The Vault

ten

CAMDEN CRESCENT, WHERE PEG Redbird arrived to carry out the valuation, is a flawed masterpiece. In 1788, the architect John Eveleigh sought to emulate John Wood's most famous building with a crescent of his own. The position above Hedgemead was arguably superior to the Royal Crescent, with sensational views to the east across the Avon Valley towards Bathwick Hill. The style was to be classical, the concept more ornate than Wood's. Building got under way at each end and the first houses were in place when problems were revealed at the eastern end. The foundation was unsafe. The exposed strata that had appeared to be sound for building had hidden faults, and slippage occurred. Four of the houses had to be abandoned. Poor Eveleigh was committed to the project and obliged to build the rest of his crescent, leaving an unsightly gap like an old fighter's grin, with the extreme eastern house standing alone for many years, mocking his grandiose ambition.

The rest of the truncated Crescent has survived two centuries of surveyors' reports, and is regarded as tolerably safe and one of the best addresses in Bath. Peg had hopes of some good finds in old Simon Minchendon's home.

The nephew who opened the door professed to know nothing about old furniture, but Peg was wary. The death of a relative often brings out the worst in people. She was pretty sure he would have his own ideas which items were the gems. Anything he talked up would get a high valuation.

His name was Ralph Pennycook, he told her, and he had come up from Brighton for the funeral.

"Some good antique shops there," Peg commented, trying him out.

"In the Lanes, you mean? I don't bother with all that crap," he said of the corner of Brighton everyone in the trade found irresistible. "If I go into town, I head for the computer shops." True, he looked custom-built for staring at a screen, with a slight curvature of the spine and deep-set brown eyes behind thick plastic lenses. A young man who neglected to look after himself, Peg decided. He was definitely under-nourished. Possibly that was why he was dressed in the black pinstripe jacket that looked like the top of a suit and made an odd combination with his blue corduroy trousers; he needed to wrap himself up, even in this hot summer.

"I hope you don't mind me asking. Are you the executor?" Peg enquired. These things need to be established at the outset. Private sellers sometimes offer goods that don't belong to them.

"What gives you that idea?" he said.

"Well, how exactly…?"

"I'm the lucky bugger who inherited this lot, aren't I? Poor old Si ran out of family. Uncle Tod and Aunt Nell were mentioned in the will, but they snuffed it before he did."

"Then what exactly do you want from me, darling? A full valuation? You can't dispose of anything until the probate comes through, and that can take months." She added, "Presumably."

"Yeah."

There was an awkward pause.

He resumed, "The bank are acting as whatchamacallits."

"Executors?" Peg supplied the word. Whatever else he had come into, this young man was not blessed with a silver tongue.

"And they want to make some kind of list."

"An inventory."

"Yeah. An inventory." Except he made it sound like "infantry".

"And a valuation, no doubt?" said Peg.

"Right. I thought I'd get me own one of them done-to protect me interests, like-and I was told you're the best in Bath."

"You want the full monty, piece by piece? That's going to take some time," said Peg, her eyes travelling over the contents of the entrance hall, making a snap valuation of her own.

"That isn't what I said." He cleared his throat. "I'm, er, jumping the gun. You're the first to see the stuff. The geezer from the bank is coming to do the proper job on Monday."

"So where do I fit into this arrangement?" asked Peg, playing the innocent.

"You get first sight of what's here." He looked away. He was sweating, in spite of his brash manner.

There was another uneasy interval.

"It all belongs to me," he insisted once more, reading Peg's thoughts as she watched him with her bright, miss-nothing eyes. "I need some cash in hand for a project I have in mind."

"When you say you want to protect your interests…"

"You know what I mean, don't you?" said Pennycook. "I'm offering you a few choice items now, if you want to do business. A few things wouldn't get onto the, em…"

"Inventory. And you'd save yourself some tax."

"You got it."

His cards were on the table, then. Peg's were not. "I wish you hadn't told me, ducky. I don't get involved in anything irregular."

"It happens all the time," he informed her superfluously. "Look, see me right on this, and I'll see you right later, when I got probate and I can sell the rest of the stuff legit. Do you do clearances?"

