Skeleton Hill

31

‘Where’s Ingeborg?’ he asked in the incident room.

Septimus looked up from his computer. ‘Somewhere on Lansdown by now, looking for an elderly warhorse. I told her your theory and she got really fired up.’

John Leaman said, ‘Any excuse to get out of this place.’

‘Wishing you’d thought of it?’ Diamond said.

‘I’m not a horse person.’

‘Who’s the old nag in here, then?’

There were grins around the room.

Septimus added, ‘She was on the phone to someone in the Sealed Knot, finding out where they stable the horses they use.’

‘What’s she going to do if she finds the right one – interview it?’ Leaman asked, not done for yet.

‘I expect she’ll get a hair sample.’

‘To see if it’s the same colour?’

‘For the DNA,’ Diamond said, using his freshly acquired knowledge. ‘Didn’t you know horses have DNA?’

Leaman went quiet.

‘Plenty of horses are taken to Lansdown for the race meetings,’ Paul Gilbert said with a charged tone in his voice. He’d been on a high since finding Nadia’s landlady. ‘Maybe we should make a check up there.’

‘Twenty-year-olds, in training?’ Diamond said.

He turned a shade more pink. ‘I guess not.’

But something was stirring in Diamond’s memory. He asked, ‘What happened to that calendar Ingeborg made of events that happened on Lansdown? It was on the display board.’

‘She transferred it to a computer file, sir,’ one of the civilian staff said. ‘Would you like to access it?’

‘I would if you do it for me.’

‘On your computer, or mine?’

‘On your

‘Mine.’

In the quiet of his office, he scrolled through Ingeborg’s listings, most of them commonplace and trivial. Her mind-numbing task had been done at Keith Halliwell’s suggestion and at the time Diamond had thought it a monumental waste of effort, but had refrained from saying so. What possible relevance could club reunions and cross-country races have to a murder enquiry? Now that the time frame had narrowed to a few days in the summer of 1993 – from Nadia’s arrival late in July to the battle re-enactment on August 7th and 8th – the calendar was worth a look.

She had definitely arrived after Mrs Jarvie’s eightieth on July 23rd. He watched the pages roll like film credits and stopped them at the end of July, 1993.

Disappointing. A few suggestions of summer, but nothing to link to Nadia except the re-enactment – and that was only because she’d been buried close to where the fighting took place As for the rest, rare birds and big cats were staple items for newspapers in the so-called silly season. A traffic jam and a power failure didn’t spark the vague recollection he thought he had of something significant.

He scrolled on a little.

He couldn’t imagine Nadia metal-detecting or hang-gliding or golfing like some leisured Bathonian. She’d be trying to get work. Yet he had a sense that the information on the screen mattered to the case. Elusive thoughts were trying to connect in his brain. He scrolled back and started to study the list again, from the red kite onwards.

His phone beeped.

Wigfull’s voice. ‘Just to let you know that your Ukrainian girl is in tonight’s Bath Chronicle. I’ve got an early copy if you want to see it. And the story will be on Points West and HTV News tonight, so the phones should start ringing soon. You’d better not go home early.’

His train of thought had derailed. ‘Nice work, John. Do you want to be part of the excitement?’

‘No, thanks. It’s my positive thinking night.’

He didn’t ask.

He took one more look at the screen before stepping into the incident room to see who was willing to do overtime. The practi-calities of managing a team had to be gone through. Paul Gilbert was game and so were a couple of the Bristol team and three civilians. Not Septimus: he’d worked more than his share of late evenings in recent days and wanted a night off.

‘Fair enough. We’ll cope,’ Diamond said.

A high profile appeal to the public always brings in responses. Most are made in good faith, even if a high proportion prove to be mistaken. Wanting to help is a human instinct. Sometimes the offers are driven more by the wish than the reality. It’s easy to convince oneself that certain events took place and fit the facts of the appeal, particularly after a long lapse of time. Additionally there are callers not so altruistic, who see an opportunity of profit. They’ll have heard about payments to informants. Usually their information is worthless. Finally there are the nuisance callers, the equivalent of the idiots who make bogus 999 calls.

Out of all this the police must sift the genuine witnesses. Diamond went over the procedure with his volunteers, stressing the known facts about Nadia: that she was Ukrainian, under twenty, a Roman Catholic, had lived for a time in London as a prostitute and was in lodgings in Lower Swainswick. She spoke good English, had been orphaned, so had no family, and she would have been wearing jeans and a T-shirt. ‘The trick is that you don’t give out any of this. You listen to the information coming in and see if it checks. Be sure to get the contact details of the informant before they tell you their story.’

