The House Sitter

18

The body had been found by the greenskeeper, out early checking whether a fresh cut was necessary. After a warm summer’s night there was barely a hint of moisture in the turf and he was thinking about mowing some of the fairways when he made the discovery. It was face up in one of the bunkers at the eighteenth, close to the clubhouse but hidden from view by the slope. Definitely male, definitely young and definitely Matthew Porter, a sensational fact confirmed by the early risers who came over for a look before the police erected a tent around the body. The corpse was fully clothed, in jeans and a polo shirt. There was a hole in the side of the head.

This was a local golf club, near Petersfield. Nobody of Matt Porter’s eminence had ever played the course, so it was something of a coup to have an Open winner at the eighteenth, even in this inactive state. Everyone agreed that it was a dreadful tragedy, but there were strong undercurrents of excitement. There were no complaints that the day’s playing arrangements were interrupted. Instead of teeing off for the final hole, players marched up the fairway to the clubhouse, passing as close as they were allowed to the crime scene. As the news spread, a number of members came in specially. The bar did good business.

The police and forensic officers went through their routines. Access to the scene was easy, this being the eighteenth and so close to the parking area around the clubhouse. Obviously the killer had been able to drive to within a short distance of the bunker. It was established soon that the body must have been killed elsewhere and dumped here.

The hole in the victim’s head was a challenge to the pathologist who examined the body at the scene. Apparently it was not made by a bullet. His first thought was that some kind of stud gun may have been used, the sort used in the construction industry to fire steel pins into masonry. His other suggestion was an abbattoir gun, with a captive-pin mechanism. At this stage of the day the press conference announcing the crossbow shooting of Axel Summers had not taken place.

In fact, Jimmy Barneston’s big occasion that afternoon turned out to be an embarrassment. He had spent the second half of the morning in the safe house with Anna Walpurgis-an experience on a par with lion-taming-and then arrived late and marched straight into the briefing room before anyone informed him what had been found at Petersfield. A short way into his opening statement one of the reporters asked him to confirm whether the body at the golf course was that of Matthew Porter.

Barneston stiffened like a cat that has wandered into a dog show. There was total disarray. One of his colleagues took his arm and steered him away from the cluster of microphones. He went into a huddle with other officers. Finally he returned red-faced and said, trying to sound as if he had always known about it, “The body found this morning has not yet been formally identified. Until this formality is complete, I am not at liberty to comment. I shall continue with my statement about the murder of Mr Axel Summers.”

Of course the press didn’t let him escape so lightly. He was hammered with questions about Porter and the identity of the third name on the Mariner’s hit list. In the end he conceded that Porter was probably the dead man, but staunchly refused to name Anna Walpurgis. He reeled out of there, eyes bulging, and went looking for someone to jump all over.

Hen Mallin agreed with Diamond that the questioning of Ken Bellman had to take priority over what was happening in Petersfield. By now, Matt Porter’s body would be at the mortuary and the forensic team would have searched the scene and picked up anything of interest. Best leave Jimmy Barneston to sift the evidence.

That evening she drove straight from work to the beach at Wightview Sands, partly because she wanted to refresh her memory of the scene, and also because a lone walk (and smoke) by the sea is as good a way as any of getting one’s thoughts in order. This had been a pig of a case. There was still precious little evidence, and even that was circumstantial. Emma Tysoe’s files had helped, but they weren’t as telling as a fingerprint or a scrap of DNA. If Ken Bellman put his hand up to the crime, he’d deserve a pat on the head and a vote of thanks from his interrogators. More likely, he’d deny everything, and Peter Diamond-known to be tough in the interview room-would give him a roasting. Hen didn’t care for confessions under duress.

She drove up to the car park gate just before seven. The man on duty asked for a pound and she said she was a police officer.

“How do I know that?” he asked.

“For God’s sake, man. I’m investigating the murder. I’ve been here on and off for a couple of weeks.”

“I was on, you know,” he said.

“What?”

