Another One Goes Tonight

18

Eight-fifteen next morning found Diamond at the Guildhall in Bath High Street attending something he wouldn’t normally have dreamed of going near, a gathering of geeks called the Techie Brekkie. He was on the trail of Alex, the one-time IT problem-solver for Bath Police. Early morning enquiries through a website called BathSpark had suggested this was where Alex was likely to be.

It was a good thing Ingeborg had come too. Mingling with this lot would be next to impossible for him. Aside from the fact that he was the only man in a suit and their average age was about twenty-five, he wasn’t likely to hold up well in conversation. Plenty was going on, serious networking. This was a quarterly opportunity for computer slaves to emerge from behind their screens for a brief respite with fellow sufferers-the chance to meet real people. They had embraced it in numbers.

“Fancy a bacon butty?” Ingeborg said.

“Better not. I’ll need to shake hands with Alex when I spot him.”

“They won’t do handshakes,” she said. “High fives, more like.”

“Not with a bacon butty.”

“What does he look like?” she asked.

“Average height. Dark, shoulder-length hair in those days. This lot seem to shave their heads.”

“The name badges might help.” Everyone including themselves had a blue ID on a cord. Diamond’s just said Pete. They’d asked if he belonged to an organisation and he thought Bath Police might be off-putting.

“We’d better move in and start looking,” Ingeborg said. “They start their discussion soon.”

“Jesus Christ, I want to be out before then.”

Alex was one of the last to arrive and he spotted Diamond first. He’d changed his image, clipped the hair from the sides of his head and grown a mohawk on top. He was wearing shades. “I had to look twice,” he said.

He had to look twice?

“No disrespect, Mr. Diamond, but I wouldn’t have placed you here in a million years.”

All three slipped away from the brekkie through a door marked the never bored room. There wasn’t much time for catching up on the last ten years or however long it had been. Alex soon understood why they’d come looking for him. He agreed straight away to see if he could help. He gave them a card with his contact details and Ingeborg passed him the “box of tricks,” as Diamond had called it: a USB flash drive containing the encrypted file.

“We can’t pay you anything up front,” Diamond said.

Alex flashed his teeth. “So what’s new?”

The aroma of bacon in the Techie Brekkie had got Diamond’s juices going.

“A lot has happened since yesterday morning,” he told Ingeborg. “We need to touch base.”

The nearest base was Café Retro, on the corner of York Street. He ordered the Big Bath special, she the granola and yoghurt.

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” he said when hers arrived first. “Get stuck in.”

There was plenty to tell. She hadn’t even heard about Pellegrini’s taxi ride to Little Langford on the evening of Cyril’s death.

“That’s the clincher, guv,” she said. “Got to be.”

She understood right away why it was so vital to speak to Jessie the housekeeper. “When she walked in he must have had the shock of his life. Do you think he murdered her as well?”

“No,” he said. “She was there next morning. She found Cyril dead in bed and called the doctor.”

“She’s the only witness, then.”

“Right. And she won’t even know he was murdered.”

“Can we be certain he was?”

“Why else did Pellegrini go there? It’s like the other cases. An old man dies in his own bed and it gets put down as natural. My best guess is that they had a drink and he popped something in Cyril’s glass.”

“Poison?”

“Sleeping tablets of some sort.”

“Would that be enough?”

“Mix them with alcohol and they can be lethal. Cyril would have gone to bed feeling drowsy and never woken up.”

“But Jessie coming back early wasn’t in the script.” Ingeborg’s hand went to her mouth. “Guv, I have a horrible feeling about this. How long ago was it? Six weeks?”

“More like seven now.”

“Time enough for him to have caught up with her and killed her. Don’t we have any idea where she went after Cyril’s death?”

“Keith spent most of yesterday trying to trace her through the care agencies. Difficult, without a surname. We got nowhere.”

“Maybe she got the job independently.”

“Possibly. We haven’t given up. He’s at Little Langford knocking on doors as we speak.” He paused as the Big Bath special was put in front of him. “This is what I call a breakfast.”

“She’ll have left the village, won’t she?” Ingeborg said.

“I’m sure of that, but someone may be able to tell us more. Her surname or what she was planning to do next.”

“Did she have a phone?”

“I expect so. But she took it with her.”

“I’m thinking Cyril must have stored her number on his own phone.”

“If he did, his niece Hilary slung it out with all the other junk. She was doing a house clearance, a wholesale clearance. Hilary is a force of nature, a whirlwind. The place was bare except for the heaviest furniture when I got there. The only personal item left was a plastic hairbrush we found under Jessie’s bed. And I know what you’re about to ask me.”

