Cold is the Grave Read online

  There was, of course, plenty of crime, and in keeping with its new status, the Eastvale station had been extended into the adjoining building, where Vic Manson’s fingerprints unit, scenes-of-crime, computer and photography departments had all set up shop. Renovations were still going on, and the place was filled with noise and dust.

  While the section stations would continue to police their areas as before – indeed, they were to be given even more autonomy – Eastvale was now to be responsible for most of the criminal investigation within the new Western Division. Nobody was sure yet how many CID officers – or Crime Management Personnel, as some now liked to call them – they would end up with, or where they would all be put, but staffing increases had already begun.

  One of the first moves that Millicent Cummings, the Director of Human Resources, had made was to transfer Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot to the new team. Millie told Banks that she thought Annie had worked well with him on their previous case, no matter what Chief Constable Riddle thought of its messy outcome, and that as Annie was going for her inspector’s boards as soon as she could, the experience would be good for her.

  Millie, of course, along with Riddle and everyone else, didn’t know about Banks’s affair with Annie, and Banks could hardly say anything now. This was a good opportunity for her to get back in the swing of things, and he certainly wasn’t going to stand in her way. Annie was a good detective, and if she could handle working with Banks, he could at least try to accommodate her.

  The county also had a new Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) in the shape of Ron McLaughlin, known jokingly as ‘Red Ron’ because he leaned more to New Labour than most senior policemen. ACC McLaughlin was known to be a hard but fair man, one who believed in using his officers’ abilities to the best, and he was also rumoured to enjoy a wee dram of malt every now and then.

  It was a misty, drizzling day – what the locals called ‘mizzling’ – when Riddle got the chance to make good on his promise to Banks. Over the last year or so, all serious crimes in the division that couldn’t be handled by Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe, Detective Sergeant Hatchley and whichever DCs happened to be assigned to Eastvale Divisional Headquarters at the time had been passed on to other divisions, or to the Regional Crime Squad, leaving Banks free to devote all his duty hours to paperwork and administration.

  Since he had done Riddle the big favour of bringing Emily back home, since the big changes around the station, and since things had finally come to an end with Sandra, the thought of moving from his Gratly cottage and starting a new job with the NCS had begun to lose its appeal, and Banks had withdrawn his application. Eastvale was starting to seem like a good bet again, and it was where he wanted to be.

  Despite the drizzle and the filthy grey sky, Banks felt in a buoyant, optimistic mood. He was reading a report on the sudden increase of car theft in rural areas, and in need of a break, so he went to stand by the window to smoke a proscribed cigarette and look down on the market square in the late afternoon.

  The renovators were mercifully silent, no doubt planning their next major assault, and Banks’s radio played quietly in the background: Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 3. The Eastvale Christmas lights, turned on in the middle of November by some third-rate television personality Banks had never heard of, made a pretty sight outside his window, hanging across Market Street and over the square like a bright lattice of jewels. Soon they’d be putting up the huge Christmas tree by the market cross, and the church choir would be out singing carols at lunchtime and early evening, collecting for charity.

  Brian thought he would be busy with the band over the holidays, but Tracy had phoned the previous day and promised to spend Christmas with her father before heading down to London to see her mother on Boxing Day. Banks had never been much of a fan of Christmas – far too many holiday seasons spent working and witnessing the gaudy excess of suicides and domestic murders that peaked around that time of year had taken care of that – but this called for celebration; this year he would make an effort, buy a small tree, presents, put up some decorations, cook Christmas dinner.

  Last year had been a complete wash-out. He had turned down all offers of meals, drinks and parties from friends and colleagues and spent the entire holiday alone in the Eastvale semi he had once shared with Sandra, wallowing in his own misery and keeping up his maintenance buzz with liberal tots of whisky. Brian and Tracy had both phoned, of course, and he had managed to bluff his way past any worries they might have had about him, but there was no denying it had been a grim time. This year would be different. Delia Smith had a book about cooking for Christmas, he remembered; perhaps he would go to Waterstone’s and buy it before going home.

