Showstopper

25

The king of the incident room, John Leaman, came straight over as soon as Diamond and Ingeborg returned. He was rubbing his hands, a rare display of emotion. “A batch of test results have come in, guv. The lab beat all records.”

“Thanks to Wolfgang cracking the whip,” Diamond said. “What have we got?”

“The victim was definitely Greg Deans. The bloody handprint on the car was his and so was the blood on the ground, so much, they say, that he couldn’t have lived.”

“We know that. What else?”

“They found no traces of anyone else’s blood or DNA.”

“Really? That surprises me.”

“The perpetrator was wearing gloves.”

“Shoeprints?”

“Nothing conclusive. The ground was too squelchy.”

“Squelchy? Is that the term they used?”

“No, it’s me summing up. Do you want me to read you the exact words?”

“No need. I can read them myself.”

“They did get a tyre print where the ground wasn’t quite so muddy, a good one, and made a cast of it.”

Diamond nodded. “I saw Wolfgang collecting it.”

“It’s a clear tread pattern and the interesting thing is that it’s not from a car.”

“A motorbike?”

“Yes — the tyre was a Michelin Pilot. They give a range of probable serial numbers and there’s enough wear to identify the bike if we can find it.”

“Could be helpful, very helpful. Go on.”

“That’s about it. The fingertip search of the field produced a few items like cigarette butts, but no reason to connect them to the killer.”

“Where were they found? Anywhere near the gate?”

“I didn’t ask. I was thinking some farm worker dropped them. The killer wouldn’t stand around smoking after the stabbing.”

“Before, John, before. He spent some nervous time waiting for the Range Rover to come up the lane. That’s when he would have needed a fag.”

Leaman’s embarrassed features displayed most of the colours of a Turner sunset. “I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s okay. I don’t expect you to cover every angle.”

“I’ll call the lab and find out.”

“Before you do, run the dash cam footage for me one more time on the large screen, would you, just the sequence in the field? There’s a moment when the car is turning and the camera catches a glimpse of something metallic under the hedge.”

“There isn’t much to see. Just a gleam of silver.”

He shouldn’t have been irritated by Leaman’s remark. After all, the man’s pathological attention to detail was often of value. But he was feeling the strain himself. “You’re not telling me anything new, John. I’ve studied it many times over. I want to see it on a bigger scale, understood?”

An injured look settled on Leaman’s features. “Got you.”

Realising he’d caused unintended hurt, Diamond softened the remark by placing some blame elsewhere. “I asked our IT people to check it frame by frame and enhance it if they can, but we’ve heard nothing back yet. I’m thinking it may have been this motorbike.”

Ingeborg tried to assist. “I can guess where you’re going with this, guv. Fergus is a biker. He rides to Combe Hay and parks the bike out of sight in the field, ready to ambush Greg. Candida will have driven there in a van and parked in the field opposite. She was the one who stood in the lane and directed Greg off the road and into the field like a lamb to the slaughter. Am I right?”

“Substantially, yes, but that’s only a scenario. Let’s not get carried away.”

“Like the corpse?” Halliwell said, making his own attempt to lighten the mood.

“What?”

“Carried away in the van.”

“Haha. Are you ready, John?”

Leaman seemed to have got over his angst. “Do you want the blinds down?”

“Good idea. Gather round, people. The more eyes we have on this, the better.”

They watched the sequence from the moment Greg’s headlights picked out the figure in the hi-vis jacket signalling to him to turn off the lane and into the field. The lights were dipped as the car approached the figure and only switched on again to make the turn. The picture gave the illusion of the field moving left as Greg drove in and turned in a tight circle to bring the car to a position facing the lane. It was difficult to see anything clearly because of the bumping over the rutted surface, creating secondary movement up and down as well as sideways.

“Here’s the hedge coming back in view,” Diamond said, “and this is the bit I’m interested in.”

No more than a flash of brightness against the dark band of the hedge, but almost certainly a reflection from a shiny surface — and gone in a fraction of a second. When the car came to a halt, the definition improved, but the object of all the interest was well out of shot.

“Impossible to tell,” Keith Halliwell said.

Leaman stopped the film and ran it a second time. And a third. He froze the frame, and that didn’t help.

Ingeborg said, “I’m thinking the height may be a clue. It’s about the level of a bike. If it was the side of a car, the patch of light would be broader and taller, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re losing me,” Halliwell said.

Diamond told Leaman to run it again in slow motion.

