Another One Goes Tonight

14

Was the case against Pellegrini in any way undermined?

Diamond was in a defiant frame of mind. For days suspicion had mounted inexorably to the point where it was no longer tenable to believe the man was anything else but a serial killer. It had been hell to admit. The sense of loyalty, kinship, almost brotherly love, engendered by the lifesaving episode had set up a conflict that seemed irreconcilable. But he’d passed the tipping point. His responsibility as a detective overrode everything else.

He’d made up his mind, hardened his heart, and then what? The death certificates showed three of the presumed victims died naturally.

Would he go into reverse?

Not now.

There was evidence of theft, of a demonstrable interest in murder methods and there were other suspicious deaths-to which Cyril Hardstaff’s might now be added.

He gave serious thought to the matter over a later-than-usual breakfast next morning. He felt better than expected after not much sleep, so he treated himself to bacon and eggs and a generous assortment of extras. Dr. Mukherjee’s concerns about his health weren’t going to stop him. He needed nourishing. His brain worked better when he ate well.

On the face of it, Cyril had died naturally, in his own bed. No doubts had been raised at the time.

A pathetic old man up to his ears in debt. Who’d want to kill him?

And why?

Pellegrini was a man with a proven interest in killing. He appeared to have found a clever way to take the life of his so-called friend, Massimo Filiput.

Clever and calculated.

He hadn’t done it under pressure, in a hurry or a panic. First he’d committed theft. The three Fortuny gowns had been stolen some time before Filiput died.

Then murder.

And then Filiput’s friend Cyril had died.

Similar situation: at home, in bed, apparently of natural causes.

Both were old men whose wives had died. Both had once worked together. Both met regularly for a game of Scrabble. But their personal fortunes couldn’t have been more different. Filiput had died a millionaire whereas Cyril had gambled away all the money he could lay his hands on.

Puzzling.

Diamond poured himself another coffee.

Think of it in terms of the old trinity every prosecution has to address: motive, means and opportunity.

Finding a motive that fitted both victims would not be easy.

If it wasn’t financial gain, what else could it be? This hadn’t been spur-of-the-moment violence. It was coolly planned and cleverly carried out.

Had it been done to settle old scores? These were elderly men, all three. Had there been issues at some earlier stage of their lives? If so, the truth would take some unravelling, with two dead and the other insensible.

The motive he’d thought up already while watching the boules-players in Queen Square still appealed to him-that the killing had been done out of conceit, just for the ego trip of carrying out a perfect murder. Or a series of perfect murders. He wasn’t ready yet to share this startling theory with Keith and Ingeborg, but the possibility remained.

Motive, means and opportunity.

Means.

You name it, Diamond told himself as he recalled the pages from the online forum. Ingenious poisons, icicles, air in the bloodstream. Umpteen suggestions to work with. Detecting them would be the problem. Both men had been cremated.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said to no other audience than his cat, Raffles, who didn’t even look up from the food dish, “we come to the third element-opportunity.”

Filiput had died at home in Cavendish Crescent, apparently alone. His body had been discovered in the morning by his cleaner. It wasn’t a locked-room mystery because he kept a spare key behind the drainpipe outside the front door. Mrs. Stratford knew about the key and so, in all probability, did others.

Simple.

Cyril, too, had died at home, but his situation was more problematical. He lived an hour’s drive from Bath. Getting there might be difficult. Did Pellegrini drive, or did he only get about on his tricycle? And how would he gain access to the cottage? They weren’t insurmountable questions, but they needed to be asked.

Cyril Hardstaff’s death warranted urgent investigation. His life, too.

At work, he walked straight into an ambush. The IPCC duo were standing beside Keith Halliwell’s desk. What were they called-Grabham and Slice? Keith looked as if he’d already been dragged and stretched, and that aided the memory.

“There you are, Mr. Diamond,” Dragham called across the room. “Was the traffic extra heavy this morning? I thought by now the Bath rush-hour would be over.”

He let the sarcasm roll off. He wouldn’t be telling them about the night excursion and he hoped Keith hadn’t.

Miss Stretch said, “We’re following up on our visit yesterday to Mr. Bellerby, the gentleman who made the emergency call. We weren’t aware that you took two colleagues with you until he informed us.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It was for Mr. Bellerby. He complained about police, in his words, ‘crawling all over’ his bungalow.”

