The House Sitter

21

Shortly after ten next morning Diamond took the lift to the top floor of the Bath Spa Hotel. No news, he hoped, was good news-but he knew of course that policemen can’t afford to rely on hope. John Leaman, looking tired but comfortable, was seated in an armchair outside the Beau Nash Suite with the Daily Mirror across his knees. Diamond approached unseen.

“Did the management provide this for you?”

Leaman rose like a startled pheasant. “Morning, guv. What was that?”

“The chair?”

“That was Anna’s idea. It comes from inside.”

“You’re on first-name terms, then?”

“She suggested it.”

“How’s it been? Quiet?”

“Remarkably.”

“She is still in there, I suppose?”

“Well, she hasn’t come out, guv. The breakfast went in about nine-fifteen.”

Diamond said in a taut voice, “What do you mean-went in? You allowed someone to go in there?”

“Room service, guv.”

“And you didn’t go in with him? Christ almighty, man. He could have been the Mariner. What do you think you’re here for?” Diamond pressed the bell on the door.

There was an agonising delay before they heard footsteps inside, and it was opened. Anna Walpurgis, triumphantly still of this world, looked out. “My shopping escort! What a star!” she said. “It doesn’t get better than this. Five minutes to finish my face, guys. Come in, and wait.” Leaving the door ajar, she vanished inside.

Knowing every word would be repeated with relish in the Manvers Street canteen, Diamond said curtly to Leaman, “You’re in the clear, then. She survived. Go home and get some sleep.”

An order Leaman was only too pleased to obey.

Inside the main room, Diamond found more of the morning papers scattered about. A Flintstones cartoon was showing on the widescreen TV. A strong whiff of perfume wafted from the open door of the bathroom, more musky than the brand Hen used to mask her cigar smells. He helped himself to a banana from the fruit bowl and unpeeled it.

He’d assumed her five minutes would mean at least twenty, and that was an underestimate by ten. But he didn’t complain. He was comfortable looking at the papers with half an eye on the TV.

When she did emerge from the bathroom she was in skintight black velvet trousers with vents showing portions of hip and thigh. Her small, sleeveless, gipsy top announced to the world that she was not wearing a bra. To top it off, a black hat the size of a police helmet, but with the added feature of a vast floppy brim.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

Tact was wanted here, he thought. He got to his feet and gave her the full appraisal. “Amazing.”

“Let’s go, then. I’m in serious need of retail therapy.”

He cleared his throat. “Allowing that we’re trying to keep a low profile, maybe the hat is just a little too eye-catching.”

“A fashion statement,” she told him cheerfully, as if that answered his objection. “I’ll be wearing my shades.”

He tried another tack. “Before we do any shopping, we’ll be moving you to your new address in Bennett Street.”

“You and whose army?”

Prickling, he reminded her, “I told you about this yesterday.”

“Change of plan,” she said sweetly. “This hotel will do for me.”

“Sorry. It’s a security measure.”

“Another of these crap safe houses? You’re not going to spoil my day before we even start on the shops?”

“Not a safe house.”

“Unsafe,” she said, with a mocking laugh.

He rephrased it. “Safe, but not in the Special Branch sense. This will be your own pad, a beautiful Georgian house in Bennett Street, one of the most exclusive areas of the city. It links with the Circus. Saville Row, with its antique shops, is just across the street. The Assembly Rooms are-”

She butted in, “What were you called again?”

“Diamond. Peter Diamond.”

She linked her arm under his. “I know you mean well, Pete, but I’m comfortable here. The shower works and the waiters are good-looking. What else could I require? So let’s you and me chill out a little and take a hike around the shops.”

“I don’t like to spoil the fun,” he said, disentangling himself, “but I’ve got to insist. The move has to be done before we see a single shop. Where are your cases?”

“Room Service took them away.”

He picked up a phone and dialled the front desk.

She said, “This is getting to be a pain.”

“I’m having them sent up.”

“Masterful,” she said with irony.

“Only thinking of your safety.”

“Like I haven’t heard that a zillion times in the past two weeks?”

“Why don’t you start folding your clothes?” he said to her just as someone answered the phone. He explained that Miss Walpurgis would be checking out shortly and required her suitcases.

Tony from Special Branch had not exaggerated. Five large cases presently came up on a trolley. Their owner, uninterested, was sitting on the sofa watching Tom and Jerry. Diamond tipped the man himself.

Alone with her again, he eyed the luggage, wondering what she could find to fill it. “I’ll have a job getting all these in my car.”