The picture quality was even less clear.

“I give up.”

Halliwell asked Leaman to let the film run on and show the stabbing. They watched the top of Greg’s head close to the dash cam after he’d got out to investigate. They saw the moving shape of his attacker in mid-distance creeping towards the front of the car. Next, Greg’s head in silhouette crossed the screen from right to left when he backed against the bonnet. Then the close-up of the fist gripping the knife.

“Stop it there.”

Diamond’s voice had fresh urgency.

The image froze.

“For crying out loud, why didn’t I see this before? That’s the back of his hand.”

“So...?” Halliwell said.

“The killer is left-handed. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s facing Greg, so his left side is closer to us.”

Silence.

He could almost hear their brains ticking over.

Halliwell was the first to speak. “We should all have spotted it when we first saw the film. We were so caught up in the killing that we didn’t give a toss how the knife was held.”

“One thing is certain now,” Diamond said. “The killer can’t be Will Legat. I’ve watched him hold the rope he uses as a lead for the dog. I saw him this morning in the pottery carry his coffee out of the kitchen. He’s right-handed. He’s got to be innocent.”

“How about Fergus?”

“I’m trying to think whether he’s right-handed as well,” Diamond said. “I haven’t seen as much of him as Legat.”

Jean Sharp spoke up for the first time. “Why don’t you call Paul? He’s got Fergus under observation.”

Paul Gilbert wasn’t high in Diamond’s thoughts. His last order to the young DC had been to stick with the man, whatever happened. “Would you get him for me?”

She got through and handed him the phone. He asked Gilbert where he was.

“Erm, it’s a pub, guv. They finished filming and derigging some time ago and some of them ended up here. I’m keeping watch on Fergus, like you asked. He’s in no hurry to leave.”

“And I know why. He’s got some explaining to do when he gets home. Have you had a few drinks yourself?”

“Just the one, a half, as cover.”

“And he’s still in sight? Tell me something. When he picks up his drink, does he hold it with his left hand or his right?”

There was a pause.

“His right. He’s holding it now.”

“You’re sure? He’s right-handed?”

“Is that what you’re asking? Yes, I’ve watched him using the mallet when he’s laying the track. It’s always in his right hand.”

In a voice drained of animation, Diamond said, “In that case, you can drink up and go home. Your work is done for the day.” A pounding had started in his chest and ears, a sure sign of the hypertension the doctors were always warning him about. He handed the phone back to Jean Sharp and sat on the edge of a desk. When he’d got himself together again, he raised his voice for all to listen. “Did you hear that? Fergus is in the clear. Our two prime suspects are innocent.” Out of ideas, hunched and inert, a beaten man, he added, “Where do we go from here? Don’t ask. You’d better start a whip-round for my retirement present.”

Back at home the same evening, Paloma said what none of the team had dared say: “Retirement? No, no no. This isn’t like you, beating yourself up.”

“I’m simply facing facts. I’ve had a long career—”

She didn’t allow him to go on. “With any number of successes.”

“Okay, and this time I got the breakthrough that is every investigating officer’s dream: film footage of the crime. But I missed the most obvious thing about the killer.”

“You didn’t. You were the only one who spotted it.”

“Eventually.”

“Listen, Peter, it wasn’t obvious at all. I saw the film myself and it didn’t dawn on me that the person holding the knife was left-handed.”

“That’s not surprising. You watched it only once and said you couldn’t look anymore.”

She traded some straight talk of her own. “No offence, but I’m not a thick-skinned policeman. Your entire team missed it and they must have watched the film over and over. The knife is raised and all the viewer can think of is the violence to come. We’re not looking at the hand.”

“I know what you mean,” he said from the depth of his despair, “but it isn’t just that mistake. Everyone knows I’ve lost the plot. I called out the dive team and convinced myself they’d find something.”

“You ordered a search. That’s what detectives do. It needed to be done.”

“And all it produced was a dead snake. I’m a laughing stock. I had forty officers searching the field for a day and a half and what did they find? A few fag ends that it turns out were nowhere near the crime scene and must have been dropped by some farmworker. When all this gets back to Georgina, as it will, it’s curtains for me. I’d rather resign before I’m sacked, so I’m seeing her tomorrow at eight thirty.”

She widened her eyes. “You’ve already made the appointment?”

“It will make her day.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. She relies on you more than she’ll ever admit. She puts the boot in when she can because you sometimes need kicking, but if you do this she’ll be in schtuck, to put it mildly. There’s another expression about a creek and a paddle that comes to mind.”

