The Summons

CID.”

He led them into the living room. Both officers took stock of the place with expressions suggesting that they couldn’t understand how a former superintendent had sunk so low.

“Coffee?”

“Please phone this number immediately, Mr. Diamond.” Inspector Smith handed across a piece of paper and added in an afterthought, “You do have a phone?”

Diamond walked to it.

He noticed Sergeant Brown turn and close the door, and it wasn’t to stop a draft. They wanted to prevent Steph from hearing what was said. This cloak-and-dagger stuff was tiresome.

He pressed out the number.

It didn’t have to ring more than a couple of times. A voice said, “Yes?”

“Diamond speaking.”

“Excellent. I’m Farr-Jones, Chief Constable of Avon and Somerset. I don’t believe we have met.”

If they had, they wouldn’t have spent long in each other’s company. Farr-Jones’s voice was redolent of golf clubs and smart dinner parties that Diamond would have avoided like the plague. But the name was familiar. Patrick Farr-Jones had been appointed to Avon and Somerset about eighteen months ago after serving as ACC in Norfolk. The Chief Constable sitting up to take a call in the small hours? This had to be high level.

“You probably guess what has prompted this call, Mr. Diamond,” the velvet tones articulated.

“No,” said Diamond.

The terse response derailed Mr. Farr-Jones. He evidently wanted some cooperation, so after a short hiatus he started again with a compliment. “Well said. A good detective assumes nothing.”

“I’m not a detective anymore, Mr. Farr-Jones.”

“True, but-”

“And it’s debatable whether I was ever a good detective.”

“My information is that you were very good.”

“Pity nobody thought so at the time,” said Diamond. “What should I have guessed? If it was something in the papers, I don’t read them, except to look for jobs.”

“You haven’t heard about Mountjoy, then?”

An image from years ago flickered in his brain: a bedroom, a woman’s body on the bed in pale blue pajamas bloodied with stab wounds. And there was a bizarre feature that had got into all the papers. Stuffed into her mouth and scattered across her body were the heads of a dozen red roses in bud. This ritualistic feature of the murder had created a sensation at the time. “What about Mountjoy?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It was all over the papers last week. He’s out. He escaped from Albany.”

“God help us!”

On October 22, 1990, Diamond had arrested John Grainger Mountjoy for the murder of Britt Strand, a journalist, in a flat in Larkhall, Bath. He had been sentenced to life imprisonment.

Farr-Jones added, “He’s made his way here. An incident has occurred, an extremely serious incident.”

“And you believe it’s Mountjoy?”

“We’re certain.”

“How do I come into this?”

“We need you here. It’s essential that you come.”

“Hold on, Mr. Farr-Jones. I quit two years ago. I’m not on the strength anymore.”

“Kindly hear me out, Mr. Diamond. This is more than a dangerous man on the run. He’s created an emergency, a major emergency, and I can’t say any more than that over the phone except that we have asked for and achieved a press embargo. As an ex-superintendent you’ll appreciate that we don’t go to such lengths unless it is justified by the sensitivity of the incident.”

“And you think I can help?”

“It isn’t like that.”

“What is it like, exactly?”

“Didn’t I just say that I can’t go into details?”

“Why not, if there’s an embargo? Surely that makes it safe to talk.”

“Please don’t be difficult. I know this is a wretched time to be disturbed, but take my word for it, there is an overriding necessity for you to come.”

“You mean right away?”

“The officers who are with you now have instructions to drive you here. As soon as you arrive you will be fully briefed.”

“And if I decline?”

“I would still require the officers to drive you here.”

Diamond was tempted to ask what the purpose of the phone call had been if he was being carted off to Bath willy- nilly, but he restrained himself. “I’d better get some clothes on then, but no obligation. You do appreciate I’m not in the police anymore?”

He showed Smith and Brown where the coffee things were and went back to the bedroom to break the news of his departure to Stephanie. He told her as much as he knew; after all, she was entitled to be told and he was under no obligation of secrecy. She found it difficult to credit that the police wanted him back after the angry scene when he had quit. In his heavy-handed way he had been a good detective, but no one is irreplaceable. She asked how long he would be there and he reminded her that Bath was only a couple of hours’ drive. He promised to phone her in the morning.

To make light of it, he said, “Well, I suppose it beats posing in the nude.”

Stephanie said, “Don’t count on it.”