Killing with Confetti

22

Caroline’s two cousins, Angela and Ondine, arrived by nine-thirty on the morning of the wedding with their daughters, Gabriella and the twins, Tonya and Trixie. The three bridesmaids were too young to be of any help getting the bride ready, so their mothers filled that role. Joe Irving’s sombre house high on the northern slopes shrilled with feminine excitement.

‘Where’s Uncle Joe?’ Angela asked.

‘Still asleep,’ Caroline said.

‘Not for much longer. Where’s his bedroom?’

‘First floor.’

The bridesmaids had already started a jumping game on the stairs. ‘Pipe down, will you,’ Ondine called out. ‘Uncle Joe’s still in bed.’

Gabriella, all of ten years old, shouted, ‘No, he ain’t. He just flushed the toilet.’

‘Please!’

Gabriella’s mother, Angela, a university lecturer in child psychology, said, ‘I brought her up to speak the truth.’

‘Can’t blame the kid, then.’

‘The thing that grates with me is the use of “ain’t.” She must have picked that up from you two.’

Caroline stepped in fast to avoid a fight. ‘Such energy. They’ll be worn out before the wedding at this rate.’

‘This is nothing,’ Ondine said. ‘Wait till the twins really get started.’

‘And you’ve got all this to look forward to,’ Angela told Caroline. ‘Does Ben want a family?’

‘We both do.’

‘I must confess I’m glad I stopped at one,’ Angela said. ‘Although I didn’t have much choice in the matter after Gary left me for that mare from the fine art department.’

‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ Ondine said. ‘I’m getting used to the twins now, but I’d be lying if I said it was easy. Jed wants to try for a boy, only I’m not sure that’s all we’d get. Twins run in his family.’

Caroline didn’t really want to hear about child-rearing on the morning of her wedding and was spared when the doorbell rang. The flowers had arrived. Originally she’d wanted wildflowers, but in September almost all the large blooms are blue or purple and you can have too much of one colour so she’d settled mainly for shrub roses in shades of creamy pink and apricot, and they exceeded her best hopes. Her eyes welled up.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

Angela said, ‘Don’t try. Flowers are supposed to say it themselves.’

‘I know, but... they’re beautiful.’

‘Presumably you chose them yourself.’

Ondine, the more spontaneous of the cousins, filled the vacuum with coos of approval.

The owner of the flower shop had delivered the flowers personally and insisted on showing Caroline how to hold her bouquet, ‘...not too high with your face looking like the blob of cream on a knickerbocker glory and not so low that people think you’re protecting your virtue.’

The bridesmaids rushed to inspect their bouquets (‘wicked’) and insisted on trying on their floral headbands (‘mega-wicked’) and refusing to part with them although still dressed in tops and shorts. Joe Irving’s buttonhole was two tight pink rosebuds on rosemary and fern, so enchanting that Caroline decided she’d hide it from her father until just before they were due to leave.

The florist promised that the flowers in the abbey were already being installed by her team and would look divine. The Roman Baths had to wait for the official closing at 6 P.M., and within an hour the reception area would be transformed.

Peter Diamond was in front of the abbey by eleven-thirty doing the rounds of his team without making their presence too obvious. They had come on duty at ten, with the exception of Paul Gilbert, the youngest, who had needed to arrive early to climb a ladder to his viewpoint above the Pump Room extension. At that hour Diamond had still been in bed.

‘All present and correct, then,’ he said to Keith Halliwell, his deputy, over a large latte and a generous slab of banana and chocolate chip cake at a table outside Jacob’s, the coffee house at the entrance to abbey churchyard. Useful tip from Peter Diamond: if you need to blend in with the crowd, make sure it’s the section of the crowd who eat well.

‘And a nice day for a wedding,’ Halliwell said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, guv, that’s a sharp suit. Is it new?’

‘Straight from the dry cleaner,’ Diamond told him, flicking a crumb off the trousers. ‘You wouldn’t guess. Are you in radio contact?’

‘Yes, but we’re not making it obvious.’

