Cold is the Grave Read online

  Riddle asked Banks to sit down. He was still in uniform. A tall man, running to bulk but still fit, he sat opposite in an armchair, pulling at the sharp crease of his trouser leg, and leaned back. He was bald, and dark beetle brows arched over his hard, serious brown eyes.

  Banks got the feeling that neither of them quite knew what to say now that he was here. You could cut the tension with a knife; something bad had happened, something delicate and painful. Banks needed a cigarette badly, but there was no way. He knew Riddle hated smoke, and the room had a sort of sweet, lavender smell that he could tell had never been sullied by cigarettes. The silence stretched on. He was beginning to feel like Philip Marlowe at the beginning of a case. Maybe he should tell them his rates and break the ice, he thought, but before he could say anything flippant, Riddle spoke.

  ‘Banks . . . I . . . er . . . I know we’ve had our differences in the past, and I’m sure this request will come as much a surprise to you as it comes to me to be making it, but I need your help.’

  Differences in the past? There was an understatement if ever there was one. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’

  Riddle shifted in his chair and plucked at his creases. His wife reached forward and picked up her drink. The ring of moisture it left on the glass surface was the only thing that marred the room’s sterile perfection.

  ‘It’s a personal matter,’ Riddle went on. ‘Very personal. And unofficial. Before we go any farther, Banks, I want your absolute assurance that what I have to say won’t be repeated outside these four walls. Can you give me that?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosalind said, standing up. ‘You must think me a terrible hostess. You’ve come all this way, and I haven’t even offered you a drink. Will you have something, Mr Banks? A small whisky perhaps?’

  ‘The man’s driving,’ said Riddle.

  ‘Surely just the one?’

  Banks held his hand up. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. What he really wanted was a cup of tea, but more than that, he wanted to get this all over with and go home. If he could do without a cigarette for a while, he could do without a drink, too. He wished one of them would get to the point.

  ‘It’s about our daughter,’ Rosalind Riddle began, hands wriggling on her lap. ‘She left home when she was sixteen.’

  ‘She ran away, Ros,’ said Riddle, his voice tight with anger. ‘Let’s not fool ourselves about what happened.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ Banks asked.

  Riddle answered him. ‘Six months.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Banks, ‘but I’m not sure what—’

  ‘Our son, Benjamin, was playing on the computer earlier this evening,’ Rosalind chipped in. ‘By accident he stumbled across some pictures on one of those sex sites.’

  Banks knew that inadvertently accessing a porno site was easily enough done. Look for ‘Spice Girls’ on some of those search engines and you might end up at ‘Spicy Girls’.

  ‘Some of the pictures . . .’ Rosalind went on. ‘Well, they were of Emily, our daughter. Benjamin’s only eight. He doesn’t really know what any of it means. We put him to bed and told him not to say anything.’

  ‘Are you certain it was your daughter?’ Banks asked. ‘Some of those photos can be doctored, you know. Heads and bodies rearranged.’

  ‘It was her,’ Rosalind answered. ‘Believe me. There’s a distinctive birthmark.’

  ‘I’m sure this is all very upsetting,’ Banks said. ‘And you have my sympathies. But what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to find her,’ Riddle said. ‘Why haven’t you tried yourself?’

  Riddle looked at his wife. The gaze that passed between them spoke volumes of discord and recrimination. ‘I have,’ said Riddle. ‘But I had nothing to go on. I couldn’t go through official channels. I mean, it wasn’t even as if there was a crime. She was perfectly within her legal rights. And the fewer people who knew about what happened, the better.’

  ‘You’re worried about your reputation?’

  Riddle’s voice rose. ‘I know what you think, Banks, but these things are important. If only you realized that, you might have made something better of yourself.’

  ‘More important than your daughter’s well-being?’

  ‘Valuing reputation doesn’t mean that either my husband or I care any the less about our daughter, Mr Banks,’ said Rosalind. ‘As her mother, I resent that implication.’

  ‘Then I apologize.’

  Riddle spoke again. ‘Look, what I’m saying, Banks, is that before tonight I didn’t think I had any real cause to worry about her – Emily’s an intelligent and resourceful girl, if a bit too headstrong and rebellious – but now I think I do have something tangible to be concerned about. And this isn’t all about ambition and reputation, no matter what you think.’

  ‘So why didn’t you try to find her yourself?’

  ‘Be realistic, Banks. For a start, I can’t be seen going off on some sort of private chase.’

  ‘And I can?’

  ‘You’re not in the public eye as much as I am. People might recognize me. I can cover for you up here, if that’s what you’re worried about. I am chief constable, after all. And I’ll also cover all reasonable expenses. I don’t expect you to be out of pocket over this. But you’ll be on your own. You can’t use police resources or anything like that. I want to keep this private. A family matter.’

  ‘You mean your career’s important and mine’s expendable?’

  ‘You might try looking at it in a slightly different light. It’s not that there’s nothing in it for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Look at it this way. If you succeed, you’ll have earned my gratitude. Whatever you think of me, I’m a man of honour, a man of my word, and I promise you that whatever happens, your career in Eastvale can only benefit if you do as I ask.’