This was not a man who was ignorant of the trade, Peg noted, but she, too, was playing a canny game. "House clearances? I don't bother with them as a rule. It's more trouble than it's worth."

"So you're telling me to piss off?"

"Sweetie, the difficulty with what you're suggesting is that serious buyers of antiques-quality antiques-like to know the provenance of the items they acquire. See the bracket clock behind you on the shelf? That's William and Mary. If I were to offer anything as fine as that for sale, they'd want to know who owned it before me. If I said Si Minchendon, you and I could easily land ourselves in trouble."

He glanced up at the ceiling, as if the plasterwork interested him more than Peg's last remark.

She added without enthusiasm, "I suppose we could look at some less distinguished items."

"Want me to show you over the gaff?"

"Since I'm here, you might as well," she said, "but I can't promise a thing."

They toured the house and Peg's expert eye missed nothing. Old Si's furniture was collectable, no question, and some of the smaller items such as tripod tables and side-chairs could be removed without anyone knowing they had been there. In the drawing room were some bits of china she rather liked, a pair of Coalport plates by William Cook and a Minton pot pourri vase painted for the Great Exhibition of 1851. She priced them fairly, then said she wouldn't be able to go to such a price if he wanted to sell them prior to valuation. This put Pennycook in the position of reducing the figure and seeing if she would take the risk. With a show of reluctance, Peg agreed to buy them for two-thirds the price she had named.

The landing upstairs was lined with watercolours, landscapes that she suspected were by minor painters of the late nineteenth century, serene in concept and unremarkable.

Except two that stood out. Instead of patently English scenes where animals grazed and the only suggestions of humanity were cottages and church towers, these were nightmarish. In one, two figures in a bleak, craggy setting that suggested a theatrical backdrop faced each other like protagonists. The other was an interior, even more melodramatic. A woman lay across a bed in a posture of death, her head hanging down, scarlet marks of strangulation on her neck. A man stood staring at her in horror, while at the open window a fiendlike creature stood grinning and pointing at the corpse.

Peg immediately thought of William Blake. The theatricality of the settings was an indication; so was the peculiar rendering of the figures, their muscularity showing through the folds of garments that flowed with the composition. If these were by Blake, they were by far the most valuable things in the house. She moved past them without betraying undue interest, wondering how long they had been hanging there. The problem with removing pictures is the telltale patch they leave on the wallpaper. But helpfully this paper looked reasonably new.

Little else upstairs was both portable and saleable, as Peg pointed out. Si's real interest had been furniture and you couldn't remove large pieces without leaving gaps. Pennycook was forced to agree. Clearly, he was disappointed. They had done less than nine hundred pounds' worth of business.

"You're looking for cash, no doubt," said Peg.

"Cash, yes. It's got to be cash."

"I don't carry large amounts, ducky. It isn't safe."

"No sweat, lady. I trust you-but you will collect the stuff sharpish, won't you?"

"Later today?"

"That'll do."

"I'll send a man with a van. He's very discreet, is my Mr Somerset. You can call at my shop in Walcot Street if you want the money today. I put some by for this. To be frank, I expected to spend a little more, but you can never tell."

Pennycook's eyes widened. "There's nothing else you noticed, going round?"

Peg took her time, and frowned, as if straining to remember anything at all. "There was a slightly chipped chaise-longue upstairs, mahogany, upholstered in blue velvet. Late Victorian, I'm certain."

"In the back bedroom?"

"Yes. I could probably find a buyer for that, even in the state it's in. Bath is full of rich women with a Madame Recamier fantasy."

"Anything else?"

"The tripod table in the front room. It's been repaired, I noticed, and not very expertly. And you have a couple of watercolours on the landing, rather grand guignok. I don't know if you'd call them a pair, but I think they're by the same artist. Throw them in and I could raise the offer to fifteen hundred, on the understanding that I have first choice of the more valuable items when you get probate. Does that sound better?"

Infinitely better, going by Pennycook's reaction. The deal was done. "Will you be there tonight?" he asked. "Can I collect the dosh tonight?"

