The Summons

Chapter Two

“I was offered a job today.”

Stephanie Diamond lowered the evening paper sufficiently to look over the top edge and see if her husband was serious. “A proper job?”

“That’s open to debate.”

On the kitchen table between them was a three-quarters empty bottle of cheap red wine and a dish that had contained shepherd’s pie. The cork was already back in the wine to keep it from turning sour by next day. Stephanie limited them to one glass, not for reasons of health, but housekeeping. The Diamonds had learned to live prudently, if not frugally, in their basement flat in Addison Road, Kensington.

Supper was a precious interval in the day, the first chance to relax together. If anything of interest had happened, this was when they mentioned it. They didn’t always speak. Stephanie liked to work through the quick crossword on the back page of the Evening Standard. She generally needed to unwind after her afternoon serving in the Oxfam shop. It was difficult not to be irked by well-to-do Knightsbridge women who ransacked the rail for designer labels at bargain prices and still asked for a reduction.

Peter Diamond rarely glanced at the paper these days. Most of what they printed put him into black moods. He had stopped watching the television except for rugby and boxing. There was too much about the police-too much on the news and too much drama. He was trying to forget.

“But you’ve already got a job,” Stephanie said.

He nodded. “This is an evening job, as a model.”

She stared. Her mind was still on the fashion trade “What?”

“A model. This character with a bow tie and a tartan waistcoat approached me in Sainsbury’s. They’re short of male models at Chelsea College.”

She put down the paper. “An artist’s model?”

“Right.”

“With your figure?”

“My figure is simply crying out to be captured in charcoal, according to my new friend. I have a Rubenesque form and challenging contours.”

“Did he say that?”

“Have you ever heard me talk that way?”

“You wouldn’t pose naked?”

“Why not?” This was a favorite game, starting with a doubtful premise that he proceeded to develop with high seriousness. Better still when Steph took it all as gospel. “The pay isn’t bad.”

“I don’t think I want my husband exposing himself to a roomful of students.”

“You make it sound like a criminal offense.”

“Some of them are straight out of school. Young girls.”

“I’m sure they’ll hold themselves in check,” he said in the same reasonable tone. “My challenging contours may set their pulses racing, but these classes are supervised, you know.”

He had overplayed his hand. Stephanie said, “I think you made this up.”

“I swear I didn’t. He gave me his card with a phone number to ring.”

She was silent for a while. Then she said, “What’s a seven-letter word meaning odd?”

“Is that what you think of my efforts to supplement our income?”

“No, it’s in the crossword.”

“I’ve no idea. I wouldn’t waste time on it if I were you.”

She countered with, “Perhaps if you did, you might still have a good job in the police.”

He grinned amiably. “No, crosswords in themselves wouldn’t be enough. You also have to listen to opera in the car.” Almost two years had gone by since he had rashly resigned his job as a detective superintendent in the Avon and Somerset Police. It seemed longer. Between bouts of unemployment he’d scraped a living serving in a bar, taking turns as Father Christmas, guarding Harrods, helping in a school for the handicapped, delivering newspapers and-currently-collecting supermarket trolleys from a car park. Now was not an auspicious time to be middle-aged and looking for salaried employment.

Stephanie’s job as a school meals supervisor had come to an end in July, when cuts were made in local authority spending. She had tried repeatedly to find paid employment since then. She said wistfully, “Speaking of the old days, there was a program about the Kennet and Avon Canal the other afternoon.”

Now it was his turn to be surprised. “I didn’t know boats interested you.”

“They don’t. It was the scenery. The views of Bath. You remember how elegant it could look with the sun on those long Georgian terraces? That honey-colored glow that I’ve never seen anywhere else?”

Picking his words carefully, because one of the reasons why he loved her was that she had taught him to see so much he had never noticed before, he said, “Actually, I remember being mightily relieved to get out of the center on those warm afternoons when the place looked like a picture postcard and felt like a Turkish bath. I can’t see us ever getting back there, Steph, except on a day visit. It was a phase in our lives, a reasonably happy one. Let’s settle for that.”

She said, “It’s hard work. Harder than you think.”

“What is?”

“Posing for a life class.”

Something in her tone made him hesitate. “How would you know?”

She smiled faintly. “When I was single and needed pocket money I did some modeling at the local tech.”

