Killing with Confetti

20

Jack marched up Manvers Street looking no different from a tourist who’d arrived for the weekend on a late train and was making his way to a hotel to pass the night. The black case he was carrying appeared innocuous enough, but instead of overnight things contained the assault rifle and ammunition he’d collected from the arms dealer. Stripped down, the gun parts fitted snugly into compartments in the case. He’d have the whole night and the morning to assemble it.

Hidden under his long black T-shirt was a gun belt. Having a backup handgun was common sense and gave him confidence. The Glock semi-automatic was loaded, but unlikely to be used except in an emergency. He also had a bedroll attached to a backpack containing a balaclava mask, duct tape, a kitchen knife, toilet paper, a pack of sandwiches, water and a flask of brandy. He would be sleeping out tonight, on the flat roof behind the balustrade of the Roman Baths. His long-held plan was in its final phase.

The abbey precincts are quiet after 10 P.M., even on a Friday. The city doesn’t close down completely, but such night life as Bath can boast about is some distance away. Even so, he needed to be careful. A stop-and-search wouldn’t be welcome. The floodlighting of the ancient building makes anyone conspicuous on the wide spaces outside. He’d checked the CCTV, of course, and he wouldn’t be putting himself in range of a camera. This meant approaching by way of a detour using Henry Street, New Orchard Street and Abbey Green.

Tonight the whole area seemed to have been evacuated.

Or so Jack was thinking until he raised his eyes.

Along one side of York Street at the back of the Great Bath was a balustrade identical to the one he was planning to use. Behind it, silhouetted against the moonlit sky and standing quite still, was the figure of a man.

Security guard?

Jack took a sidestep into a shop doorway and merged with the shadow, believing he hadn’t been spotted.

No hurry. Best wait for the snoop to move on.

But there was no movement. The guy had his back to the street, more interested in the Roman Bath than anything down here.

Still as a statue.

After some time, Jack realised the guy was a statue, for fuck’s sake, one of the Roman emperors positioned at intervals around the perimeter of the Great Bath. Back in the Victorian era when the Great Bath was excavated, the city fathers weren’t satisfied with the discovery of an entire Roman bathing facility. They added their own superstructure topped with eight statues. Those faux Roman figures appear horribly realistic at night.

Fooled you, Jack Peace.

He grinned, more from relief than amusement, and crossed the street. Staying close to the wall, he skirted the eastern end of the baths until he came to the feature he’d already picked for the difficult part — the climb. A sturdy wooden door marked FIRE EXIT KEEP CLEAR was framed by what is technically known as a Gibbs surround, with a decoration each side of four rectangular blocks that projected about an inch and a half and formed a virtual ladder. He’d liked that door frame the first time he’d noticed it and he still liked it now. The top ridges were deep enough to give him footholds and there was an ornamental lamp higher up to grab.

The only difficulty would be the heavy case containing the gun and ammunition. Even if he found the strength to hurl the thing over the balustrade he didn’t want to risk damaging the contents. So he’d come prepared. He took a twenty-foot length of cord from his pocket, tied it to the handle and looped the other end over his wrist.

After one more check to be certain no one else was about, he started the ascent. Climbing the blocks was child’s play thanks to the ironwork supporting the lamp. The tricky part was getting over a chunk of moulding that projected above the door. He managed that by pushing his foot against the bar holding the lamp and heaving himself upward and wriggling to the next level. Once above the moulding, he used it as a platform to reach up to the balustrade. He took a grip with his fingers, hoisted himself and scrambled over.

No sweat.

There was more space up here than he’d imagined from below, as much as twenty feet between the stone rail he’d just climbed over and the external wall of the Pump Room extension. He was standing in a narrow channel next to a pitched roof angled quite low, but sensible for drainage. The end overlooking the abbey front was rounded. Easy to scramble over and hide on the other side if necessary.

Before exploring, he leaned over the rail and hauled up his case, taking care not to bump it against the masonry. The sense of achievement was as satisfying as anything he’d done in a long while. He squatted behind the parapet and rewarded himself with a nip of brandy.

Through the spaces he had a clear view of the west door where everything was going to happen.

Bring it on.

Diamond’s first thoughts about policing the wedding hadn’t changed. Patrol cars would be parked at the points of entry and exit to the abbey churchyard. Each would have two armed officers inside. On the morning of the wedding a door-to-door check would be made of all the apartments and offices within firing range of the west door. An armed officer, DC Paul Gilbert, would be positioned above ground level behind the balustrade at the east end of the Pump Room extension. At the Deputy Chief Constable’s request, there would be no obvious police presence in front of the abbey. That was a duty to be undertaken by trusted members of CID in plain clothes: Chief Inspector Keith Halliwell, Inspector John Leaman and Sergeant Ingeborg Smith. They weren’t official guests, so they would be posted outside. Diamond and George Brace would be the only officers inside the abbey.

‘A gang leader like Joe Irving doesn’t normally advertise his movements,’ Diamond told his team at the briefing on the eve of the wedding. ‘This is a rare opportunity for his enemies. They know exactly where he’ll be at a given time.’

‘What if someone takes a potshot while the service is going on?’ Halliwell asked.

‘Inside the abbey?’ Leaman piped up.

‘It may be God’s house, John, but that won’t stop a hitman.’

‘Agreed,’ Diamond said, ‘but this is the point. The abbey isn’t like most other big churches. It doesn’t have a gallery. It’s an open space. A gunman will want to be out of sight.’

‘There are pillars.’

‘You can’t hide behind a pillar.’

‘The organ loft.’

‘Will be in use by the organist. He’d be noticed.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it, guv.’

‘I’ve done my homework, checked the windows, the chantry, the vestries, even the vents in the ceiling. If I thought there was a serious risk of a shooting inside, I’d have got you lot into the wedding in some way.’

‘Like as members of the choir?’ Halliwell said.

‘No chance.’

‘Bell-ringers?’

‘You’d be found out there as well. The front of the abbey has so much more to offer a hitman. Lines of fire from several angles and a choice of escape routes. Irving will be a soft target at two critical stages: when he arrives with the bride and when they come out for the photographs.’

‘And before all that, when he leaves his house?’ Ingeborg said.

‘Good point. An unmarked patrol car will be across the street.’

Leaman was shaking his head. ‘All this for a toerag like Joe Irving. Does he have any idea of the level of protection he’s getting?’

‘He’s been told.’

‘How much is it costing the taxpayer?’

‘Look at it this way,’ Diamond said, getting irritated. ‘The Deputy Chief Constable’s son is getting married to a young lady unlucky enough to be the daughter of a major criminal. We want their day to pass off peacefully, don’t we?’

‘Like Romeo and Juliet,’ Leaman said. ‘Lovers from two warring families.’

‘Let’s hope not,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Romeo and Juliet ended up dead.’