The Summons

Chapter Twenty

Two police cars with beacons flashing swung out into Manvers Street just as Diamond was about to make the turn into the yard. Commander Warrilow, with patrician self-importance etched all over his features, was seated beside the driver in the second vehicle. Yet another “sighting” of Mount-joy, Diamond presumed, and yawned.

When he had parked, he went in and tracked Julie to the canteen, where she rose without obvious haste from a table of CID lads and came to meet him.

With a tolerant grin meant to soften the edge of his sarcasm, he said, “High level discussions, Inspector?”

“Just getting the latest buzz,” she responded evenly. “They’re the Bumblebee squad.”

The grin faded.

Julie added, “Want to whisk me away?” She was learning how to deal with his irony. Too well.

He said, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Have you got time for a coffee?”

“Do you drink the coffee in this place?”

Her eyes widened. “There isn’t anything the matter with it, is there?” She hadn’t entirely got his measure.

Of course he left her to wonder about the coffee. He now felt he’d given as good as he’d got. “Get me a tea and we’ll update each other.”

Presently they had a table to themselves and Julie reported on her search of the Billington residence. “If the cassette I was looking for was there, I’m afraid it eluded me. I searched everywhere I could think and I had a SOCO to help. It’s safe to say that Winston Billington got rid of it, if he ever acquired it at all.”

“Find anything else?”

“A packet of raunchy pictures stuffed into an envelope in the secret drawer of an antique writing desk. What a letdown! I thought I’d struck gold and all I found was backsides.”

“Whose backsides?” Diamond solemnly asked. “Any we know?”

She shook her head. “How could I tell? Faces didn’t feature at all.”

“Pictures, you say. Photos?”

“Scraps of paper clipped out of soft-porn mags. Pathetic, really.”

“We all get our thrills some way,” he said philosophically.

“Well, I found it sad.”

“You’re not sorry for him?”

“Sorry for the women in the pictures, reduced to that.”

“They don’t need your sympathy. It pays better than the police.”

“I wouldn’t do it for anything.”

Fleetingly, he was reminded of the modeling offer he’d been made by Chelsea College, and chose not to mention it. That was for Art, not pornography, and he hadn’t signed up- yet. “And you found nothing else of interest?”

“No.”

“Letters, a diary?”

“We were looking for something the shape and size of an audio cassette,” she reminded him. “We didn’t want to get sidetracked.”

“Understood.” He summarized his interview with Prue Shorter, taking care not to understate his astuteness in recognizing Una Moon in one of the photos of the Trim Street squatters. “Beautiful how things link up.”

“Just a coincidence, I expect,” Julie commented with serious want of tact.

“Coincidence be buggered!” said he in an injured tone. “She’s living in a squat in Widcombe, so it’s quite logical that she should have been in squats before. I wasn’t surprised to spot her there. These crusties all know each other. They represent-what’s the jargon I’m groping for?-a whole subculture.”

“Are you going to question her?” asked Julie, adding, when he didn’t answer, “Correction. Am I going to?”

“One of us is, for sure. My big mistake four years ago was that I didn’t follow all the leads we had.”

“You can’t possibly follow up every lead in a murder investigation. And now with only two of us..

“Una Moon may be a crucial witness,” he stated with an oracular air.

“But if Winston Billington is the murderer, where does she fit in?”

“I’m far from certain that he is.”

She waited interestedly for him to say more. It wasn’t often that Peter Diamond admitted to doubts of any sort.

“We shouldn’t count on a confession when he recovers consciousness,” was all he added.

“He was seen going into the house.”

“If you believe G.B.”

“Don’t you?”

“G.B. is, or was, a drugs dealer. Telling lies goes with the job.”

Julie was plainly unsettled by all this. Diamond seemed ready to jettison most of the progress they had made, and she didn’t understand why. “But we have it confirmed by Mrs. Billington that her husband came back early from Tenerife. That checks with G.B.’s statement.”

“Checks with it, yes. Confirms it, no.”

She didn’t appreciate the distinction. “We know Billington perjured himself in court.”

“But we don’t know why.”

She sighed and said, “Something is going over my head here.”

He explained. “The point is this. Billington cut short his holiday and returned early. We don’t have copper-bottomed proof yet, but since we have corroboration from two sources we’ll take this as more than likely true. It’s the most interesting thing to emerge since you and I started on this. Now suppose G.B. also got to know this information, either back in 1990 when it happened, or some time since. He could easily have concocted a story to implicate Billington in the murder.”