“The day when the woman was murdered. I was on duty, but I can’t tell you who did it. Can’t see a thing from here.”

She was hearing an echo of a voice she seemed to know, an odd way of spacing the words, with almost no intonation. Familiar, too, was the self-importance, as if it mattered whether he had been on duty. She looked at him sitting in his cabin, and didn’t recognise his brown eyes and black hair, brushed back and glossy. She normally had a good memory for faces.

“I’ll show you my ID, if you insist,” she said, reaching behind for her bag.

He did insist. He waited until she produced it, and only then pressed the gate mechanism.

“And what’s your name?” Hen asked, before driving through.

“I’m Garth. Don’t be too long, will you? We close at eight thirty.”

It came to her as she was cruising up the narrow road that runs alongside the beach. She did know the voice. She’d only ever spoken to him on the phone. Am I speaking to the person responsible for the murder?… Are you sure you’re in charge? He was the jobsworth who’d phoned in when Dr Shiena Wilkinson had turned up looking for her Range Rover. The reason she hadn’t seen him was that she’d sent Stella to deal with it.

She thought of Garth, the strip-cartoon muscleman who’d gone on for years in the Daily Mirror. Parents little realise what their son will grow up into when they give him the same name as a super-hero. Maybe trying to live up to the name turned him funny.

After parking on the turf near the beach café she found the gap between beach huts that led to the lifeguard lookout post, above where Emma Tysoe’s body had been found. You wouldn’t have known it was a murder scene now. Children were busy in the sand where the body was found, digging a system of waterways, their shadows long in the evening sun. The tidal action cleanses and renews. If the strangling had happened higher up, on the grass, the site would have been turned into a shrine, marked with flowers and wreaths.

Most of the day’s visitors had left. Nobody remained at the lifeguard platform at this stage of the day, so she stepped onto it herself to see how much they could observe from there. It was a simple wooden structure that needed repairing in places. A position well chosen for views of most of the beach. Yet they wouldn’t have been high enough to see over a windbreak to the person lying behind it.

She stepped off and moved down the shelf of stones to the sand, trying to picture the scene on the day of the murder. Emma Tysoe had spread out her towel and erected her windbreak a short way in front of the Smiths. The French family were to the right of the Smiths and three teenage girls to the left. At some stage of the morning, the man in the black T-shirt had come strolling along the sand and tried to engage Emma in conversation, even offered to join her. She’d given him his marching orders. This encounter-witnessed by Olga Smith-was the one possible lead they had apart from Emma’s own files. T-shirt man was still the best bet, deeply angered, perhaps, by the brush-off, and returning later to kill the woman who rejected him. It would be an extreme reaction, and a risky one to carry out, but rejection is a powerful motive.

Hen picked her way carefully over the children’s digging and out to a stretch of sand beyond the breakwaters, where she could walk freely. She lit one of her small cigars and let her thoughts turn to Peter Diamond. Up to now, he’d proved less of an ogre than she’d expected. He was brusque at times, but funny, too, and willing to listen. He wasn’t a misery-guts, like so many senior detectives. She couldn’t fault the way he’d conducted the case so far, keeping her informed of each development. Mind, he was a risk-taker. This plan of his to take over the protection of Anna Walpurgis could so easily go wrong. It gave him what he’d wanted all along, a legitimate reason to be involved. But what resources did he have in Bath, and what guarantee that a spirited woman wouldn’t upset everything? Hen could only hope he had a strategy. He’d talked of Walpurgis being “bait” to the Mariner. He’d set his heart on catching this killer, but at what cost?

One of the problems with all this concentration on the Mariner was that there was a big incentive to wrap up the Emma Tysoe case as fast as possible. Hen wasn’t going to allow Diamond to cut corners. The murder of Emma was a Bognor Regis case- hers. If Ken Bellman proved beyond doubt to be the killer, well and good. But if there were doubts, she wouldn’t let Diamond ride roughshod over them.

So she liked the man, enjoyed his company, admired his independent ways, yet couldn’t rest all of her confidence in him. The loss of his wife must have cast him adrift, even though he appeared strong. The shock was bound to have wounded him. She suspected he was hiding the pain.

She picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the surface of the water, watching it bounce several times before meeting a wave and disappearing, a trick she’d tried many times before but never mastered. Typical, she thought, that I do it when no one is here to see. She continued her walk as far as the flagpole at East Head. If she walked any farther she’d be late getting back to her car, and she had no confidence Garth would let her out of the car park.

Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on her guard that morning. It wasn’t like Peter Diamond to knock on her door and ask if she could spare a few minutes. He was the man who avoided her at all costs. He’d once nipped into the ladies’ room and locked himself in a cubicle when he spotted her approaching along a corridor.

She folded her arms and rotated her chair a little. “To what do we owe this, Peter?”

“I expect you noticed the furniture disappeared from the corridor, ma’am?”

“No,” she said with a faint flush of pink. “I hadn’t noticed. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“No problem.”

“It had to be sorted. It was a fire hazard.”

“You can enjoy your cruise now. When are you off?”

She relaxed a little. He was only there to get some credit for doing a good turn. “Tomorrow, actually.”

“All set, then?”

“Pretty well.”

As if it was mere politeness, he asked, “What’s happening to the cat? That handsome white Persian?”

“Sultan. You know about Sultan?”

Everyone who’d been in her office knew about Sultan. There was a photo on her desk of this mound of fur with fierce blue eyes and a snub nose.

“Sultan, yes,” Diamond said.

“He has to go into a cattery, unfortunately. He doesn’t care for it at all, but you can’t let them run your life.”

“Shame. Quite a change in his routine.” He paused. “I don’t suppose he’ll suffer.”

“Suffer?” A cloud of concern passed across Georgina’s face. “I should hope not. The place is well recommended, and very expensive.”

“He doesn’t know that. Has he been there before?”

“No, this will be the first time.”

“Poor old Sultan.” Diamond picked up the photo in its gilt frame. “I’ve got a cat myself, just a moggy, but a character. They hate their routine being messed about. Personally, I favour having a house sitter if I go away. They stay in your house and look after the place and feed the cat as well. It’s nicer for your pet and you can relax knowing someone is there.”

“Ideally, that sounds a good solution,” Georgina agreed.

“Bit of a holiday for the sitter as well. In a city like Bath, house sitting is no hardship. You’re convenient for everything in Bennett Street.”

Now she frowned. This was becoming a touch too personal. “How do you know where I live?”

“You gave a party not long after you arrived. I came with Steph. Very good evening, it was.”

She looked relieved to have her memory jogged. “My ‘At Home’. It slipped my mind.”

“A house sitter would jump at the chance.”

“It’s a lovely idea, Peter. Unfortunately, it’s too late for me to start looking for someone now.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Georgina tried to appear unmoved, but he could see she was all attentiveness.

“If you’d like one, I may be able to help,” he offered. “I know of a lady shortly coming to Bath who would gladly look after your home-and Sultan-for no charge at all.”

“No charge?”

“A chance to stay in Bennett Street would be reward enough.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Georgina said. “Who is she?”

He sidestepped the question, letting his sales pitch sink in. “All you’d need to do is get in some tins of his favourite catmeat.”

“I bought those anyway,” she said, and there was something in her eyes she tried not to have there, a strong desire to clinch this deal and save herself some money.

“Then you’re laughing. You may have heard of her-Anna Walpurgis.”

The eyes widened. “The pop star?”

“As was. More a lady of leisure now. Very used to living in nice surroundings, until recently. Some maniac threatened her life and she’s been stuck in a safe house being looked after by Special Branch for some time. It’s Salman Rushdie all over again. She got so bored. It would do everyone a good turn if she could escape to Bath for a week.”

“Anna Walpurgis.” Georgina repeated the name, and there was a discernible note of awe. The idea of such a celebrity coming to stay in one’s house had definite attraction. “She wouldn’t give parties?”

“Good Lord, no. She’s keeping a low profile.”

“Is she under guard?”