"Any time, darling. I live over the shop."

Peg hurried back to Noble and Nude to read up on William Blake.

THE ROMAN Baths were under siege by the media. Nobody was being admitted to the vault. Camera crews and photographers, radio people and reporters, were blocking the main entrance. Bewildered tourists stood in Abbey Churchyard not knowing how to get to the ticket booths.

It fell to Peter Diamond to try and defuse the problem with a hastily arranged press conference at Manvers Street. If nothing else, it would relieve the pressure at the Baths. He was ill-prepared. He knew nothing about Mary Shelley and little of Frankenstein. All this had blown up just when he was doing his best to tiptoe away from the case.

They filled the room that was used for sessions with the media. He had to force his way in through the crush. Surrounded, not liking this one bit, he stood with Halliwell at his side watching the scuffles between the camera crews.

"This will be brief," he began, and was told to speak up, and did. He fairly bellowed, "Do you want to hear this, or not?"

They listened to his summary, the discovery of the hand in the vault by the security man, the estimate by the pathologist that it had been buried there for up to twenty years, and the decision to look for more remains. He described the unearthing of the skull and stressed that it was much older than the hand bones, and almost certainly from a medieval burial.

As he spoke of the skull he was aware of intense scrutiny to his right. Turning, he locked eyes with Ingeborg Smith. The reproach in that ambitious young woman's gaze was understandable. Her exclusive had been crushed in this stampede. She blamed him.

"Forensic scientists are carrying out more tests on the remains," he continued, shifting his look to another part of the room. "I don't expect any results before next week, and then I don't expect much. We already know the salient facts."

All as downbeat as he could make it. Then the questions hit him like machine-gun fire:

"What about the Frankenstein connection, Superintendent?"

"Did you know you were digging in the Frankenstein vault?"

"Is it just a coincidence, these body parts turning up there?"

"Have you found any nuts and bolts?" This earned a laugh.

He had to raise both arms for a chance to reply. "You're going to have to believe me when I tell you I knew nothing about the history of the vault until this afternoon, when I heard it from one of you. It makes a good story, and good luck to you, but I doubt if there's any connection with the remains down there."

"Isn't it well-known that Mary Shelley lived over the vault and wrote her book there?"

"Not well-known to me. I've been here some years and never heard a word about it. I imagine you lot will remedy that."

"When the hand was discovered, didn't you take an interest in the history of the house?"

"The house you're talking about doesn't exist. It was demolished a century ago, except for the vault. The hand is less than twenty years old."

"So the answer is no?"

"Correct."

"Is this a murder inquiry, Superintendent?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

"Dismembered bits of a corpse buried in cement?"

"There could be an explanation that doesn't include murder."

"What's that?"

"No comment."

"What are you getting at, Mr Diamond? Some kind of hoax? The bones are real, aren't they?"

"Oh, yes, but I'm keeping an open mind about how they got there. To come back to your question, I'm the murder man in Bath, so you can see that we're taking it seriously."

"Do you have a theory who was responsible?"

"Let's be clear. We don't know whose hand bones they are. We don't know how they came to be in the vault. We have no witnesses, no motive, no description of the perpetrator or the victim."

"You're still digging down there?"

"It's almost complete."

"Can we go down there, get pictures? If we can get pictures today, you'll be saved a lot of hassle."

"That sounds suspiciously like blackmail."

"Just the truth, Mr Diamond."

"When we finish the search, you can get your pictures, but it won't be today."

"You said the skull is much older than the hand?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly was it found?"

"Buried under the flagstones, some distance from where the hand was found."

"Probably medieval, you said?"

"I did."

"So it was down there in 1816, when Mary Shelley lived in the house?"

"I can't say for sure. It could have been."

"Would you describe it, Superintendent?"

He was becoming impatient. "Look, I told you it's an old skull."

"Male or female?"

"Female."

"Adult?"

"Yes."

"But not attached to the rest of a skeleton?"

