Diamond Dust

34

A Mr and Mrs Gordon Jessel still lived in Brock Street, Bath, according to the phone directory. A check of the birth registers confirmed that they were the parents of Patricia.

Seized by the need to share the news with someone else, Diamond called Julie Hargreaves that evening and told her he had a new theory that "F was Patricia – or Trish -Weather. At first she refused to entertain it. But so had he, at first. Julie caught her breath when he mentioned that Trish had been an Authorised Firearms Officer.

'So what do you have here?' she said, assessing the information with the precision he valued so much. 'The name beginning with "T". The link with Fulham and the police. Experience with guns. The fact that she was brought up in Bath, so she knew where to set up the meeting with Steph. Anything else?'

'Something pretty important. Steph wouldn't have thought of Trish as threatening. She had this friendly personality everyone warmed to.'

'Then why?' Julie asked. 'What had this charming woman got against Steph?'

'Before I come to that, there's a different "why".'

'Yes?'

'Why did Steph go to the park at all?'

'It was fixed. It was in her diary.'

'Yes, but what was their reason for meeting? It's not as if they were the best of friends. They met a couple of times when I was serving at Fulham in the eighties, but they didn't know each other well.'

'You've worked it out, haven't you?'

'It's preyed on my mind all these months, Julie, and the explanation is so bloody obvious I'm ashamed of myself. Steph gave it to me the night before she was killed and I didn't see it until today.'

'Share it, then. I want to hear it, guv.'

'You have to know the kind of person Trish Weather was. We called her Mary Poppins in the old days. She was forever chivvying us into behaving properly, doing the right thing, giving presents to anyone who left. She was the mother hen of the place.'

'There's usually one.'

'Right. I've been told that even after she quit the police to set up her temping agency, she kept dropping in at Fulham nick to look up old friends. It was as if she couldn't bear to leave.'

'It happens.'

'Now listen, Julie. On the last evening I spent with Steph she reminded me my fiftieth birthday was coming up. What's more she told me some friends had seen an article in the paper that mentioned my age and they were talking about giving me a surprise party. She wouldn't say who. You don't, do you, if it's meant to be a surprise? She was just sounding me out, confirming what she'd guessed already-'

'That you couldn't think of anything worse?'

'You know me and parties, Julie.'

'You think Trish was behind the surprise party?'

'I'd put money on it.' Immediately he was hit by a doubt. 'Don't tell me it was you.'

'I didn't even realise you had a special birthday this year.'

Relieved, he let his excitement bubble over. 'Everything points to Irish. In the diary Steph actually notes which evenings I'm out, so she can call her and discuss it. She knew very well what my reaction would be.'

'You think Steph squashed the idea?'

'No, that wasn't her style. Softly, softly. As I say, she spoke to me first, just to be certain of my reaction. The next day – if I'm right – she meant to break the news to Trish that it wasn't such a good plan. Knowing Steph, she'd want to do it without hurting the woman's feelings.'

'She could tell her on the phone.'

'No, they fixed to meet. She'd prefer to tell her face to face.'

'Who suggested the meeting, then? Trish?'

'I think so. She'd have said it would be nice to meet anyway and she came to Bath sometimes to visit her parents. Steph was friendly, as you know. She'd have fallen in with the idea. They picked the park because that was really close to where Trish's people live. Does that sound plausible?'

Julie sidestepped. 'But why did Trish bring a gun with her?'

'She had a different agenda.'

'Obviously.'

'The surprise party was just a blind.'

'Okay,' she said with a huge note of doubt. 'So what turned her into a killer?'

'Julie, that's the big question only one person can answer now.'

'Stormy Weather.'

He didn't need to confirm it.

Julie said without prompting, 'You think Stormy shot his own wife, don't you? He found out she'd killed Steph and he put her down like a dangerous dog.'

'He's been a strong support to me,' was all he would answer.

'I haven't met the man,' she said. 'I'm just looking at it coldly. He's a Chief Inspector. You and I know what he'd face if his wife was convicted of the murder of another officer's wife. He'd be finished.'

He said indifferently, 'I'm not going to shop him.'

Julie latched on immediately. 'Exactly. What's done is done. If Stormy shot his wife, leave it to Billy Bowers to work it out.'