“Don’t bother, then,” Anna told him.

“Are you going to pack, or would you like me to do it?”

“‘For you, Johnny, ze war is over.’”

“I’m going to make a start.” He opened the hanging space behind the door and unhooked several coats.

She said, “Do you blow fire as well?” Swinging her legs off the sofa, she got up and picked one of the empty cases off the trolley and carried it into the bedroom.

He’d won the first round.

The packing took a few minutes over the half-hour. Each bulging case had to be forced down before the zip-fastening would work.

“And you still want to buy more clothes?” he said in disbelief.

“Louis Vuitton expects… I can always get another suitcase,” she said.

They called the bell-captain and arranged for the laden trolley to be moved downstairs.

Down in the lobby, Anna insisted on paying for her stay. “This was my choice of hotel,” she said.

The receptionist checked for mail. “There is a letter for you, Ms Walpurgis.”

“So soon?” she ripped open the envelope and took out a single sheet, unfolded it, went pale, and said, “What sicko sent this?”

Diamond took it from her.

Six lines of verse, produced on a printer:

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more her head;

Because she knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind her tread.

He knew the lines. He’d read them recently in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Seeing them again, knowing who must have sent them, was chilling. They were picked to strike terror into Anna Walpurgis. Coleridge’s words had been slightly altered to make the subject female. This time the message wasn’t a prediction or a play on words, as the others had been. It was calculated to make the victim suffer before the kill.

“I’m afraid he knows you’re here.”

“The killer?” She put her hand to her throat. “How could he?”

“The point is, it’s happened.”

“God! What can we do?”

He felt like saying, What I’ve been trying to do for the past hour-move you out of here. But he also felt sympathy. Seeing how shaken she was, he calmly told her they were doing the right thing. Mentally he was reeling himself, at a loss to understand how the Mariner could have penetrated the security.

He showed his ID and asked the desk staff if they recalled who brought the letter in, pointing out that it must have been delivered by hand, because there was no stamp.

Nobody had any memory of a letter being handed in.

“The night staff?”

They promised to make enquiries.

He took some rapid decisions. “If you get anyone asking for Miss Walpurgis, tell them she’s not in her room at the moment. Give the impression she’s still a guest. Then contact Bath police at once. Do you understand? Next, is there a goods entrance? We’ll use that for loading the car.”

Anna, ashen-faced and silent, was taken through a door marked “Private-staff only.” Diamond moved his old Cortina to the rear of the hotel and the cases were stowed: three in the boot, one beside him at the front and the other on the back seat. After telling Anna to remove the hat he asked her to huddle up, head down, in the remaining space on the back. He covered her with the garment bag. Then he drove out, studying the mirrors for any sign of a vehicle following. He went twice around the perimeter roads of Sydney Gardens before deciding no one was in pursuit. Taking the Bathwick Street route, he crossed the Avon at Cleveland Bridge and turned south, past the Paragon, and joined Lansdown Road at the bottom. Satisfied he was still alone, he made his way up to the Bennett Street turn and came to a halt outside Georgina’s house.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

Anna’s muffled voice answered, “Terrified. Are we there?”

“I’ll open the front door first. Go straight inside when I give you the word. I’ll bring the cases after.”

He took a long look up and down the street. There were parked cars in plenty, but not one appeared to be occupied. Taking Georgina’s key from his pocket, he unlocked her front door and pushed it open.

Then he returned to the car and opened the rear door.

“OK. Go.”

Anna emerged with head bowed, like someone in custody going into court, and hurried across the pavement and inside.

Diamond allowed himself a sigh of relief.

Then she came straight out again, just as quickly, and got back into the car.

“For Christ’s sake!” he said.

“There’s a big white cat in there,” she said from the back seat. “I can’t stand cats.”

“Flaming hell! I’m trying to save you from a serial killer!”

“I’m not going in there.”

“Get your head down. I’ll deal with it.”

He marched into Georgina’s house and spotted Sultan reposing in a circular bed made of padded fabric. The cat heard him and fixed its blue eyes on him, ears pricked. Diamond scooped up the bed with the cat inside and carried it through the house to the patio door. “Does she put you outside sometimes?” he said aloud. “Calls of nature? I expect so.” He opened the door and set cat and bed on the paving.

Anna was persuaded into the house with extreme reluctance.

“What is it about you and cats-an allergy?” he asked.

“A phobia,” she said, her arms protectively across her chest. “You’ll have to find me some other place.”

