The Stone Wife

33

‘Spot on,’ Diamond said, looking up from his watch.

The museum was at the end of a cul-de-sac in Blake Street and the entire convoy was able to draw up outside. He emerged from the Land Rover as spry as when they’d started, the only traveller free of stress. Everyone else felt as if they’d driven from Inverness.

The building — a converted sixteenth century house named after one of Britain’s more successful admirals, said to have been born there in 1598 — was closed to visitors outside the summer months, but Diamond had arranged to meet one of the curators.

‘This is going to be a doddle,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘No steps. We can wheel her straight in.’

Ingeborg was not so upbeat. ‘First we have to find some way to lift her off the trailer.’

‘We need more muscle,’ Keith Halliwell said. Back at Manvers Street, the heavy work had been done by the team of young constables who had got used to humping the stone in and out of Diamond’s office.

‘Don’t look at me,’ Denis Doggart said. ‘I’m not a porter.’ The shredded nerves were showing.

Nothing would shake Diamond’s optimism. ‘Relax, people. I was promised help at this end. Let’s see if anyone’s here yet.’

As if by his force of will alone, the door opened before he stepped up to it. A meaty and bearded man, who might have passed for Admiral Blake himself, thrust out his hand, ‘Tank Sherman. We spoke on the phone.’

Diamond introduced everyone except John Gildersleeve (in his urn and clasped to Monica’s bosom) and they moved into the flagstone entrance hall. Low-ceilinged and with waist-high wainscot panelling, the building left visitors in no uncertainty of its great age. Doors were open to left and right and, ominously for all involved in the heavy work to come, stairs rose to an upper floor.

‘Have the volunteers arrived?’

‘On their way,’ Tank said, matching Diamond in conviviality. ‘We’re all volunteers here. The Blake is entirely run on love, loyalty and donations. We get a modest grant from the town council and that’s it. Would you care to look round?’

‘First, I’d like to see where you want the thing put.’

‘The good wife? You’ll be relieved to learn she’s not going upstairs. The floors couldn’t take the strain. They’re like a switchback as it is. She’s to go in the meeting room, on your right here. A temporary stay, we hope. The plan is to sell her to the British Museum as soon as possible. It’s a shame, a precious local artefact going to London, but an old building like this needs the occasional face lift.’

‘Make sure you get a fair price,’ Doggart said.

‘We intend to, believe me.’

‘Would you like me to value it again? It’s worth considerably more than I originally thought.’

‘Thanks, but we’re perfectly capable of working the price out for ourselves,’ Tank said with a smile that had strength of purpose behind it. ‘We know how the auction went.’

‘The auction didn’t finish.’

‘Exactly. The BM can be pushed up appreciably more and with all the publicity the piece must have acquired extra value since then. Believe me, I didn’t get my nickname for nothing. I’ll be in there with all guns blazing.’

Unfortunate turn of phrase. Diamond exchanged a glance with Ingeborg, who had winced when she heard it. But Tank’s next suggestion, of coffee in the ground-floor office, was enthusiastically approved by everyone.

‘My team will have theirs outside in the street,’ Diamond said. ‘Mustn’t leave the Wife of Bath unguarded.’

‘Oh, terrific!’ Ingeborg said.

Diamond squashed that little insurrection. ‘And it’s the perfect opportunity to brief you on what happens next.’

Communication had never been Diamond’s strong suit. On the rare occasions he had news to impart, it was worth hearing. So while Monica, Erica and Doggart joined Tank Sherman in the office, the police contingent trooped outside to be instructed on the plan of action. What they heard from their boss was no less than the solution to the case, and it was both surprising and unnerving.

The coffee was the instant kind and the milk was long life, but nobody objected, and there were gingernuts on offer to mask the taste. Diamond joined the others after his impromptu case conference in the street.

‘I’d better fill the kettle again,’ Tank said. ‘The reinforcements are due shortly. I asked Tim and his brothers, as you suggested, and they were only too pleased to be part of the team.’