“DNA?”

“There were a few blonde hairs caught in the bristles. I already sent the brush to be analysed. It must have been under that bed at least six weeks. I don’t know how long DNA survives.”

Ingeborg was better informed. “The best results come if the follicle is still attached. That’s where the living cells are found. There’s still a chance of getting mitochondrial DNA from the shaft of a hair.”

“Dyed hair?”

“No difference.”

“Anyway, the result isn’t back yet.”

“Let’s be positive,” she said.

“I’d rather have a name to work with. A DNA profile is bugger all use unless we can compare it with another.”

“She could be on the national database.”

“We’re talking about a carer here, Inge. If Jessie had a criminal record she wouldn’t be in the job.”

“Got to be checked, though. It’s vital that we trace her.”

“No argument about that.”

When Ingeborg drove back to Keynsham to catch up on her CID duties, Diamond remained in Bath. “If Georgina asks for me, tell her I’m having another look at the accident site,” he’d told her.

“Is that what you’re really up to?”

“It’s what you tell Georgina, okay?”

Left alone, he made his way on foot to Green Park Station, a place no longer of interest to railway buffs except for its ironwork architecture. The last train was seen there half a century ago. The Beeching cuts brought quietus and for years the site was a soot-stained, decaying embarrassment. Regeneration came in 1982-4, courtesy of Sainsbury’s, who built their supermarket, cleaned the entire Victorian terminus and installed shops, a car park and a farmers’ market where the locomotives had once steamed in.

Diamond wasn’t there for the railway history but to look up one of Bath’s characters: the watercress man. Garth Ogle sold nothing but watercress and watercress products from a market stall. The cress came fresh in bunches or processed and packaged in a variety of forms, as soup, pesto, oil, sausages, ice-cream, a range of cosmetics and even gin infused with the stuff. Some of the sausages were being cooked on a Primus and smelt good, but even a man of Diamond’s capacity couldn’t face one after the Big Bath special.

Few of Garth’s ritzy customers knew what Diamond knew: that the watercress man had once been a guest of Her Majesty and had drawn up his business plan in Erlestoke Prison while doing time for armed robbery. All credit to him for turning his life around. And even more for remaining loyal. Since going straight he had stayed in touch with his former associates.

Diamond caught Garth’s eye over the head of a little old lady buying soup. There was a swift glance left and right to see if any other police were about. The customer said something about the scarcity of watercress soup in all the other shops and then it was Diamond’s turn.

“Good to see you doing so well, Garth.”

“It’s ticking over, Mr. D.” For brand identity, the watercress man dressed entirely in green, which happened to be no different from his last prison uniform. “What will you have today?”

“I might sample the ice cream, but I’d also like some help.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Your help?”

“The ice cream. You’ll like it.”

“No, that’s new to me. How much?”

“A small tub? To you, one fifty.”

“I’ll take one. And a small tub of help.”

“That’ll cost you more, depending what you want.”

“I want to find Larry Lincoln.”

Garth’s face creased as if he’d been struck. “You surprise me.”

“Why?”

“No one goes looking for Larry. He comes looking for them.”

“Where does he hang out these days?”

Garth indulged in some displacement activity, rearranging the day lotions and face cleansers.

“Larry Lincoln,” Diamond said, to get his attention again.

“Keep your voice down, Mr. D. You never know who might be listening.”

“Would you rather I talked about liver fluke disease and how you get it?”

“Oh Christ.” Garth slid aside the glass lid of his small fridge and took out a tub. “All of mine is cultivated cress, guaranteed clean, not wild. He’s not in trouble, is he? I wouldn’t want him to get the idea I shopped him.”

“It’s a routine enquiry.”

“Like you always say.”

“The main man is someone else,” Diamond said. “Larry is just a bit player. I wouldn’t worry if I were you, but this may ease your mind.” He placed two twenty-pound notes on the counter.

Garth eyed them as if they were liver fluke worms invading his stall.

“And here’s another to pay for the ice cream.”

Garth took it and picked up the others. “If I were you, I’d go for a drink in the Shot Fox about eleven.”

Diamond nodded his thanks. “Do you by any chance have a plastic spoon to go with this?”

He took it to one of the benches in Kingsmead Square and decided he’d made a mistake. The soup would have been a better choice on this raw April morning. The bench was metal and was rapidly lowering his body temperature before he even started on the ice cream. He took out his mobile and pressed a number.