A quick solution. His own house? No, she’d never agree to stay there. Another hotel? Too obvious. There was only one option. He said, “I’ll take the cat home with me.” The change of plan wouldn’t please Georgina one bit if she found out, but it would have to suffice.

Anna still looked twitchy. “Are you sure there isn’t another one?”

“Another cat? No. There’s only Sultan. I’m going to fetch your cases now. Why don’t you go through to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a coffee?”

She said, “Sod coffee. I need a tequila. Where’s the cocktail cabinet?”

Leaving her to go exploring, he spent the next minutes struggling with the luggage. The cases all had to go upstairs.

He was short of breath when he finished. In the living room he grabbed the Scotch she’d poured him.

“Whose gaff is this?” Anna asked in a calmer voice. She’d settled into one of Georgina’s armchairs, her legs dangling over one of the arms.

“One of my female colleagues.”

“Her taste in music sucks. Have you seen the CDs? It’s all Gilbert and Sullivan and Verdi.”

It would be. He remembered Georgina telling him she sang in the Bath Camerata. “It’s a comfortable house,” he said, taking the chair opposite her.

“And I’m stuck in it,” Anna said. “I was told if I came to Bath I’d be free to do those high-tone shops and restaurants. Now I discover this frigging killer is out there. How did he suss that I was in the hotel?”

“Not from me,” Diamond stated firmly. “You’re famous. Were you recognised when you registered?”

“Who knows? There were people around in the lobby. No one took a picture or asked for my autograph, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t spot me.”

“That’s probably what happened, then.”

“And you think the killer got wise to it? How?”

“He’s a very smart operator. He knew Matthew Porter was in a safe house and he found a way of getting inside and abducting him.”

She shuddered. “He wouldn’t know I’ve moved here… would he?”

He shook his head and tried to think of words that would reassure. His usually brusque manner wasn’t going to work here. He could empathise with Anna’s fears. He was starting to feel quite fatherly towards her. Under her glib exterior was a frightened young girl. “Only you and I know where you are at this minute. You’ll be safe if you don’t go out.”

With a touch of spirit he admired, she said wistfully, “No shopping today? I’ll call AmEx, tell them to relax.”

“Some other time.”

“Pete,” she said, “you’re not the fascist pig I first took you for. You’re doing a fine job.”

“And you can help me find him.”

“How?” she asked. “I don’t know the jerk.”

“Correction. You don’t know who he is.”

“Come again.”

“But you may know him,” he pointed out. “There’s got to be a reason why he targeted you.”

She said, “There are freaks out there who hate anyone who makes it big in the music industry.”

“The others weren’t musicians.”

“They were celebs like me.”

“Did you ever meet Axel Summers?”

“No.”

“Matthew Porter?”

She swirled her drink in the glass and took a long swig. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Not too good, the last I heard.” He glanced across the room. Anna had her back to the patio window, which was fortunate, because she couldn’t see Sultan standing, front paws pressed to the glass, asking to be let in. “Do you do any singing at all these days?”

“No, I called time on that. I don’t need to work any more.”

“You’re still a name everyone knows. Do you get asked to do charity work?”

“All the time. I cut the appearances right down after Wally, my husband, died. Financially I still have a big stake in British Metal and I wanted to contribute in the best way I could.”

“British Metal, you said?” He was on high alert now. He’d heard of British Metal in another context.

“Wally’s empire, one of the top ten in the country. You knew that, didn’t you? So I invented this role for myself, chairing a committee that looks at the public profile of the company. I know one hell of a lot about PR from my own career.”

“You don’t get involved in the technical side?”

“Jesus, no. You work to your strengths. All my experience is in the music business.”

“Heavy metal, not British Metal.”

She managed to laugh. “Yah. I leave the nuts and bolts stuff to the experts, the people Wally trusted.”

“So as well as deciding which good causes to support…?”

“We sponsor events. And celebs, if they’re big enough. The aim is to give us a higher profile in the media.”

“You make the decisions?”

“As chair of my committee, yes, it’s my gig, basically. It was my idea to do this properly. When Wally was alive he dealt with it all himself when things came up. He was a sweetie and clever with it, but between you and me, Pete, it was anyone’s guess who got lucky. He’d give thousands of pounds away without asking what the firm got back in publicity. A lot of it went on bursaries and sponsoring research that had nothing to do with British Metal. When I came in, I made sure the money was used for projects that put our name before the public.”

He was deeply intrigued, his brain racing. “What sort?”