Diamond explained to Monica, ‘Tim Carroll is the local historian, the fellow who knows precisely where the Chaucer house once stood. We met last time I was here.’

‘And will he come with us to Petherton Park?’

‘I feel sure he will.’

Monica tapped her fingers on the urn. ‘Does he know what it’s about?’

‘Not yet. I’ll tell him.’

With nice timing, at the moment the kettle started to whistle, the local helpers arrived. More introductions. Tim Carroll, in a dark green gilet over a denim shirt hanging loose and black tracksuit pants, looked more than ever as if he had stepped out of a fourteenth century manuscript. His brothers, Wayne and Roger, dressed in workmen’s check shirts and blue jeans, were with him. None of them had seen the inside of a hairdresser’s for a long time. Wayne Carroll, the oldest, if streaks of grey in the black thatch meant anything, wanted it known that he managed the house clearance business and employed the other two.

‘So it’s over to the professionals,’ Tank said. ‘They’ll lift the good lady off the trailer.’

‘Not without help, we won’t,’ Wayne said, making clear that the bonhomie wasn’t going to affect him. ‘She’ll be a fair old weight.’

Diamond said they had brought the dolly with them to wheel the stone inside.

‘Better get on with it, then,’ Wayne said. ‘We haven’t got all bloody day.’

‘Coffee first?’ Tank said brightly.

‘Coffee after.’

Wayne’s word was law. Everyone trooped outside again to watch the operation. The parked convoy had been joined by a white van bearing the legend WAYNE CARROLL & CO, HOUSE CLEARANCE, ESTABLISHED FAMILY BUSINESS.

Still in the street, Ingeborg said, ‘We didn’t get our coffee.’

‘The decision is to have it later,’ Diamond said without making eye contact. He turned to Wayne. ‘How many extra hands do you need?’

‘Three pairs.’

‘Looks as if it has to be George the driver, Keith and me.’ He lifted out the dolly and positioned it on the pavement beside the trailer. ‘You’re the foreman, Wayne. Is this where you want it?’

‘It’ll do.’

They unfurled the tarpaulin and loosened the ropes. The stone wife had completed the journey in better shape than the support team. She looked triumphant seated on her amblere. The pale spring sunshine picked out the chisel marks where the sculptor had cleared the background behind the figure all those centuries ago.

‘She’s had a wash and brush-up, by the look of her,’ Tim said.

‘Tell you later. It’s a long story,’ Diamond said. ‘How do we go about this?’

Wayne was definitely in charge. ‘Shift it to this end of the trailer, where we can let down the side. It’s going to be a brute to move, but if we all put our backs into it, we’ll cope.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’ll tell you.’

Four of them prepared to push, two to pull.

For Diamond it brought back memories of being a prop in the front row. He took a firmer hold.

‘Careful where you put your hands,’ Tim piped up in a fit of alarm. ‘Keep them off the figure. You’ll damage her.’

Without a word, Diamond readjusted.

‘On the count of three,’ Wayne said.

At the first attempt they succeeded in sliding the stone a couple of inches. The second try was marginally more. It took six hefty shoves to do the job.

‘Everyone all right?’ Tim asked, as if to show that the Carroll family had a caring side.

‘That was the easy part,’ Wayne said, his dark eyes flicking over the crew for signs of weakness.

‘What next?’

‘We tip her on to the near edge. Then hold her steady at the point of balance, letting the trailer take the strain. This has to be done in one go. We don’t want anyone’s fingers squashed. You, mate.’

Diamond looked right and left. ‘Talking to me?’

‘Come this side and stand between Roger and me.’

More used to giving orders than obeying them, Diamond was having to rein himself in. He squeezed between the brothers and bent over the stone. The others stood at the ends and took a grip as well as they were able.

‘I’ll count to three again.’

On the word they braced and tugged.

Stubborn to the last, the stone wife refused to move.