He started to say, 'But I have to know why-'

Julie cut in, 'Guv, I know how your mind is working. Stay away from Stormy. Don't have any more to do with him. You can only panic him.'

Speaking more to himself than Julie, he started the statement a second time, and completed it, 'I have to know why Steph was murdered and I will.'

A November storm hit the West Country that night, uprooting trees and bringing down fences. Roads right across Somerset and Wiltshire were closed by flooding. Diamond decided not to drive. He took the InterCity to Paddington, crossed London on the Bakerloo Line and completed the journey to Raynes Park by a suburban train. And at intervals, resonating with the rhythm of the wheels, he fancied he heard Julie's voice urging him to stay away from Stormy.

Fat chance.

Before doing anything else at Raynes Park, he needed to relieve himself. He found the 'Gentlemen' sign on the station platform and discovered from a smaller notice on the door that not every man in Raynes Park was gentle. 'Due to continued vandalism these toilets are locked. If you need to use the facilities please ask a member of staff for the key.' 'I should be so lucky,' he said grimly, looking along the deserted platform. There was a similar notice on the ladies' door. He went down the steps and into the street.

A sheet of rain and a buffeting wind hit him when he stepped out of the station. In the street, umbrellas were being blown inside out. He never carried one. He put up the collar of his old fawn trench coat, jammed on his trilby more tightly and set off for Stormy's local shops. They began almost at once, along one side of Approach Road, and they were about as accommodating as the station facilities. The pharmacy had ceased trading. The fish and chip shop wasn't frying. There were a couple of others with shutters up, covered in graffiti. There was a public convenience. The sign on the door read: 'These toilets are permanently closed.' Driven desperate by the sound and sight of the rain, he stepped around the back.

Feeling better, he applied his mind to other matters. He looked for the hairdressing salon. If you want to find out about a woman without speaking to her husband, try her hairdresser. A shop on the corner called Streakers had an art nouveau design, tastefully done, of running nudes with their hair in curlers. He went in with a gust that blew the showcards off the counter.

One of the stylists put down her scissors and came over. She was the manager, he discovered.

'I was wondering,' he began when he'd shown his warrant card, 'if by any chance you cut the hair of Mrs Weather, the local woman who was shot and found dead by the railway at Woking.' His voice was calm, but he hoped to God he'd struck lucky. There simply wasn't time to do the rounds of all the salons in the area.

'Trish was a client of mine, yes,' the bright-eyed, thirtyish manager told him – and it didn't escape him that she used the 'T' word unprompted. She took him into the staffroom and sent the junior there to sweep the salon floor. 'We couldn't believe it when we heard. She was such a sweet person.'

'You said she was your client. You personally did her hair?'

'I did.'

'For how long?'

'More than a year, once a week. After she left her job in the police she had a regular Friday morning appointment. Personal grooming was important to Trish.' She was eyeing his saturated old mac.

'You got to know the lady well, then? Did she talk about her life?'

She had, quite a bit, he learned. She had been struggling to build up the temping agency. Just when it was starting to take off, a big agency with a chain of branches opened right across the street. They spent a lot in advertising and offered better terms, so her business was hit hard.

The agency didn't interest him at all. 'Did her police work ever come up?'

'Not much.'

'It was a big part of her life. Didn't she talk about the people she worked with?'

She shook her head.

'Did she ever mention someone called Steph, or Stephanie?'

'No.'

Some of the gloss was knocked off his theory.

She told him, 'I got the impression the work was high pressure, but quite satisfying. She missed it after she left. Things got more difficult generally.'

'Not just the business, then?' He was alert to each nuance. 'Her personal life?'

She smoothed her hands down her white tabard. 'If you don't mind, I'd rather not go into that.'

'Why not? She's gone.'

'But Mr Weather hasn't.'

He told her sharply, 'This isn't about being good neighbours, ma'am. It's a murder inquiry. Did she complain about him?'

'No more than other clients do about their husbands. We hear it all. You get them in the chair and they tell you all kinds of confidences.'

He waited, and getting nothing, said, 'So the marriage was under some pressure?'

'I think being at home, Trish had more time in the house, and got rather, well, possessive.'

'And?'

'I felt sorry for Mr Weather, to tell you the truth. You know he slept outside in the van? If you went past in the evening, there was often a light on inside.'

