Cold is the Grave Page 8

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Banks.

  ‘He’s just worried about me ruining his spotless reputation, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s part of it.’ Banks didn’t feel he necessarily had to paint an idealized picture of Riddle, especially to his runaway daughter. She probably knew him better than anyone. ‘But he did also seem genuinely concerned about you.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’ Emily had sat down again now and seemed thoughtful. ‘Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle, champion of family values, quality time, the caring, concerned copper. “My daughter the slut” wouldn’t fit at all with that image, would it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any harm if you just gave him a call and reassured him everything’s okay, would it?’ Banks said. ‘And what about your mother? She’s worried sick, too.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘You don’t know anything. What do you know about it?’ She fingered the collar of her sweater and seemed to draw in on herself. ‘It was like being in prison up there. You can’t go here. You can’t do that. You can’t see him. You can’t talk to her. Don’t forget your piano lessons. Have you done your homework? Be in before eight o’clock. I’d no room to breathe. It was stifling me. I couldn’t be free, couldn’t be myself.’

  ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ She stood up again. Red patches glowed on her cheeks. ‘Tell Daddy to fuck off. Tell the old man to just fuck off. Let him wonder. Let him worry. I’m not going to set his mind at rest. Because . . . you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because he was never fucking there anyway. He used to make all these rules and you know what . . . he was never even there to enforce them. Mummy had to do that. And she didn’t even care enough. He was never even there to enforce his own stupid rules. Isn’t that a laugh?’ She went to lean against the fireplace again. Alanis Morissette was singing about seeing right through someone, and Banks knew what she meant. Still, he’d done his job, done as he’d been asked. He could give Jimmy Riddle Emily’s London address, tell him about Barry Clough. If Riddle wanted to send in the locals to check out Clough’s gun collection, set the forensic accountants on his business interests and put in a call to the drugs squad, that was his business. Banks’s job was over. It was up to Riddle to take it from there. He tore a page from his notebook and wrote on it: ‘If you change your mind, or if there’s anything else you want to tell me, any message you want me to deliver, this is where I’m staying. You can phone and leave a message if I’m not there.’

  For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to take it, but she did. Then she glanced at it once, crumpled it up and threw it in the fire. The door opened and Barry Clough strode in, smile on his face. He tapped his wristwatch. ‘Better get your face on, love,’ he said to Emily. ‘We’re due at Rod’s place in half an hour.’ He looked at Banks, the smile gone. ‘And your time’s up, mate,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards the front door. ‘On your bike.’

  4

  Banks was running about five minutes late for his dinner with Sandra when he got off the tube at Camden Town. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour now, and puddles in the gutter were smeared with the gaudy reflections of shop signs and traffic lights. Luckily, the restaurant wasn’t far from the underground.

  Banks turned up his jacket collar, but he was still soaked by the time he dashed into the restaurant. At first he didn’t recognize the woman who smiled and waved him over to her table by the window. Though he had seen Sandra briefly just a couple of months ago, she had changed her appearance completely since then. For a start, she had had her blonde hair cut short and layered. If anything, the style emphasized her dark eyebrows more than ever, and Banks had always found Sandra’s eyebrows one of her sexiest features. She was also wearing a pair of round gold-rimmed glasses, not much bigger than the ‘granny glasses’ that were so popular in the sixties. He had never seen her in glasses before, hadn’t known she needed them. From what he could make out, her clothes looked arty, all different layers: a black shawl, a red silk scarf, a red-and-black patterned sweater.

  Banks edged into the chair opposite her. He was starving. It seemed ages since that dismal chicken pie in Kennington. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said, drying off his hair with a serviette. ‘I’d forgotten what a pain the bloody tube can be.’

  Sandra smiled. ‘It’s all right. Remember, I’m used to your being late.’

  Banks let that one go by. He looked around. The restaurant was busy, bustling with waiters and parties coming and going. It was one of those places that Banks thought trendy in its lack of trendiness, all scratched wood tables and partitions, pork chops, steaks and mashed potatoes. But the mashed potatoes had garlic and sun-dried tomatoes in them and cost about three quid a side order.

  ‘I’ve already ordered some wine,’ Sandra said. ‘A half-litre of the house claret. I know you prefer red. Okay with you?’

  ‘Fine.’ Banks had turned down a drink at Clough’s house because he hadn’t wanted to be beholden to the bastard in any way, but he wanted one now. ‘You’re looking good,’ he said. ‘You’ve changed. I don’t mean that you didn’t always look good. You know what I mean.’

  Sandra laughed, blushed a little and turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What’s with the glasses?’

  ‘They come with age,’ she said. ‘Any time after your fortieth birthday.’

  ‘Then I’m really living on borrowed time.’

  A waiter brought the wine and left it for them to pour themselves. Pretentious in its unpretentiousness. Sandra paused as Banks filled their glasses, then lifted hers for a toast. ‘How are you, Alan?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Banks. ‘Just fine. Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Aren’t I always?’

  ‘I thought Jimmy Riddle had shuffled you off to the hinterlands.’