‘Maybe if we slid it a little way over the edge, some of us could get a better grip,’ Halliwell suggested.

‘Who’s running this show?’ Wayne said. ‘We do it my way, right?’

Halliwell rolled his eyes.

And the next attempt was successful — except for a yelp of pain from Diamond.

‘Trouble, guv?’ Ingeborg asked.

‘Something went in my back, I think.’

Not what anyone wanted to hear. The stone was poised on one edge, just as planned. Most of the weight was now being taken by the trailer, but everyone was needed to hold the delicate balance.

‘Keep her steady. Nobody move,’ Wayne said without a shred of sympathy.

‘Are you all right?’ Tim asked Diamond.

‘I’m not sure. I’m okay in this position. Lifting might be a problem for me.’

‘We need a stand-in.’ Tim turned to Denis Doggart. ‘Could you…?’

‘Absolutely not,’ the auctioneer said. ‘You need a porter for that.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Tank Sherman said. ‘I get hernias.’

Diamond said, ‘I think I can manage.’

‘I can do it,’ Ingeborg offered.

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Manfully, he summoned a grin and said, ‘Let’s go.’

‘If you’re certain,’ Tim said.

Wayne said, ‘Let her tip this way, but gradual. If we lose control now, all of us are going to end up in hospital. When I say the word, lift her clear and lower her on to the dolly.’

Tim added with a look at Diamond, ‘Bending at the knees, not the back.’

The manoeuvre began. The stone tipped slowly at first, and then with more force, off the edge of the trailer and into the arms of the six men. Grunting, bearing the weight, but without any shrieks of pain, they controlled the descent to the dolly. She settled with a satisfying thud.

‘Beautiful job,’ Tim said.

For Diamond, there was double satisfaction. He’d avoided a slipped disc and he’d had a close look at the back of Wayne’s head.

Everyone straightened up, backed away and rubbed hands. Diamond rubbed his back.

‘We haven’t finished,’ Wayne said. ‘She has to be dragged inside.’

Roger Carroll, who had not said much until now, said, ‘I reckon the three of us can manage that.’

‘Give me a moment to get my breath back,’ Tim said.

‘I can take your place,’ Halliwell offered. ‘Then we’ll all go for that coffee we were promised.’

‘Before we do,’ Diamond said, ‘I’ve got a favour to ask of you, Tim. Mrs. Gildersleeve and her sister made the journey especially to scatter the ashes of her late husband at the site of the Chaucer house. You took me to the spot before. Would you mind?’

Monica (with the urn) and Erica waited a few yards away in a dignified stance that was a silent appeal.

Even the hard man Wayne would have found it difficult to refuse. Tim was a softer touch. ‘No problem,’ he said.

Diamond thanked him. ‘I fully intended to join you, but my back’s playing up and I don’t think I can manage the walk across the field. Ingeborg will take my place.’

‘Right away?’ Ingeborg said.

The sisters were obviously ready to go. Ingeborg, quietly fuming, would never get her coffee. The four got into the Volvo and Erica did a three-point turn and drove them away.

The Wife of Bath was trundled into her temporary new home and everyone not actually pulling or pushing headed inside as well — except Diamond and George the driver.

Tim Carroll gave the directions to North Petherton from the back seat.

‘It’s not far then?’ Erica said, at the wheel.

‘A couple of miles.’

‘You’re interested in Chaucer, obviously,’ Monica said to him.

‘Through the local connection,’ Tim said.

‘But are you familiar with his poetry?’

‘What I know of it, yes.’

‘In that case, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help with the valediction.’ She took a sheet of paper from the glove compartment and handed it to him. ‘A few lines from the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales.’

Talk about being put on the spot.

Ingeborg, uncomfortable with this, said to Monica, ‘I didn’t know you were planning a ceremony. Tim agreed to show us the site of Chaucer’s house, nothing else.’

‘He’s a Chaucer scholar. It’s serendipity that he’s with us. He’ll do it beautifully.’