As if on cue, a call came in, but it was only Ingeborg. ‘I’ve spent the entire afternoon checking on horses, guv.’

‘I was told. Any joy?’

‘Joy? I saw some adorable animals, but none that were old enough. And now it’s got so late I’d better get straight to my evening session with the cavalry, so I won’t come back, if that’s all right.’

‘It’s okay. You don’t want to be late on parade.’

‘God, no.’

‘One thing, Inge.’

‘Guv?’

‘Don’t lose sight of what you’re really there for.’

In the short time Diamond had been speaking to her, the first call had come in about Nadia. Paul Gilbert was taking it. After a few seconds he started shaking his head. He thanked the caller and rang off. ‘Wrong year. They said the Olympics were on in Barcelona. That was 1992.’

‘Good thinking,’ Diamond said. ‘Did you watch it on TV?’

‘I was only two at the time.’

‘There’s a sobering thought. I was working here. Same job, same rank. Barcelona. I used to drive up Wellsway singing along with Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. And you were just a toddler at the time. Unbelievable.’

More calls started coming in. One was a definite sighting, but only at Mass at St John’s and the caller couldn’t recall which Sunday it was. Nadia had covered her head with a dark scarf, but otherwise she was wearing the T-shirt and jeans.

‘Must have borrowed the scarf from Mrs Jarvie,’ Diamond said.

After six, when the local news was screened on HTV, a flurry of calls came in, but none proved to be of obvious help. It seemed everyone had memories of young foreign girls asking directions in Bath or enrolling for English as a Foreign Language at the Tech. The problem was that enrolment didn’t start until September. By then Nadia was almost certainly dead.

‘I’m starting to lose confidence,’ Diamond said. ‘I wish I’d joined John Wigfull for some positive thinking.’

He helped man the phones for another two hours. The results were disappointing. Three would be worth following up, but they appeared to offer little new information. Someone had spoken to a Ukrainian girl at the station on the day she arrived. Two had seen someone who looked like Nadia walking into town from Lower Swainswick.

The evening shift could be left to take any more calls. He thanked the team. ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Someone may call us tomorrow.’

Before leaving, he made a call of his own, to Paloma, inviting her for a drink and a bite to eat. She said she’d eaten already, but she’d be pleased to join him. He suggested meeting at the Blathwayt. The pub-restaurant was right at the top of the hill, a long-established watering-hole for racegoers, golfers, car-booters and travellers on the South Downs Way.

‘On Lansdown?’ she said. ‘Can’t you leave your work behind?’

‘I’ve heard they have a good chef.’

‘Be honest, Peter,’ she said. ‘You’re not going there for the food.’

‘All right, I’m combining business with pleasure, but the pleasure will be paramount.’

‘Smoothie. I don’t believe a word.’

He’d suggested 9 p.m., and made sure he arrived early enough to walk through the Blathwayt’s several dining areas checking who was there. A chat in this relaxed setting with one of his vigilante friends from the Lansdown Society wouldn’t have come amiss. The bar was doing a brisk trade, but he recognised nobody there or in the restaurant. Outside, under the patio heaters, was a candlelit section he hadn’t seen before – a development pubs everywhere were favouring since the smoking ban came in. Seeing some people leave, he moved smoothly into a seat at the table. He’d ordered his lasagne and the drinks before Paloma drove up.

‘I seem to be losing my aura of mystery,’ she said after they’d kissed. ‘You even know what I want to drink.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘I’ve got a drink and it’s the right one, so I’m not going to complain. This is nice, being outside.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve been inside lately,’ he said. ‘It’s had a makeover since I was last here. I remember it as dark and seedy.’ ‘In keeping with its past,’ she said.

He smiled. If there was background on any Bath location, Paloma knew it.

‘Back in the eighteenth century, it was a highwaymen’s pub called the Star. The road to Bath was perfect for hold-ups. They’d rob people at gunpoint and then spend some of the money here before moving on.’

‘There’s no end to the villainy on this bloody hill. Only this afternoon I was hearing about a firm of bent auctioneers.’

‘English and Son. Absolute crooks. How did they come up?’

He told her what he’d learned from Charlie Smart.

‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘It’s all in the book I lent you. The pair of them disappeared owing a fortune in debts and were never traced and neither were some of William Beckford’s treasures. He had one of the finest private art collections in the country, paintings by Raphael and Bellini, Claude and Canaletto. And there were other treasures of gold and silver.’

‘A secret hoard?’ Diamond thought about it as the possible mainspring for two murders. ‘Now you’re confusing me. I was coming round to sex as the motive for Nadia’s death.’