“Not any more. It’s a step towards a normal life. I can keep an eye on her, make sure she’s able to cope.”

“Let me think about this.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am. It’s a big decision, letting a stranger have the run of your home, but I’ve never heard a word of scandal about the lady. And I dare say Sultan would approve.” With a display of care, he replaced the photo on her desk.

At ten thirty, Ingeborg reported to Diamond that Ken Bellman was ready for interview.

“Did he give any problems?”

“He came like a lamb.”

“Say anything?”

“Just nodded and said, ‘All right.’”

“Resigned to it, maybe. Has DCI Mallin arrived from Bognor yet?”

“Down in the canteen, guv, tucking into a fried breakfast.”

“Wise woman.” He went down to join her.

While Hen had a smoke, and Diamond a doughnut and coffee, they agreed on a strategy. Hen would ask the first questions, with Diamond chipping in when the moment was right. With so much experience between them, they didn’t need the nice-cop-nasty-cop approach. They’d know how to pitch it.

Bellman had a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He slopped some on his jeans as his interrogators came in.

“Careful,” Hen said. “You could ruin your prospects that way.”

“It’s OK.” He didn’t smile. He looked nervous. Sweatmarks showed around the armpits of his blue tanktop shirt. He placed the coffee well to one side.

“Finish your drink, love,” Hen said.

“I’m fine.” Yet he couldn’t hide a ripple of tension across his cheek. The description they’d had from Olga Smith was spot on. Latin looks, definitely. Strong features. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, dark, curly hair that looked as if it never needed combing.

Hen and Diamond took their seats. Hen, unashamedly friendly, thanked him for coming in and apologised for the formality of asking his name and stating for the tape that he had been invited to attend of his own free will to assist with the enquiry into the death of Dr Emma Tysoe.

He blinked twice at the name.

“So may I call you Ken?” Hen asked after she’d identified herself and Diamond.

“Whatever you want.”

“You live locally, I gather. Do you work in Bath?”

“Batheaston. I’m an IT consultant.”

“Forgive my ignorance. What’s that exactly?”

“I’m with a firm called Knowhow & Fix. Kind of troubleshooters really. If a firm has a computer problem we do our best to sort it.”

“So people are always pleased to see you?”

“Usually.”

“Is it nine to five?”

“Not really. It can be any time. When they want help, they want help.”

“So you turn out in the evening sometimes?”

“I have done.”

“And-through the wonders of modern telecommunications -can you sometimes fix a problem from home?”

“Some of the work can be done on my own PC, yes.”

“Ken, this is beginning to sound like a job interview,” Hen said with a smile, “but I’m getting a picture of how you spend your time. I suppose you need a car in this job.”

“That’s essential.”

“What do you drive?”

“A BMW.”

“Nice.”

“It’s quite old, actually, but it belongs to me.”

“Reliable?”

“I think so.”

“How long have you owned it?”

“Five or six years. I bought it secondhand.”

“Before you came to Bath?”

“Yes.”

“When did you come here?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“And where were you before that?”

“The job? SW1.”

“London?”

“Right. But I was living in Putney.”

“What sort of work? Similar?”

“Not quite the same. I was a techie-technical support programmer.”

“You’ve been doing this sort of work for some time, then?”

“Since university.”

“Where was that?”

“Liverpool.”

“Computer science, I suppose?”

“Pretty close. Electronic engineering. I picked up my computer skills later, when I was doing my MSc. In the end IT proved more marketable than pure electronics.”

Hen nodded. “Seems to come into every job, doesn’t it? Changing the subject, Ken, how long have you known Emma Tysoe?”

His hands felt for the arms of the chair and gripped them. “About ten years.”

“As long as that?”

“I met her when we were students at Liverpool. She read psychology there. We went out a few times. I liked her.”

“And it developed into something?”