“Don’t ask me about the nitty-gritty. My committee does all the hard work. I just use my eyes. I see the racing on TV and I’m not looking at the gee-gees. I’m checking the product placement. I go back to my committee and say I want to see British Metal in large letters along the finishing straight, and they see to it. I watch a new film on TV and I look out for the little commercial the sponsor gets in every break just before the show begins again. ”

“So you moved into film sponsorship?” Diamond could scarcely contain his excitement at hearing things that promised at last to steer him to the origin of the mystery. “You put a large amount of finance into the film about The Ancient Mariner that Axel Summers was making.”

“Did we? You’ve got me there,” she said, shaking her head. “We put money into loads of film projects.”

“It’s a fact. British Metal had a big stake,” he told her. He was sure she wasn’t being obstructive. She genuinely didn’t know.

“If you say so. Until the films are made, I wouldn’t remember the titles or the directors. My committee could tell you. Janet is my movie and TV lady. She looks at the proposals and does the costing. If we had dealings with Mr Summers, Janet will have spoken to him.”

“You see the point, don’t you? This is important, Anna.”

She raised the finely plucked eyebrows and said, “I don’t see what difference it makes, frankly. There’s still a killer out there.”

“Yes-but you’re going to lead me to him. Here’s another question for you: do British Metal sponsor golf?”

“I guess,” she said vaguely. “We do endorsements of sports people now. I encourage it. You only have to look at the logos a tennis player wears on his shirt. The sponsors win no matter who lifts the silverware.”

“Golf,” he said, trying not to get exasperated. “I’m asking about golf.”

“Christ’s sake, Pete, do I look like the sort of gal who gets off on watching some fat Spaniard poke a small ball into a tin cup? My sports person on the committee is Adrian,” she said. “He clocks the players. We only endorse the best. Ade is an anorak, the sort of guy you’d cross the street to avoid, but ace at picking future champions.”

“If he picks the best, it’s likely he picked Matt Porter.”

“You see?” Anna said. “I have no idea.”

“But you could check with Adrian?”

“Any time.”

“Now.”

She still couldn’t see the relevance of all this. Diamond couldn’t entirely either, except that it would be more than a slight coincidence if Porter, too, had been sponsored by British Metal.

He picked up the cordless phone from the table in the corner and handed it to Anna. She pressed out the number.

“Don’t tell him where you are,” Diamond warned. “Just ask him if Porter was endorsed by British Metal.”

She got through. It soon became obvious from her end of the conversation that his guess was right.

Diamond prompted her, “Ask him if it was a major sponsorship.”

It was: the largest amount they’d invested in any sports star.

“Has it been reported in the press?”

It had, widely.

The reason Diamond hadn’t seen it was that he only ever looked at the rugby reports.

“Cheers, Ade,” Anna said. After she’d handed back the phone, she said to Diamond, “There you go. We sponsored the two guys who were killed. Is that a help to you?”

“Enormous help.”

“But nobody sponsors me. Why am I on the hit list?”

He had no easy answer to that. He could concoct theories, and he would, but not for her to get alarmed about. The next step had to be an intensive process of deduction, the kind of mental exercise profilers took credit for, and detectives did as a matter of routine. Would Emma Tysoe, given these new facts, have seen immediately to the heart of the mystery? He doubted it. There was more to be unearthed. This, at least, was progress.

“Did your late husband have enemies?” he asked.

“Wally?” She shook her head. “He was the sweetest guy in the world. Everyone loved him.”

“Rich men are envied.”

“Maybe.” She sounded dubious.

“He had the power to hire and fire.”

“That’s business for you,” she said. “Anyone who was laid off was given a fair settlement, and, take it from me, lay-offs were exceptional. Even when times were hard he’d bust a gut to keep people in work.”

“Did he lay off any in the year before he died?” Diamond persisted. The theory of the ex-employee seeking vengeance on the company was worth exploring.

“I doubt it.”

“Manufacturing industry is in decline. Even after the recession ended, unemployment continued.”

“Now you’re losing me,” she said. “I don’t remember lay-offs.”

“OK, let’s talk about something else. How did you two meet?”

She sighed and stretched her legs out. “That’s the question everyone asks. I always feel like saying something romantic-like he came to one of my gigs and sat in the front row and fell in love with me. What really happened is we both went for the same taxi one wet night in Dean Street, Manchester. I told him the cab was mine and slagged him off. Called him a waste of space and a bullyboy. He thought it was a great laugh. We ended up sharing the cab and telling each other old people jokes. Before getting out he gave me his card and said he’d like to take me to dinner.”