‘Armed?’

‘Out of sight on my belt.’

‘Mine’s under my arm on a shoulder holster,’ Diamond said. ‘Does it show?’

Halliwell shook his head. ‘You’ve got the figure.’

‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

‘I’m agreeing it doesn’t show, that’s all.’

‘Where’s Ingeborg?’

‘On the move. I saw her last in the tourist information shop.’

‘And John Leaman?’

‘Other side, near the Pump Room entrance.’

‘Young Gilbert?’

‘He’s keeping his head down in the crow’s nest, isn’t he? He checked in early with the control room. I haven’t spoken to him myself. He hates being mollycoddled, as he puts it.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Diamond said. ‘I’d rather mollycoddle a snapping turtle.’

‘I haven’t seen any uniforms.’

‘You won’t. It’s plain clothes only in the square — if my sharp suit can be described as plain.’

Halliwell stirred his coffee. ‘On a gorgeous day like this it’s hard to imagine anything going wrong with the wedding.’

‘Don’t tempt fate.’

With the cop securely pinioned with duct tape and lying in the far corner of the roof, Jack moved to the other end and checked the bag. The police-issue radio equipment was inside, along with field glasses and a body camera. Of more use to Jack were two apples, a banana, some biscuits and two bottles of water. Paul Gilbert must have been speaking the truth when he’d said no one would be taking over.

After smashing the radio with the heel of his gun, Jack put the cop out of his mind and used up some time in choosing which gap in the balustrade to fire through. He’d positioned the legs of the bipod on the base rail and worked out the most comfortable posture. Stretching out flat on his stomach didn’t give him the height he would need. Squatting or sitting cross-legged didn’t feel comfortable. Eventually he found that lying on his left hip and propping himself against one of the stone piers worked best.

Next he tried the telescopic sighting. The opportunity was ideal because the tourists were appearing in numbers and forever stopping in front of the west door to pose for photographs. Each time they lined up, he took aim, put the lightest of touches on the trigger and made a firing sound from the side of his mouth.

In an hour he must have scored more than a hundred virtual hits, people of all ages and nationalities. His unknowing victims would move off and make way for the next lot. Some he’d spared — small kids, pregnant women and the disabled — and others he’d disliked on sight and wouldn’t have minded gunning down for real. One large guy in a suit crossed in front of the abbey and presented a moving target several times over. He seemed to be circling the yard. If Jack was any judge, this was a cop on patrol.

In the short intervals when nobody stopped to be photographed Jack took aim at the carvings and assassinated St. Peter and St. Paul several times over.

Quiet, if not calm, descended on the house just after 1:30 P.M., when the bridesmaids and their mothers got into the first car. Uncle Joe, dapper in a new Italian suit, watched from the window. He appeared surprisingly relaxed, even with the rosebud boutonniere. He told Caroline he approved of Ben’s decision not to insist on morning suits. In truth, the decision had been Caroline’s.

As for the bride, she looked sensational, of course, in a romantic blush-coloured sheath dress by Elie Saab that her two cousins had declared made them green with envy. The skirt was detachable for later, when she would want to dance.

‘You’re a picture,’ Joe said. ‘Pity your mum isn’t here to see you. She’d be in tears.’

‘Don’t start me off,’ Caroline said. ‘The make-up took all morning.’

‘Let’s go, then. The Roller is waiting.’

A band of grey cloud covered the sun just before they stepped outside. The air felt sultry.

A short way up the street was another vehicle, a blue Audi with three young men inside who looked like cops. Joe eyed it indifferently and didn’t mention anything to Caroline.

Inside the car she tugged his sleeve. ‘Talk to me, Daddy. I’m nervous.’

‘How do you think I feel?’

‘You’ve done this before. I haven’t.’

‘By rights, I shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘You deserved a better dad than me.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘When I wasn’t locked up I was up to my ears in crime. Never at home. What sort of father is that?’

‘You came to a parents’ evening at my school and scared the pants off Miss Meredith, the headmistress. Remember that?’

‘Did I threaten her?’