“I don’t give a toss about Georgina. This is the best thing for the team.”

“They won’t think so. I can’t understand why you’re doing this. I thought you had a breakthrough. Didn’t the search party find the tyre print of a motorbike?”

“That was Wolfgang and his CSI team. Another chunk out of Georgina’s budget.”

“Have you checked your suspects’ motorbikes?”

“Fergus is the only one who rides a bike and he’s right-handed. He can’t have done the stabbing. Legat goes everywhere on his two legs unless he can bum a lift and he is also right-handed. They were the two who could theoretically have murdered Greg Deans.”

“Only those two out of all the people involved in the show?”

“That was my belief until today when both proved negative.”

After some thought, Paloma said, “Peter, how’s your maths? Don’t two negatives make a positive?”

“How does that help?”

She smiled and looked a little embarrassed. Apparently she didn’t have an answer. “Sorry. It popped into my head and I thought you might make something of it. Just because Fergus didn’t strike the fatal blows, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. I’d get his tyres checked if I were you. Have you thought about Candida as the killer?”

He frowned. “Not up to now.”

“From the film you can’t see what sex the attacker is. You don’t get much idea of their size and you don’t see their face. I wouldn’t rule Candida out. She may already have murdered her own mother.”

“Mary Wroxeter?”

“Lacing her drink with pure alcohol.”

“Did I tell you that? I’ve changed my opinion. It was another of my wild theories, impossible to prove. Today I heard Candida’s version of that evening’s events and what she told me made sense and sounded honest.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“I understand where she’s coming from. She didn’t have an easy upbringing, but I was reassured about her feelings towards Mary. As an adult, she understood that Mary was a caring mother, in spite of all. When she got pregnant herself, she really wanted to share the news with her before anyone else knew of it. She wanted her approval and she got it. If I’m any judge of character, she didn’t cause Mary’s death.”

“Did someone else?”

He shook his head. “The more I’ve thought about this, the more I’m sure it’s a red herring. There’s only one murderer in this case and he — or she — works to a pattern, making a cold-blooded decision to kill, using a knife on the victim and going to some trouble to make sure the body isn’t discovered. None of this fits Mary’s death, which was brought on by an excessive intake of alcohol. As a method of murder, it would be unreliable and unpredictable. I was mistaken even to consider it.”

“No, Peter. It was a sudden death. It was your job to look into it.”

“I should have dismissed it earlier than this and given more time to the real crimes. As it is, I’m at a loss now.”

“Were Fergus and Will your only suspects? Can’t you cast the net wider? What about all the others? Could any of them have had a grudge against Deans?”

“Almost everyone in the show. He wasn’t a lovable man.”

“Perhaps it wants a rethink. Is it worth having a look at some of the other things this jinx is supposed to have caused, like the elderly actress who died suddenly?”

“Daisy Summerfield.” Daisy wasn’t someone he had thought much about after reading the coroner’s report of her death. “It’s pretty clear Daisy’s heart attack was triggered by discovering a burglar. There was no intent to kill. It’s just unfortunate she arrived home when she did.”

“Wasn’t there something about the timing?”

“Yes, she got home sooner than expected. They filmed her scene at the end of the day instead of next morning.”

“So if they’d followed the schedule she might still be alive?”

He nodded. “I had a theory about that as well. Someone from the show tips off a burglar that Daisy is away and the last-minute change screws everything up. I asked the Met for help with that one and they sent us the burglar’s prints and DNA.”

“Helpful.”

“Except there’s nothing on the national database that matches. They reckon the burglar was a newcomer to the trade. It goes down as an unsolved crime.”

“You’re jinxed at every turn.”

“No, I’m not blaming anything except myself. I’m past my sell-by date and everyone knows it. The right thing to do is step aside and let someone else take over.” Having reached the decision, he emptied his head of all thoughts about the investigation and slept for seven hours.

Under the shower next morning a remark from the previous evening’s conversation crept back into his brain, lodged there and replayed itself like an annoying bar of music. Peter, how’s your maths? Don’t two negatives make a positive? If he remembered rightly, Paloma had picked up on some phrase he’d used himself about his prime suspects, Will Legat and Fergus Webster, turning out to be negatives. When he’d asked her what she meant she’d shrugged and turned pink as if she realised they were empty words. She couldn’t explain how a truth that worked in mathematics and grammar had any relevance to the jinx inquiry. But the remark continued to nag him.

