The Finisher

28

Sydney Place makes up the two front sides of the hexagon of handsome terraces bordering Sydney Gardens, a green sanctuary in the heart of the city. The entire area was a concept of Thomas Baldwin, who had already designed some of the city’s big-hitting attractions, the Pump Room, Great Pulteney Street, the Guildhall and the Colonnade. Sadly for Baldwin, the pleasure garden became a source of pain when he was found to have overreached his finances and was sacked as city architect, hounded into bankruptcy by a ruthless rival, John Palmer, who replaced him.

Only the first twelve houses of Sydney Place are Baldwin’s. To anyone who knows his story they stand as a monument to a flawed visionary.

“Mostly flats,” DC Paul Gilbert said prosaically after glancing at one of the door entry panels they passed.

“But what an outlook,” Diamond said.

“I’m surprised at a Russian billionaire living in a flat.”

“Unlikely. He’ll have bought one of these houses outright. Possibly the ones each side as well.”

Gilbert never could tell when his boss was kidding. “Why would he do that?”

“Security. Money on that scale brings its own problems and one of them is that you have to watch your back. Everyone knows that, Russians especially.”

“How would he get rid of all those tenants?”

“How did he get to be a billionaire?”

They had phoned ahead and were admitted by a man dressed like a servant in a Chekhov play, in a pale-blue high-buttoned, loose-fitting linen suit tied at the waist. But the room they were shown into was English through and through, pure Jane Austen, the sort of place that would have earned orgasmic shrieks from the furniture expert on the Antiques Roadshow. Sheraton, Chippendale and Hepplewhite jostled for attention — chairs, armchairs, a reading stand, secretaire, card tables and even the corner piece known as a whatnot. “Mrs. Ivanova will join you for tea in a few minutes, unless you prefer a sherry,” they were told in good English. “She is getting ready.”

“Ready for us?” Gilbert said when the man had gone.

“For afternoon tea. We’d better sit down.” There was no shortage of chairs. Sitting on any of them seemed uncouth, but Diamond had never had any problem being uncouth. Besides, he needed to sit. He was trying to manage without the crutches, using only a stick.

Gilbert remained standing, awed by the surroundings. He was simply begging to be wound up a little.

“Are your hands clean?”

Gilbert spread his palms.

“Turn them over.” Diamond winced at what he saw. “God help us, Paul. You could grow radishes under those fingernails. Better hide them under your napkin.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You’ll be given one, Irish linen, nicely ironed and folded. Do you know how to use it?”

A worried shake of the head.

“You take it by one corner, shake it open, spread it over your lap and treat it with respect. Don’t even think about using it to wipe your nose or your grubby fingers. You may have seen people tucking one under their collar. That isn’t done at teatime. Wait to be served and don’t drop any crumbs. One small square of sandwich only, which you don’t lift open to see what’s inside. Watch our hostess and make sure she bites into hers before you lift yours to your mouth. Take small bites and make it last. All things considered, you might do best to leave it on your plate.”

“Are you sending me up, guv?”

“What do you think? Shall I tell you how to hold the teacup?”

The exchange was cut short by a large woman entering with three builders’-size mugs and a packet of biscuits on a tin tray. Not a napkin in sight. She was in a loud pink sweatsuit and white trainers.

Another servant, anyone would have assumed.

Just in case she wasn’t, Diamond got up and Gilbert dipped his head respectfully.

“Please to sit. I am Olga Ivanova. You like Hobnobs?” Blonde, quick to smile, she handed the packet to Gilbert, who almost dropped it when he realised this was the lady of the house. “Take some and pass on.”

There was mischief in that smile, but also some nervousness and maybe pain as well.

The manservant glided in with the sugar and glided out again.

“So,” Olga said when they were all seated, “policemen come to my house. In Russia, this is not good. We have saying: When police come calling, get out chequebook. If cheque is no use, get out vodka. If vodka is no use, get out.” She shook with laughter and then, seeing the blank faces, frowned and added, “Does not translate well, I think.”

“You’re not in trouble, ma’am,” Diamond said. “We’re hoping you can help us with an enquiry.”

“Call me Olga please. I do not like this ‘ma’am.’”

“Olga it is, then. We were told you have a personal trainer.”

“I do not think so.”

“A fitness expert who gives advice.”

She shook her head.

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure. He is not here this week, last week. No phone call. No message. I think I do not have trainer anymore.”

“But you had one before?”