'I didn't know he has a van.'

'When I say "van", I mean a caravan thing, except it wasn't a caravan. You could drive it.'

'A motor home?'

'Yes. That's what I mean. Big enough to live in. It used to be on their drive.'

'It wasn't when I visited. Perhaps he moved it'

'After Trish disappeared he moved back into the house. He must have parked the motor home in some other place. Or sold it.'

'You were saying you felt sorry for him,' he prompted.

'There was one time when she hurt her leg and couldn't come here, so I went to the house to give her the shampoo and blow-dry and I was really surprised to find how feminine everything was, beautifully clean and tidy, and all pink and white with swathed curtains and ballerina pictures on the walls. Dolls and soft toys. A little figure in a crinoline covering the spare toilet roll in the bathroom. There was nothing of him anywhere to be seen.'

'Except in the motor home outside?'

'I didn't go in there. I suppose her feminine side had been cramped by the police job. When she got the opportunity, she went a bit overboard.'

This made sense to him, and he was glad of the insight into Stormy's marriage. It compensated a little for his disappointment at learning nothing of Trish's feelings towards Steph.

'One more favour, and I'll let you get back to your client. Could I see your appointments book for February and March – or are you computerised?'

'No. We're far too busy to learn. Stay here and I'll send in the junior with it.'

With the book in his hands, he flicked back the pages to the months he was interested in. There was obviously a system. Regular bookings were entered by someone in a clear, neat script. The others, arranged a short time ahead, or on the day, bore the signs of being hastily inserted in a variety of styles. He soon located Mrs P. Weather in the tidy hand, each Friday at eleven-thirty. She'd booked for the whole of February and March.

There was something else about the system. As clients arrived for their appointments, a tick was placed beside their names. There were ticks for Trish Weather up to Friday, February the twelfth. For the nineteenth and subsequent Fridays her name was crossed through and other names had been squeezed in above.

He took the book out to the manager and showed her. 'Does this mean she didn't come in after February the twelfth?'

'That's right.'

'Did she cancel?'

'She must have done – or we wouldn't have slotted another client in.'

'In person?'

'I really can't remember that far back.'

'You must have thought about it when you heard she was murdered.'

'They didn't find her for six months. No, I didn't think it mattered. Is it important, then?'

Is it important? he thought. For crying out loud, is it important?

'If she cancelled, would she have called you personally?'

'Any of the staff could have taken the message. It's a matter of who's free to pick up the phone.'

Clearly, she had no memory of speaking to Trish.

'If someone cancels, don't they normally make another appointment?'

'Unless they say they'll get in touch later. If they're ill, somebody might cancel for them.'

'The husband?'

'Anyone.'

'And if you don't hear from the client after that?'

'We don't chase them up, if that's what you mean. If they don't get in touch again, that's the end of it.'

And it was, for Trish Weather, he thought.

He left the salon to walk to the Forester, the local he'd visited before. There was a fair chance that by this time, eleven-thirty, Stormy would be installed there.

The downpour was so heavy by now that everyone else was sheltering in shopfronts and under awnings. Peter Diamond strode through the rain without caring, his thoughts ten months in the past and a hundred miles away, picturing Steph's meeting with the person who was armed and ready to execute her.

From that day to this the question uppermost in Diamond's mind had been 'Why?' Elusive, maddening, paining, it had always been the key. He'd been certain he would find Steph's killer when he understood. He'd not wavered, tortuous as the route had been.

Finally, he knew.

The motive wasn't rage or passion or revenge or greed. It wasn't malice. It was more appalling than any of those: a decision made in cold blood and carried out impassively. Steph had died for no better reason than that she had made a phone call that – unknown to her – undermined a killer's alibi.

He understood enough about the tunnel vision of the murdering mind to know that her life, her individuality, the precious, warm, vital person she was, had not come into the reckoning. She was a risk, so she was eliminated.

Sheer, bloody-minded persistence had got him to the truth. No inspiration, no shaft of light, just his refusal to give in.

The saloon bar of the Forester was almost empty. Stormy was in there, seated at a table with his back to the door. Inconveniently, someone else was with him, a woman. Dark-haired, well made-up, probably around forty, she was in a backless peacock blue dress you wouldn't have expected to see outside a nightclub.