  ‘And the other reason?’

  Riddle sighed. ‘I’m afraid that if she found out it was me looking for her, then she’d give me the slip. She blames me for all her problems. She made that clear in the months before she left. I want you to go about this discreetly, Banks. Try to get to her before she knows anyone’s looking. I’m not asking you to kidnap her or anything like that. Just find her, talk to her, make sure she’s all right, tell her we’d be happy to see her again and talk things over.’

  ‘And persuade her to stop posing on Internet sex sites?’

  Riddle paled. ‘If you can.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she went? Has she been in touch?’

  ‘We had a postcard a couple of weeks after she’d left,’ Rosalind answered. ‘She said she was doing fine and that we weren’t to worry about her. Or bother looking for her.’

  ‘Where was it postmarked?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Apart from a card for Benjamin on his birthday, yes.’

  ‘Did she say anything else on the postcard?’

  ‘Just that she had a job,’ Rosalind went on. ‘So we wouldn’t have to worry about her living on the streets or anything like that. Not that Emily would live on the streets. She was always a very high-maintenance girl.’

  ‘Ros!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. And you—’

  ‘Was there any specific reason she left?’ Banks cut in. ‘Anything that sparked her leaving? A row or something?’

  ‘Nothing specific,’ Riddle said. ‘It was cumulative. She just didn’t come home from school.’

  ‘School?’

  Rosalind answered. ‘A couple of years ago we sent her to a very expensive and highly reputable all-girls’ boarding school outside Warwick. At the end of last term, the beginning of summer, instead of returning home, she ran off to London.’

  ‘By herself?’

  ‘As far as we know.’

  ‘Did she usually come home for the holidays?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What stopped her this time? Were you having any proble
ms with her?’

  Riddle picked up the thread again. ‘When she was last home, for the spring holidays, there were the usual arguments over staying out late, drinking in pubs, hanging around with the wrong crowd, that sort of thing. But nothing out of the ordinary. She’s a very bright girl. She was doing well at school, academically, but it bored her. It all seemed too easy. Especially languages. She has a way with words. Of course, we wanted her to stay on and do her A levels, go to university, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to get out on her own. We gave her everything, Banks. She had her own horse, piano lessons, trips to America with the school, skiing holidays in Austria, a good education. We were very proud of Emily. We gave her everything she ever wanted.’

  Except perhaps what she needed most, thought Banks: you. To reach the dizzying heights of chief constable, especially by the age of forty-five, as Riddle had done, you needed to be driven, ruthless and ambitious. You also needed to be able to move around a lot, which can have a devastating effect on young children who sometimes find it hard to make friends. Add to that the hours spent on the job and on special courses, and Riddle had probably hardly set foot in the family home from one day to the next.

  Banks was hardly one to take the moral high ground in raising children, he had to admit to himself. Even to reach the rank of DCI, he had been an absent father far more often than was good for Brian and Tracy. As it happened, both of them had turned out fine, on the whole, but he knew that was more a matter of good luck than good parenting on his part. Much of the task had fallen to Sandra, and she hadn’t always burdened him with the children’s problems. Perhaps Banks hadn’t sacrificed his family to ambition the way he suspected Riddle had, but he had certainly sacrificed a lot for the sake of being a good detective.

  ‘Are there any friends from around here she might have confided in?’ he asked. ‘Anyone who might have stayed in touch with her?’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Emily is very . . . self-sufficient. She had plenty of friends, but none that close, I don’t think. It came of moving around a lot. When she moves on, she burns her bridges. And she hadn’t actually spent much time in this area.’

  ‘You mentioned “the wrong crowd”. Was there a boyfriend?’

  ‘Nobody serious.’

  ‘His name could still be a help.’

  Rosalind glanced at her husband, who said, ‘Banks, I’ve told you I don’t want this to be official. If you start looking up Emily’s old boyfriends and asking questions around these parts, how long do you think the affair’s going to remain under wraps? I told you, she’s run off to London. That’s where you’ll find her.’

  Banks sighed. It looked as if this were going to be an investigation carried out with his hands tied. ‘Does she know anyone in London, then?’ he asked. ‘Anyone she might go to for help?’

  Riddle shook his head. ‘It’s been years since I was on the Met. She was only a little girl when we left.’

  ‘I know this might be difficult for you,’ Banks said, ‘but do you think I might have a look at this website?’

  ‘Ros?’

  Rosalind Riddle scowled at her husband and said, ‘Follow me.’

  Banks followed her under a beam so low that he had to duck into a book-lined study. A tangerine iMac sat on a desk by the window. Wind rattled the glass beyond the heavy curtains, and every once in a while it sounded as if someone sloshed a bucket of water over the windows. Rosalind sat down and flexed her fingers, but before she hit any keys or clicked the mouse, she turned in her chair and looked up at Banks. He couldn’t read the expression on her face.

  ‘You don’t approve of us, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Our kind. People who have . . . oh, wealth, success, ambition.’

  ‘I can’t say I pay you much mind, really.’

  ‘Ah, but you do. That’s just where you’re wrong.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re envious. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of that sideboard over there. You think you’re better than us – purer, somehow – don’t you?’