‘If that’s really what you want,’ Tim said. ‘I’d have worn my suit if I’d known.’

‘You couldn’t have dressed better than you have,’ Monica said. ‘What you’re wearing is ideal. John would have approved. And it isn’t meant to be a ceremony, but just a dignified farewell to my dear husband.’

So it was that after they had pulled up at the edge of the field and picked their way across the rutted ground to the area Tim pointed out, the four stood together with lowered heads. From across the field, the drone of motorway traffic was steady, but could almost be ignored in the intensity of the moment. This unmarked patch of ground was where the Chaucer house had once stood, where the Wife of Bath had been buried for centuries until the Victorians had unearthed her, and where John Gildersleeve had come with high hopes and been disappointed.

Monica ended the meditation by tugging at the lid of the urn and finding it too tight to open. She turned to Tim and passed the urn across.

‘Be an angel, would you?’

He looked uncomfortable.

Ingeborg was thinking this had the potential to be a disaster, but Tim managed to ease the lid away and keep the urn upright. Not a speck of ash was spilled. He returned it to Monica.

She said, ‘Now, Tim, if you would.’

He took the paper from his pocket and in a low voice started reading Chaucer’s words:

Tim’s voice was faltering. He stopped, his eyes welling with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go on.’ He thrust the paper into Ingeborg’s hand and took several steps away from the little group.

Emotion can get to people on occasions such as this. What could Ingeborg do, except take up the recitation? She intoned in a firmer voice than Tim’s:

She became aware as she was speaking that Monica was walking ahead, tipping the ashes at the same time.

Sister Erica waited for the urn to empty and said, ‘Amen.’ It was as good a way as any to bring an end to the proceedings.

Monica said, ‘Thank you, all of you. What happened to Tim?’

A needless question. In full sight of everyone, Tim was sprinting away across the field, not in the direction of the car, but towards the motorway.

Diamond would have a fit.

‘I must stop him,’ Ingeborg said, kicking off her shoes. If her innate sense of occasion hadn’t browbeaten her into reciting Chaucer, she would have grabbed Tim the moment he stepped away. As it was, he was at least thirty yards off already. And he was quick. Bats and hell came to mind.

So it was a sudden transition from the dignity of the scattering to a cross-country chase. Ingeborg prided herself on her fitness. She could run and now she had to. She could feel Diamond’s fury whipping her forward (‘You let him escape? Were you sleeping on the job?’). Striding over the ploughed ground, ignoring the pain of the occasional stone under her feet, she went flat out to try and reduce the advantage.

Tim was bolting like a panicking goat, but he wasn’t a natural runner. He glanced over his shoulder and the long, brown hair got in the way and he had to drag it against his neck. When he sighted Ingeborg, he lost his line and veered left. Then he almost tripped. He staggered several paces just to stay on his feet.

She cut across the angle and gained yards. Her left heel struck a flint and she cried out with the stab of pain, yet she kept going. Action like this was what she craved in all those dull hours in the office. Even so, she was more of a sprinter than a distance runner and she knew from experience she wouldn’t last a long run. She urged herself into another burst of top speed.

Steadily she cut the distance Tim was ahead.

He was slowing appreciably.

Ten yards.

Five.

Two.

She dived. It wasn’t quite a rugby tackle, but she managed to grasp the flapping gilet and halt his by now faltering progress. Tim flung out an arm and she ducked and felt it pass closely over her head. His balance was going. He toppled over and hit the mud and brought Ingeborg with him.

Gasping loudly for air, he tried to fight her off, but she was in the superior position, bearing down on him from behind. She grasped his right arm and yanked it upwards. Then she struck him above the elbow with a karate shuto — the knife hand — that she knew would disable him. She grabbed his other wrist, slammed it against the numb one and handcuffed him. His resistance hadn’t amounted to much and now it was at an end.

She hauled herself up and stood over him. She, too, was panting like a dog.

‘On your feet.’