Diamond marched up to the table and said, 'Can we have words?'

Stormy turned in his seat. 'Peter?' He tried to make it sound like a greeting, and didn't convince. 'What brings you out here? You're drenched, man. Get that coat off and let's line up a drink for you.'

'Don't bother.'

A frown threatened Stormy's face momentarily, and then he recovered to say, 'This is Norma – as charming a lady as you'd meet anywhere. Norma, say hello one of my old workmates, Peter Diamond.'

Diamond said to the woman, 'Leave us alone, would you? We have things to discuss.'

She looked to Stormy – who leaned towards her and whispered in her ear. She picked up her coat and walked out of the bar, leaving her drink half-finished.

'What's up?' Stormy asked when Diamond was seated opposite him.

'You want to know what's up?' Diamond said in a hard, tight voice. 'Everything's up – for you. I came here not wanting to believe you murdered your wife.'

He stared back. 'You're not making sense, Peter.'

'Did you ever love her?'

'Patsy?'

'Trish. She liked to be known as Trish.'

Stormy gripped the tankard in front of him with both hands. 'Of course I loved her. Haven't I made that clear?'

'The story I got is that she wouldn't let you in the house.'

'I told you we had arguments sometimes. I made no secret of that.'

'You slept outside in a motor home.'

'Have you been talking to my neighbours?'

'Is it true, then?'

'Sometimes,' Stormy admitted. 'Model-making is my hobby. We spoke of this, didn't we? I keep my materials in the motor home. I can make a mess in there and nobody bothers, and if I want to work late I can.'

'So that's all it was?' Diamond said without irony, as if he was reassured. 'Your marriage was okay?'

'Absolutely.'

'And you got on all right with the in-laws?'

'I got on fine. I still do.'

'Visited them from time to time?'

'Often.'

'Strange,' Diamond said in a voice as dry as last week's bread, 'because when we were sitting in the car on Sion Hill in Bristol you told me you didn't know Bath at all -and it turns out Trish's people live in Brock Street.'

For a moment it seemed Stormy Weather hadn't taken in the point. He was still coming to terms with the realisation that his background had been investigated. 'In the car we were talking about the Brunei sites. All I said was I haven't seen them.'

'No. I asked if you'd been to Bath and you said not since you were a kid. That was a lie.'

Stormy didn't deny it.

For Diamond, these were pivotal admissions. The molten rage inside him threatened to erupt any second, yet he had to contain it to get the truth. 'What was the problem in your marriage? Was it the fact that you had no children?'

'Plenty of people don't have kids,' Stormy pointed out, rashly adding, 'You don't.'

Don't rise to it, Diamond told himself, don't rise to it. Keep the focus on him. 'You admitted to having affairs.

Had Trish given up on sex?'

'I don't see where this is leading.'

'This Norma I just met. How long have you known her?'

'Leave Norma out of it.'

'I can ask the barman or anyone else. I get the impression you're regulars here. Does she want to marry you?'

His silence was as good as a nod.

'But Trish wouldn't let you go, would she?' Diamond pressed on. 'She had things sorted as neat as a knitting pattern. The house to herself, all frills and pink wallpaper and nothing out of place. A good pension. A nice welcome any time she wanted to look up old friends at the nick. And this Mary Poppins image of a perfectly managed existence. No, she didn't want a divorce fouling up her tidy life.'

Stormy took a long sip of beer, transparently trying to appear calm.

'Your life was bleak, sleeping in the motor home and only allowed into your own house on sufferance. She wouldn't let go, and Norma wanted something more permanent. The pressure got to you.'

The calm was ebbing away.

'Like me, you knocked off a police weapon in those Fulham days when old Robbo was mismanaging the armoury. Piece of cake. No big deal. Like me, you tucked the shooter away and almost forgot about it, right?'

'Who told you this?'

'You planned it well. Some time between February the twelfth and the nineteenth you took out your gun and put two bullets into Trish's head.'

Now Stormy decided a show of outrage was wanted. 'I don't have to listen to this crap.'

'You do. You don't know who's waiting outside,' Diamond bluffed.

Stormy glanced at the door.

'The timing of the murder is absolutely crucial -because she wasn't killed a couple of weeks after Steph was shot, but before.'

