Cop to Corpse

19

‘I feel like a traitor, doing this.’ Ingeborg said to Paul Gilbert. ‘It’s muckraking, that’s what it is, and it’s so much worse because Harry is dead. He can’t defend his reputation.’

‘That’s for sure.’

‘I’ve got a lot of respect for the guv’nor, as you know, but this time he’s screwed up.’

‘There is one thing about it.’

‘Tell me,’ she said in a world-weary tone. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Up to now, he’s been saying the sniper could be one of us, a cop. If I understand him right, he’s come round to thinking it could be an outsider after all. You and I are trying to find out if Harry was bent, right?’

She sighed. ‘I get you. If it turns out to be true, and Harry was shot because he was on the take, the killer has to be some lowlife he was threatening.’

‘And that’s got to be preferred to one of us.’

Ingeborg didn’t appear any happier. ‘It still leaves us doing a filthy job. Why can’t he see what everyone else does — that there’s an evil guy out there who is killing cops and doesn’t care who they are?’

They’d reached George Street, into the second hour of their trek around the beat that Harry Tasker had done so often that he’d claimed it as his own. Finding people willing to speak was easier than they’d expected. Most had heard about the murder and a few had actually met Harry. No one had so far said a word against him.

Gilbert, too, had doubts, but more about the practicality of the task. ‘Even if Harry bent the rules a bit, who’s going to tell us? As soon we mention he’s the lad who was murdered, they only want to say nice things about him.’

‘I’ve written some of them down, ready to quote back at you-know-who,’ Ingeborg said. ‘ “An old-fashioned bobby, like you lot used to be.” “Firm, but fair.” “Good with the teenagers.” None of that squares with what Mr. D suggested.’

‘But are they sincere, or are they telling us what they think we want to hear?’

Ingeborg flicked some hair back from her shoulder. ‘Not much we can do about that.’ She wasn’t usually so resigned. The tug of loyalties was getting to her.

Gilbert decided it was up to him to suggest a change of plan. ‘Two of us together is a bit heavy. Listen, why don’t I stand back and watch you from across the street? People might speak more freely to you if you’re on your own.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘The blokes will.’

‘Go on. Pull the other one.’

‘I mean it, Inge. Let’s give it a go. See those two?’ He was looking across the street at the bouncers outside Moles, Bath’s oldest nightclub. ‘It’s a fair bet they spoke to Harry at some time.’

She still didn’t like the suggestion. ‘I won’t be popular with the queue. They’ll think I’m trying to sweet-talk my way in.’

‘The guys on the door will know you’re serious as soon as you show them Harry’s picture. I’ll watch from over here.’

There was sense in what he was saying. She gave way with a sigh, adding. ‘At the next place, it’s your turn.’

‘Okay, but I don’t have your advantages.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Knickers.’

She raised a smile, gave him a dig in the ribs and crossed the street. In the timeline of popular music, Moles, at over thirty years old, was not quite as venerable as the Rolling Stones, but it had had some biggish licks. Its small stage had hosted The Cure, Primal Scream, Tears for Fears, Radiohead, Blur and Oasis as bands on their way up the charts. Ingeborg’s visits didn’t go back that far, but she was a regular and knew the interior nearly as well as the CID room. Even so, bouncers tend to change and neither of these two recognised her.

‘Hi, guys.’ She gave them her playful smile and a sight of her warrant card. ‘Just checking that it’s all okay tonight.’

‘What’s all this?’ the bigger of the two asked. ‘You expecting bovver on Cheese night?’

She laughed. The Big Cheese was a midweek institution here, cheap drinks and cheesy tunes everyone knew the words to. Trouble was rare. ‘I’m trying to get some background on the officer who was shot last weekend.’ She held up Harry’s picture. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Poor sod, yes. He’d stop and have a word sometimes.’

‘What about? Last night’s TV?’

‘No, darling. He was doing his job, telling us to keep a look out for drugs and that.’

‘And were you able to help?’

He shook his head. ‘We know who the bad lads are, anyway. They don’t get in when we’re on.’