  The telephone brought him back to his desk. ‘Banks here.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Banks? My name’s Collaton, Detective Inspector Mike Collaton. I’m calling from Market Harborough, Leicestershire Constabulary. I just called your county headquarters and they put me on to you.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Earlier today a motorist stopped by the roadside near here and nipped down a lane into the woods for a piss. He found a body.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Banks, tapping his pen on the desk, still wondering what the connection was.

  ‘It’s one of yours. Thought you might be interested.’

  ‘One of my what?’

  ‘Local villains. Bloke by the name of Charles Courage. Same as the brewery. Lived at number seventeen Cutpurse Lane, Eastvale.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds like it could hardly be a more appropriate address, going by his record.’

  Jesus Christ, Charlie Courage! Dutch, as his cronies jokingly called him on account of that was about the only courage he ever exhibited. Charlie Courage had been a thorn in the side of Eastvale Division for years. In truth, he was a petty villain, a minor player, but around Eastvale he was still a big fish in a small pond. Charlie Courage had done a little bit of everything – except anything that involved violence or sex – from handling stolen goods to sheep-stealing, when it was worth stealing them. You had to give Charlie his due; he was a character. Two or three years ago, he used to have a stall in Eastvale market, Banks remembered, right in front of the police station, where he blithely sold videos and CDs that in all likelihood had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’. While questioning him about a local break-in once, Banks had even bought the Academy of Ancient Music’s CD of Mozart’s C Minor Mass for £3.99. A bargain at twice the price. He didn’t ask where it had come from. To his credit, Charlie had also acted as police informer on a number of occasions. Rumour had it that he had been going straight lately.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’ DI Collaton went on.

  ‘I’ve heard of him. What happened?’

  ‘Shot. Looks like the weapon used was a shotgun. Made a real mess, anyway.’

  ‘Any chance it was accidental, or self-inflicted?’

  ‘Not unless he shot himself in the chest, then got up after he was dead and hid the weapon. We can’t find any sign of it.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s Charlie? What on earth was he doing all the way down there? It’s not like Charlie to leave his parish.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t shine any light on that just yet, either. But it’s definitely him. I got the ID from fingerprints. Seems he did two years once for something involving sheep. I’ve heard about you lot up there and your sheep. Some sort of unspeakable deed, was it?’

  Banks laughed. ‘Stealing them, actually. They used to be worth a bit. You might remember. As for the other, I can’t say I’ve any idea what Charlie got up to in his spare time. Far as I know, he was single, so he could please himself. Anything more you can tell me?’

  ‘Not much. I’ve checked around, and it seems he doesn’t have any living relatives.’

  ‘Sounds like Charlie. I don’t think he ever did.’

  ‘Anyway, I thought I’d ask you to have a look around his house, if you would, see if there’s anything there. Save my lads some legwork. We’r
e a bit short staffed down here.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? Sure. I’ll have a look. What about his car?’

  ‘No sign of any car. Maybe you’d like to come down here tomorrow morning, see the scene, toss a few ideas around, that sort of thing? I’ve a feeling that if there are any answers to be found, they’re probably at your end. The post-mortem’s tomorrow afternoon, by the way.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Banks. ‘In the meantime I’ll go have a quick poke around Charlie’s place right now and see about organizing a thorough search later. If he’s dead, I won’t have to worry about a warrant. I’ll drive down tomorrow morning.’

  Banks took Collaton’s directions to the Fairfield Road police station in Market Harborough, then hung up and went into the main CID office. Since the reorganization began, they had been assigned three new DCs and were promised three more. DC Gavin Rickerd was a spotty, nondescript sort of lad given to anoraks and parkas. Banks couldn’t help feeling he must have been a trainspotter in a previous lifetime, if not in this one. Kevin Templeton was more flash, a bit of a jack-the-lad, but he got things done, and he was surprisingly good with people, especially kids.