He shook his head. “Not at the time. We were friendly, and that was all. After she left to continue her studies in the south, we lost touch. It was pure chance that brought us together again. I didn’t know she was living in Bath until I met her one day in the library a few months ago. There was a lot to talk about, so we went for a drink together, caught up on old times, and what we’d each done since then. It blossomed into something stronger. Well, we weren’t living together, but we got serious, if you know what I mean.”

“You slept with her?”

“Right.”

“And it lasted some time?” Hen asked with the implicit suggestion that the friendship came to an end.

“Some weeks.”

“Can you be more specific?”

He frowned. “I didn’t keep count, if that’s what you mean. Six or seven weeks, probably.”

“Was it a loving relationship?”

“I thought I loved her, yes.”

“You thought?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Love is more about feelings than thoughts, isn’t it?” Hen asked.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m a scientist. I analyse things, including my feelings. My estimation was that I loved Emma. It’s not easy, assessing your own emotions, trying to understand how genuine they are.”

“I’d say if you had to assess them, it’s questionable whether you really were in love,” Hen said.

“And I say if you can’t be honest with yourself how can you be honest with the person you’re sleeping with?”

It was a neat riposte. Hen tried to make use of it. “Was she honest with you?”

“I believe she was.”

“Did love come into it?”

“On her side? I don’t know what was in her mind. She said she enjoyed being with me. We had Liverpool in common, our student life. Lots of good memories.”

“No more than that?”

“It was enough to be going on with.”

“So is it fair to say, Ken, that you were keener than she was?”

He frowned a little. “Is that a trick question?”

“Why should it be?” Hen said.

“Let’s face it. Emma was murdered. If I come across as the guy who pestered her for sex, it doesn’t look good for me, does it? We were good friends, we slept together a few times because we wanted to.”

“I’m not trying to trick you, ducky. We just want to get the picture right. Did she have other friends? Did you go round in a group?”

“There were only the two of us. She wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed being in company.”

“I expect she had friends at work-in the university.”

“If she had, she didn’t talk about them.”

“So you and she spent the time in each other’s company- doing what?”

He shrugged. “What people do. Pubs, the cinema, a meal out sometimes.”

“And at the end of an evening, would you go back to her flat in Great Pulteney Street?”

“A few times. Or else she’d come to my place.”

“Not long before her death, you took her for a meal at Popjoy’s. Is that right?”

He gave a nod.

“Would it be true to say the evening didn’t go according to plan?”

There was a delay before he responded. “How do you know that?”

“We’re detectives,” Hen said. “It’s our job. We’d like to hear your take on the evening.”

He stared into the palm of his left hand, as if he was reading the lines. More likely, Peter Diamond thought, watching him, he didn’t want eye contact. “It started well enough. It was a very good meal. Towards the end she complained of a headache and blamed the wine. There was nothing wrong with it. She said some wines had that effect on her, letting me know, in a way, that I should have let her see the list instead of going ahead and ordering. She asked the waiter for an Alka Seltzer, which I found deeply embarrassing in a smart restaurant. Then we had to wait a long time for a taxi. I thought we could walk home-it isn’t far to her place-but she was wearing unsuitable shoes. I seemed to be saying the wrong thing at every turn.”

Diamond said, to keep the confidences coming, “We’ve all had evenings like that.”

Bellman gave a shrug and a sigh. “Well, it got no better. Back in her flat I made some coffee and asked if the headache was easing off and she said I was only asking because I wanted my money’s worth, which was pretty hurtful. I think I told her so. She was in a black mood, for sure. I can’t cope with women when they get like that. I left soon after.”

Hen asked, “Was it a break-up?”

“I didn’t think so at the time. I tried calling her next day to see if I was still in the doghouse. I had to leave a message on the answerphone, which wasn’t easy. I think I just said I hoped she was feeling better and would she call me. But she didn’t. When I eventually got through to her some time in the evening, she told me straight out that she didn’t want to see me any more because she was seeing someone else. I was shattered. Gutted.” The pain of the memory showed in his face.

“Did she say who?” Hen asked.