‘You wish!’

‘Like that one across the street making out he’s nothing to do with you. He’s got bad lad written all over him.’

She didn’t turn to look at Paul, but the comment amused her. She’d save it up for later. ‘I can tell you’re smart. Harry would have looked to you two for the inside story.’

The one who hadn’t spoken, shorter, wider and with more tattoos, said, ‘He didn’t need no inside story. This was his manor.’

‘He controlled it, you mean?’

‘He had his methods.’

The taller one’s t-shirt tightened against his pecs. ‘The lady doesn’t want to know that.’

‘Pardon me, the lady does,’ Ingeborg said, alerted.

He shook his head. ‘We’re not in the business of shopping people, ’specially dead people.’

‘You wouldn’t be shopping anyone. You might be helping to find his killer.’

‘Some chance.’

‘And if you withhold information, you could have blood on your hands.’

The wider and shorter of the pair looked concerned and said, ‘You could try asking in the Porter next door.’

He was talking about the pub where patrons tanked up before using the club. It was said to be owned by Moles.

‘Who would I ask?’

‘You could start with a black guy called Anderson if he’s there.’

The tall one cut in and actually put out an arm to ease his mate aside. ‘Leave it.’ To Ingeborg he said, ‘Anderson doesn’t know a thing. My mate is talking through his arse.’

‘But I’m listening.’

‘Lady, you’re wasting your fucking time, and ours.’

Ingeborg would be the judge of that. She’d heard of Anderson before. He was well known in Walcot. She returned to Paul Gilbert and told him she’d learned nothing concrete from those two, but there were hints of illicit goings-on. His turn had come now and he might get lucky.

The Porter had a history of retailing liquor going back almost two hundred years. Much extended since it originally opened in Miles’s Buildings, it was a favourite pub of students and the young, a warren of a place, always noisy, busy and reeking of beer. On popular nights like this one, the clientele spilled out onto the alley that separated the pub from Moles.

‘Try downstairs in the cellar bar,’ she told Gilbert. ‘A tall black guy called Anderson may know something. He’s well up with what goes on.’

‘Anderson who?’

‘Jakes. Surname Jakes. No one has ever pinned any major crime on him. But be careful. Make it clear you’re not accusing him personally of anything. I’ll be waiting in the front bar at street level.’

‘What’s the angle here?’

‘Try underage drinkers. Anderson is a grown-up. Harry must have been round here checking a few times.’

Gilbert pushed his way through the crowd, descended the stairs and found an even bigger crush in the vaults. Joining a group would be no problem. It was like rush-hour on the London underground, but darker and noisier. All the cubicles along the walls were taken. Getting anywhere near the bar would be a major achievement.

‘D’you mind?’ a redhead said regardless of the fact that she’d just backed into him. He’d pressed his hand against her to prevent her four-inch heels impaling one of his feet, True, he’d felt the curve of warm flesh under the smooth silk of a miniskirt. People had been arrested for less, but in this situation it was inevitable.

‘Sorry.’

She squirmed around to face him and now the contact was breast to chest. Fumes of some musky perfume wafted from her cleavage. She looked about fifteen, if that.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Paul.’

‘Polly. You’ve parted me from my friends.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t keep saying that. Be nice to me.’

That stumped him. ‘Er, what do you suggest?’

‘What do I suggest?’ she mimicked his voice. ‘It’s no use offering me a drink, is it? You’d never find me again in this crowd. Got anything else on you?’ She showed him the tip of her tongue and curled it upwards.

‘Sorry, no.’

A sharp, stricken sigh. ‘Are you here for the comedy, Paul?’

‘Is there any?’

‘Some pathetic stand-up any minute now. If you haven’t come for that, what are you doing here, apart from groping me?’

The truth had to emerge at some stage. ‘I’m a police officer looking for information.’

She thought that was hilarious. ‘Oh, yeah? Why aren’t you in uniform?’

‘I’m CID.’

‘K — I — D, more like. Prove it, then.’