His patience snapped. "For crying out loud, this is the site of a churchyard. If we dug any deeper, we'd probably find many more bones. Hundreds of them." He realised as he spoke that it was unwise. He had just fed them a quote they could splash all over their front pages. It was time he drew the curtains on this pantomime. "Right. I've given you the statement, told you everything I can at this point."

"Not everything."

"Come again." He turned to the speaker and found himself facing Ingeborg.

"You told us the skull is female. What about the hands?"

"Can't say."

"Won't the forensic lab be able to tell you?"

"It's unlikely. If they turn out to be large hands, the supposition is that they belonged to a male, but it's only guesswork."

"So what's the next step, Mr Diamond? If the lab can't tell you much more, where do you go from here?"

"We find out who had access to the vault fifteen to twenty years ago."

"And who went missing?"

She was still on about the postgraduate woman. "Of course. It's under investigation. For your information, about a hundred and fifty thousand people go missing every year. Nationally, I mean."

Someone else said, "You don't sound very confident of a result, Superintendent."

"Would you be?" He turned to Halliwell. "Let's go."

Outside, a messenger from upstairs told him he was wanted immediately by the Assistant Chief Constable.

ALONE IN the carpeted office upstairs. That huge mahogany desk. A group photo taken at Bramshill, the police training college for senior officers. Another of Georgina in uniform shaking the hand of Margaret Thatcher. A shelf of books, mainly reports by the look of them. The saving grace was the corner cupboard used by the previous ACC for his supply of whisky.

He heard her quick footsteps along the corridor. "The Police Authority like to be kept informed of developments," she told him importantly as she swept in.

"Councillor Sturr?"

"How do you know I was with John Sturr?"

"He parked his Mercedes next to my old heap in the staff car park."

"Sit down, then." No offer of a scotch. Not so much as a lemonade. "How did the press behave?"

"They didn't swallow me alive, ma'am," said Diamond. "But it was crowded in there. I had to shout. Makes your throat go dry."

She didn't even glance at the drinks cupboard. "What did they want to know?"

"They're only interested in the Frankenstein stuff. Frankenstein! The things you get thrown at you in this job."

"Did you know of this connection?"

"Not until this afternoon. I know Jane Austen lived here, and Beau Nash and General Wolfe. Frankenstein, no."

"To be accurate," the ACC corrected him, "it was the creator of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley."

"You'd think it was the monster himself, the way they were going on about body parts."

"She was here only a few months, but it appears she wrote most of the book at the house in Abbey Churchyard. There's no question that she lived there. In fact, her personal copy of Milton's poems was doing the rounds of the antiquarian book trade this very morning, and it's inscribed with her initials and the Abbey Churchyard address." Georgina threw this in casually, apparently to let him know she had her finger on the Bath pulse. "We're going to be in the spotlight shortly, I'm afraid."

"Going to be?" he said with irony.

"This is why I asked you to see me. You'd better disregard the conversation we had earlier, about scaling down the investigation. We're coming under public scrutiny."

Diamond frowned. "What are you saying, ma'am? That we have to put on a show for the media?"

"I didn't put it quite so crudely, but that's the gist of it, yes."

He felt a rush of blood. He was about to say something insubordinate. If Julie Hargreaves had been here, she would have put a restraining hand on his arm. But she was not. "I'm a copper, not a circus acrobat."

The ACC said in a voice as dry as the scotch she didn't dispense, "What are you implying?"

For the first time in their dealings, Diamond allowed the ACC's gender to influence his conduct; if she had been a man, he would given her a mouthful. "I'm not implying anything, ma'am. I speak straight. I work for the police. I obey orders, but I expect them to be based on policing priorities."

The features across the desk tensed and turned paler. "Policing priorities can include public relations, you know."

"So that's it," said Diamond. "This is window-dressing."

Her eyes flashed. "If you ever rise above your present rank, Superintendent, you may come to appreciate that window-dressing, as you call it, is a necessary part of the job. As you know, I'm giving a party tonight-in my own time and at my own expense-and several members of the Police Authority will be there. I don't do it out of anything else than a sense of duty. Some of the people I've invited would not be my choice of guests-I don't mean you-but one does it just the same, to show the flag."