“Of course. My gorgeous Tony, three times in week. I don’t know what happens. I pay him well, each time cash in hand. Now nothing.”

“Tony Pinto?”

“You know?”

“I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead.”

Olga clapped her hand to her mouth and turned paler than the ceiling. There was no question she was shocked.

“We found his body at the bottom of a stone quarry last week.”

A gasp. “That is why he stop coming?”

There was an opening for black humour here, but Diamond could see Olga’s eyes reddening and welling up, so he just nodded.

“Someone push?”

“We’re investigating, trying to find out.”

“This is so sad. He is — was — lovely man, top trainer. I am getting much help from Tony. New treadmill, rowing machine, exercise bike.”

Much help and much expense with it, Diamond thought. What was the betting that Pinto took backhanders from the sales team? “Are all these machines in the house?”

“My exercise hall downstairs. You like to see?”

He shook his head. “No need.”

“Is boring, anyway,” she said. “Fitness machines. My husband everywhere.”

An interpreter would be helpful. “Your husband watches you training?”

“No, no. Photos, certificates, newspaper stories all over walls. Gold this. Silver that. Black belt. Ivanov win again.”

“He’s a sportsman?”

“All sports. Marathon. Lift weights, karate, football, swimming. Are you sportsman?”

“I played some rugby. I don’t think it’s popular in Russia. Getting back to Tony, did you get to know him well?”

She reddened. “What does this mean — get to know?”

“Did you talk much with him?”

“I am trying to breathe.”

A pause to decide what she meant. Distressed as she was by the news of Pinto’s passing, she seemed to be inhaling normally. Her problem was linguistic, confusing the present and past tenses. She meant there had been no chance to chat with Pinto during the exercise sessions. “How did you find him in the first place?”

“Where is this first place? I have not been.”

Diamond took a deep breath. He was trying his best to keep things simple. “Did somebody recommend Tony?”

“My husband Konstantin I am thinking.”

“Excellent. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Niet.”

Everyone turned to see who else had spoken. The man in the serf costume had stepped back into the room, and it soon became obvious they’d got him badly wrong. He spoke in Russian to Olga in a tone of voice that scuppered all their assumptions. This guy couldn’t be a servant. He had to be the husband. He must have been standing outside listening to everything that was said and wanted it corrected.

“I am sorry,” Olga said when the tongue-lashing was over. “I make bad memory. My husband Konstantin tell me I find Tony in Bath Chronicle.”

Whereupon husband Konstantin sprang his second surprise, a grasp of the vernacular. “And I had fuck-all to do with it. I was out of the country on business. My wife got this absurd idea into her head that she would lose weight.”

Feeling sympathy for Olga, Diamond said, “Sir, we’re here about Pinto, not your wife. Did you meet him?”

“Not at the beginning. She chose to be secretive about him and this cock-eyed training regime. As a result, she was mugged.”

“Literally mugged? You’re not talking about all the fitness equipment?”

“Physically attacked. At Pinto’s suggestion, she went out walking at night and was set upon by some thug and robbed of a gold chain. She could have been seriously injured.”

“When was this?”

“Some months ago. I was away on business and I heard nothing of it until recently. Ask her. She’ll tell you herself.”

Diamond turned back to Olga. “Where did this happen?”

“In Great Pulteney Street,” she said in a low voice. All the ebullience had drained away. “I am not hurt.”

“Did you report it?”

“No. Like Konstantin say, I am foolish woman to go out alone. I make my own problem.”

“If you were robbed, you should have called the police.”

“Now I am telling you.”

“It’s a bit late, Olga. We needed to deal with it at the time.” In truth, he was more interested in her experiences with Pinto than the mugging, but he felt compelled to ask, “Do you remember what your attacker looked like?”

“No. He hold me from behind like so.” She mimed the action with a grasping motion. “Chain break and he is running off to car. Favourite chain I wear all day, every day.”

“A birthday present I had made for her,” Konstantin added as if to let it be known that he wasn’t entirely unforgiving. “White and yellow twenty-four carat. Not cheap.”

“What do you remember about the car?” Diamond asked Olga.

“I do not see. I am scared, run away. I hear car start and drive off. That is all.”

It didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to suggest a scenario. This was no spur-of-the-moment mugging. Someone knew that the rich Russian woman sporting a valuable gold chain went for evening fitness walks along Great Pulteney Street. Pinto had been well placed to tip off an accomplice or even do the job himself. It would have been simple to wait in the line of parked cars for her to come along and grab her from behind.