She had ambushed him properly this time. He was appalled. She always spoke the truth.

“Nude, you mean?”

“Mm.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

She said, “It’s not the sort of thing one drops into a conversation. Anyway, I wouldn’t do it now.” After a pause she added, “But then I haven’t been asked.”

He recovered his poise sufficiently to say, “If you like, I can put in a word for you at Chelsea College.”

“Don’t you dare.”

There was another silence.

“I think it’s strange,” Diamond finally said.

She reddened and her eyes narrowed. “What is?”

“The seven-letter word you wanted.”

Much later in bed, he told her, “It’s too bloody late to say this, Steph, but I was an idiot to quit the police. That day I stormed out of the ACC’s office, I had no idea we’d end up like this, in a squalid basement in the back streets.”

“Do you mind? It isn’t squalid at all. I keep it clean.”

“Humble, then.”

“And I don’t see how you can possibly describe Addison Road as a back street. Just listen. No, listen to the traffic. It’s gone midnight and it still sounds like Piccadilly.”

He wouldn’t be shaken from his confessional mood. “If it were just my own life, fair enough, but it was yours and you had no say in the decision. It was the most selfish bloody thing I’ve ever done.”

She said, “It was a question of principle.”

“Yes, mine, not yours.”

“If they didn’t appreciate your worth as a detective, they didn’t deserve to keep you.”

He gave a short, sardonic laugh. “They were only too happy to get shot of me.” He sighed, turned over and talked to the wall. “I deserved to go. I didn’t fit in.”

Stephanie wriggled toward him. “Yes, you’re a brute to be with.”

“Inconsiderate,” said he.

“Tactless,” said she.

“Boorish.”

“And self-pitying.” She tugged at his pajama trousers and slapped his exposed rear. “Does that make you feel any better?”

“Not really.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Who’s talking about sport?”

She pressed against him and whispered in his ear, “I am.”

Apparently the fates wanted some sport as well, because at this intimate moment came the scrape of shoes on the concrete steps outside.

“What the heck…?”

“Some drunks, I expect,” murmured Stephanie.

“Or kids, messing about. Sounds like more than one to me.

“Kids at this hour?”

They lay still and waited.

“Can’t even find the bell,” said Diamond.

On cue, the bell was rung.

“What sort of time is this?” muttered Diamond. “It must be after midnight.”

“It is. Are you going?”

“Sod that. I’m not at home to anyone. I’ll look through the curtain.” He got up and went to the window. Two youngish men in padded jackets were standing out there faintly illuminated by a streetlamp. They didn’t look drunk. “I’m foxed,” said Diamond.

Stephanie sat up and put on the bedside lamp.

“Switch it off!” Diamond hissed at her.

But the callers must have seen the light because they rang again and rattled the knocker as well.

“I’d better go.”

“Do you think you should? They can’t be up to any good at this hour.”

“I’ll keep the chain on.” He reached for his dressing gown. The knocking continued, loud enough to disturb the entire house, so he shouted, “All right, all right.”

He opened the front door the fraction the safety chain allowed, and looked out.

“Mr. Peter Diamond?”

He frowned. A couple of passing drunks wouldn’t have known his name. “Yes?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Smith and this is Sergeant Brown. Avon and Somerset CID.”

“Avon and Somerset? You’re way off your patch, aren’t you?”

“Would you mind if we come in?” The man held a police identity card close enough to the crack for Diamond to see that he was, indeed, called Smith. If you’d wanted to invent a couple of names, would you seriously have chosen Smith and Brown?

“It’s bloody late, you know,” Diamond complained. “What’s this about? Has somebody died?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then?”

“Could we discuss it inside, Mr. Diamond?”

He had to admit that this was authentic CID-speak for dealing with a potential witness-or humoring a dangerous suspect. “I’m ex-CID myself. I know my rights.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I’m under suspicion of something, I want to be told what it is.”

“You can rest assured about that, sir. We’re not here to interview you.”

“But you’re up from Somerset, so it isn’t just a social call.”

“Right, sir. It’s urgent, or we wouldn’t be disturbing you.”

Diamond unfastened the chain. At the same time he called out to Stephanie, wanting to put her mind at rest and realizing as the words came out that he would not succeed, “It’s all right, love. They’re