‘No, you just gave her a look. I was the envy of the school. From that day forward I was never given another detention.’

‘If that’s your best memory of me, it doesn’t say much.’

‘Right now will be my best memory, riding to my wedding with you at my side and being escorted up the aisle. I’m going to be so proud of you in your new suit.’

‘We’re not there yet.’

‘There’s no stopping us now.’

Joe didn’t comment on that. He turned his face to the window. They’d slowed at the traffic lights at the foot of Lansdown. People were taking an interest in the wedding car, trying to see the bride. ‘I’m not much good with words. I want you to know how often I thought of you when I was inside and feeling low. There wasn’t much stuff in my life I could be proud of. I pictured you and that helped me get through. Remember that.’

‘Lighten up, Daddy. You’re making it sound like a deathbed scene.’

A few fat raindrops hit the windows and rolled down.

‘Oh, shit,’ said the bride.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Joe.

Their driver glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘No problem. I’ve got umbrellas.’

‘What do you mean, no problem?’ Joe said in a bellow that could have caused an emergency stop. ‘My only daughter is getting married. This is her big day. It’s a problem, right?’

‘Right, sir.’

As if to justify Joe’s anger, the rain intensified and beat a tattoo on the roof of the Rolls-Royce. They’d reached the High Street and the abbey was in sight. At the end they were supposed to slow down, mount the pavement and make their way to the West Front. Facing them was the Rebecca Fountain, the white marble statue and fountain erected in 1861 by the Bath Temperance Association. The wording on the plinth was ironic under the circumstances: WATER IS BEST. A million large beads of the stuff were bouncing on the flagstones and battering the car.

‘What’s the time?’ Joe asked.

‘Two o’clock, near enough, sir,’ the driver said.

‘Make a left turn and pull in. It can’t go on like this for long.’

‘Daddy, I don’t think we should stop,’ Caroline said.

Joe was insistent. ‘There are spaces in front of the Empire Hotel.’

‘But everyone is waiting in the abbey.’

‘Do it,’ Joe told the driver.

Everything had been hunky-dory until about 1:30 P.M. — just as the wedding guests had started arriving in their smart suits and fancy hats — when charcoal smears cancelled the sun and turned the abbey front into dark lumps and crevices, as it must have appeared before the stone-cleaning. Soon the first spots of wet struck Jack’s warm flesh. A few quickly became too many. Light rain he could deal with. By 1:40 this was a summer shower and by 1:45 there was no sign it would stop any time soon.

What was a bout of rain to a single-minded man like Jack? He’d been through worse. Gun technology had moved on from the days of flintlocks and keeping your powder dry. An assault rifle is supposed to be weatherproof, so well insulated that it can fire underwater if need be. Of course, any gun needs to be held firmly. If your hands slip on the grips the recoil can kick like a bull. He’d take account of that.

But in all his planning he hadn’t factored in a summer storm. The problem wasn’t with the gun. What made his task a thousand times more difficult was what was happening in front of the abbey. The whole pattern of the wedding had changed. Some early guests had gone in before the rain started. The later ones were forced to step up sharply. Umbrellas had come into play, and they weren’t dinky folding things. They were the monster golf umbrellas chauffeurs used. You can’t identify anyone for sure under a thing that size and even if you take the chance, you can’t shoot to kill.

Almost all the guests were hidden and weren’t folding the fucking umbrellas until they were at the abbey door or inside.

The flaw in Jack’s masterplan — the British weather.

From his position he had a fine view of the top of each umbrella yet couldn’t see a single face. Enraged, he only avoided total meltdown by promising himself he’d have a second chance when everyone emerged after the service.

If the rain stopped.

A car with white ribbons arrived at the west door, leaving a slipstream across the sodden yard. Helpers were ready for the bridesmaids with a canopy formed of white brollies. Two women visible from the knees downwards emerged and hurried in after the children.