“I understand that. But why?”

“To shift the suspicion.”

“Away from himself, you mean?”

“Or someone he wants to protect.”

She was still skeptical. “How would G.B. have found out about Billington’s holiday arrangements?”

“Through the grapevine. All those crusties at the Trim Street squat had met Britt when she came to do her story on the place. There was a lot of interest in the murder. Billington’s evidence at the trial was written up in the press. His picture was in the local papers at the time of the inquest. It only wanted one person to recall seeing him here in Bath at the time he was supposed to have been in Tenerife.”

She pondered the matter. “But we’ve been assuming that Billington returned early because he fancied his chance of some action with Britt. He bought flowers at Tenerife Airport, remember.”

“So Mrs. Billington told us.”

“We can check the credit card records.”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying all this may not have happened?”

“I’m saying there may be another explanation.”

“He told his wife the story of the emergency meeting in London.”

“She told us he told her.”

“Don’t you believe her either?”

“Not until we’ve checked it ourselves. I’ve got a list of things that need following up ASAP, and one of them is that meeting. Get on the phone to Billington’s head office and see if they have any record of it. I also want to know if Una Moon has any form.”

“I’ll run her name through the PNC,” said Julie, forgetting Diamond’s computer phobia.

“Don’t we keep records of our own in this Constabulary?” he said peevishly.

“The PNC is quicker.”

Rather than arguing, he said, “As it’s so quick, see what you can find on the rest of the bunch: Billington, Marcus Martin, Jake Pinkerton and G.B.”

She didn’t protest. “Do we have a surname for G.B.?”

This wrongfooted him. He remembered trying to tease out the name, and failing. Annoyed with himself, he fired one of his regular broadsides: “It’s all initials these days. We don’t need words anymore. PNC, SOCO, CPS, PACE. Three days back in Bath and my brain is clogged with letters of the alphabet.”

“What do you suggest I do, then?”

“About the Police National Computer? Do you really want me to answer that?”

She smiled faintly. “I meant about G.B.”

When really taxed, he could sometimes dig deep into his memory. “There’s a unit to monitor the crusties over that midsummer festival nonsense every year. Operation Stonehenge, or whatever they call themselves. OS, no doubt. They ought to know his name.”

“I’ll try them. Shall I check Prue Shorter while I’m at it?”

“On the computer? Yes.”

“She’s still a suspect?”

He nodded, as if the question were superfluous.

Julie said, “I wasn’t sure if you’d ruled her out.”

“Why should I?”

“You thought originally that she might be a lesbian, jealous about Britt’s affairs with men, but now we know she had a daughter, that motive is out.”

He said, “I don’t see why. Did the sexual revolution pass you by? There are plenty of lesbian mothers about. Haven’t you heard the expression AC/DC?”

Julie exercised restraint, refraining from pointing out that he was now using initials himself. “Fair enough. I’ll check her, too.”

He finished his tea. “Whilst you expose yourself to gamma radiation, I’m going to look for John Wigfull. I want to know whether they’ve charged Mrs. Billington yet.”

Wigfull was in the main control room using the phone. Several others were speaking into headsets. In fact, a major alert seemed to be on. Briefly, he moved the phone away from his mouth and muffled it against his chest. “Have you heard?” he asked Diamond. “We’re about to move in on Mountjoy.”

“Where?”

Wigfull put up his hand to interrupt and spoke into the mouthpiece again. “Look, we’re fully stretched here. If I can’t get something sorted soon, I’m trying Wilts.”

“Is this another of Warrilow’s wild goose chases?” Diamond asked.

Wigfull shook his head and said down the line, “Thanks. Just as soon as you possibly can.”

“In Bath?” Diamond asked.

He put down the phone. “The Empire Hotel.”

“A hotel?” He plucked the name out of his past, clicked his fingers, and said, “Right. You mean that enormous place behind the Guildhall that’s been empty for years.”

“They’re in one of the top-floor rooms overlooking Orange Grove. Young Samantha was spotted forty minutes ago on the balcony trying to attract attention.”

“Are you sure it was her?”

“Totally. She was topless and waving a T-shirt like a flag.”

“You know her as well as that?”

“I’m telling you,” said Wigfull, blushing scarlet, more in anger than embarrassment. “A Japanese tourist was taking a video from the top story of the Ham Gardens car park. He brought it straight here. On the zoom you can see it’s Samantha, even though her hair has been dyed.”

“Any sign of Mountjoy?”

“Hard to see.”

“So what’s happening?”