  ‘Even Riddle needs my particular skills every now and then.’ Banks sipped some wine. Perfectly quaffable. He looked around and saw it was okay to light a cigarette. ‘May I cadge one?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Of course. Still can’t give them up completely?’

  ‘Not completely. Oh, Sean doesn’t like it. He keeps going on at me to stop. But I don’t think one or two a month is really bad for your health.’

  Good sign, that, Banks thought: Sean the nag. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘I keep waiting for them to announce they were wrong all along and cigarettes are really good for you, and it’s all the raw vegetables and fruit that do the damage.’

  Sandra laughed. ‘You’ll have a long wait.’ She clinked glasses. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers. I was out where we used to live this lunchtime. Kennington.’

  ‘Really? Why? A sentimental journey?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘It was a pretty cramped flat, as I remember. Much too small with the kids. And that dentist I worked for was a groper.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘There’s lots of things I never told you. You usually seemed to have enough on your plate as it was.’

  They studied the menu for a couple of minutes. Banks saw that he was right about the mashed potatoes. And the garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. And the price. He ordered venison sausage with braised red cabbage and garlic mashed potatoes. No sun-dried tomatoes. It seemed the perfect comfort meal for a night like this. Sandra went for steak and frites. Their orders given to the waiter, they smoked and drank in silence a while longer. Now he was here with her, Banks didn’t know how to approach what he wanted to say. He felt curiously tongue-tied, like a teenager on his first date.

  If Sandra would put this silliness with Sean aside and come back, he wanted to tell her, it was still possible that they could rebuild their relationship and move on. True, they had sold the Eastvale semi and Banks’s cottage would be a bit small for two, but they could manage there for a while at least. If Banks went through with his transfer to the National Crime Squad – if they offered him it – then who knew w
here they might end up living? And with Riddle owing him now, he would be all right for a glowing recommendation.

  ‘I saw Brian last week,’ Sandra said.

  ‘He told me when I phoned him the other evening. I wanted to drop by and see him while I was here, but he said they were off to play some gigs in Scotland.’

  Sandra nodded. ‘That’s right. Aberdeen. He’s really excited about their prospects, you know. They’ve already almost finished their first CD.’

  ‘I know.’ Their son Brian played in a rock band. They had just cut their first record with an indie label and were on the verge of getting a deal with a major record company. Banks had heard the band play the last time he was in London and had been knocked out by his son’s singing, playing and songwriting talent, had come to see him in a whole new light, a person unto himself, not just an extension of the family. He had almost written Brian off as an idler and a layabout after he nearly failed his degree, but Brian was his own person in Banks’s mind now. Independent, talented, free. The same feeling had happened with Tracy, when he had seen her with her new friends in a pub shortly after she started university. He knew he’d lost her, then – at least lost the daughter of his imagination – but in her place he had found a young woman he liked and admired, even if she was off in Paris with the monosyllabic Damon. Letting go can be painful, Banks had learned over the years, but sometimes it hurts more if you try to hold on.

  ‘I thought you were taking Tracy to Paris this weekend.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t she? I am her mother, after all.’

  Banks sipped some wine. ‘Something came up,’ he said. ‘She’s gone with a friend.’

  Sandra raised an eyebrow. ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Male. Bloke called Damon. Seems all right. Tracy can take care of herself.’

  ‘I know that, Alan. It’s just . . . just difficult, that’s all.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Trying to bring up two kids this way.’

  ‘Apart?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Even if we were still together, it would be like this. We’re not bringing them up any more. They’re grown up now, Sandra. They live away from home. The sooner you accept that, the better.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that? I’m just saying it’s hard, that’s all. They both seem so distant now.’

  ‘They are. But as I said, it would be like that anyway.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Their food arrived and they both tucked in. The sausage was good, more meat than fat for a change, and so were the garlic mashed potatoes. Sandra pronounced her positive verdict on the steak. A few minutes into the meal, she said, ‘Remember when I dropped by to see you up at Gratly?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘I want to apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Not unannounced. It was unfair of me.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who I mean. Your pretty young girlfriend. What was her name?’

  ‘Annie. Annie Cabbot. Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Sandra smiled. ‘I can’t believe you tried to con me into thinking the two of you were working. Her barefoot in those tight shorts. It was plain as the nose on your face. Anyway, how is she?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of her lately.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I scared her off?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, she can’t have much staying power if she let a little thing like that scare her away.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alan. Really I am. I don’t want to spoil anything for you. I want you to find someone. I want you to be happy.’

  Banks ate more food and washed it down with wine. Soon, the carafe was empty. ‘Another?’ he suggested.

  ‘Fine,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll probably only have one glass, though. If you think you can manage the rest by yourself . . .’

  ‘I’m not driving.’ Banks ordered more wine and filled their glasses when it came.

  ‘Was there anything . . . I mean, was there any particular reason you wanted to see me?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Do I need a reason to have dinner with my own wife?’