He swayed back, squeezing his eyes shut as if it were a physical blow. 'You can't say that.'

'I know it. Trish missed her appointment on the nineteenth.'

The eyes shot open and real panic flashed in them. 'What appointment?'

'The hairdo.'

He stared blankly back.

'The shampoo and blow-dry. You were so cut off from her life you didn't know she went to Streakers every Friday. I've been to the shop and seen the book. She missed the next appointment on the twenty-sixth as well, when she was still alive according to you. And the one after.' They were hammer blows and Stormy was reeling from them.

Like any good fighter sensing the end, Diamond didn't relent. 'You're a detective. You've seen plenty of killers fail because someone discovered the body. You thought of a very good place where nobody walked their dogs. After shooting her, you drove the body to Woking and dumped it on the railway embankment where it wouldn't be found for months, if not years. Went home with the idea of waiting a couple of weeks before you reported her missing. Devious, that was – to confuse everyone over the date she disappeared, just in case they investigated your movements on the day of the murder.'

Stormy grasped the arms of his chair to get up, but Diamond grabbed his shirt-front and held him where he was. 'Don't even think about it.'

'Free country,' he said in a rasp.

'Not any more it isn't – not for you. You thought you'd got it all sussed after you disposed of Trish. You were sitting at home – back in the house you owned – when the phone rang and it was Steph, my wife, expecting to speak to Trish. Awkward. You said she was out and offered to take a message and it soon became obvious they'd arranged to meet in Bath to discuss the surprise party Trish wanted to arrange for my fiftieth. Man, oh man, that threw you, didn't it? Your plan was in ruins. You'd meant to wait another two weeks before doing your worried husband act and reporting your wife missing. But Steph would kibosh that. She'd say it was you she spoke to on the phone, not Trish. She'd say Trish didn't turn up for their meeting. She was trouble.'

A strange thing was happening to Stormy's face. The red blotches were standing out like a leopard's spots, separated by patches of dead white skin. His lips, too, were drained of blood. They didn't move.

Diamond leaned closer, still holding him by the shirt, his voice cracking with emotion. 'You decided to kill my wife, you sick fuck, simply because she got in the way of your plan. You'd killed once and it was easy, so you'd do it again. Am I right?'

Not a flicker.

'This wasn't done in the heat of the moment. This was premeditated, cold-blooded murder. You thought it through. When you'd worked out what to say you phoned back and told her you'd spoken to Trish and she'd asked you to confirm the time and place of their meeting. It was to be the Crescent Gardens, opposite the old bandstand, at ten. You drove to Bath and waited in the park. When Steph arrived, expecting to meet Trish, you walked up to her and took out the gun and shot her twice in the head. Then you got in your car and drove home.'

The eyes confirmed it, even if the voice was silent.

'By killing her, you kept your trump card, the chance to mislead everyone about the date of your own wife's death. You waited another two weeks before reporting that Trish was missing. And ever since, you've been doing your damnedest to lay false trails, insisting on calling her Patsy, putting in the frame every villain we ever crossed, sending me every bloody way but here. I took you for a friend and you're a bloody Judas, the worst enemy I could have had.'

The man had nothing to say. His eyes were opaque. He seemed indifferent, passive. But it was a trick.

Abruptly his two hands reached up and smashed down on Diamond's wrist, wrenching it away from the shirt. He stood, wheeled around and made a dash for a door at the back.

Diamond's reaction was slower than it should have been, partly because of where he was seated. The table tipped over and the glasses crashed as he shoved them aside and stepped out. Unfortunately he blundered into a bar-stool and stumbled to his knees. The door had slammed before he was on his feet again.

He charged across and yanked it open. He was looking out at the car park, and Stormy Weather was already climbing into the passenger seat of a white motor home driven by the woman in the blue dress. He must have given her the order to wait with the engine running.

Diamond sprinted.

The vehicle had revved and powered away before he made a grab for the door. He grasped the handle and had his right arm tugged almost out of its socket. Acting on impulse and anger alone, he held on, taking huge strides beside the cab, and jerked the door fully open.

A mistake.

He was staring at imminent death, into the muzzle of a gun. Stormy Weather, eyes wild with panic, took aim.

The bullet hit Diamond like a sledgehammer and he fell backwards and knew no more.