“Ridiculous.”

“DI Halliwell admits to handling a pair of binoculars without the permission of the owner.”

“Is that crawling all over the bungalow? As I recall, he was testing what you could see through them. Isn’t that so, Keith?”

Halliwell nodded. “Absolutely.”

Miss Stretch switched from Keith’s failings to Diamond’s. “Mr. Bellerby didn’t like the tone of your questioning. He called it a Gestapo-style interrogation.”

“For crying out loud, he’s the little Hitler, not me.”

“He hasn’t registered an official complaint yet, but I’d better warn you. If he does, we’ll need to investigate.”

This was becoming farcical. “Couldn’t you see for yourselves what he’s like? The man’s got an agenda. He objects to the restoration of the lido he can see from the back of his bungalow.”

“He didn’t say anything about a lido to us.”

“Did you go into the back bedroom where he keeps his spying equipment?”

They looked blank.

“I thought not. We have the advantage of local knowledge.”

“You’d better tell us,” Miss Stretch said.

He took on a confiding, almost sympathetic role. “The lido is well known, a site of historic interest. Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian lido in Great Britain. It was used from 1815 until the 1980s and then went into disrepair. The people who run the trust have done well. They’ve got lottery funding and they’re putting on events to raise more money. Bellerby doesn’t approve.”

“Why?” Miss Stretch asked. “What’s his objection?”

“He thinks he’s going to be kept awake by late-night revellers walking up the footpath and he’s looking for any opportunity to dish the dirt. He spotted some health freak having a skinny-dip at dawn, so he called 999. That’s the kind of tosser he is. If he hadn’t made the call, Aaron Green would still be alive and the others wouldn’t have ended up in intensive care.”

“You’re getting rather worked up yourself, Mr. Diamond. We can’t turn back the clock. As it happens, Mr. Bellerby is rather important to us. He has provided the only eye-witness account of Mr. Pellegrini on his tricycle a few minutes before the collision.”

“It’s all in my report. He was wandering off course, as if he wasn’t used to riding the thing. Bellerby’s words, not mine.”

“If those really were his words, he wasn’t so explicit under questioning from us. He said the tricyclist was slightly unsteady.”

“You can’t be unsteady on a trike unless your steering is off. It’s not like being on two wheels.”

“We’re aware of that,” Dragham said. “His control or lack of it is, of course, crucial to our enquiry. Do you have an opinion why he should have been unsteady?”

“Drink, I suppose. That’s the first thing that springs to mind.”

“Inebriation? How would you account for that?”

“He could have brought a hip flask with him. It was a cool night.”

“There was no hip flask found.”

“A bottle, then. He may have slung it away. I’m guessing here. You asked me for a suggestion. If it wasn’t drink, it could have been drugs. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

“We may,” Miss Stretch said. “The hospital informed us that they took a blood sample for their own information soon after he was admitted.”

This was news to Diamond. He’d thought Pellegrini had been too far gone. “Brilliant. It should show up, then. Have they tested for alcohol?”

“Unfortunately there’s a catch. Firstly, the sample belongs to the hospital. We have no power to take and test blood specimens used in the treatment of hospital patients, and neither do you, the police. Secondly, even if it was offered to you, the patient has to give consent.”

“But the patient is unconscious.”

“And therefore the sample must be kept until he is able to decide on consent. That’s the law of the land.”

“Murphy’s law.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Also known as sod’s law. If anything can go wrong, it will.”

But in reality, Diamond didn’t think Pellegrini had been drunk or drugged. The man was too smart for that. Either he’d been unwell or exhausted or there was a fault with the tricycle.

“However, the blood sample taken at the postmortem on the police driver, PC Green, was negative for alcohol,” Miss Stretch said.

“As we all knew it would be.”

“Everything must be double-checked. Today we’re visiting the hospital to get Sergeant Morgan’s account of the crash.”

“That’ll really make his day.”

Dragham frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Visitors. He hasn’t had many.”

“And how will you be spending your day, superintendent?”

A low punch. He backed off fast. “There’s always plenty going on in CID.”

“Have you traced the first responders yet?”

“Who?”

“We spoke about this yesterday. The fire officers and paramedics who must have spoken to Sergeant Morgan at the scene. I thought you were on to this.”

“Top of my list but no joy so far.”

After they’d gone, he checked with Halliwell that nothing had been said about the midnight visit to the HOPS.