  The third addition was DC Winsome Jackman, who hailed from a village in the Cockpit Mountains, high above Montego Bay, Jamaica. Why she had wanted to leave there for the unpredictable summers and miserable winters of North Yorkshire was beyond Banks’s ken. At least superficially. When it came right down to it, though, he imagined that a village in the Jamaican mountains was probably no place for a bright and beautiful woman like Winsome to forge ahead in a career.

  Why she hadn’t become a model instead of joining the police was also beyond Banks. She had the figure for it, and her face showed traces of her Maroon heritage in the high cheekbones and dark ebony colouring. She could certainly give Naomi Campbell a run for her money, and from what Banks had read about the supermodel in the papers, Winsome was a far nicer person. Some of the lads called her ‘Lose Some’ because of the time, back in uniform, when she had chased and caught a mugger in a shopping centre, only to have him then slip out of her grasp and escape. She took it good-naturedly and gave as good as she got. You had to when you were the only black woman in the division.

  As it turned out, everyone was out of the office except Kevin Templeton and Annie, who looked up from her computer monitor as Banks entered.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said, flashing him a quick smile. Annie had a hell of a smile. Though not much more than a twitch of the right corner of her mouth, near the small mole, accompanied by a quick blaze of light from her almond eyes, it was dazzling. Banks felt his heart lurch just a little. God, he hoped this working together wasn’t going to be too difficult.

  ‘See what you can dig up on a local villain called Charlie Courage,’ he said. Then, more or less on impulse, he added, ‘Fancy a ride down to Market Harborough tomorrow?’ He found himself holding his breath after the words were out, almost wishing he could take them back.

  ‘Why not?’ she said, after a short pause. ‘It’ll make a nice break.’

  ‘Much on?’

  ‘Nothing the lads can’t handle on their own.’

  Kevin Templeton grunted from his corner.

  ‘Okay. I’ll pick you up here around nine.’

  Back in his office, Banks found himself hoping that things worked out with Annie on the job. He liked working with female detectives, and he still missed his old DC, Susan Gay, with all her uncertainties and sharp edges. When he had worked with Annie before, he had come to value her near-telepathic communication skills and the way she could mix logic and intuition in her unique style of thinking. He had also cherished her touch and her laughter, but that was another matter, one he couldn’t let himself dwell on any more. Or could he?

  He left the office in a good mood. For the moment, Riddle had proved true to his word, and Banks finally had a case he might be able to get his teeth into. It was DI Collaton’s call, of course, but Collaton had asked for help right off, which led Banks to think that he probably didn’t want to spend too long away from hearth and home tracking the roots of the crime up in dreary Yorkshire, especially with Christmas being so close. Well, good for him, Banks thought. Co-operation between the forces and all that. His loss was Banks’s gain.

  It was after five when Banks pulled up behind a blue Metro in front of Charlie Courage’s one-up-one-down. Cutpurse Lane was a cramped ragbag of terraced cottages behind the community centre. Dating from the eighteenth century for the most part, the mean little hovels had privies out back and no front gardens. During the yuppie craze for bijou a few years ago, a number of young couples had bought cottages on Cutpurse Lane and installed bathrooms and dormer windows.

  As far as Banks knew, Charlie Courage had lived there for years. Whatever Charlie had done with his ill-gotten gains, he certainly hadn’t invested it in improving his living conditions. It was a syndrome Banks had seen before in even more successful petty crooks than Charlie. He had even known one big-time criminal who must have brought in seven figures a year easily, yet still lived hardly a notch above squalor in the East End. He wondered what on earth they used the money they stole for, except in some cases to support mammoth drug habits. Did they give it to charity? Use it to buy their parents that dream house they had always yearned for? People had odd priorities. Charlie Courage, though, had not been a drug addict, was not known for his charity, and he didn’t have any living relatives. A mystery, then.

