Killing with Confetti

23

Seated by choice at the back, Diamond ignored his wet clothes and focused on his reason for being at a wedding on a Saturday afternoon instead of a rugby match. He started counting heads. They weren’t necessarily all guests. A notice had been posted all morning about the abbey being used for a wedding at 2 P.M., but any member of the public was entitled to wander in. After all, there’s that ‘declare it now’ moment early in the ceremony. If you come to stop a wedding, you probably won’t have been invited.

He made the tally seventy-eight, meaning that few, if any, interlopers were present. George Brace had spoken of about eighty because of a limit on numbers. Caroline’s list had confirmed this.

Seventy-eight in a church that seats 1,200 left plenty of room.

Probably the storm had put off casual visitors. Whatever the reason, the modest numbers helped Diamond keep tabs. Following tradition, the bride’s family were seated left of the aisle and they were so few they filled only the front row. Caroline’s friends had spread themselves around the rows behind, but they amounted to about a quarter of the number on Ben’s side.

George Brace was in full dress uniform as Deputy Chief Constable, bristling with silver insignia. Was the kit worn from pride or as a deterrent to ill-intentioned people? Probably both, Diamond decided. The man was intensely proud of his status. Personally, Diamond wouldn’t mind if he never had to wear uniform again — and certainly not at a social occasion.

The Trumpet Voluntary was the cue for heads to turn, phones and cameras to start snapping. Everyone except Diamond and the priest seemed to be taking pictures. The bride was radiant in her designer dress.

Big Joe would have been an easy target for a bullet. His shoulders filled most of the aisle and he was some inches taller than everyone else.

To his credit, he looked as if he was in his element. When the priest said, ‘Who brings this woman to be married to this man?’ Joe said as if he’d won the lottery, ‘Me.’ He took Caroline’s hand and placed it in Ben’s and returned to the pew. And when one of the bridesmaids dropped her bouquet, he stepped out, picked it up for her and put a reassuring hand on her arm. He was well in charge.

And no bullet was fired.

Try as he might to keep his mind on the job, Diamond couldn’t prevent himself being moved by the words of the wedding service, words he’d heard thirty years ago when he’d stood at the front of a small London church with his beloved Steph and made the same vows, buoyed up with pride and scarcely able to believe his luck. And it was right here — in this abbey church in 2001 — that he’d walked up the same aisle behind Steph’s coffin.

Impossible not to feel a lump in his throat.

After the signing of the registers, the priest announced that the family had decided in view of the weather — he spread his hands towards the nearest window and said with a smile, ‘There are certain things beyond our control’ — there would be no traditional photographs outside the abbey. Instead, they would be taken later, at the reception in the Roman Baths. ‘And I’m reliably informed that the disco will begin with Here Comes the Sun.’

Outside, another heavy shower had started.

Diamond, who professed no religion, offered a word of thanks to the Almighty. The second big killing opportunity had been removed.

But another — unplanned — was about to unfold.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Brace and their bridesmaids walked the aisle with their families following. Somewhere above, the bells started ringing. Etiquette decreed that Diamond, at the back of the seating, should have waited for everyone else to pass him, but etiquette had never held him back and didn’t now. He made a fast move to the other end of the row and was at the abbey door in time to nod to George and Leticia as they approached.

He’d realised there would be a log-jam. Normally there’s a chance after the church formalities are over for everyone to unwind in the open air, congratulate the happy couple, hug each other and throw confetti. It couldn’t be done outside, so, except for the confetti, all this would happen this side of the west door.

In that crush, anyone with murder in mind could sidle up to Joe Irving and stick a knife into him.

Diamond barrelled through. Nobody was lining up to chat with the father of the bride, so he was able to get face to face, or, more accurately, face to collar and tie. A fine ivory-coloured necktie with a pearl pin.

Joe was used to speaking without making eye contact. ‘What do you want?’

‘Being careful, that’s all,’ Diamond said.

‘Speak up.’

Everyone was shouting to be heard above the bells. ‘Being careful.’

‘What for?’

He leaned closer. ‘You know — some enemy of yours. All these people. It only wants one.’

‘One what?’

Diamond made a fist to get Joe’s full attention and mimed the upward thrust of a knife.

Joe barely glanced, not at all impressed. ‘Bring it on. He’ll have a blade in his gut before I do.’

‘You’re tooled up?’

Joe’s eyes slid upwards. The stained-glass saints above them could not have looked more pure in heart than he did. ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’

Eventually Caroline and Ben waved to everyone, stepped into their Rolls-Royce and were driven away, but not without some confetti being thrown in spite of all the appeals from the abbey authorities. Immediately after came the second car for the bridesmaids and their mothers. The umbrellas were up again. Joe got in beside the driver. Diamond’s duty inside the abbey was over.

He felt a hand squeeze his arm. Leticia, under a silver hat big enough to contain space invaders. ‘After that you deserve a large glass of bubbly, Pete.’

George Brace, at her side, added, more in keeping with the job, ‘You can stand down now.’

‘Until it all kicks off again at the reception,’ Diamond said.

‘Will it?’

‘The Roman Baths at night are about as secure as a waterhole in the jungle.’

‘Now you tell me.’

‘I’ll try and get there in good time.’

‘I saw you with Irving. I hope he appreciates the efforts we’re making to keep him safe.’

‘That’s debatable.’

Leticia was looking through the open door. ‘This must be our car arriving. Come on, George. I’ve got to get spruced up for tonight.’