“They wouldn’t know about any of that stuff, guv.”

“They may after they see Lew Morgan. A lot depends on what he chooses to say. If, like me, he takes an immediate dislike, he may not tell them anything.”

“They’ll question him.”

“Doesn’t mean they’ll get answers. Lew is one of the old school of police sergeants. But if he chooses to open up with them about the rabbits, they’ll be wondering who’s the more crazy, Pellegrini or Lew himself.”

“I hope he doesn’t talk himself into trouble.”

“After losing his leg he won’t care a toss. I wouldn’t. The main thing is that Aaron the driver was negative for alcohol. They could still say he drove dangerously in some way, but it’s more than likely they’ll decide Pellegrini was responsible.” He looked around the CID room. “Where’s Ingeborg this morning?”

“She may have gone for a coffee. She sometimes goes there for peace and quiet to work on her laptop.”

“We seem to have drawn a blank with the hard disk. We have to find another way into Pellegrini’s secret life. There’s something you can do, Keith. It occurred to me as I was coming in this morning. When I first went to the house in Henrietta Road, I asked the woman who was cleaning, Mrs. Halliday, if Pellegrini drove a car as well as getting about on the trike. She said he didn’t. He has an account with a taxi firm.”

“You want me to phone around?”

“Would you? They keep a log of their journeys. I’m interested to discover if he ever took a trip to Little Langford.”

“To Cyril Hardstaff?” Halliwell’s interest quickened and he asked, “Did those two know each other?”

“They met at Filiput’s funeral.”

“Only once.”

“Apparently.”

“Hardly a reason for murder.”

“It only wanted one taxi ride.”

“But why? What had he got against Cyril?”

“Let’s cross that hurdle when we come to it. For the present I just want to know if it was possible.”

His next challenge was a phone call to the formidable solicitor, Miss Hill. She was busy, of course. He didn’t expect to get through without an effort. The receptionist said she would ask Miss Hill to call him back.

“That’s no use to me,” he said. “I need to speak to her now.”

“She’s in a meeting.”

“They always are. Remind her I’m from the police and tell her it’s an extreme emergency.”

Presently he was rewarded with Miss Hill’s stonewalling voice. “Why can’t you make an appointment like anyone else?”

“Because I’m not anyone else,” he said. “I’m a professional like you, and just as busy.”

She seemed to take that as a peace offering. “Then you can understand.”

“However,” he said.

“However what?”

“This is a matter of life and death.”

“What is?”

“You’ll need your files on the estates of Olga and Massimo Filiput. Do you have them nearby?”

At the other end of the line there was some conversation he didn’t pick up. This was encouraging, because it probably meant she had some personal assistant with her. There was the pleasing rasp of a filing cabinet being opened.

“What now?” Miss Hill asked.

“Do you also have a scanner in your office?”

After a gasp of horror, she said, “I’m not copying confidential material for you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I wouldn’t think of asking you,” he said, “but you and I know that wills become public documents after the testators die, so it isn’t confidential at all. I could get copies from the probate registry, but I need them urgently, and you know what bureaucracy is. For you, I’ll make it easy. All I need is the inventory of Olga’s assets, the antiques and jewellery. And for comparison, I want the corresponding document for Massimo.”

“We went through this before, in my office.”

“I know, Miss Hill. It’s a pain, but this is a fresh enquiry. Something else came up. I’ll give you my email address and you can send them through directly.”

“You said it was a life and death matter.”

“Isn’t that the definition of a will?”

His own filing system was more individual than Miss Hill’s. For days he’d been walking about with some sheets of paper stuffed in his jacket pocket: the Internet discussion forum about murder methods. He took them out and unfolded them.

He should have been treating them with more respect, he realised. Normally printouts were insignificant, easily replaceable. But these, it had become clear, weren’t saved as files in Pellegrini’s computer. They were the only record of the man’s interest in ingenious ways of killing. They ought to be kept in an evidence bag.

Some of the so-called methods were pretty absurd. The icicle through the heart. The poisoned toothpaste. The air bubble in the bloodstream. They might impress in an old-fashioned detective story, but putting them into practice in reality would be so difficult and risky that no intelligent killer would bother with them.