"You're telling me to show the flag?"

"There's more to it than that. What was found in the vault requires investigation. You and your team have no other inquiry under way at the moment. I agree with you that this one presents difficulties, but that's no reason to walk away from it."

"This isn't the only unsolved suspicious death in the past twenty years."

"It's the most recent to come to light. Who do you have working on it at the moment?"

"Apart from the diggers? DI Halliwell and a couple of civilians."

"Step it up, then. Get more people onto it. We ought to establish the identity of the victim."

"Oh, yes?"

"And another thing, Mr Diamond…"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I don't like the way you've conducted yourself in the last few minutes, don't care for it one bit. If you and I are going to continue to work together, I suggest you do some window-dressing of your own. This confrontational style of yours, I won't put up with it. Understood?"

After a pause: "Understood, ma'am."

THE NEXT stage in Joe Dougan's odyssey brought him from The Brains Surgery to Noble and Nude. Peg Redbird, the owner of the most cluttered antique shop Joe had ever seen, was out doing a valuation when he arrived. He asked her assistant, a talkative, red-haired man in a bow-tie, if the shop had been in existence for some time and was told Peg herself had opened it in 1975. Joe said he would wait for her. He was sure he could find plenty to interest him until she returned.

He went upstairs looking for books. Most antique shops have a small stock somewhere, and this was no exception. In a back room he found some stacked along the lid of an upright piano, but they were disappointing. Paperback detective stories of the nineteen-thirties, by the likes of Margery Allingham and Ellery Queen. Joe didn't have time for fictional mysteries. There were mysteries enough in English Literature to keep him occupied.

He looked at his watch. For this, Donna would exact compensation. Champagne with dinner tonight. Or a visit to a stately home tomorrow. Or a new hat. Or all of those. He hoped the owner of this place would not keep him waiting much longer. But there was no question that he would give up the chase. People said there was an obsessive side to his personality ("people" meant Donna more than anyone else; she was obsessive in describing him as obsessive). Well, he had to admit that once started on something he liked to see it through to a conclusion, regardless of the time expended. But "obsessive" was not a word he would have used about himself. He preferred "tenacious".

Another long interval elapsed before he heard voices downstairs. Certainly one was a woman's. Hopeful that the wait was over, he picked his way through an obstacle-course of vases, ancient sewing-machines and wind-up gramophones and started down the stairs.

It is one of those universal truths that people in the antiques trade have loud voices, and these carried up to him.

The female voice was saying, "Darling, I had him on toast. Well, he was ripping off the taxman, and we both knew it, so he couldn't expect top dollar, could he?"

The man asked, "But did he have a sense of what it was worth?"

"There's one born every minute. You'll see when you pick up the goods. The chaise longue is an eyesore, but it will sell, and the rest of the stuff is very collectable indeed. You're going to love the Coalport. And Ellis…"

"Yes?"

"There are a couple of pictures, rather lurid watercolours. If you want to remain my bestest friend, handle them with TLC."

"Valuable?

"I don't know, do I, until I get a better look at them?"

"Who's the artist, then?"

"Never you mind, old dear. Just bring the goodies back safely to Peg."

Joe made a sound in his throat to let them know he was approaching. He was glad to have overheard the exchange. He would play a cautious hand with Peg Redbird.

"Oh, I clean forgot," the man said, clutching his red hair in consternation. "This gentleman came in specially to see you. He's been waiting some time."

Joe stepped forward and introduced himself. Peg stood up and shook hands when she heard he was a professor. The prospect of some business with a wealthy academic galvanized her enough to want her colleague to leave. "Ellis, would you be an angel and see about renting a van? I promised you'd collect that stuff from Camden Crescent today."

Left alone with Joe, Peg practically rubbed her hands as she asked if he was a collector.

"Not exactly, ma'am. If I see something I like, I buy it. Books, mostly."

Her disappointment was quick to show. "Books? You're in the wrong shop, precious. I don't go in for books. If I get some in as part of a job-lot, I pass them on to a bookseller."