Not easy when you are pinioned. He achieved a kneeling posture first, and then forced one exhausted leg forward and levered himself up.

Ingeborg looked across the field to where Monica and her sister were standing open-mouthed at what they had just witnessed.

She told Tim, ‘Let’s go.’ And the pair of them dragged their aching limbs across the ground to unite the party again.

Erica, a headmistress by temperament if not by appointment, handed Ingeborg her shoes and said, ‘You both need a good bath after that. What on earth was it about?’

It was too soon after the scattering to go into detail. Ingeborg simply said, ‘My boss said to make sure we all travelled back together.’

While more coffee was being served in the museum office, the next phase of the police operation was under way outside in Blake Street. George the driver had moved the Land Rover and trailer to a new position at a right angle to the kerb on the far side of the Carroll brothers’ van, effectively sealing the street.

As an extra safeguard, Diamond drove a screwdriver through the nearside front tyre of the van and enjoyed the sound of the air escaping. A screwdriver is a versatile tool. He scraped enough paint off the van’s bodywork to satisfy himself that it had been sprayed and was originally silver. Then he smashed the side window and let himself in. Finding the murder weapon was too much to hope for, but after a methodical search he located two plastic replica handguns taped against the sides of the seats. Both were Webley revolvers. He showed them to George.

‘They’re toys, aren’t they?’ George said.

‘Not when a hitman points one at you. You’d take them seriously then. Under the ASBO legislation, it’s an offence to carry replicas in public. I’m thinking these were used in the hold-up at the auction.’

‘Fired, you mean?’

‘No. It’s likely the killers had one working weapon between them. These were used to back up the threat.’

‘Where’s the murder weapon? Still hidden in the van?’

‘They’ll have got rid of it unless they’re bigger idiots than I take them for.’

‘You’ve found your killer, then? Was it Wayne?’

‘They were in it together. They’ll all face a murder rap.’

‘Why? What was the point? Surely not to steal that old lump of stone?’

‘Tell you later,’ Diamond said. He’d spotted the flashing blues and twos at the end of the street. His request for back-up from Bridgwater police had been answered. It was time to interrupt the coffee drinkers.

Taunton police station with its interview facilities was the setting for Diamond’s face to face with Tim Carroll, now mostly cleaned up after the fracas in the field. Ingeborg (fully cleaned) sat beside Diamond. The duty solicitor was on the other side of the table with Tim.

‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to make a drama out of this,’ Diamond said to the prisoner after the preliminaries had been got through. ‘You’ve had a stressful time. Joining in the final rites of the man you killed was obviously a step too far. I can understand that.’ He’d found over the years that if you made an effort from the start to reach out to the suspect and understand his point of view, it helped, whoever you were interviewing.

Tim was admitting nothing, but there was a sign that he appreciated the show of sympathy. He pressed his lips together, parted them as if about to speak and then appeared to think better of it.

‘Let’s recap on your first involvement with Professor John Gildersleeve,’ Diamond went on. ‘You were a history student at Reading University, right? A first-year, October 1999 intake. I know you were because I’ve seen the list of undergraduates. You weren’t in Gildersleeve’s department, but as a historian you were offered a place on the dig at North Petherton he organised in the summer vacation. Good experience, you thought. How am I doing so far?’

Tim glanced at the solicitor, who was there to assist the man under arrest and see that he was treated fairly, but was learning the facts of the case as they unfolded. The lawyer simply raised his eyebrows as if to say that only Tim himself could judge how innocuous the information was.

Diamond didn’t wait for a response. ‘We both know what happened. The dig was no dig at all. It had already been dug. As the days went on and nothing was found, you students got discouraged and bored. Someone — and I suspect it was you — had brought cannabis with him and pretty soon Gildersleeve had a spaced-out team, in no condition to continue. It all ended in recrimination and bad odour. The professor was deeply scarred by the experience, more than any of you realised. He had never been too popular in the senior common room and now he became a laughing stock. As dean of the faculty, he felt entitled to respect.’