“Warrilow is there, directing operations.”

“You’d better warn him that Mountjoy is armed.”

“What?” Wigfull swayed toward Diamond. “What did you say?”

“He has a gun, a handgun. If they’re moving in, they ought to be told.”

“Bloody hell!” Wigfull snatched up the phone again. “Get me Mr. Warrilow, fast.” To Diamond, he said, “For crying out loud! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Diamond treated the question as less urgent than Wigfull’s business on the phone, and, sure enough, in less than the time it would have taken to answer, the vital information was being relayed to Warrilow.

“Yes, with a handgun… Peter Diamond tells me… I don’t know, sir. I haven’t had a chance to ask him… Of course… In the meantime, will you…? Yes, I think that’s essential.” To Diamond, he said, “I’m lost for words. People could have been killed.”

“Is he pulling them back?”

“Of course he is. My God, Peter, you’d better fill me in fast.”

That was what Diamond proceeded to do, explaining succinctly how Mountjoy had ambushed him in the Francis the previous evening at the point of an automatic. “Don’t ask me where he got it from, or whether it’s loaded. That didn’t emerge. We talked. He told me he was becoming impatient. He wanted results.” He paused to receive the heat of Wigfull’s outrage.

“All this was last night. Last night, for crying out loud? I simply don’t understand why you didn’t report it.”

“Frankly, John, because I believe Warrilow will have him shot. Now that he knows the man is armed, he’s justified in taking his life. You know the form. You know how sieges end.”

“If it’s Mountjoy’s life or one of ours, we’ll shoot the bastard,” Wigfull declared.

“And I can’t fault your logic.”

This sounded like capitulation and caught Wigfull off balance. His next remark was couched less aggressively. “But you were willing to expose police officers to fire without warning them.”

“No. The minute I heard they were moving in, I told you what I know.”

“Why not last night?”

“I just explained.”

“What’s so special about Mountjoy, that you want him kept alive?”

Diamond insisted gently, “I’m almost certain that he’s an innocent man.”

“Innocent? He’s kidnapped Mr. Tott’s daughter. That’s a serious crime.”

“I mean innocent of murder, the murder I sent him down for.”

“I see! You believe what Mrs. Billington told us last night, that stuff about her husband killing Britt Strand?”

“All I’m saying is that Mount joy appears to have suffered a miscarriage of justice. I was chiefly responsible and I want to see him cleared.”

“If he is, it won’t reflect credit on you.”

At this, Diamond erupted. “Do you think I’m looking for bloody credit? I spent long enough in the police to know what that amounts to. I had a pretty good record as a detective, but I wasn’t infallible, and when I make a mistake I have the guts to admit it and do something about it.”

“I don’t understand this,” said Wigfull, raking a hand through his dark hair. “I just don’t understand. You were brought in because of Samantha Tott, not Mountjoy. Her life was under threat and Mountjoy was making demands. We had you brought here to keep him sweet while we recaptured him.”

“I made it crystal clear that if I stayed, I would look at the case again. Keeping people sweet doesn’t come naturally to me, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I don’t know how you hoped to get anywhere, just two of you.” A thought struck Wigfull and it was almost possible to see it strike. “Did Inspector Hargreaves know that Mountjoy is armed?”

“She wasn’t there,” Diamond said, wanting to cut off that avenue.

“But did you inform her?”

“Keep Julie out of this.”

“You may think because you’re no longer on the strength that you can take chances with men’s lives, but she’s one of us. If she knew about that gun-”

“She didn’t,” Diamond lied and then deflected the attack. “What you need is someone who knows the building. It’s a rabbit warren by the look of it. Have you got hold of the plans yet?”

“We’ve only just had the alert.”

“Try the City Council. Property and Engineering Services. It’s their baby. They must have a set of plans. With any luck, someone there will know exactly what it’s like inside the building.”

“I was getting round to that.”

“I’d get round to it pronto if I were you, John.” He waited while Wigfull made another phone call.

As soon as the call was finished, Diamond started along another devious trail. “Mountjoy is doing his cause no good at all by carrying a weapon. I accept that. We’re bound to use marksmen now and a handgun is no use against a high velocity rifle. His chance of survival is small.”

“It would be simple if he didn’t have Samantha with him,” Wigfull reflected, exactly as he was meant to.

Diamond gave a nod. “You’ve got a hostage situation, and it wants delicate handling. Can you trust Warrilow not to take any risks? Speaking personally, I’m far from confident that he can handle an armed siege.”

