smiled. “There is a kind of logic to it. Think about it. Look, it’s been great seeing you, but I really have to be going. I have to meet someone at three. Then I’m off clubbing tonight.” She gathered her handbag, more the size of a small rucksack, really, patted her hair and stood up. “Maybe we can do this again?”

“I’d like that,” Banks said. “But it’s on my terms next time, or not at all.”

“Your terms?”

“No booze.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Spoilsport. Bye.” Then she picked up her jacket, turned with a flourish and strutted out of the pub. The men all watched her go with hangdog expressions, some of them brought crudely back to reality by harsh remarks from their wives sitting next to them. One woman gave Banks a particularly malevolent look, the kind she probably reserved for child molesters.

After Emily had gone, Banks spent a few moments thinking over what she had said. Self-analysis had not been a habit of his, and it was something he had only really indulged in since the split with Sandra, since his move to the cottage, even. There he had spent many a late evening watching the sunset over the flagstone roofs of Helmthorpe as shadows gathered on the distant valley sides, and probing himself, his motives, what made him the man he was, why he had made the mistakes he had made. There he was, a man in his forties taking stock of his life and finding out it wasn’t at all what he thought it had been.

So Riddle hated him because he was a natural detective and because he appeared to have a life, including this illusory mistress. Some of Riddle’s envy, then, if that was what it was, was based on error. What could be more pathetic than envying a man the life you only imagine he has? It was just a precocious teenager’s analysis, of course, but perhaps it wasn’t too far from the mark. After all, it wasn’t as if Riddle had ever given Banks a chance, right from the start. Still, he thought, knocking back the last of his pint, that wasn’t his problem anymore. With Riddle in his corner, things were bound to change for the better. As he pulled up his collar and left the pub, he was aware of the women’s eyes burning holes in the back of his raincoat.