“When did you marry?”

“Six months after. His fourth marriage, my second.”

“He had family?”

“No children. A sister and three ex-wives, all getting handouts. Like I say, Wally wasn’t mean to anyone.”

“After he died, did the payments continue?”

“Still do. It was written into the will. Those wives are on the gravy train as long as they live.” She suddenly became attentive. “What’s that noise?”

He listened. A rustling and scraping. For a moment, he thought the Mariner was breaking in somewhere. He got up from his chair, looked across the room and then breathed more easily.

“It’s only the cat scratching on the patio door.”

She was not greatly reassured. “You will get rid of him?”

“I’ll take him with me when I go.” Getting rid of Sultan might be a step too far. “You mentioned your husband’s will.”

“Yah. Over a hundred million. The tax was unreal.”

“To your knowledge, was anyone upset by the will?”

“Only the pressboys. They gave me a predictable roasting. ‘His bride of six years, the former pop singer Anna Walpurgis, comes into a cool eighty-five million pounds. Not bad for a performer with maximum hype and minimal talent.’ Stuff like that can hurt. There was plenty like it.”

“You could afford to ignore them.”

“Sure, but I do have talent. I made it to the top before I met Wally.”

“No question,” Diamond said. “I’m pig-ignorant about the pop scene, but I’ve heard you sing. You got there on merit.”

“Thanks.”

He chose his next words with care, not wanting to frighten her even more. “The sad fact is that some people believe everything they read in the papers. The person behind all this could be someone who resents the power you wield through that committee. They’ve hit at two of the people you invested big money in, and now they’re threatening you. I want you to cast your mind back and tell me if you received any kind of protest or complaint or threat about the decisions you made.”

She shook her head. “I don’t bother with that shit. I still get a sackful of fan mail I have to deal with. That’s enough to be going on with.”

“So what happens if someone writes to you at British Metal?”

“About things we decide? Someone else deals with it. We have a publicity officer. She bins it, I hope.”

“I’ll need to speak to her. It would speed things up if you made the call now, and put me through to her.”

“Be my guest.” She reached for the phone.

“You make it.”

He was right to insist. A call from Ms Walpurgis was given top priority at British Metal. No listening to canned music. She was put through to the publicity officer, a Mrs Poole.

Diamond was put on.

Yes, Mrs Poole told him, there was a small file of letters of complaint. Every business had to deal with them. Each one was answered, and in most cases the matter ended there. A few complainers prolonged the correspondence.

“Do you get any about sponsorships?” he asked. “In particular the money given to Axel Summers, the film man, or the golfer, Matthew Porter?”

“I’ll check, but I can’t say I remember anything so specific,” Mrs Poole said. “Each time a sponsorship is announced, it triggers some letters from people who feel they have a more worthy cause needing money. Some of the letters are heart-rending-when it’s about someone needing medical attention, for example. I try to direct them to a charity who may be in a position to help.”

“That’s different,” he said. “I’m thinking of the sort of letter that carries bitterness with it, openly or between the lines. It’s written by someone so angry that he’ll carry out acts of violence.”

“I’m sure I’d notice a letter like that, and I’m glad to say I’ve never seen one.”

“You’ll double-check for me?”

She sounded efficient and her memory was probably reliable. He didn’t expect to hear any more. Another theory withered and died.

He told Anna he would arrange for someone to bring in lunch and keep her company during the afternoon.

“Do you have to go?” she said, flicking the blond hair and then pushing a hand through it. “I was just getting to know you, and, like I told you, I still dig older men.”

He saw the funny side. “I promised to deal with a pissed-off Persian cat. I wonder if there’s a box somewhere in this house I can put him into.”

Keith Halliwell was the fall guy this time. He arrived with Anna’s order for lunch, a Marks and Spencer salad, an apple and some mineral water. “Doesn’t look like a lunch to me, guv,” he confided to Diamond when they met at the door.

“This is what beautiful blondes are made of, Keith.”

“What’s in the box?” Halliwell asked, eyeing the large carton Diamond was about to carry to his car.

“Top secret, I’m afraid.”

With fine timing, Sultan gave an aggrieved mew from the interior.

Diamond sighed. “OK. Don’t mention this to anyone else. Georgina’s cat is coming home with me.”

“Are you fond of him, guv?”

“Not particularly. We hardly know each other. Anna will tell you about it. You’ve got plenty of time to talk. How many men do you have as a back-up?”

“Three. They’re across the street in the unmarked Sierra.”