‘I would if I could reach my warrant card in my inside pocket.’

‘Nice try! Put that groping hand of yours anywhere near my boobs and I’ll knee you in the balls, I warn you. You’re not really one of the plod, are you?’ She gasped. ‘Christ, I know who you are. You’re the comic trying to reach the stage. My big mouth. I wasn’t being personal just now, honest.’

‘No, I really am a cop. Are you in a job, or still at school?’

‘What’s it to you? Do you fancy schoolgirls?’ It was obvious she didn’t believe him.

‘Seriously.’

‘Seriously, he says. Next thing he’s going to ask me how old I am and tell me I’m nicked.’

‘Relax. I was hoping to speak to a black guy. Anderson. Have you heard of him?’

His serious tone was making an impression on Polly at last. ‘Heard of him? I’ve met him. He isn’t underage. You won’t nick him for that.’

‘Is he here tonight?’

She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t come in on Cheese Night. He’s more into Hip-hop and breaks.’

‘Where would he be tonight?’

‘That’s anyone’s guess. I still don’t think you’re a cop.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ Gilbert said. ‘I must be good at it.’

Her voice changed. She became more confrontational. ‘Looking for Anderson, yeah? Like has he noticed anyone selling E? If he goes yes, find out who and tell me, ’cause I’m down to my last one. I’m leaving you, Paul the funny man. Thing is, you don’t amuse me one bit.’ She squeezed herself to the left and was gone, forcing Gilbert hard against the back of a large guy smelling of tobacco and black leather, a back that flexed ominously.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Gilbert said into a mangled ear.

‘Piss off, then.’

‘Sure.’ He edged away and with steady shoving — but keeping his hands at his sides — forged a route back to the stairs. Up there, he could breathe again.

Ingeborg had the best of this arrangement. She’d managed to find a barstool and was holding a tonic with ice and lemon. ‘Any joy?’

‘It’s the black hole of Calcutta down there. Anderson isn’t in tonight. Can I have a sip of that?’

She passed him the glass. ‘I showed Harry’s picture to the barmaid. She says we’re wasting our time.’

‘Tell me something new.’

‘Well, there may be something.’

He waited, and she made him wait a little longer.

‘When she isn’t working here, the barmaid spends most of her time surfing the internet — the poor benighted girl — and she says we ought to look at some of the stuff out there.’

‘You do already, don’t you?’

‘Useful stuff. I don’t bother reading blogs. People have been blogging about the sniper, ninety-nine per cent rubbish, of course, but she reckons she’s seen one that looks as if it’s being posted by someone local who’s worried about her friend’s partner, who sounds like a nutcase, and possibly dangerous. Might be worth a look.’

‘You reckon?’

‘She’s given me the link.’

‘Cool. Do they use their real name?’

‘Let’s find out if it’s any use first. I’ll take a look tomorrow — if I haven’t resigned by then.’

Deep in the Limpley Stoke valley, Peter Diamond had joined the stake-out. Jack Gull had stayed on watch at Avoncliff for five hours without any result and had phoned Bath Central and demanded some relief. Diamond had asked why DI Polehampton couldn’t take over, and Gull had muttered something about wanting a safe pair of hands, before adding quickly that Polehampton was making an important contribution liaising with the Wiltshire police. Diamond had said his hands might be safe, but he couldn’t answer for his feet. Gull had said the firearms team would take care of any action. They simply needed someone to shout, ‘Go, go, go!’ when the moment came. Privately Diamond thought he’d shout it anyway if the sniper hadn’t shown up by midnight.

He didn’t fancy another night in the open, but he was a realist. This was the place to be. It would be dereliction of duty to ignore the forensic evidence linking the Avoncliff squatter to the murder of Ossy Hart in Wells. The matching of shoe prints from both locations made this stakeout central to the investigation.

The novelty of trying out night-vision binoculars soon lost its appeal.