And yet Diamond knew of real crimes that were scarcely less ingenious. Who would have thought of an umbrella as a murder weapon? In 1978 a Bulgarian defector called Georgi Markov was queuing for a bus on Waterloo Bridge when he felt a sharp pain in his thigh and turned to see a man picking up an umbrella. Three days later Markov died, poisoned by a small platinum pellet containing the deadly poison ricin, apparently fired from the umbrella. Of course, this theory relied on Markov’s memory of the shooting. It might have been dismissed as fanciful were it not for the discovery of the pellet when the muscle tissue was forensically examined. It then emerged that only ten days earlier another Bulgarian called Kostov waiting at a station in the Paris Metro had been shot with a pellet fired from a shopping bag.

Pellegrini, an inventive man, an engineer, was not incapable of devising a method all his own. He’d researched other original murders, as he would, being methodical. But he aspired to perfection, the undetectable crime.

Poison?

The victims had died at home, in bed, apparently of natural causes. Had he found some substance that acted efficiently and left no trace? Poisoners had long looked for the colourless, odourless deadly dose. Even if he’d found such a thing, how was it administered? He was known to go out at night. Had he visited the old men and made sure they took their toxic nightcaps? It didn’t seem likely. The risks were too high.

And Pellegrini was an engineer, not a chemist. Poisons unknown to science weren’t his stock-in-trade.

The answer had to be different, clever and foolproof.

Well, Diamond told himself, I’m no fool.

Even so, he tucked the printouts into an evidence bag.

Keith Halliwell had been on the phone some time, trying to find whether Pellegrini had an account with a local taxi company.

“Any joy?” Diamond asked.

Joy wasn’t in the look he got back. “Got it straight away. He’s used Abbey Taxis for years.”

“And…?”

“They’ve never taken him to Little Langford. Even as I was speaking to them I was thinking how bloody silly it was,” Halliwell said. “An intelligent killer wouldn’t do this. He’d go to a different firm.”

“You tried them all?”

“All the ones in Yellow Pages. And I thought of something else.” Halliwell was frayed at the edges this morning, proving he, too, was tired from last night.

“Tell me, then.”

“He wouldn’t use his own name.”

“Ah, but he’d still have to give them the address.”

“Come on, guv, get real. He could ask them to pick him up outside the nearest pub if he wanted. Anywhere, really.”

Diamond was forced to agree. His long-term deputy was ahead of him over this task. “Should have thought of it before I asked you.”

And now Halliwell looked down and rearranged the pens on his desk as if he was uncomfortable about what he was going to say. “You’re just as confident as ever, are you?”

“Confident of what? His guilt?”

“Not that exactly. Don’t get me wrong, guv. You’ve got my full support. The thing is… can we be certain these deaths are suspicious?”

Diamond could have erupted, but he didn’t. He summoned a smile. “Of course they’re suspicious or we wouldn’t be beating ourselves up to get at the truth. All the suspicion is on our side-or mine, if you like. So, yes, they’re suspicious deaths as long as we have our doubts about them. The question you meant to ask is can we be certain these deaths are murders, and of course we can’t. They were certified as natural and the bodies were cremated.”

Halliwell eased a finger around his collar. After this admission, he really had to press the big man harder. “We wouldn’t be questioning them at all if it wasn’t for what we know about Pellegrini.”

“True. He almost got away with it.”

“We’re pinning everything on him?”

“Is there anyone else?”

“But there’s nothing definite.”

“This is normal, Keith. We’re not going to find a smoking gun. We do the groundwork and build up a case. It’s why Inge has been slogging over the computer and you’re phoning taxi firms.”

“I understand that.” He cleared his throat. “I was awake most of the night asking myself how it was we came to cast him as a killer in the first place.”

“That’s down to what I found in his workshop.”

“The Internet material?”

“And the stolen gowns.” Some irritation crept into his voice. He, too, was well down on sleep. “I thought you were up to speed on all this. Max Filiput was suspicious that valuable items like the gowns were disappearing from the house. He talked to Dr. Mukherjee about it.”

“It makes Pellegrini a thief, but does it make him a killer?”

“It gives him a motive for murder, covering up the crime. The timing is significant, too. Filiput dies pretty soon after. You still don’t look happy with this. Have I missed something?”