He could think of nothing positive about those two. At the time of the latest crime, Will was at the pottery thinking about cocoa and Fergus was on the road to Saltford hungry for Irish stew. Positive for them, maybe, but not for him.

He got dressed — back to the suit and striped tie — and fed Raffles. Paloma was still sleeping, so he found himself having a one-sided conversation with the cat. “Nothing negative about you, old friend. You know what you want and you get it: the gourmet ocean delicacies. Then it’s rest and relaxation. Well, I’ll be joining you soon for the R & R, if not the fish.”

Paloma still hadn’t stirred when he left the house.

In the slow-moving morning traffic, he put on the car radio, already tuned to a station that played vintage stuff. The voice was Bing Crosby’s from another era, with the Andrews Sisters backing: “You’ve got to Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.”

He switched off, but the damage was done. He was back with the catch-phrase he’d been trying to forget.

Halfway along the route to Emersons Green, he had his Eureka moment, the spark of connection that made sense of Paloma’s remark. She was right. Two negatives could make a positive and they probably had.

For that morning only, the Keynsham Bypass became his road to Damascus. It was a good thing he was so used to driving this route because for the rest of the journey he was virtually on autopilot, thinking through the sequence of crimes that had mystified him for so long. The explanation steadily emerged. Enough was there to remove the confusion, make a credible solution and convince him after all that this wasn’t the morning to end his career.

He reached Concorde House with ten minutes to spare. Georgina’s PA was in the outer office, but the great lady herself had not yet arrived.

“Would you cancel our appointment? Give her my apologies and say it was a personal matter I wanted to see her about and happily it has been resolved, so I won’t need to take up any of her valuable time.”

“She’ll be in very shortly,” the PA said. “You can tell her yourself.”

“I wish I could, but I must rally the troops. We have an unbelievably busy day ahead.”

He was out of there quicker than hell would scorch a feather, praying he didn’t meet Georgina on the way up.

In the incident room, the working day hadn’t begun. Ingeborg was putting on lipstick and Halliwell and Gilbert were talking about cars.

“Right, team,” Diamond alerted them, his voice charged with urgency. “We have lift-off. Paul, get Wolfgang on the phone for me.” The squad were instantly aware that something major had occurred. He started assigning duties with all the urgency of Montgomery on the eve of El Alamein. But this time there was a notable change of approach. He was giving nothing away about his as-yet unproved conclusions. Twice bitten, once shy.

By rights he should have stayed here at headquarters directing the operation, but he never let rights get in the way of his activities. He needed to be part of the action, so he asked Halliwell to drive him out to Jacob’s Ladder where, according to the call sheet, a new day of filming was already underway. Paul Gilbert came, too, already tasked to link up with Wolfgang and make sure the crime scene expert knew what was expected of him.

They drove south of the city through the Edwardian estate known as Poet’s Corner, up Shakespeare Avenue and into Alexandra Park, turning left on the perimeter road along an avenue of beeches and limes. Off the tarmac at the Jacob’s Ladder corner of the park they spotted the television vehicles and the behemoth that was Sabine San Sebastian’s motorhome. Halliwell parked where the crew members had lined up their cars.

Diamond knew from the schedule which way to walk. George Spode, the director, had finished filming Swift’s reckless descent of the ribbon of steps and today he was shooting a safer scene, her ride along the footpath at the top of Beechen Cliff — which is no cliff at all in any understanding of the term, but a tree-clad slope with a path along the top that was once a promenade known to Jane Austen. Today it provides the leafy backdrop to the railway station visible from many parts of Bath.

They left the park and stepped out for the part of the hillside once landscaped with beech trees and long since overtaken by nature in the form of brambles and rogue sycamores and ash. The filming was going on at a point where the footpath widened into a glade. This was a helpful time to arrive. The camera wasn’t rolling. The director and the camera supervisor were deep in discussion. Sabine, bored by the delay, was seated side-saddle on the stationary Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle well known to Swift fans.

Diamond turned to Gilbert, “Pull yourself together, man. You’re drooling.”

“It’s not the woman, guv. It’s the bike.”

“Get closer, then. This is our chance to check the tyres. I’ll move Sabine to a safe distance while you do the biz.”

“But Wolfgang isn’t here yet.”

“You don’t need him. You’re the bike man of the team. That’s why we brought you.” Without waiting for a response he stepped over to Sabine. “Between takes, are you? I need a few minutes of your time.”