‘Say it ain’t so, Joe.’ The words of the much-covered Murray Head song from the 1970s had drilled themselves into Jack’s head and wouldn’t budge. They were cruelly apt. Behind the balustrade in driving rain waiting for the wedding party to emerge, he had prepared the AK, set it in position, lined up the shot. He’d told himself the photo session outside the church was obligatory, whatever the weather. Evidently not.

The service was clearly over now. The bloody bells had been going for twenty minutes and no photographer was in place and no line-up, no chance to make the killing.

Finally some minders with umbrellas appeared at the door followed by the bride and groom who ducked into the Rolls-Royce under the phalanx of white nylon and were driven away. Can you credit that? It seemed someone — probably the paymaster for this shindig, Joe Irving — had made an executive decision and cancelled the photo session. Then the bridesmaids and their mothers were ushered out followed by the man himself hotfooting it around the car under his own umbrella to the passenger seat.

Say it ain’t so, Joe.

What had just happened — or failed to happen — was so unlikely that Jack kept watching in the hope that the scene would rewind and be played again with the true version.

The guests started streaming out and away in all directions. It was enough to rile a saint and Jack was no saint.

Say it ain’t so, Joe.

When he’d calmed down he was forced into a drastic rethink.

The AK was no use to him anymore. He dumped it along with its case and all his other stuff except the balaclava and the handgun. Dropped everything in the standing water behind the balustrade. The bedroll, the backpack, the bloody lot. Nothing with his name on it, of course, and if they found any of his DNA after that drenching, science had come on a lot since he’d last checked.

The trussed-up cop wouldn’t be a problem. Someone at the nick would ask why he hadn’t reported in. Eventually the top dogs would tumble to the fact that their pup was missing. They knew where to come looking. And if they didn’t, a night up here wouldn’t kill him.

A more pressing matter, the biggest challenge yet, had to be faced right now. The wedding reception hadn’t featured in his planning so far, but suddenly it was top of the agenda. His last opportunity. He needed to get back to ground level and into the Baths without being noticed. The rain had stopped and the sun had appeared — wouldn’t you know it? — and tourists were already repopulating the square. They’d be there until early evening like colonies of meerkats watching every move. Anyone descending from the balustrade by the route Jack had used to get up there was sure to attract an audience. The steps in front of the fire exit with the Gibbs surround were a favourite place for tourists to sit with their ice cream.

Think.

In a little over two hours the Roman Baths would close. By then he needed to have conned his way in and found a place to hide, lie up and wait. A final chance to make the hit.

The urge to finish the job was stronger than ever.

For justice.

Not the warped justice imposed by the police and the courts. Real justice where the truly guilty were punished.

So think outside the box, man. Be inventive.

He stared down at the abbey churchyard where people were already buying ice creams from the shop near the tourist office. They’d make for those fucking steps below him for sure. He was trapped.

He took a deep despairing breath and it was his salvation. He was reminded of what is often called the smell of rain — the fresh, energising air that follows a heavy downpour. He filled his lungs and drew back his head for more — and his gaze fixed on the plumes of white steam rising from the Great Bath.

Got it.

Instead of going down, he’d go up. Ten feet maximum.

He’d cracked it.

Scale that pesky wall, Jack lad, and you’ll be laughing. You’ll be over the top and into the Roman Baths before Joe Irving and the bride and groom and all their guests arrive for the big jolly. They won’t have a clue that a gunman is lying in wait.

He waded the length of the gully for a closer look and raised a clenched fist in triumph. To his right was a corner where the wall abutted the outside of the domed concert room built by the Victorians and converted last century into the imposing ticket hall he’d visited. The nineteenth-century builders hadn’t stinted on detail, even up here where it would never be seen by the public. That corner was finished with stonework of the same design as the door frame he’d climbed the evening before. Large masonry blocks deeply recessed at regular intervals and — thanks, guys! — decent footholds. There was even a drainpipe to hang onto. His granny could have got up there.

Fantastic.

A change of fortune.

He couldn’t start immediately while the public were inside. There would be a ninety-minute slot between closing time at 6 P.M. and the start of the wedding bash at seven-thirty. He’d allow an interval for the usual security check.

Six-twenty would be the right time to go over.

He ate the banana from the cop’s backpack and had some of the water. Then he wrung the excess rainwater from the balaclava and tugged it over his head again and went to see how Paul Gilbert was looking stretched out on the roof with his face to the sun.

Tired, but drying out. Could have been worse.

‘Still thirsty?’

Urgent nodding.

He removed the gag less forcefully than last time, put a hand behind the guy’s shoulders to help him up and let him drink.

‘Apple?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me. It belongs to you. Take a large bite. I won’t be hand-feeding you for long.’

‘You could untie my hands.’

‘No way. Take another bite.’

‘There’s a banana.’

‘Was.’

‘Is it gone, then?’

‘I was hungry.’

‘What have you got against Joe Irving?’

‘Shut up and chew the apple.’

‘The wedding is over. I heard the bells some while ago. What time is it now?’

Jack didn’t answer.

Paul wasn’t giving up. ‘You didn’t fire a single shot.’

As if he needed telling.

‘That’s it.’ Jack took his arm away and let the smug bastard flop back on the roof. He slammed the gag against the open mouth. The duct tape was still sticky enough to do the job.

Blabbermouth could rot as far as he was concerned.