“Me.”

Keith Halliwell’s voice said, “I know it’s you, guv. You came up on the display.”

“Is this a good moment?”

“Good as any. I’m between houses.”

“Anything to report?”

“It’s freezing here.”

“I know that.”

“Some of the neighbours spoke to her occasionally, called her Jess or Jessie without finding out her full name. She’d been there over a year. She was just the latest in a long line of housekeepers. They didn’t last long, most of them. The situation wasn’t what they were used to, being so isolated, and Cyril was always on the scrounge. They liked him at first but it wore off when he asked for money; I suppose to fund his betting. He wasn’t their paymaster, you see. Their wage was paid by the trust.”

“Have you been to the cottage?”

“I had a look through the windows. It’s empty now. Hilary must have finished. There are signs of a bonfire in the garden, just ashes.”

“Not human, I hope.”

The Shot Fox was a shabby pub in a side street off the Upper Bristol Road, near the river. Diamond had last been in there when it was called something else. To his knowledge it had changed names twice since then. The new identity might not last long. The board outside, with its image of a dead fox hanging from a wire by its rear legs, wasn’t much of an invitation to go in.

Diamond thought at first he was the only living soul inside. He stood for some minutes before a youthful barman rose by stages behind the bar: head, shoulders, then full torso.

“Sorry, mate. I was down the cellar changing a keg. What’ll you have?”

“Actually I’m working.” He showed his warrant card. “Does Larry Lincoln come in at all these days?”

The barman tensed at the name and then said, “I wouldn’t know.”

“You mean you know but you wouldn’t care to say.”

“I do three days a week, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t asking about your employment, but as you’ve brought it up I hope you’re fully taxed and insured. What’s your name?”

“Steve. I don’t know every customer that comes in, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You said a lot more with your body language when I spoke Larry’s name. It’s obvious you know who he is, so stop wriggling and give me a straight answer. He drinks here lunchtimes, right?”

“Not every day,” Steve-if that was his real name-said.

Diamond pulled out a stool and perched on it. “I’ll wait for him. What bitters do you have? Draw me a half of Directors. And then I’ll be watching you, just so you aren’t tempted to use a phone.”

The trail had better not go cold here. Cyril Hardstaff had become central to the crimes under investigation and if he was really being pursued by Larry Lincoln, his situation had been desperate enough to fuel a major crime.

Steve the barman had filled the glass and taken the money and was a picture of unease, biting his thumbnail. When someone else came in, he twitched like a horse under attack from flies.

The newcomer wasn’t Lincoln. He didn’t buy a drink or say anything. He was carrying a metal case the size and shape of a rifle. Without as much as a glance, he crossed the bar, opened a door and was heard mounting a staircase.

“What’s upstairs?” Diamond asked.

“Function room,” Steve said.

“Has someone booked it?”

“Dunno.”

“Yes, you do. Is that where Larry is?”

Steve didn’t answer. Voices were already coming from the room above.

Diamond moved at speed towards the stairs and mounted them. Two men were inside. The one who had just arrived had removed his leather jacket and revealed forearms so tattooed that they looked like sleeves. He had opened his case and taken a polished wooden shaft from it. The other was bending over a snooker table, practising shots.

Diamond said, “Larry?”

Without straightening up, the man at the table said, “If you need to ask, you shouldn’t be here. This is a private room.”

“Turn round, Larry. You’re helping the police.”

“Fuck that,” Larry said, but he did make a slow turn to face Diamond and scrutinise him through eyes that had less expression than the cue ball. “I know your face. CID, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“You got nothing on me. I’m clean.”

“It’s not about you,” Diamond said.

Larry turned to the tattooed man. “Why don’t you get yourself a sandwich, Jules? We won’t be long.”

Jules left the room to do as he was told.

Diamond said, “I’m interested in an elderly man called Cyril Hardstaff.”

“What of him?”

“He got into difficulties. Owed a lot of money.”

“Familiar story,” Larry said.

“I’m sure it is, to you. Cyril had a gambling habit. Couldn’t stop. Each bet was going to get him the big win that solved his problem and of course it didn’t happen. He ended up with the loan sharks.”

“My heart bleeds.” He went back to practising his shots.

“Did he borrow anything from you?”

“Do I look like a man who lends money?”

“He seemed to think he had to pay you back.”

“That’s another matter,” Larry said. “Some people need reminding. I’ve been known to knock on doors on behalf of my friends.”

“As an enforcer.”

He struck the ball with such force that it hit the far cushion and ricocheted around the table. “That’s not a word I recognise.”