He paused — an opportunity for Tim to come back at him — but nothing was said. No sweat, he thought. Move on. You haven’t yet played your best cards.

‘When the new term started, you landed yourself deeply in trouble, dealing in cannabis. You were reported to the dean. This isn’t guesswork, Tim. I’ve checked with the university. It’s all documented in their files. You were sent down — for good.’

Tim blurted out, ‘He destroyed me. He didn’t give me a chance.’

The solicitor was quick to shush him.

Encouraged, Diamond said, ‘I’m sure it seemed harsh and still does, but you ought to realise the damage you’d already done to Gildersleeve’s self-esteem. In his mind, the failure of the Chaucer dig and the misconduct of the students were fused together in the same humiliating episode. Years later, he related it all to his new wife and she repeated it to me. He never forgot you. So when you came before him for dealing in drugs, he couldn’t avoid being influenced by what had happened in Somerset. It was a repeat offence as far as he was concerned. He expelled you, and no redress.’

Tim’s shoulders sagged, but he said nothing, locked in his own unhappy memories.

‘To your credit, you came back to Somerset, where you lived, and rebuilt your life. You got a job at the arts centre in Bridgwater. The interest in history hadn’t been knocked out of you. You joined the local archaeological society and took an interest in the early history of the area. They thought well of you. Unfortunately, when the economy went belly up you lost your job like everyone else. You worked for your brother instead, clearing houses. You’re not going to deny any of this because you told me about it yourself.’

‘That’s true,’ Tim said. The exchanges were still civil: a good sign.

‘And although it was a comedown compared to what you might have achieved as a university graduate, you had one remarkable success. Down in the basement of the arts centre, you found the Wife of Bath sculpture and recognised it for what it was. A personal triumph, that, and a sweet revenge, finding a major medieval carving with a direct link to Chaucer that probably had been recovered originally from the Chaucer house in Parker’s Field. You were so proud of the find that you took me down there and showed me the empty space where you first spotted the thing.’

‘You asked to see it,’ Tim pointed out.

‘You’re absolutely right. I had an interest. You were very obliging. But let’s backtrack to the excitement of that discovery, a terrific boost to your self-confidence. The people in the museum and your archaeological society were impressed. Terrific — until the Blake Museum committee discovered what a valuable asset the stone wife was. They were running the place on a modest grant from the council and donations and now they had a chance to boost their income by thousands of pounds. I don’t suppose you approved—’

‘I didn’t,’ Tim couldn’t resist saying.

‘But you understood the economics. You couldn’t do anything to stop the sale. And then — to your horror — you learned that your old enemy John Gildersleeve was taking a strong interest and apparently had the funds to bid high at the auction. All the old wounds were opened. The thought that your find was about to fall into his hands was more than you could bear. You had to stop it and you had the means.’ Diamond paused and watched across the table.

The reaction came, even if it was unspoken. Alarm, if not panic, was all too obvious in Tim’s eyes.

‘We know that Gildersleeve was shot with a thirty-eight calibre bullet that was typically fired from a Webley — almost an antique in itself. I’m going to make a guess now, and it won’t be far out. Working at house clearances, as you do, I’m sure you come across plenty of things tucked away in old places. Some of the generation who served in the war hung on to their service revolvers until they passed on and then the guns lay in the loft or under the floorboards for professionals like you and your brothers to find when you cleared the house. Don’t worry. I don’t expect to find the murder weapon — if, indeed, the shooting was murder.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Tim said, keyed up and quick to react.

The solicitor said, ‘Careful now.’

The interview was fast approaching the critical point. ‘Do you want to explain?’ Diamond asked.

Tim hesitated, and then shook his head.