“No. Just ‘someone’. I reacted badly. I’m ashamed now. I called her some ugly names. A rush of blood, I guess. She slammed down the phone and I can’t blame her for that.” He shook his head. “Wish I could take back what I said. Death is so final.”

The self-recrimination didn’t impress Diamond. With a glance towards Hen, he took up the questioning. “Did you hear from her again?”

“Not on the phone.”

“You’d said these things-called her names-so did you regard the break as final?”

“No. I’d lost control. I wanted her back. Thinking about it after that phone call, I wondered if she was speaking the truth about going out with someone else. I’d got no hint of another man up to then. I wondered if she’d made it up-invented him, in other words-to hurt me in the heat of the moment. I didn’t want our friendship to end. I thought if I handled it right we could get back together again. This was the first serious row we’d had.”

“You said you’d lost control. What do you mean by that?”

“Control of myself, when I shot off at the mouth.”

“Ah, so you didn’t mean you’d lost control of the relationship?”

“God, no! I was never in charge. Didn’t wish to be.”

“OK. So did you do any more about patching it up?”

“Not immediately. As I said, I was slightly suspicious about this other man she’d met.”

“Only slightly?”

He coloured noticeably. “More than slightly, then.” He shifted position in the chair. “This doesn’t reflect very well on me, but I’d better tell you. The next weekend I followed her, to try and find out. On Saturday morning she drove off in her sports car and I followed.”

“Didn’t she know your car?”

“We’d never been out in it. She drove all the way to Horsham. There, she parked and bought herself a soft drink and a sandwich and sat for a while in a park. I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake and she was simply enjoying a day on her own. Then suddenly she returned to her car and drove south of the town until she came to a house near the river. It was fairly secluded, so I had to park some distance off or I’d have been far too obvious. I didn’t actually see her go in, but her Lotus was parked outside. I watched and waited, not liking myself at all, but committed to finding out if she was visiting this other man. She could have been seeing her mother, or someone else in the family. The whole afternoon went by before they appeared. It was around six thirty when she came out.”

“Alone?”

“No, he was with her, a tall bloke, dark, in a suit, hair brushed back. He opened the garage and backed out his car, a red Renault, I think. She got in and they drove off, leaving her car on the drive.”

“Confirming your worst fears?”

“Absolutely.”

“So what did you do?”

“This is going to sound daft. I didn’t follow them. I guessed they were off for a meal somewhere, and I couldn’t get back to my own car in time, so I waited for them to come back. I knew there was a man now, and I had to find out if she would spend the night with him.”

Hen said, “Wasn’t that torturing yourself?”

“It would have been worse not to have known. In my mind I was making up all kinds of scenarios to explain away this bloke.”

“But she’d told you she had another man.”

“And I wasn’t willing to believe her. I still thought I had a chance.”

“So did they return that evening?” Diamond asked.

“About ten. And she went into the house with him and didn’t come out again. I know because I slept in my own car that night. That’s how single-minded I was.” He paused, looking shamefaced.

Diamond didn’t press him and neither did Hen. The man couldn’t have been more candid, and every detail chimed in with information they already had. This was beginning to have the force of a confession.

“But I had a surprise next morning,” he resumed, “because the man left his house alone, dressed in his suit again, and drove off in his car. Hers was still outside. She came out half an hour later and drove away.”

“This was the Sunday-the day she died?”

“Yes. I got in my car and followed. She headed south and eventually ended up in Wightview Sands.”

“It must have been obvious you were behind her.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t attempt to lose me, or anything. I kept some distance back, often with another car between us. She may have noticed the car, but I was never close enough for her to recognise me.”

Hen commented to Diamond, “Some drivers don’t check their mirror that often.”

“And when we got closer to the beach, and everything slowed down, I made sure I was at least two cars behind,” Bellman added. “As it happened, that almost threw me. There was a barrier system at the beach car park. You paid a chap in a kiosk. He was chatting to Emma and then she went through and drove off. All I could do was sit in the queue and watch her car disappear into the distance. It’s a very large car park.”

“Large beach,” Diamond said.