“That’s not a matter for me,” Wigfull said, ever mindful of rank.

“Has Mr. Farr-Jones been informed? Mr. Tott?”

“It’s only just happened.”

“If I were you, I’d cover myself, make sure they were fully briefed.” The trail was opening out and the way ahead was clear.

Wigfull acted on the advice and got on the phone again. After speaking to both of the top brass, he informed Diamond, “We’re to proceed to the hotel at once. The Chief wants a meeting.”

“With Warrilow present?”

“Yes. Shall we go?”

An interested crowd had gathered, attracted by the pulsing blue beacons on the police cars parked in front of the ornate facade of the once-gracious hotel in the center of Bath. The construction of the Empire had spanned the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign and the first of King Edward VII’s and its design seemed to epitomize the change of monarchs; five stories were formal in style, typical of late Victorian public buildings, while the sixth burst into a rollicking joke. The top of the hotel celebrated three disparate styles: a red-tiled twin gable that might have been borrowed from a suburban villa; a Dutch gable defined in gracious curves; and a turret, seven-sided and castellated. In consequence it was the most vilified building in Bath, variously described in books about the city as “huge and execrable”; “a monolithic monster”; “an eclectic piece of nonsense”; “a prime example of Edwardian bad taste”; “crazy round the tops”; “a fearful mock-Jacobean skyscraper with a touch of Lacock Abbey in the top corner”; and “as bad in this setting as a gasometer.” But Peter Diamond had an affection for it amounting to empathy; often his own appearance drew comments almost as harsh.

Tott had already arrived and was standing on the turf of the Orange Grove roundabout staring up at the end of the building where his daughter had been sighted, the twin gables to the left. Warrilow was speaking earnestly to him-the man whose opinion would probably hold sway-getting in his five cents’ worth before the crucial decisions were debated. Wigfull marched over to join in the decision making.

Seeing that the Chief Constable hadn’t yet appeared, Diamond didn’t immediately join the party. Nothing constructive could come from a shouting match with Warrilow, who no doubt blamed him for ruining the recapture operation. Warrilow, another career man like Wigfull, could be counted on to conduct himself decorously when Farr-Jones was present.

Instead, he took a walk around the perimeter of the Empire, faintly interested to discover how Mountjoy had got in, but mainly to gain a few moments’ quiet thought. What was decided presently would settle far more than John Mount-joy’s fate.

The hotel entrances had been made secure with padlocks. Along the sides facing the street, a thirty-foot-deep stone gully behind railings and covered with an iron grille made things difficult for potential intruders. He guessed that the weak points were at the back. Turning left into Boat Stall Lane, the narrow passage dividing the rear of the hotel and the Rummer public house, he came to the ramp descending to Eastgate, the medieval arch below street level that had once formed part of the city boundary. There, in a murky, evil-smelling passage looking like a leftover set from a Hammer horror film, was the Empire’s delivery bay.

By a barred window he happened to notice cut into the wall several initials and dates, D.P.D., RN GUARD, 1940 was one. It was not totally inconceivable that this was his own Uncle Don, who had served in the navy during the war. Most of the carvings were made by navy guards, a reminder that the building had been taken over by the Admiralty at the outbreak of war and remained in the hands of the Ministry of Defense until 1989. The Empire hadn’t functioned as a hotel for over half a century.

Progressing along the passage to a stretch white with pigeon droppings, he examined the double doors leading to the Empire’s cellars. The doors were sturdy enough, but one of the bolts securing them had been forced from the wood. A single padlock remained. This, he guessed, was a likely point of entry for Mounrjoy. Whilst looking at the padlock to see if anyone had tampered with it he was surprised by a voice at his shoulder saying, “What do you think you’re doing, squire?”

Turning, he found himself in the presence of a large, young, bearded constable in uniform.

Chastened, Diamond said, “You don’t know me? I’m Peter Diamond.”

“Are you now?”

“I just got here with Inspector-sorry, Chief Inspector- Wigfull.”

It was a consolation to discover that the name of his successor didn’t make much more impression than his own. “In what capacity, sir?”

Difficult to answer. “A, em, negotiator. I’m here to negotiate with the kidnapper.”

“Well, I’m here to keep the public away from this part of the building, sir.”