‘Three masked gunmen were involved in the attempted hold-up at the auction,’ Diamond continued, still willing to lay out the facts. ‘Those balaclava masks worked well. Fortunately, we had a helpful witness — a Miss Topham, from Brighton, known in the trade as the glass lady — and she was standing behind the one we called the first gunman before he pulled the balaclava on. His head was blocking her view and she noticed a few things about it. He had long dark hair going grey. The hair had refused to grow over a scar on the back of his neck described by Miss Topham as like a little crater on the moon. And there were no lobes to his ears. Now fast forward to this morning. We’re lifting the stone off the trailer, I’m next to your brother Wayne, and when he leans over the stone I get a good view of the back of his neck, the hair, the moon crater, the ears.’

Tim’s attempts to stay aloof from the narrative were losing all conviction. He was trying to stare at the ceiling.

‘What’s more,’ Diamond pressed on, ‘just after I had the twinge in my back and cried out with the pain, Wayne said, “Nobody move” — the same words he used at the auction. Denis Doggart, the auctioneer, tells me he’s certain it was the voice he’d heard before. If Wayne was the spokesman for you three — and he seems to have been — I have to ask myself who fired the fatal shot, and why?’

The solicitor put a restraining hand over Tim’s arm. The intricacies of the case must have been difficult to follow, but when a fatal shot is mentioned, you don’t want your client uttering a single syllable.

Diamond played his ace. ‘It could make all the difference to the charge, the question of intent. Did you go to that auction with the clear intention of murdering Gildersleeve?’

‘No!’ Tim shouted. ‘Definitely not. It was never in the plan.’

The solicitor said to Diamond. ‘That’s enough. I’m stopping this now.’

But Tim saw this as his chance to head off the murder charge and he wasn’t letting it go by. ‘I only ever planned to get the stone back, to stop Gildersleeve from owning it. I knew he’d bid really high and he did. I couldn’t stomach the thought of it going to him.’ He swung around to the solicitor who had stood up and spread his arms as if he was herding geese. ‘Let me have my say, for God’s sake. The bastard had messed up my life already, big time. This was more than I could bear. I persuaded my brothers to help me take the stone back. We didn’t plan to kill him. We’d have hidden the stone where no one would ever find it. Wayne and Roger wouldn’t have agreed to murder anyone. They were carrying plastic guns. I only loaded mine in case I needed to fire a warning shot. He was shot because he went berserk in there. He was trying to grab the stone. I hadn’t expected that. He was always this cold, unfeeling guy. I panicked and pulled the trigger. That’s the truth of it. One shot and it killed him. How unlucky was that?’

‘Thank you,’ Diamond said. ‘We’ve got the picture now.’

While Diamond had been interviewing Tim, Keith Halliwell, with a Taunton detective for company, had taken statements from the other two brothers. Nothing said by Wayne or Roger conflicted with Tim’s account.

‘What happens next?’ Halliwell asked Diamond over beer and a sandwich with Ingeborg before they took to the road.

‘We transfer them to Bath and go over it all again.’

‘Is it a murder charge, or what?’

‘It’s homicide, for sure, and in the course of an attempted robbery.’

‘Tim on a murder rap and the others as accessories?’

‘Plus the driver. There must have been someone waiting in the van. We’ll talk to the CPS. My guess is that they’ll do Tim for murder and leave the court to decide on any leniency. A nice little earner for the lawyers.’ Diamond looked across the table at Ingeborg. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Great,’ she said, frowning. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I was thinking about the arrest in the field. I wasn’t there, but it sounded quite physical and you were covered in mud.’

‘It was nothing, guv.’

He smiled. Ingeborg was never going to admit to frailty, even if she was covered in bruises. ‘That’s all right, then.’

‘And you?’ she said.

‘Me?’

‘You gave quite a shout when you were lifting the Wife of Bath off the trailer. Were you faking, to distract us all while you looked at the back of Wayne’s head?’

‘I didn’t think of that,’ Diamond said. ‘Actually, I did feel something go in my lower back. I don’t mind admitting, it’s pretty sore.’

Halliwell winked at Ingeborg. ‘That’ll be the sting in the tail.’