She said, “I’m working.”

“So am I, Sabine. So am I.”

“It’s not convenient.”

“It’s your duty to assist me,” he said as imperiously as if he were the head of television drama. “I’ll square it with George. We can talk in your motorhome if you’d prefer to be questioned in private.”

“You can’t stop the shoot.”

“Watch me.” He held up a hand as if he was halting traffic.

She slid off the bike. She believed him now. “All right, let’s go under the trees where we won’t be overheard. But I might break off any second.”

As they marched across the glade, Diamond said, “Do you really ride that machine or is it faked?”

“You’ve got a cheek. I’m doing all the takes this morning. I’d do the stunts as well, given the chance, but they won’t let me. I’m too valuable to risk.”

“The bike is one of the props, is it, belonging to the company? Do you ever get to borrow it?”

“What for?”

“Joyriding.”

“I’ve been known to have a spin,” she said with a smirk. Turning, she spotted Paul Gilbert on his knees beside the motorcycle and her tone changed abruptly. “What the fuck is he up to?”

“Relax, he’s one of mine, checking the make and index numbers of the tyres. There was a bike at the crime scene where Greg Deans was attacked.”

The coquettishness switched off. She was seriously alarmed. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that?”

“Why should I?” Diamond said. “You got on famously with Greg, didn’t you?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No.”

“We had our differences. He was a prick, as everyone knows. We were never on the best of terms, but I had to work with the man.” She was increasingly distracted by what Gilbert was doing. “What’s he up to?”

“I told you. He’s admiring the bike, I expect. He rides a moped himself. We all have our dreams.”

“He seems to be signalling to you.”

Diamond looked across to where the young DC was now standing with both thumbs raised. Evidently the tyres were Michelin of a type that matched the cast Wolfgang had taken. “Is that the only bike used in the filming?”

“No. That one is mine and the stuntwoman uses her own. They’re identical, both Harleys.”

And fitted with similar tyres. He’d suspected this. “Where’s the other one?”

“Don’t ask me. Talk to the Bugg. She’s somewhere around.”

He stared at the cluster of people near the director: the camera crew, the sound men, Fergus with his riggers. He couldn’t see Ann Bugg among them. He started walking in that direction.

“Is that it, then?” Sabine called after him. “Have you finished with me?”

He flapped a hand in confirmation. He had not gone a step more when he heard the rasp and roar of a motorbike starting up. Not Sabine’s, which still stood out in the middle on its kickstand. The sound was coming from higher up, where the vans were parked.

Almost immediately, this second bike was in sight and heading their way at speed along the footpath, headlight on, the rider bent low. It reached the open area and seemed to be coming straight for Diamond. Using skills learned on the rugby field, he stepped aside, but the bike veered off the path as well. Bouncing over the uneven turf, it hurtled towards him. Escape would be impossible now if the rider intended to run him down.

That didn’t happen. The intent must have been to avoid going near the film crew and take the widest route possible, which happened to be where Sabine and Diamond were. The bike swerved to avoid them and skidded. The rider put one foot to the ground for balance and sent up more dust and dirt. Diamond felt the whoosh of air and was deafened by the sound of the machine coming lethally close. Then he watched the back wheel kick up a spray of mud and grass as the bike speeded towards the steps of Jacob’s Ladder.

His angry but pointless reaction was to shout, “Maniac.”

The motorbike wove off the grass verge and rejoined the footpath. No question now: the course was set straight for the steepest descent, bumping all the way down the perilous steps to Calton Road and Wellsway.

A mix of exhaust fumes and crushed wild garlic hung in the air.

He turned to Sabine. “Was that the stuntwoman?”

She nodded. “She must be mad. We did some filming yesterday on the steps, but that was an easy stretch. It’s a death trap.”

Then he heard another explosion of sound and yelled, “No!”

Paul Gilbert had started Sabine’s bike and was in motion, bumping over the turf, getting up speed, set to pursue Ann Bugg down Jacob’s Ladder.

Diamond couldn’t stop him. His shouting wasn’t heard above the engine’s roar. Gilbert, dressed in his day clothes and without a helmet, opened up, shot towards the first steps and dropped out of sight.

Sabine said, “She knows what she’s doing. He doesn’t. He’ll never catch her unless they both fall off.”

Diamond didn’t need telling. It was an act of extraordinary bravery and total lunacy. He started shaking.