“You’re telling me. By the time I’d got up to the barrier and exchanged some words with this chatty car park man, I was resigned to having to walk along the beach looking for her.”

Hen said to Diamond, “I know the car park guy who was on duty. Bit of a character. Wants a word with everyone.”

Diamond knew him, too, but wasn’t being diverted. “What did you intend when you found her?”

“By this time, I’d decided to try and talk her round.”

“Even after you knew she’d spent the night with someone else?” Hen said in disbelief.

“He’d walked out on her,” he explained. “If there was any sort of romance between them, he wouldn’t have allowed her to spend the day by herself on the beach.”

“He could have had a job to go to,” Diamond said, finding himself in the unlikely role of Jimmy Barneston’s spokesman.

“On a Sunday?”

“Some of us work Sundays.”

Hen said without catching Diamond’s eye, “I’m with Ken on this. Any boyfriend worthy of the name would take the day off. So what did you do, my love? Park your car and go looking for her?”

“Yes. I knew she wasn’t at the end closest to the barrier, so I drove halfway along, parked, and had a look at the beach, which was really crowded. All I could do was walk along the top looking for her. Fortunately she had this reddish hair which I thought would be easy to spot. So I set off slowly along the promenade bit above the beach, stopping at intervals to look for her. After about an hour of this, I had no success at all. It was really frustrating. I changed my mind and went through the car park looking for the car, figuring that she ought to be in one of the sections of beach closest to where she’d parked. I found the Lotus fairly quickly. It stood out. So then I put my theory to the test and made a more thorough search of the nearest bits of beach. This time I went right down on the sand, for a better view, and that was how I found her. She was lying down behind a windbreak. I’d never have spotted her from the top.”

“This was near the lifeguard post?”

“Yes.”

“Was she surprised?”

“Very.”

“How did you explain that you were there?”

“Coincidence. I wasn’t going to admit I’d been following her for twenty-four hours. It would have seemed weird.”

Neither Hen nor Diamond chose to pursue this insight.

“If I remember right, I made a joke out of it. I was doing my best to put her at her ease. I thought if I could persuade her to let me sit with her on the beach, we could talk through our problem.”

Diamond said, “What do you remember about her appearance?”

“She was sunbathing, in a bikini, lying on a towel.”

“Did she have a bag with her?”

“I expect so. I can’t say for sure. Well, she must have put her car keys somewhere.”

“Sunglasses?”

“Yes.”

“OK, so you chatted to her.”

“I tried. She wasn’t pleased to see me, and she made it very clear she didn’t want me there. I offered to fetch her a drink, or an ice cream or something. Basically, she told me to piss off.”

“Bit of a blow.”

“Well, yes. I was upset.”

“Angry?”

His face tightened and he gave Diamond a defiant look. “Not at all. I was unhappy, yes, but I couldn’t blame her. I’d hurt her more than I realised when I called her those names. Give her time, I thought, and she may yet come round. So I walked off, just as she asked.”

“Are you sure about this? Sure you’re not putting a different slant on the conversation?”

He looked up in surprise. “Why should I?”

“Because a witness heard you swear at her. You were heard to say something like, ‘Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave you to it. Oh, what the fuck?’”

He frowned. “Someone was listening?”

“We have a witness statement.”

After some hesitation, Bellman said, “If that’s what I said-and it may be true-it doesn’t mean I swore at her. I was disappointed. You say something like that when you’re pissed off.”

“Then what?”

“I got myself something to eat at the beach café and returned to the car and drove back here to Bath.”

The point at which his version differed from the expected one. He’d been so truthful up to now.

“Are you certain you didn’t return to Emma at some point in the afternoon?”

He flushed deeply. “No way. If this witness of yours told you that, they’re lying.”

“And what were you wearing that day?” Diamond moved on smoothly.

“Oh, God, how would I know?” He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Probably a T-shirt and jeans.”

“What colour?”

“The T-shirt? Black, I expect. Most of my T-shirts are black.”

“You were saying you drove straight back?”

“Yes.”

“Any idea what time this was?”