She hadn’t finished talking about the incident. “I run down steps, fall down, cannot move, big pain in leg and shout for help.”

“I don’t know of any steps in Great Pulteney Street.”

“Basement steps, guv,” Gilbert prompted him.

“Got you. Someone’s basement entrance?”

“And nobody there. Dark, smelly, dirty place. No chance I ever get out of here, I am thinking, but some person is hearing me.”

“Bit of luck.”

“Maeve.”

“Who’s Maeve?”

“Bloody fine Englishwoman pick me up and carry me home.”

Difficult to believe as stated unless Maeve was Superwoman, but the general drift was clear. A Good Samaritan had come to the rescue. “Where did she come from? Does she live in the street?”

“Larkhall. She is training for Other Half.”

Another runner, for Christ’s sake. “Did she know you?”

“No. I am strange.”

“Okay,” Diamond said, trying to stay focused on the facts. “She happened to be jogging by and heard your cries for help?”

“And now she is true friend we sponsor for five hundred pounds.”

Konstantin rolled his eyes, plainly unhappy she had parted with five hundred, for all their millions.

“For a good cause, no doubt,” Diamond said in Olga’s defence.

“Heart.”

She pronounced it as “Art” and he tried to think of a charity for destitute painters.

“What’s Maeve’s second name?”

“Kelly.”

“From Larkhall, you said?”

“Bella Vista Drive. She is schoolteacher.”

“Getting back to your personal trainer, Tony Pinto, when did he start working with you?”

“Five or six months and I lose many pounds.”

Pounds sterling were in Konstantin’s mind, going by the exaggerated sigh.

“Is true,” Olga said, doing her best to ignore her husband. “I can show you photograph. I was big fat woman. Tell them, Konstantin. You know I am burning calories like crazy.”

“They’re not interested in your weight problem,” he said. “They’re here about your trainer.”

“Tell them I walk the half marathon, thirteen miles.”

“You were in the big race?” Diamond said. “We were there. We must have seen you go by.”

“Not unless you stayed to the end,” Konstantin said. “She took longer than four hours.”

“Four hours walking,” Olga said.

You’d think the husband would have been proud she’d completed the course. There was bitterness between these two and most of it was coming from Konstantin. “Did you know your trainer Tony was in the race?”

“Of course I know. He tell me,” Olga said, “but running. He is fast runner.”

“I’m not sure that’s true. He took as long as you did. What was your time?”

“Four hours fifteen minutes and some seconds.”

“In that case, you finished ahead of him. He did four twenty-three. Do you remember overtaking him?”

She laughed at the idea. “I am walking and overtake Tony? Not possible. No, no, no.”

Konstantin said, “Four twenty-three? Are you sure this was the right guy? He was supposed to be a fitness expert.”

“Were you in the race, sir?” Diamond asked.

“Me?” He looked pained by the question. “It’s for fun-runners.”

Paul Gilbert spoke up for his school friend Harry Hobbs. “Some of them are better than that.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Konstantin said. “The winner’s time wasn’t anything special.”

Gilbert refused to let it rest there. “It’s a brute of a course, more like cross-country in parts. You wouldn’t expect fast times.”

Olga gave her husband a told-you-so look. “You hear that, Konstantin?”

“I heard.” He added something in Russian that drew a glare and a quick one-syllable response from Olga.

Diamond wasn’t interested in their feuding. Konstantin’s snide remarks were undermining the interview and could well be stopping Olga from speaking frankly about Pinto. “Were you in Bath on the day of the race?” he asked Konstantin. “You said you didn’t run it, but were you watching?”

“I had better things to do.”

“But you weren’t abroad at the time?”

“I was here making conference calls if I remember rightly.”

“Not cheering on your wife?”

“Give me a break.”

Disgusted, Diamond turned back to Olga. “Where does everyone go after the race? Did you see Tony?”

Olga shook her head. “I go straight home. Shower, much drink, big pizza, long sleep.”

“Did he phone? Wouldn’t he like to find out if you went all the way?” In the split second before the words came out, he knew how crass they sounded and he stumbled over them, making the gaffe ten times worse.

Olga turned the colour of her sweatsuit and vigorously shook her head and Diamond, too, felt himself blushing.

Konstantin spoke a few sharp words to Olga in Russian and then swung back to the visitors. “She isn’t here to be insulted. She’s answered more than enough of your questions. You’d better leave now. I’ll see you out.”

“Is that Olga’s wish?”

“It’s mine. She is my wife and this is my house.”