  First, Banks knocked on the neighbour’s door, which was opened by a short, stocky man in a wrinkled fawn V-necked pullover, who looked unnervingly like Hitler, even down to the little moustache and the mad gleam in his eyes. He stood in the doorway, the sound of the television coming from the room behind him.

  Banks showed his identification. ‘Knightley,’ the man said. ‘Kenneth Knightley. Please come in out of the rain.’ Banks accepted his invitation. The drizzle was the kind that immediately seemed to get right through your raincoat and your skin, all the way to your bones.

  Banks followed him into a small, neat living room with rose-patterned wallpaper and a couple of framed local landscapes hanging above the tile mantelpiece. Banks recognized Gratly Falls, just outside his own cottage, and a romantic watercolour of the ruins of Devraulx Abbey, up Lyndgarth way. A fire blazed in the hearth, making the room a bit too hot and stuffy for Banks’s liking. He could already smell the steam rising from his raincoat.

  ‘It’s about your neighbour, Charles Courage,’ he said. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I don’t have much to do with him,’ said Knightley. ‘Except to say hello to, like. He always keeps to himself, and I’ve not been the most of sociable of fellows since Edie died, if truth be told.’ He smiled. ‘Edie didn’t like him, though. Thought he was a wrong ’un. Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Courage is dead. It looks as if he’s been murdered.’

  Knightley paled. ‘Murdered? Where? I mean, not . . .’

  ‘No. Not next door. Some distance away, actually. Down Leicester way.’

  ‘Leicester? But he never went anywhere. One time I did talk to him, I remember him telling me you’d never catch him going to Torremolinos or Alicante for his holidays. Yorkshire was good enough for him. Charlie didn’t like foreign places or foreigners, and they began at Ripon as far as he was concerned.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I’ve met a few people like that, myself. But one way or another, he did end up in Leicestershire. Dead.’

  ‘That’s probably what killed him then. Finding himself in Leicestershire.’ Knightley paused and ran his hand across his brow. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be so flippant. A man’s dead, after all. I don’t see how I can help you, though.’

  ‘You said you saw him last a couple of days ago. Can you be more precise?’

  ‘Let me think. It was early Sunday afternoon. It must have been then because I was just coming back from the Oak. I always go there on a Sunday lunchtime for a game of dominoes.’

  ‘About what tim
e would this be?’

  ‘Just after two. I can’t be doing with all these new hours, all-day opening and whatnot. I stick to the old times.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Same as usual: a bit shifty. Said hello and that was that.’

  ‘Shifty?’

  ‘He always looked shifty. As if he’d just that minute done something illegal and wasn’t quite sure he’d got away with it yet.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Banks. Charlie Courage usually had just done something illegal. ‘So there was nothing odd or different about his behaviour at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Far as I could tell.’

  ‘Coming or going?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Was he just arriving home or leaving?’

  ‘Oh, I see. He was going out.’

  ‘Car?’

  ‘Aye. He’s got a blue Metro. It’s usually . . . Just a minute . . .’ Knightley stood up and went to the curtain, which he pulled back a few inches. ‘Aye, there it is,’ he said, pointing. ‘Parked right outside.’ Banks made a mental note to have it searched.

  ‘Did you see or hear anyone with him in the house over the last few days?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry I can’t be much help. Like I said, there was nothing unusual at all. He went off to work, then he came home. Quiet as a mouse.’

  ‘Work? Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Didn’t you know? He’d got a job as a nightwatchman at that new business park down Ripon Road. Daleview, I think it’s called.’

  ‘I know the one.’

  Business park. Another to add to Banks’s long list of oxymorons, along with military intelligence. That was an interesting piece of news, anyway: Charlie Courage with a job. A nightwatchman, no less. Banks wondered if his employers knew of his past. It was worth looking into.