‘It sounds likely,’ Paloma said. ‘She had nothing worth stealing.’ ‘But if she happened to have found a stash of valuables, that could have made her a target.’

‘Beckford’s lost treasures? Don’t you think all the likely places have been checked long ago?’

‘Right. I’m way off beam.’

She thought about it, turning her glass. ‘There have been other finds up here. Have you heard of the Lansdown Sun Disc?’

Amused once again by her fund of local lore, he shook his head. ‘Tell me.’

‘A gilded bronze model of the sun over three thousand years old, excavated in one of the Bronze Age barrows. It’s now in the British Museum. Quite a treasure.’

‘I can cap that,’ he said. ‘What do you say to three tons of gold bullion in ingots so pure you could mould them in your hands?’

‘I say yes, please, if it’s legal.’

‘It isn’t. The trail for the biggest robbery in history went cold on Lansdown.’

‘Get away!’

‘You’ve heard of the Brink’s-Mat heist in 1983? Twenty-six million in gold bullion from a warehouse at Heathrow?’

‘Of course.’

‘There was a local guy, a millionaire, who came under suspicion. He lived in style at the Coach House at Battlefields, the hamlet beside the Civil War site. A snatch squad raided the place and found a smelter, ingot moulds and two gold ingots still warm to the touch. Also shotguns and a rifle.’

‘I do remember reading something now.’

‘The people doing the smelting were minor players. The owner was in Tenerife. Eventually he was deported and put on trial and acquitted on all charges.’

‘Acquitted? How was that?’

‘He claimed the smelting was part of his legitimate business. Among other companies, he owned a Bath jeweller’s. He went on to create the largest timeshare company in Europe, worth many millions. Eventually it was exposed as a scam and he got an eight-year sentence.’

‘What about the gold?’

‘No one knows. About a thousand kilos are still unaccounted for. Our people dug up the floorboards at the Coach House. They went at the area around the pool with a digger and drills. Nothing else was found.’

‘Lansdown’s a big area.’

‘And full of secrets.’

His food arrived. He unwrapped the knife and fork. ‘Care for a taste?’

‘No, thanks.’ She took a long sip of her spritzer. ‘I saw the picture of Nadia on Points West. She looked happy enough when it was taken.’

‘She’d just escaped from the London vice ring. Bath was a new beginning. This is a lasagne to die for.’

‘I hope not. Has the picture jogged any memories?’

‘Not enough. I’m interested to know if anyone saw her at the re-enactment.’

She looked doubtful. ‘In the cavalry?’

He smiled. ‘These East Europeans are second to none at getting work. No, you’re right. I can’t believe she was taken on by the Sealed Knot within days of arriving here.’

‘It’s unpaid, isn’t it? They dress up and play soldiers for the fun of the thing. What Nadia needed was a paid job.’

He told her about the lab report on the horse rug. She listened keenly and weighed his theory. ‘You think Rupert found a rug belonging to the same horse Nadia came into contact with all those years ago?’

‘Sixteen years. It’s possible.’

‘Theoretically,’ she said in a voice already thinking something else. ‘You said the rug had deteriorated through age, rather than wear and tear?’

‘That’s what they told me.’

‘Isn’t it more likely that it hasn’t been used in many years and was stored in some outbuilding and found by Rupert? He was scavenging for stuff all the time.’

He nodded. ‘That makes sense, too. We can’t dismiss any scenario.’

‘So Ingeborg got out today visiting the horses?’

‘And riding one. She’s at cavalry training as we speak.’ He glanced at some people entering the restaurant, two women in conversation and a bearded man tagging on behind, all of them probably in the forty to fifty age group.

‘Someone special?’ Paloma asked.

‘The dark woman in the blue suit is familiar.’

‘How familiar is that? An old flame?’

‘You did ask. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken to her, but I’ve seen her recently. Can’t think where.’

‘On one of your “wanted” lists?’

He shook his head.

‘She’s attractive… for her age,’ Paloma said. ‘I expect she’s on someone’s wanted list.’

‘The guy with the beard?’

‘No, he looks like extra baggage. He’s there on sufferance. Staff, probably. She’s the boss lady.’

‘They don’t look dressed for a night out.’

‘My guess is that they worked late and she’s invited them for a drink.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘I’ve seen her, too, and I know where. At the races. She was the woman in the peacock-coloured hat we saw getting the prize.’

‘Spot on,’ he said. ‘Davina Tipping, daughter of Sir Colin. He told me she owns her own practice as a vet.’

‘And the others work for her, I expect. The bearded guy looks as if he could tell one budgie from another. I’m not sure I’d trust him with a pregnant cow. Davina, on the other hand, looks well capable. She may be able to advise you on the local horse population. I bet she knows where a lot of them are stabled.’