Halliwell rubbed the side of his face, deeply ill at ease. “Until yesterday we were thinking those old men in the railway club were earlier murder victims, but we changed our minds because of the death certificates. They didn’t die mysteriously in their sleep. They were ill, seriously ill. Flu, bronchial pneumonia, an aneurysm. The reason Pellegrini had their cremation urns was to scatter the ashes secretly along the railway as they’d requested.”

“Agreed.”

“Murder was in our minds,” Halliwell went on in the same dissenting tone but almost apologetic. “Serial murder. But now we have to rein back.”

“Okay,” Diamond said, testy from fatigue. “Three names come off the victim list.”

“Who’s left? What about the wives? We thought he may have killed Trixie and Olga but that’s far from certain.”

“We know he was present when they died, both of them,” Diamond said. “Up to now we concentrated on the others. We’ve yet to investigate what really happened. There’s only so much three of us can do.”

“The women are long shots if we’re honest, guv. Olga falling down the stairs doesn’t square with any of the other deaths.”

“So what are you telling me? None of it happened?”

“It’s not the case it was shaping up to be. We’re down to Max and possibly Cyril, and they were signed off by their doctors as dying naturally.”

“Naturally-but suddenly.”

“They were both old men over ninety. What I’m trying to say is are we clinging to the idea of murder on not much evidence?”

Diamond put a good face on it but he was shaken. He understood the effort it had taken for Halliwell to voice his concerns. The team was losing confidence, and it had to be addressed. “Personally, I don’t share your doubts, but maybe that’s because I’m closer to the man than you are. I’ve spoken to some of the people who knew him and I’ve seen inside his house and his workshop and sat beside his bed in hospital. I gave him the kiss of life, for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to say I have a hunch about him. I don’t work on the basis of hunches, as you know. But I’m not giving up on him. It’s your choice whether you go along with me. It’s not part of your job description, right?”

“I’m not quitting, guv. It needed to be said, that’s all.”

He tried to make light of it. “In case we’re up shit creek and I haven’t noticed? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Halliwell grinned back. “I’ll have another crack at the taxis.”

“What does Inge think?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen her all morning.”

“I hope she’s still on board. Shit creek isn’t the ideal place to jump ship.”

Back in his office he stood in thought.

There’s always a low point.

He stared through the glass at everyone busy on official duties.

Get on with it, you great lummock, he told himself. You can only go upwards from here. Stepped round his desk, rolled out the chair, lowered himself into it and screamed like a seagull at the spasm of pain that hit him. Yesterday’s injury hadn’t gone away. He’d forgotten the low point in his own spine.

When the agony had subsided to mere soreness he checked his inbox and found one from Miss Hill with two attachments: the documents he’d asked for.

Olga’s collection of jewellery wouldn’t have disgraced a queen. The inventory ran to six pages: necklaces, bracelets, bangles, rings, brooches, lockets, earrings and even two tiaras. Almost all were listed as antique and many were Austro-Hungarian or Russian. Some of the valuations in the right-hand column made him blink and look twice.

The serpent’s head necklace of 18 carat gold with five inset diamonds and blue enamel was listed on page 3 and valued at £2,600.

The real thing in its velvet bag was tucked away in the bottom drawer of his desk. Normally he would have handed it to the exhibits officer who stored every item of evidence, but this wasn’t an official investigation.

He’d lock the drawer in future.

He turned to Max’s assets and found what he expected: some notable omissions.

No mention of the serpent’s head necklace.

He spent the next hour checking one list against the other, item by item, and several other pieces hadn’t made it to Max’s inventory: a gold bangle with appliquéd decoration, a gold and enamel brooch set with a star sapphire, a gold and carnelian signet ring, an art deco sapphire and diamond pendant on a gold chain, a diamond and amethyst necklace. Altogether, they were valued at more than twenty thousand pounds. Of course, you’d get a fraction of that if you fenced them, yet it was still a sizeable haul.

They’d been cherry-picked, by the look of it.

There was a crime here for sure. Max wouldn’t have sold them himself. He hadn’t needed the money.

Max was doddery but he’d sensed that things were disappearing.

Look no further for a motive.

Diamond called Miss Hill again. She was shocked to hear of the missing items and swift to make clear it wasn’t her job to compare one list of assets with another. He asked whether photos had been taken at valuation. She said it was standard practice. He told her he would immediately email a list of the missing items and she agreed to reply with jpegs of each of them. He could rely on her discretion, she said. Nothing of this would be revealed to her colleagues or anyone else. He believed her.