He was flat on his stomach on a mound of gravel. The stone chippings had obviously been dumped there by the railway company for use as ballast in laying sleepers and maintaining the track. The line from Chippenham to Westbury ran straight through the valley and was the backdrop to his view of the pillbox, in front of the embankment. Heaped together, the gravel was moderately high and formed a convenient lookout post about fifty yards off. The mound must have been there some years. Enough grass and weed had seeded itself between the stones to provide effective cover.

Ideal, he thought, except it was bloody uncomfortable.

‘This is worse than a bed of nails,’ he complained to the sergeant from the firearms unit who was with him. ‘It’s all right for you in all that bullet-proof gear. I’m not dressed for this.’

Not a syllable of response. In truth there wasn’t much the sergeant could say by way of sympathy. If Diamond had thought about protection, he’d have called at Manvers Street and collected the kit. Because he didn’t see himself as an action man and had no intention of becoming one, he’d driven straight here and was still in his day clothes. He’d made a point — and now he was suffering from a thousand points he hadn’t bargained for.

‘What time did you arrive?’ he asked the sergeant.

A finger to the lips. Then, after the point was made, six fingers raised.

It was already after eleven. Diamond modulated his voice. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Andy Gillibrand, sir.’

‘Guv will do. And are you from my lot, or Wilts?’

‘Wilts, guv.’

‘Aren’t you getting cramped by now? I’m sure I would.’

The answer came in a whisper. ‘We move about from time to time. I’ve swapped positions with one of the lads up at the railway station.’

‘They’ll get the first sight of him up there and radio us, will they? Radio communications open at all times?’

‘That’s the theory — if he comes from that direction.’

‘If he comes at all.’

Sergeant Gillibrand plucked at his ear. ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

‘If he has any suspicion we’re here, he’ll stay away. He’s rather good at giving us the slip.’

‘We’ve got to assume he’ll come.’

‘And how many are we?’

‘Right now? With you, thirteen.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘Should be, if we play it right. We’re well spread out.’

Silence resumed. Silence and suffering. No way could he relax on this heap of gravel. The ache in his leg had been overtaken by what felt like piranha bites all over his flesh. Who knows, he told himself, trying to be positive, it may work like acupuncture and cure me altogether. Put your mind on other things, Diamond. Get a grip on what’s been happening.

Plenty had.

In the scramble that had been his day, this was his first chance to get things in perspective. A mass of information had come to light since this morning when he’d got up early to drive to Wells. The challenge was to find how much of it was germane to the investigation. Certainly visiting the scene of the first shooting had been worthwhile. If he’d harboured any doubts that the sniper had planned the shootings to the last detail, they’d been dispelled. That tree house with the view across the street and the easy escape route was a brilliant location.

The first real surprise of the day had been Ossy Hart’s widow. Juliet Hart had defied expectation with her robust way of coping with her bereavement. She was resolute in her cheerfulness. True, she’d had almost three months to come to terms with the shock. At first he’d thought her out of order, then impressive, then a little weird. He wondered how brittle her bravery was. She’d made up her mind that there had been no personal intent in the murder of Ossy. That telling statement — “It was the uniform, wasn’t it? — had been flung at him like a challenge. How could he dare suggest that the killing was anything other than random? He’d told her about the “You’re next” note and ducked out of saying any more. If he’d floated his theory about the sniper targeting certain individuals starting with her husband, she would very likely have snapped.

And yet ironically it was Juliet Hart who had started him on the promising new line of enquiry. He might have dismissed the hobby horse connection as hokum were it not for the big bucks said to have been dangled by the American film man. This wasn’t some documentary for television that was being proposed. It was a Hollywood action movie. He could remember some of the set piece chases through carnivals in the Bond films. Everyone knew the millions that went into modern feature films. But was the money real, or just talk? A film in development, or some kind of confidence trick?

He’d speculated on a link with the second victim, the folklore specialist, PC Richmond, and within hours it had been confirmed.

Ingeborg and her surfing of the web had added substance: the evidence that Stan Richmond had made a study of the Minehead hobby horse celebration. There was a strong chance he would have been approached by the same film man and offered money as a consultant.