‘I hadn’t thought of asking a vet,’ he said. He liked the suggestion. ‘They’re heading for the bar.’ He pushed his plate aside. He’d eaten most of it. ‘Let’s join them, shall we?’

Paloma gave a resigned smile and followed him. The ‘pleasure’ part of the outing was over.

Davina and her party had taken their drinks to a table near the open hearth in the centre of the room where a genuine log fire blazed.

‘Pardon me for butting in,’ Diamond said, ‘but you’re just the people who can help me. I’m correct, am I not, in saying you’re Davina Tipping, the top vet in Bath? I’m Peter Diamond of Bath CID, and this is my friend Paloma Kean. We watched your filly winning the trophy a week or two ago.’

‘My Stylist,’ Paloma said trying to soften his none-too-subtle interruption. ‘We backed her. These drinks should have been on us.’

Diamond refrained from mentioning he’d backed another horse and not won anything.

‘That’s generous,’ Davina said. ‘I started a tab. I haven’t paid yet.’

‘Peter will see to it,’ Paloma said.

There was a strict rule in Bath nick that pub expenses had to be authorised in advance by Georgina. This would come out of his own pocket.

‘What sort of help are you wanting?’ Davina said. ‘I hope you haven’t got a sick animal under your jacket.’ She introduced her companions. True to expectation, Sally and Wilfred worked in the practice.

Without going into specifics, Diamond said he was currently involved in a case linked to the re-enactments of the Battle of Lansdown and trying to get information on a horse that could have taken part in the 1993 event and might still be kept somewhere local.

‘It would be getting on a bit,’ Paloma added. ‘We think about twenty.’

‘Is that too old?’ Diamond asked.

‘Horses, like people, live longer these days,’ Davina told them. ‘Twenty isn’t unusual. You can get insurance up to twenty-five and some breeds, like Morgans, live well into their thirties.’

‘I expect they need more treatment as they get older,’ he said. ‘As a vet, you may know of an elderly horse like this.’

‘What colour?’

‘Black or dark brown.’

She smiled. ‘Any other markings?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘We’ve only got a few hairs as evidence. If it’s any help, they were found on a burgundy coloured under-rug made by a firm called Phil Drake.’

‘That’s going back some,’ Davina said. ‘I haven’t heard of Phil Drake equipment for years. Where was this rug found?’

‘In the entrance gate to Beckford’s Tower, being used by a man sleeping rough. Where he found it is a mystery.’

‘Out of a stable, I expect,’ she said. ‘There are more than you might think on Lansdown and I know of two that supply horses for these battle events.’

‘I expect this old warhorse would be retired.’

‘Not necessarily. You wouldn’t want young or highly strung animals taking part, so older ones are preferred because they aren’t troubled by the gunfire and drums. A mock battle isn’t demanding on agility, a few short gallops, that’s all. It doesn’t compare with steeplechasing or showjumping.’ She spoke with the calm authority that comes with giving expert advice.

‘That’s so helpful to know,’ he said, his ideas moving on. ‘Puts a whole new slant on the case. Would you mind giving me the addresses of those stables?’

‘Not a problem. I’ll write them down if we can find a pen and paper. You should speak to the Sealed Knot people. They know more than I do.’

‘One of my team is with them tonight.’ He took a pen and notebook from his pocket and handed them to Davina. ‘While you’re doing that I’ll get more drinks. Same again, everyone?’

It was a cheap round. Sally and Wilfred said they were leaving for home shortly and Davina had promised to meet her father at the golf club.

Whilst waiting to settle his bill, Diamond found himself thinking about Sir Colin Tipping and things he had said that morning at the golf club when they rode in the cart ahead of Major Swithin. Some part of the conversation was niggling at his brain and he couldn’t grasp the relevance.

‘Are you a vet, sir?’ the barman asked.

‘God, no.’ He was still struggling to remember.

‘My mistake. Saw you with the others.’

‘No problem. I’m sure you get all sorts up here: golfers, race-goers, ramblers.’

‘The world and his wife, sir.’

Then the connection was made. He realised what he’d missed when scrolling through Ingeborg’s calendar of events. Now it was vital that he spoke to Davina’s father.

He was about to impose even more on Davina’s good nature – and Paloma’s. The opportunity had to be seized. The chance of an off-the-record chat with Sir Colin was too good to miss.

‘I don’t know if you’ll get any sense out of him,’ Davina said when he told her what he wanted. ‘He’ll have sunk a few whiskies by now. My job on a Friday night is to get him home.’

All the better if the whisky is talking, Diamond thought.