  ‘Mrs Riddle,’ said Banks, with a sigh, ‘I don’t need this kind of crap. I’ve driven all the way out here on a miserable night when I’d far rather be at home listening to music and reading a good book. So if we’re going to do this, let’s just get on with it, shall we, or shall I just go home and go to bed?’

  She studied him coolly. ‘Hit a nerve, did I?’

  ‘Mrs Riddle, what do you want from me?’

  ‘He’s thinking of going into politics, you know.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Any hint of a family scandal would ruin everything we’ve worked so hard for all these years.’

  ‘I imagine it probably would. It’s best to get into office first, then have the scandal.’

  ‘That’s cynical.’

  ‘But true. Read the papers.’

  ‘He says you have a tendency to make waves.’

  ‘I like to get at the truth of things. Sometimes that means rocking a few boats. The more expensive the boat, the more noise it seems to make when it rocks.’

  Rosalind smiled. ‘I wish we could all afford to be so high-minded. This job will require the utmost discretion.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. If I decide to take it on.’ Banks held her stare until she blinked and swivelled her chair back to face the screen.

  ‘I just thought we’d get that clear before you get to look at nude pictures of my daughter,’ she said without looking at him.

  He watched over her shoulder as she started to work at the keyboard and mouse. Finally, a black screen with a series of thumbnail-sized photographs appeared. Rosalind clicked on one of them and another screen, with five more images, began to load. At the top of the screen, the script announced that the model’s name was Louisa Gamine, and that she was an eighteen-year-old biology student. Looking at the pictures, Banks could believe it.

  ‘Why Louisa Gamine?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Louisa’s her middle name. Louise, actually. Emily Louise Riddle. I suppose she thinks Louisa sounds more exotic. Maybe when she left she decided she needed a new identity?’

  Banks understood that. When he was younger he had always regretted that his parents hadn’t given him a middle name. So much so that he made one up for himself: Davy, after Davy Crockett, one of his heroes at the time. That lasted a couple of months, then he finally accepted his own name.

  Rosalind clicked on one of the images, and it began to fill the screen, loading from top to bottom. Banks was looking at an amateur photograph, taken in a bedroom with poor lighting, which showed a pretty young girl sitting naked and cross-legged on a pale blue duvet. The smile on her face looked a little forced, and her eyes didn’t seem quite focused.

  The resemblance between Louisa and her mother was astonishing. They both had the same long-legged grace, the same pale, almost translucent complexion, the same generous mouth. The only real difference, apart from their ages, was that Louisa’s blonde hair hung over her shoulders. Otherwise, Banks felt he could easily have been looking at a photograph of Rosalind taken maybe twenty-five years ago, and that embarrassed him. He noticed a discoloration the shape of a teardrop on the inside of Louisa’s left thigh: the birthmark. She also had a small ring of some sort in her navel, and below it, what looked like a black tattoo of a spider. Banks thought of Annie Cabbot’s rose tattoo above her left breast, how long it was since he had last seen it, and how he would probably never see it again, especially if he managed to get back together with Sandra.

  The other photos were much the same, all taken in the same location, with the same poor lighting. Only the poses were different. Her new surname was certainly apt, Banks thought, as there was definitely something of the gamine about her, a young girl with mischievous charm. There was something else that nagged him about the surname she had chosen, too, but he couldn’t think what it was at the moment. If he put it to the back of his mind, it would probably come
eventually. Those things usually did.

  Banks examined the pictures more closely, aware of Rosalind’s subtle perfume as he leaned over her shoulder. He could make out a few details of the room – the corner of a pop-star poster, a row of books – but they were all too blurred to be of any use.

  ‘Seen enough?’ asked Rosalind, tilting her head towards him and hinting that perhaps he was lingering too long, enjoying himself too much.

  ‘She looks as if she knows what she’s doing,’ said Banks.

  Rosalind paused, then said, ‘Emily’s been sexually active since she was fourteen. At least, as far as we know. She was thirteen when she started becoming . . . wayward, so it might have been earlier. That’s partly why we sent her away to school in the first place.’

  ‘That’s not unusual,’ said Banks, thinking with alarm of Tracy. He was sure she hadn’t been quite that young, but it was hardly something he could ask her about. He didn’t even know whether she was active now, come to think of it, and he didn’t think he wanted to know. Tracy was nineteen, so she had a few years on Emily, but she was still Banks’s little girl. ‘Do you think the school helped?’ he asked.

  ‘Obviously not. She didn’t come back, did she?’

  ‘Have you spoken with the principal, or with any of her classmates?’

  ‘No. Jerry’s too worried about indiscretion.’

  ‘Of course. Print that one.’ Banks pointed to a photograph where Louisa sat on the edge of the bed staring expressionlessly into the camera, wearing a red T-shirt and nothing else. ‘Head and shoulders will do. We can trim off the bottom part.’

  Rosalind looked over her shoulder at him, and he thought he could sense a little gratitude in her expression. At least she didn’t seem so openly hostile as she had earlier. ‘You’ll do it?’ she asked. ‘You’ll try to find Emily?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You don’t need to make her come home. She won’t want to come. I can guarantee you that.’