Two murdered police officers, each with a strong link to the same ritual. But nothing so far tied in with Harry Tasker. His widow Emma had dismissed any connection out of hand. Different as she was from the eerily cheerful Juliet Hart, this lady’s theory of the shooting amounted to the same: ‘Some evil bastard hates the police and wants to kill as many as he can.’ She’d refused to believe that the ‘You’re Next’ note meant Harry was a marked man.

A movement from the sergeant, hands gripping the gun and taking aim, jerked Diamond back to the gravel heap.

‘What is it?’

He could have saved his breath.

Better not distract the guy, he thought.

By degrees, Sergeant Gillibrand relaxed enough to reply. ‘Wildlife,’ he muttered finally.

‘Plenty of badgers hereabouts,’ Diamond said from personal knowledge.

‘That was a small deer.’ The sergeant rested the gun on its side, black and chunky, not much over two feet in length.

‘We could have had venison for supper.’

No answer.

Are those things heavy?’

‘Almost three kilos, guv.’

‘What’s that in words I understand?’

‘Over six pounds.’

‘It’s a G36, is it? Same as the sniper uses?’

‘So they tell us. Want to feel the weight?’

‘No thanks,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Guns aren’t my thing.’

Unexpectedly, this got the sergeant going at last. ‘Anyone could learn to use this in ten minutes. The mechanism is dead simple. You’ve got a thirty-round curved magazine.’ The sergeant patted the boxlike lower section with his hand. ‘Basically, the rifle is gas-operated and fires from a closed rotary bolt. When you want to line up the target there’s an optical sight with 1.5 magnification and for conditions like this you clip in the night sight as well. Get the red dot on your target and squeeze the trigger. Simple as that.’

The specifications didn’t interest Diamond. People did. ‘The press keep telling us the sniper is a brilliant marksman. Are you saying he doesn’t need to be?’

‘My mother could fire one of these things.’

‘Get away.’

‘Honest. The sight system makes it a doddle.’

‘If it’s that easy, why is the firearms course such a big deal?’

‘You have to know how to assemble the gun, load it, clean it, carry it safely, and there’s a load of other stuff apart from the sessions at the range, like land navigation by day and night, and constructing and using hides. It’s all about confidence and discipline.’

‘Confidence, I can do,’ Diamond said.

The sergeant had enough tact not to ask about discipline. ‘Don’t you have a handgun on you?’

‘It’s all I can do to handle this stick.’

The exchange stopped there. The two men didn’t have much in common. Diamond’s thoughts moved on to another of the day’s discoveries — the fact that Sergeant Stillman was an authorised firearms officer. How much confidence and discipline had he exhibited? Not much of the latter. Here was an officer who against regulations had given his partner time off during a patrol; and who had slept in his car at a major emergency. Yet it was thanks to Stillman that the question of Harry Tasker’s alleged dirty dealings had come up. Taking the uncharitable view of Stillman, he may have traded this titbit in the hope that his own failings would be overlooked. The question had to be asked: had he invented it all? If so, Ingeborg and young Gilbert would be better employed at this minute catching up on their sleep.

Thinking of Stillman brought back the sequence of events immediately after the shooting. The 999 call from the student, Damon Richards, who lived over the shop in Walcot Street: impossible for him to have fired the shots from there. He was in the clear. But the residents of the house in the Paragon couldn’t be so easily eliminated as suspects. In all the emphasis on the fugitive in the woods, they’d almost slipped out of the frame. He wondered if any of them had colluded in the crime by letting the sniper into the house. They didn’t have to be gun-toting killers themselves, but they could have harboured one. More was needed on their backgrounds. Even that elderly couple, the Murphys, could have hated the police enough to be part of a conspiracy. The blonde, Sherry Meredith, and the civil servant on the top floor, Sean Willis, had appeared to say enough to clear them of active involvement, but aiding and abetting the killer was not out of the question.

Mental note: check those tenants again.

The sergeant hitched himself up on his elbows. ‘Nearly midnight.’