“What do you call yourself, then?”

“I don’t like labels. I’m more of a financial adviser than anything else.”

“Advising them to pay up or else?”

“Helping slow payers face up to their obligations, that’s all. You wouldn’t believe how disorganised some of them are.”

Larry Lincoln’s black humour wasn’t lost on Diamond, but it would have been unwise to show any amusement. “Did you visit Cyril?”

“Who is this Cyril?”

“I just gave you his name-Hardstaff. An old guy living in Little Langford.”

“He died,” Larry said, and added after a pause, “of old age.”

“So you know who he was. We’re getting somewhere.”

“All I know is I wrote off the debt. That’s the risk you take with old people.”

“His housekeeper seemed to think you would turn up any time, so you must have had dealings.”

“I may have held a paper on him, that’s all.”

“You don’t lend money, but you collect?”

The red missed the pocket.

Larry said, “You’re putting me off my game.”

“I want an answer.”

“Hardstaff was small fry, just a name to me.”

Diamond wasn’t letting him off so easily. “You can do better than that, Larry. Financial advisers keep tabs on everything or they soon go out of business.”

“So I’ll have to consult my records, won’t I?”

“I can do that for you,” Diamond said, trading some sarcasm of his own. “I can send a vanload of coppers to your nice house on Lansdown tomorrow morning and batter your door down.”

Larry appeared to be untroubled. “You’ll need a warrant,” he said, straightening up and chalking the tip of his cue. “This was legal, so you can’t touch me. The business came my way after a mate of mine dropped off the perch. I took on his paperwork as collateral for some favours he owed me. It brought nothing but death and disappointment, and I’m glad to be shot of it.”

“Which mate was that?”

“Bob Sabin. Lovely guy.” He leaned over the table again and lined up his next shot. “Lend you his last penny, he would-and demand it back with interest.”

Delighted to have got the name so easily, Diamond said, “I remember Bob Sabin. Didn’t he have a grand funeral at the Abbey three or four years back, with a horse-drawn hearse? Black plumes on the horses’ heads?”

“Of course you bloody remember. You were there. Every copper in Bath was there, catching it all on video. The biggest gathering of the firm I can remember. They came from all over to pay their respects. Some of those wreaths were bigger than I am. ‘Bob’s Your Uncle’ one of them said and another was ‘Bob a Job.’ He would have liked that. He did a few jobs in his time.”

“Bank jobs?”

“Contract jobs, bucket jobs, container jobs, you name it.”

“What’s a container job?”

“Illegals.”

“Got you. Trafficking.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t touch it. Big returns, but when things go wrong it can be messy, real messy.”

He didn’t need to say more. Diamond knew of two men and a woman believed to be illegal immigrants found dead in the canal over the last year. For all the ironies, some significant truths were emerging in this conversation.

“Did you inherit Bob Sabin’s empire, then?”

Lincoln laughed enough to shake the bottles downstairs. “No chance. All I got was a small list of names. The plums went to his nearest and dearest and I don’t mean his wife, Dilly. There’s no sentiment in our business. She ended up with the Rottweilers and not much else.”

“I don’t remember Dilly. Was she a token wife?”

“You mean some airhead model? No, she was the real deal. They were together a few years. No kids. She liked her holidays and her parties and the indoor pool. She should have looked out for number one. She was given the double-shuffle.”

“Who were his nearest and dearest, as you put it?”

“His trusties. I’m not naming anyone. You work it out.”

“You made sure you got your share.”

“Like I said, he owed me.”

“You took on the debts of Cyril Hardstaff and some others who were in hock to Sabin. How much did Hardstaff owe?”

“Peanuts.”

“Five figures?”

“Not much over.”

“He came up with some of it before he died, didn’t he?”

“Dribs and drabs. Nothing to speak of.”

“How was it paid? In cash, but not in person, I take it?” Enforcers like Larry had risk-free arrangements.

“Yep.”

“Did you know where it was coming from?”

“Not my problem.”

“But there was still plenty owing when he died-plenty by his standards, I mean?”

“Like I said, I took a hit. Shit happens.”

In the business of police interrogation, you soon spot the deception and obfuscation. All in all, Larry had been more candid than Diamond expected. This was because he was confident he was untouchable.

“Just to be clear. You didn’t ever visit Cyril?”

A shake of the head.

“Bob Sabin would have met him?”

“Before my time.”

“Remind me, Larry. What did Sabin die of?”

“I’m not his fucking doctor. All I know is he went peacefully.”