Nothing was the way Jack had visualised the scene. Nobody was out there watching. There wasn’t even a wedding photographer in waterproofs to record the spectacle. The entire area in front of the abbey was deserted. Crosswinds were twisting the rain into shapes like folds of fabric. The hiss of the drops hitting the stonework grew to a drumming sound. Such was the density of the cloudburst that you could barely see your hand in front of your face.

Signs of restlessness at the west door. The bride and her father were seriously late in arriving. Jack caught glimpses of paler colours under the shadows inside the arch. The bridesmaids were hovering nervously between the oak doors and so was the priest in his gold-embroidered cope. He stepped out once to look for the car and pulled back quicker than a cat’s paw.

Peter Diamond wasn’t a killjoy, yet it would be fair to say he was less devastated by the rain than any of the other wedding guests. No one would linger outside the west door and make himself a target in these conditions. Posing for photographs simply wasn’t on. In his dry spot in the coffee shop, Diamond checked the time. The wedding service would start in under five minutes. He could see people inside the abbey poised to open umbrellas as soon as the car appeared.

He sent out an all-units radio message: Stay on full alert. The bride and her father will arrive any second. Of the CID people, Halliwell, Leaman and Ingeborg, the old hands, had each found a dry observation point. Anyone with half a brain would have done so.

Responses came back from each of the team except Paul Gilbert who, it had to be said, would be hard put to find any shelter where he was. By now he would be so drenched, poor lad, you could wring him out and fill a bucket. No surprise if his radio was out of action.

After transmitting the order, the head of CID made a dash across the square to the west door under a portable umbrella that immediately buckled and broke. The suit was no longer sharp when he entered the abbey. The jacket sagged and the trousers gripped his legs like cling film.

Bloody umbrellas. Jack had aborted his mission, at least for this part of the afternoon. Only some masochistic streak acquired through years behind bars kept him watching.

Finally, a good five minutes late for the wedding, a Rolls-Royce appeared from the left with the main players, Joe Irving and his daughter. And with cruel timing the rainfall increased to monsoon intensity, a downpour of Biblical force, thick droplets that stung the flesh. Even Noah would have thought it excessive.

Everyone waited at least half a minute before some bold soul inside the car made the decision.

The chauffeur opened his door, sprang the clip on a huge umbrella, darted around the car and ushered the bride into the abbey. A flash of cream-coloured fabric and she was gone from view.

He returned to the car and performed the same service for Joe Irving. But for all Jack could see, it could have been Father fucking Christmas.

What a washout.

Jack stood brazenly behind the balustrade, the rifle hanging from his hand, in the sure knowledge that no one would notice him. He was saturated, of course, but so intent on what was unfolding below that only now did he discover he was ankle-deep in water.

Choked drains. Rising water.

The drainpipes couldn’t cope with the volume.

This was the moment he remembered Paul the cop. The world would be a better place without plods, but leaving one to drown in a gutter was careless.

He swore, perched the AK on a ledge, straightened his sodden face mask, turned, crawled up the roof, grabbed the top edge and looked over.

The cop’s body was all but submerged. He’d managed to wriggle closer to the corner and prop his head against the backpack to keep his face above the surface.

Jack scrambled over, grabbed the hapless guy and lifted him out of the water onto the roof. The eyes were closed and he was grey in the face so Jack ripped the strip of duct tape from his mouth.

The shock of strong adhesive being yanked off sensitive skin would have revived anyone except a corpse. The cop’s eyes snapped open. He took some shallow gasps of air.

Jack trickled some bottled water into the open mouth. ‘Drink up, mate. Didn’t bargain for this.’

After swallowing most of it, Paul asked, ‘Did you shoot him?’

‘I wouldn’t still be here if I had.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘They’ve got to come out, haven’t they?’

‘Is the rain going to stop?’

‘Stupid fucking question.’

‘Are you under orders to kill the bastard, or what? He’s a waste of space anyway in my opinion.’

Jack ignored that obvious attempt to curry favour. ‘How long does a wedding take?’

‘Under an hour usually.’

‘So I’ll wait and so will you.’ He reached for the duct tape and slammed another strip over the cop’s mouth.