“Keep it up, then.” He thought of adding that guarding the doors was a long tradition; only the constable didn’t look as if he had a sense of history. So Diamond moved back up the ramp and into the yard at the rear of the Guildhall where the mayor and other VIPs parked their cars. His thoughts were still with those navy guardsmen. They would be in their mid-seventies now, at least-if they had survived. Was that scraping on the wall the only mark in life they had ever made? In the services in wartime their destiny was out of their control. They might have gone down with the Ark Royal, as Uncle Don had. But Peter Diamond in 1994 was a free agent, thank God. He’d given up all that nonsense about duty and rank and yes, sir, no, sir. Hadn’t he? Deep down, did he want to enlist again?

Better focus on the present problem, he decided, and face the logic of this siege: as soon as Mountjoy was recaptured or shot, the reinvestigation of the Britt Strand murder would be terminated. None of the top brass wanted the original verdict overturned. Avon and Somerset had avoided all the bad publicity that other forces had reaped in recent years through unsafe verdicts and evidence of corruption. They would be mightily relieved to pack him off to London and forget about him. He’d always known it would be so.

Recalling the start, when he had been press-ganged into this bizarre assignment, he thanked his stars that he’d had the sense to realize that he had scope for bargaining, and insisted on a genuine investigation. He’d felt deprived for too long of the work he did best. He hadn’t gone into it expecting to uncover a miscarriage of justice-least of all in a case he’d handled himself. Yet now that flaws in the original investigation were revealed, he was personally committed to discovering the truth. If in the process he exposed his own mistakes the first time around, so what? To his knowledge, he’d never once sent down an innocent man. Until, possibly, now. It was one thing to make a mistake; quite another to cover it up. If he was going to live with himself in future, he had to reveal the truth about the death of Britt Strand.

He needed more time. How long, he didn’t know.

Hold on, mate, he thought suddenly, audaciously. I do know. I need indefinite time. I must have my old job back, nothing less. I must have it for Steph and for myself. I’m a detective, tried and tested, a good sleuth, not infallible, but better than John Wigfull will ever be. I was never cut out to be an artists’ model, or a supermarket-trolley man, or a barman, or a Father Christmas. I catch villains. That’s what I do best. And I can do it again. I have a unique opportunity to get what I want.

My job back.

He had come right around the hotel to the Orange Grove again. He felt resolute, positive, ready to take on the high command. There was only one drawback: the high command had vanished. Nobody was standing on the roundabout.

He walked over to one of the police cars and spoke to a sergeant he knew. “Any idea what happened to Commander Warrilow and the others?”

“They decided to pull back, Mr. Diamond, out of the line of fire.”

“For heaven’s sake, he’s only got a small handgun. He’s not likely to hit anyone from there!”

“You’ll find them up the street, sir.” He pointed and said with a touch of embarrassment, “On Bog Island.”

And where better to spout opinions, Diamond observed to himself, than on the triangle of pavement given its local name because of the underground public toilets once sited there?

Bog Island was a further hundred yards or so from the hotel. He set off at the double.

The Chief Constable had already arrived. The four faces turned to look at him and the message they conveyed was not friendly. They could not have looked more disapproving if he had personally supplied Mountjoy with the gun. Farr-Jones remarked, “I’m not surprised you’re the last to arrive.”

Wigfull, the creep, hadn’t passed on the news that he was already on the scene.

“I was checking the rear of the building,” Diamond informed them. “Just making sure there’s an officer there-and there is. Haven’t had time to look at the Parade Gardens. There’s a way into the cellars under the road. I presume you’ve covered it,” he said directly to Warrilow, whose face was quick to register a satisfying doubt.

“Have you?” Farr-Jones asked.

Warrilow stood back and passed a hand around his chin, as though checking when he had last shaved. “I’m not entirely sure, sir. I delegated this to the inspector I am using, Inspector Belshaw. No doubt he will have posted his men strategically. He’s one of yours, of course.”

“I wouldn’t count on Belshaw,” Diamond said, pressing his advantage. “He’s a Bristol man. Not many locals know that way into the hotel.”

“Better check,” Farr-Jones instructed Warrilow, who gave Diamond a murderous glare and went off to deal with the matter. Then there was a question for Diamond, “Is there a way in from Parade Gardens?”

“In theory, yes. You could get in from the colonnade overlooking the weir. But you’d have to break through armor-plate doors. It will take him four or five minutes to check.”

“Hm. I understand your motive, Mr. Diamond, only I wouldn’t want you to think I support it. Now that we’re family, so to speak,” the Chief Constable smoothly went on to say, “you had better explain why the devil you didn’t inform us last night that the man is armed.”

He gave the explanation he’d given to Wigfull, adding, mainly to get support from Tott, “God help Samantha when the shooting starts.”