“Early afternoon, I suppose.”

“Try to be precise, Ken.”

“I can’t say better than that, except I was home by four.”

“Can you prove this? Did you see anyone in Bath?”

“I told you I drove straight home. It was really warm on the road. I remember taking a shower when I got in. Then I crashed out for a few hours. I was short of sleep.”

“Did you stop for fuel on the way home?” Hen asked. “Your tank must have been well down after so much driving.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“The receipt. They usually show the time you paid. And the place, of course.”

His tone softened. He’d realised she was being helpful. “Right. I follow you. I’m trying to think. I may have stopped for petrol, but I can’t think where.”

“Which way did you come? Through Salisbury on the A36?”

“Yes, that was the route.”

“There are plenty of garages along there.”

“I keep the receipts in my car. I can check.”

“If you can find one that places you somewhere on the road to Bath that afternoon, it will save us all a lot of trouble.”

“OK.”

“But you don’t remember stopping at a garage?” Diamond said. “I would, if it was important.”

“You’ve got to understand I had other things on my mind.”

Diamond’s frustration began to show. “And you’ve got to understand we’re investigating a murder, Mr Bellman. You were on that beach. By your own admission you’d been following Emma Tysoe for twenty-four hours or more. You confirmed your worst suspicion that she spent the night with another man. You trailed her all the way to Wightview Sands. You spent over an hour wandering the beach in search of her. When you found her and tried to engage her in conversation, she rejected you again. You were angry. In your own words, you were pissed off. And some time the same afternoon, she was strangled. Is it any wonder we’re interested in you?”

Troubled, he raked his hand through his curls. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’m cooperating, aren’t I?”

“I hope so. You didn’t come forward when we first appealed for information. It’s been in all the papers and on TV.”

“In my position, would you have come forward?” he appealed to them. “I didn’t want all this hassle and being under suspicion. I was hoping you’d find the killer without involving me.”

“Any suggestions?”

“What-about her murderer? That’s your job, not mine.”

“You were closer to her than anyone else.”

“You should speak to the guy she spent the night with. I can take you to the house if you like.”

“We’ve spoken to him.”

His eyes widened. He spread his hands. “Then you know what I told you is true.”

“We’ve got your slant on what happened,” Diamond said. “Yes, your account of your movements fits most of the facts. What I find unconvincing is what you say about your intentions. She dumped you after you’d taken her out for a special meal. You had every right to be angry. You tried calling and still she wouldn’t see you. For most men, that would be enough. They’d swallow their pride and get on with their lives. You didn’t. You stalked her.”

“That’s not right,” he blurted out.

“It is by any normal understanding of the word. You followed her in your car. You spent a whole night waiting outside the house where she was in bed with another man. If that isn’t stalking, I don’t know what is.”

“I told you I wanted her back.”

“You were angry and jealous. You decided to kill her at the first opportunity.”

“No.”

“You followed her to the beach, just as you said, and tracked her down. She was lying on the sand, maybe face down, so you spoke to her, just to be sure you’d got the right woman. It was Emma, and you made out it was pure chance that you’d spotted her.” He said slowly, spacing the words, “‘Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world.’”

Bellman jerked as if he’d touched a live cable. “You know I said that?”

“I told you there was a witness. You masked your anger. You didn’t let on that you’d stalked her. But this wasn’t a suitable moment to kill. Too many people were about. They could see you in your black T-shirt talking to her. You went away-but not far. You waited for an opportunity, a time when the people around her left the beach or went for a swim. This is probably the time when you went looking for something to use as a ligature, something like a strap or piece of plastic tape or a bootlace. You may have found it lying along the pebbles where the tide throws up everything in its path.”

“This just isn’t true,” Bellman said, white-faced.

“This time you crept up from behind. She was probably asleep. You slipped the ligature under her head and crossed it behind her neck and tightened.”

He slumped forward, his hands over his ears. “No, no. Will you stop?”

Unmoved, Diamond said with a sharp note of accusation, “Will you tell us the truth?”