It was then that he became aware of another faint noise beyond the sound of the rushing millrace. At first, it didn’t mean much, then, when he realized what it was, it sent a chill through him.
It was coming from the converted barn, and it was the sound of a car engine idling.
Banks dashed toward the barn, doubting his own ears at first, but there was no mistaking the smooth purr of the German engineering. The garage door was closed but not locked. Banks bent and grasped the handle, pulling as he moved back, and the door slid up smoothly and silently on its overhead runners. The stink of exhaust fumes hit him immediately, and he staggered back, digging his hands in his raincoat pocket for a handkerchief. He couldn’t find one, but he went in anyway with his forearm over his nose and mouth.
It was dark and smoky inside the garage, and Banks couldn’t make out very much at first. His eyes adjusted as he moved inside, noticing that rolled-up cloths or towels had been placed against the gap between the floor and bottom of the garage door on the inside. He did the best he could to keep the fumes at bay, covering his mouth and nose with one hand, breathing only as little as necessary. At least now air from outside was displacing the carbon monoxide.
When Banks got to the car, he could see Riddle slumped across the two front seats. There was no way of knowing yet whether he was dead, so Banks first tried to open a door. They were all locked. He looked around and found a crowbar on one of the shelves. Standing back and swinging it hard, he broke open one of the back windows to avoid disturbing the front, reached inside and disengaged the lock mechanism. Then he opened the front door at the driver’s side, reached across Riddle and turned off the engine. The fumes were dissipating slowly now the garage doors stood wide open, but Banks was beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy.
He felt for a pulse and found none. Riddle’s whole face was as red as his bald head got when he was angry. Cherry-red. The hosing he had rigged from the exhaust to the back window was still in place. He had opened the window a crack to admit it and stuffed the opening with oil-stained rags.
Riddle was wearing his uniform, everything polished, shiny in order, apart from the thin streak of yellowish vomit down his front. Above the dashboard was a sheet of paper with handwriting on it. Leaving it where it was, Banks leaned over and squinted. It was short and to the point:
The game’s over. Please take care of Benjamin and try to ensure that he doesn’t think too ill of his father. I’m sorry.
JERRY.
Banks read it again, angry tears pricking at his stinging eyes. You bastard, he thought, you selfish bastard. As if his family hadn’t suffered enough already.
Groggy and sick, Banks stumbled outside and made it to the millrace before he emptied out his lunch. He bent over and took handfuls of cold clear water and splashed it over his face, drinking down as much of it as he could manage. He knew that there were two officers only a hundred yards away, but he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him that far, so he went back to his car, picked up his mobile and called the station, then he bent forward, put his hands on his knees and took deep breaths as he waited for the circus to begin.
16
Banks spent the evening at home trying to make sense of the day’s events. He still felt weak and nauseated, but apart from that, there seemed no serious damage. The ambulance crew had insisted on giving him oxygen and taking him to Eastvale General for a checkup, but the doctor pronounced him fit to go home, with a warning to lay off the ciggies for a while.
From what he had been able to piece together so far, it appeared almost certain that Riddle had committed suicide. They wouldn’t know for sure until Dr. Glendenning performed the postmortem, probably tomorrow, but there were no signs of external violence on Riddle’s body, the note appeared to be in his handwriting, and the rags and towels used to keep the petrol fumes in the garage had been placed on the inside of the doors, after they had been closed. There were no windows or other means of exit.
Banks would never have pegged Riddle as the suicidal type, but he would be the first to admit that he had no idea if such a type existed. Certainly the murder of his daughter, the destruction of all his political and professional hopes, and the smear campaign started against him in the tabloid would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.
So suicide it may be, Banks thought, but Barry Clough still had a lot to answer for. Clough was enjoying the hospitality of the Eastvale cells that night, while the detectives and forensic experts mobilized by Burgess down south were working overtime following up all the leads they had on the Charlie Courage and Andy Pandy shootings. With any luck, by tomorrow Banks would have something more substantial to confront Clough with in the interview room.
It was nine o’clock when a car pulled up and someone knocked at the door. Puzzled, Banks went to see who it was.
Rosalind Riddle stood there in the cold night air, wearing only a long skirt and sweater. “Can I come in?” she said. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
Banks could think of no reply to that. He stood aside to let her in and shut the door behind her. She smoothed down her skirt and sat in the armchair by the fire, rubbing her hands together. “There’s a chill in the air,” she said. “We might get frost tonight.”
“What are you doing here?” Banks asked.
“I’ve been going insane just sitting around the house. charlotte came to stay with me for a while but I sent her away. She’s nice, but you know, we’re not that close. It’s so empty, and there’s nothing to do there. My mind has been running around in circles. I want to talk to you. It seemed… I don’t know… I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.” She moved to stand up.
“No. Sit down. You might as well stop. You’re here now. Drink?”
Rosalind paused. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” She sat down again. “Thank you. I wouldn’t mind a glass of white wine, if you have any.”
“I’m afraid I’ve only got red.”
“Okay.”
“It’s nothing fancy.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. I might be a snob about some things, but not about wine.”
“Good.” Banks headed into the kitchen to open the Marks and Sparks Bulgarian Merlot. He poured himself a glass, too. He had a feeling he would need it. After he had handed Rosalind her drink, Banks sat opposite her. She had clearly made an effort to look her best, wearing an expensive gray skirt and Fair Isle jumper, applying a little makeup to give some color to her pallid features, but there was no disguising the bruiselike circles under her eyes, or the rims pink from crying. This was a woman hanging on the edge by her fingernails.
“How are you?” he asked. It sounded like a stupid question after what had happened to her, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m… I… I don’t really know. I thought I was coping, but inside…” She tapped her chest. “It all feels so tight and hot inside here. I keep thinking I’m going to explode.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s quite a thing, you know, losing both your daughter and your husband within a week of one another.” She gave a harsh laugh, then thumped the armrest of her chair. “How dare he do this? How dare he?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s run away from it all, hasn’t he? And where does that leave me? A cold, heartless bitch because I’m still alive? Because I didn’t care about my daughter’s murder enough to kill myself over it?”
“Don’t do this, Rosalind,” said Banks, getting up and putting his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the little convulsions as grief and anger surged through her.