‘That’s nothing. He keeps late hours,’ Diamond said. ‘He’s probably stuffing himself in an all night kebab shop.’

‘Mind if I take a leak?’

‘Be my guest, but just not here, eh?’

‘I won’t be long.’ Gillibrand picked up the gun.

‘Do you need that?’

‘It’s the golden rule. Have it with you at all times.’

‘Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, then. Or worse.’

Left alone, Diamond tried the night-vision binoculars again. They were not unlike standard field-glasses, but with a single elongated front lens. A proximity sensor turned them on when they were lifted to the viewing position, saving battery life. He focussed on the pillbox and used the digital control to intensify the image.

All was still except some hogweed stirring slightly in the breeze. Everything was in weird green hues and he had the impression he was looking into a fish-tank badly in need of cleaning. The concrete structure appeared as eau-de-Nil with a horizontal stripe as dark as spinach, the oversized letter box to allow the occupants to fire from a well-defended position. Seventy years since the pillbox was built and it could never have been used for its intended purpose. No doubt it had become a play place from time to time for adventurous kids and an occasional shelter for hikers and rough sleepers.

Behind him sounded the faint crunch of steps on the gravel. You couldn’t walk on this stuff in silence. It amused him that Gillibrand had made such a fuss about speaking aloud and then announced to the world with his police-issue boots that he was off for a jimmy riddle.

He continued to focus on the pillbox. Had anyone actually looked inside tonight? he wondered. He wasn’t wholly confident that Jack Gull would have thought to check. Was it possible that the sniper had crept inside earlier and was sleeping peacefully while the armed police kept their vigil outside? Stranger things had happened.

Sometimes you got a gut feeling about the presence of a fugitive. To be fair, the little building wasn’t giving out vibes that it was occupied. Diamond doubted if anyone was inside. But then he also doubted whether the sniper would put in an appearance at all.

The crunch of gravel got louder, then stopped.

What was the man doing now — zipping up?

Diamond removed the binoculars from his face and everything appeared several shades darker than it had before. He turned to the right expecting Gillibrand to join him.

It didn’t happen.

Instead, there was the rasp of an indrawn breath and then he was hit with the full force of a falling body. He’d felt nothing like it since his days playing rugby, and rugby wasn’t played on mounds of railway ballast. He was crushed, winded, pained. This wasn’t an accident. It was an attack.

His face was hard against the sharp points of stone and his attacker had a hand on his head, forcing it further in. A weight heavier than his own was bearing down on his upper body. The assault was so sudden that he was virtually overpowered before he could fight back. He tried turning more to the right to shift the weight and succeeded only in scraping his ribs against the gravel.

Excruciating.

This was no place for a wrestling match. The stones shifted when he tried bracing his legs to get some leverage. Immediately he was trapped under the weight of his attacker’s thighs. A pathetically uneven contest. Surprise had done for him. He tried wriggling and squirming, yet each movement brought a counter-move that locked him down, denying another attempt. He was wasting the little strength he had left.

What next?

The bullet in the head?

The fractured skull?

He could do nothing to avert either. He was down and out.

Incapable of moving, he could only wonder how this had happened. The sniper must have spotted the stake-out when returning towards the pillbox and decided to take out one more of the cops he despised. An easy target, an unarmed man, face down, defenceless.

He felt movement again. His right arm was grasped above the elbow and twisted behind his back and in the same action his neck was grabbed, the classic half-nelson, as good a way as any of disabling a man.

But it didn’t end there. His attacker forced him further over to his right and groped for the other arm. Diamond at first trapped it under his own body. When that didn’t succeed, he tried stretching it beyond reach.

No use. A longer arm than his own found his wrist and tugged it inwards and against his back.

Something odd happened then. Something very odd indeed. He was handcuffed.

First he felt the enclosing steel as his right wrist was clamped. Then the left was pulled across and applied to the second cuff. These were rigid cuffs, the sort the police themselves use, simple to operate with one hand.

Hot breath gusted into his right ear and a voice started speaking familiar words. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

He’d been arrested.