Farr-Jones said, “You’re not seriously suggesting that we handle this without issuing firearms?”

“I’m suggesting that some idiot with a telescopic rifle could cause a tragedy. Mountjoy has a small handgun, an automatic. We’re not in much danger down here. Samantha’s the one I fear for. I think we should play this in a way that doesn’t panic Mountjoy. Nothing provocative. No threats and certainly no shooting.”

Tott gave an affirmative grunt and nodded his head.

Farr-Jones wasn’t convinced yet. “In the last analysis, if the man has a weapon, he can hold it to Samantha’s head and walk out of there. He can make idiots of us all.”

“Rather that than blow her brains out,” said Diamond.

Tott shut his eyes.

Diamond went on, “It’s looking increasingly likely that Mountjoy didn’t commit murder in 1990. He’s a desperate man trying to establish his innocence.”

“At the point of a gun?” said Farr-Jones.

“Yes, he’s an idiot,” Diamond admitted. “The point is that he won’t use that gun unless someone else fires first. He’s exhausted, under extreme stress, yet he knows that his world collapses altogether if he shoots anyone. If I can prove beyond doubt that someone other than Mountjoy murdered Britt Strand, we can end this siege without bloodshed.”

“Can you?”

Diamond wanted to sound positive. “I’m getting close. I know enough already to believe in Mountjoy’s innocence. Proving it is mote difficult.”

“Would you be willing to talk to the man-negotiate if necessary?”

“I have, more than once. He wants something more tangible than my good will. If I get the proof I’m looking for, yes, I’ll be willing to talk to him again. Without it, there’s no point. He’s not going to surrender on some vague promise that I’ll keep beavering away.”

“No more than we can hold off,” said Farr-Jones. “You’re going to have to produce the rabbit out of the hat, Mr. Diamond, and produce it fast.”

There was a silence, deliberate on Diamond’s part, while he picked his words. What was said now would amount to one of the most crucial statements he would ever make. “Chief Constable, I must remind you that I’m a civilian. I’m under no obligation to do anything. I can walk away now, straight up Pierrepont Street to the station and get on the next train to London.”

“You wouldn’t do that?” said Farr-Jones, meaning it to sound like a statement, and not succeeding.

Tott said huskily, “You can’t. My daughter’s up there with a gunman. You can’t abandon her.”

Without betraying the least compassion, Diamond remarked, “It will get resolved without my help, one way or another.”

“No!” said Tott, grabbing his arm.

Farr-Jones said more shrewdly, “This is a negotiating position, isn’t it? What are your terms?”

Diamond kept them waiting, as if taking a long view of the mountain of choice that was before him. “First, we stand off. No shooting. No storming the building. Nothing that panics Mount joy.”

“For how long?”

He glanced at his watch. “Until midnight. That gives me almost twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours!” said Tott in desperation.

It wasn’t in Diamond’s plan to bring comfort to the Assistant Chief Constable. “This must be given in the form of an order to Commander Warrilow.”

Farr-Jones took a deep, audible breath. “Very well-if you undertake to talk Mountjoy down and secure Samantha’s release. I appreciate that you need time to get the evidence to satisfy the man.”

“And there’s another condition,” said Diamond. “I must be reinstated.”

After a pause while he took in the sense of what had been suggested, Farr-Jones said, “That’s not on.”

Ignoring him, Diamond added, “As head of the Murder Squad.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“You were dismissed.”

“No, Chief Constable, I resigned on a matter of principle. I made my protest. Now you need me back.”

“It isn’t a question of need-” said Farr-Jones.

“Fine,” said Diamond nonchalantly, “I’ll be off, then.” He raised his trilby.

“Wait.” There was an awkward silence, whilst Farr-Jones grappled with the implications. “We’re up to strength in senior posts. I might be able to speak to the chairman of the Police Authority. It’s fraught with problems. If we took you back, Lord knows what the press would make of it when this Mountjoy business hits the headlines. It’s going to look as if we’re rewarding you for mishandling the case in the first place.”

“They’ll have a field day,” Diamond cheerfully concurred.

“If I said I would give it serious consideration…”

“… I would say you’re on your own, gentlemen. I think the next train leaves at 1:27.” He started to turn away and spotted that John Wigfull’s face had drained of color.

“All right,” Farr-Jones decided. “You can have what you’re asking for, Diamond. You bring this siege to a peaceful end by-midnight and you can have your job back. I guarantee it.”

Diamond held out his hand for Farr-Jones to grip.