“That’s not enough. I’ll have more sent up. For God’s sake be alert, Keith. The Mariner is in Bath already. He won’t wait long.”

There was a problem still to be faced, and the problem was Raffles, his own cat, the official resident at the house in Weston. Raffles was not pure-bred like Sultan. He was a common tabby, frisky and combative. He’d never seen anything like Sultan. How Raffles would react to having this fluffy, blue-eyed lodger in his home was a cause of concern to Peter Diamond. It was essential that Sultan retained every tuft of his snow-white fur, and kept his two perfect ears intact and his pure-bred Persian face unscarred.

Raffles might have other ideas.

In the back of the car were the luxurious cat-bed, the tins of gourmet salmon and tuna, the special dishes with Sultan’s name on them, the large plastic litter-box with its modesty hood, the toys, the grooming comb and brush-and the box containing the user of all these products, who was yowling piteously.

Fortunately, when they arrived at Weston, Raffles wasn’t at home. Having the freedom of the cat flap, he would be out hunting on the farmland at the end of the street.

Diamond gave Sultan a bedroom to himself, installing all his paraphernalia with him. Opened a tin of the gourmet food and found himself promising the steamed fillet of lemon sole if only the yowling ceased. Closed the door firmly before going out again.

Ingeborg Smith was alone at a computer in the incident room when Diamond looked in.

“Hi, guv.”

“Any progress on Ken Bellman?” he asked, forcing his mind back to the Emma Tysoe investigation.

“Quite a bit, actually. What he said about being at Liverpool University in the same year as Emma is true. He was reading electronic engineering and she was a psychologist. They both got firsts. He stayed on to do a higher degree and she transferred to University College, London, to do hers.”

“Good brains, then, both of them.”

“Yes. I’m trying to find someone from their year who would remember how friendly they were. No success so far. She lived in a hall of residence, so I may get something from the warden, or someone on the staff, if they stayed in the job that long. I’m waiting for a phone call about that.”

“Nice work.”

“I went up to Claverton this morning and talked to Helen Sparks, the woman lecturer you mentioned. According to her, Emma never spoke much about Liverpool. She says she was guarded about her private life as well. But she got the impression there was some man in the background. Emma didn’t speak of him, but the confident way she dealt with the men on the psychology staff showed she wasn’t in awe of any of them, even the ones who fancied their chances.”

“That’s something she didn’t tell me,” he said, slightly miffed.

“It’s not a thing a woman would say to a man,” Ingeborg said. “I asked if there were theories doing the rounds of the staff.”

“About Emma’s murder?”

“Yes. The consensus seems to be that anyone who does offender profiling is taking a risk.”

“They think some villain was out to get her before she fingered him?”

“Almost as if it was her own fault, yes. Helen Sparks hinted that there was a certain amount of envy that Emma was the only one approached by the Home Office.”

“Envy, eh?” he said, putting a hand to the back of his neck and easing a finger around his collar.

“But not enough to be a motive for murder.”

“How would Helen Sparks know?”

“She’s a pretty good judge, guv.”

“You’re probably right. Is that it, then?”

“As far as I’ve got. I haven’t yet talked to the people at Knowhow & Fix. That’s next.”

“In short, we haven’t come up with anything that conflicts with what he told us at the interview?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep at it,” he said. “I’m putting more and more resources into the Mariner enquiry. If you can nail Ken Bellman by your own efforts, you’ll do us all a good turn, Ingeborg.”

He went out to get lunch and buy some lemon sole.

On his return he was told there had been a call from Bognor CID. He got through to Hen. She asked if anything new had come up and he told her about the latest note from the Mariner.

She was shocked. “So he’s in Bath already?”

“Yes-sooner than I expected. Still ahead of the game.”

“Could he know where Anna Walpurgis is?”

“I don’t see how.”

“If he wants to find out, all he has to do is follow you, Peter. He knows you’ll lead him there at some point.”

“I hope I’m not so obvious as that,” he said with injured pride.

She switched to the matter she’d originally called about. “Want to hear my news? We’ve found Emma’s car.”

“The Lotus? Where?”

“Only a couple of miles from the beach, in a caravan park. The key was still in the ignition. It was parked beside an empty caravan and hidden under one of those fabric covers people put over cars. It’s at the vehicle centre now, being examined for fingerprints and DNA. The forensic guys are confident.”

“A breakthrough at last.”

“We hope so. Have you fingerprinted Ken Bellman?”

“We will now, Hen. We will now.”