  Sandra flinched. ‘I didn’t mean you needed one, I just . . . For crying out loud, Alan, we’ve been separated for a year now. We’ve hardly spoken so much as a few words to one another in that time. And that mostly over the telephone. You can’t expect me not to wonder if you’ve got some sort of hidden agenda.’

  ‘I just thought it was time we buried the hatchet, that’s all.’

  Sandra studied him. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘All right, then. Consider it buried.’ They clinked glasses again. ‘How’s Jenny Fuller?’

  Jenny was a mutual acquaintance; she was also a clinical psychologist and Banks had sought her help on a number of cases. ‘I haven’t seen a lot of her. She’s pretty busy now she’s back teaching at York.’

  ‘You know,’ Sandra said, toying with her few remaining frites and looking at him sideways, ‘there was a time when I thought you and Jenny . . . I mean, she’s a very attractive woman.’

  ‘It just never worked out that way,’ said Banks, who had often wondered why it hadn’t, even when it seemed that both of them wanted it to. Fate, he supposed. ‘She’s got poor taste in men,’ he said, then laughed. ‘That wasn’t meant to sound that way. I didn’t mean to imply that I’d be a particularly good choice for her, just that she seems destined to end up with men who treat her badly, as if she’s constantly reliving some sort of relationship, trying to get it right and failing every time. She can’t break the cycle.’ What he didn’t say was that Jenny had been cool towards him ever since he stood her up on a dinner date, through no fault of his own.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Sandra. ‘She told me once that despite everything she’s done she doesn’t have a lot of confidence in herself, much self-esteem. I don’t know.’

  They finished their meal, put their plates aside and Banks lit another cigarette. Sandra declined his offer of one. While she was in the ladies’, he poured himself more wine and debated how to broach the subject that was on his mind. As she walked back across the restaurant he noticed she was wearing jeans under her various flowing layers of clothing, and her figure still looked good. His heart gave a little lurch, and another part of him stirred, unbidden.

  Sandra looked at her watch after she sat down. ‘I can’t stay very much longer,’ she said. ‘I promised to meet some friends at half ten.’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘Mmm. Something like that.’

  ‘You never did that up in Eastvale.’

  ‘Things have changed since then. Besides, Eastvale closes down at nine o’clock. This is London.’

  ‘Maybe we never should have left,’ Banks said. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, let’s be honest, I was getting pretty burnt out. I thought a quieter life might bring us closer together. Shows how much I know.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with that, Alan. It wouldn’t have mattered where we were. Even when you were there you were always somewhere else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it. Most of the time you were out working; the rest of the time you were thinking about work. You just weren’t at home. The damnedest thing is, you never even realized it; you thought everything was just hunky-dory.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? Until you met Sean.’

  ‘Sean has nothing to do with this. Leave him out of it.’

  ‘Nothing would suit me better.’

  They fell silent. Sandra seemed restless, as if she wanted to get something off her chest before she left. ‘Stay for a coffee, at least,’ Banks said. ‘And we’ll leave Sean out of it.’

  She managed a thin smile. ‘All right. I’ll have a cappuccino. And please don’
t tell me I didn’t drink that in Eastvale either. You can’t get a bloody cappuccino in Eastvale.’

  ‘You can now. That new fancy coffee place opposite the community centre. It wasn’t open when you left. Sells latte, too.’

  ‘So the North’s getting sophisticated, after all, is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. People come from miles around.’

  ‘To sell their sheep. I remember.’

  ‘Yorkshire never really suited you, did it?’

  Sandra shook her head. ‘I tried, Alan. Honestly I did. For your sake. For mine. For Brian and Tracy’s. I tried. But in the end I suppose you’re right. I’m a big-city girl. Take it or leave it.’

  Banks filled his wineglass as Sandra’s cappuccino arrived. ‘I’ve applied for another job,’ he told her finally.

  She paused with the frothing cup halfway to her lips. ‘You’re not leaving the force?’

  ‘No, not that.’ Banks laughed. ‘I suppose the force will always be with me.’

  Sandra groaned.

  ‘But I’ll most likely be leaving Yorkshire. In fact there’s a good chance I could be based down here. I’ve applied for the National Crime Squad.’

  Sandra frowned and sipped some coffee. ‘I read about that in the papers a while ago. Sort of an English FBI, they said. What brought all this about? I thought at least you were happy up to your knees in sheep droppings. Was it Jimmy Riddle?’

  Banks scraped his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray. ‘A lot of reasons,’ he said, ‘and Jimmy Riddle was a big one. I’m not so sure about that now. But maybe I’ve run my natural course up there, too. I’m just a bit behind you, that’s all. I don’t know. I think I need something new. A challenge. And maybe I’m a big-city boy at heart, too.’

  Sandra laughed. ‘Well, good luck. I hope you get what you want.’

  ‘It could mean travel, too. Europe. Hunting down dangerous criminals in the Dordogne.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Banks paused to stub out his cigarette and take another sip of wine. Here goes nothing, he thought. ‘We’ve been apart about a year now, right?’