"That I can appreciate, ma'am. I won't take up much of your time." He took the Milton out of its bag. "I was told you acquired this some years ago and sold it on."

"If you really mean years ago, I did have a book-room when I started," she said, taking the book and opening it. "I stocked anything in those days just to fill up space. There's nothing worse than empty rooms."

"Do you recall this book?"

She turned it over in her hands without opening it. "You're going to tell me I sold it for peanuts, no doubt. Milton isn't exactly a best-seller and it's not in the best of nick."

"I only paid twenty pounds myself, ma'am."

"What's so special about it?"

Joe was determined not to tell her yet. "This is the Dr Johnson edition of Milton. Both of them are on my current Eng. Lit. syllabus. This is a special find for me."

"What I don't understand," said Peg sharply, "is where I come into this. You don't want to sell it back to me?"

"Oh, no. I'm keeping it now."

"Well?" She looked annoyed.

He was in danger of crumbling under the cross-examination. "This is pure sentiment, I guess. This book is going to have an honoured place on my shelf at home. Almost like a friend. I like to know about its past, where it lived, who owned it…" His voice trailed away.

Peg tapped her finger on the cover. "Some Bathonian owned it at one time. 'Five, Abbey Churchyard'. That's local."

"Really?"

A clicking sound came from Peg's mouth. "Someone told me something about Abbey Churchyard today."

Joe attempted to close that avenue. "You must have a memory of how you acquired the book."

"Don't bet on it, professor. I wouldn't have bought it on its own, so it must have come in with some other stuff."

"More books, you mean?"

Peg narrowed her eyes, straining to think about several matters, and raked a hand through her dark-tinted hair. "No, it was part of another purchase. It was in some sort of container, with other things." Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "I do remember. Do you know what a writing box is?"

"Something containing writing paper?"

"Well, yes, but this was a specific item of furniture. A rather clever thing, much used two hundred years ago. I've got one somewhere upstairs, but it would take ages to find it. Look, the best way I can describe one is this. Think of an old-fashioned school desk with a sloping lid and a space inside for all the stuff a kid uses in school. You know what I mean?"

"Sure."

"Well, imagine it without legs."

"Okay."

"You could rest it on a table or on your lap, right? Now a writing box looks exactly like that when it's in use, but you can close it up. The part you write on is hinged halfway down, so that you can fold it back on itself and it makes the shape of a box. Do you follow?"

"I know exactly what you mean, ma'am," said Joe. "I've seen them back home. They're nice pieces."

"That's how I acquired this," Peg said, patting the front of the book. "It was inside a writing box, along with a sketchbook of some sort and a cut glass ink bottle."

A tingling sensation crept the length of Joe's spine. With an effort to sound only faintly interested, he said, "Did you keep any of these items? The sketchbook, for instance?"

"No, I got rid of that. It had a few inept pencil sketches as far as I remember. Nothing anyone would wish to frame."

His stomach tightened. "When you say 'got rid of'…?"

"I unloaded it on someone."

"Sold it?"

"I don't give anything away, my love. I'm in business. I'm just trying to think whether the box upstairs is the one the book was in, or another. It hadn't been looked after, I can tell you that much."

"Could I see it?"

She sighed. "Listen darling, you've caught me on a busy day. I ought to know where everything is, but I don't."

"I won't take up much more of your time, ma'am. Do you happen to remember who sold you the writing box?"

"It was years ago," said Peg. "I don't know why I bothered. Sympathy, I reckon. Some poor soul in need of a few shillings for the gas meter."

"An old person?"

"I couldn't say."

Couldn't, or wouldn't? Joe was getting a distinct impression that Peg was stalling now. She may even have made the connection with Mary Shelley.

He shifted his ground. "I might be willing to offer you a good price for that writing box."

Her eyes glinted. "You haven't seen it, sunshine. It could be riddled with woodworm."

"I know you're busy right now. Maybe I could find it if I go looking."

"Be my guest," said Peg.

"ANYONE WOULD think we'd been sitting on our butts for the past week," Peter Diamond complained to Keith Halliwell.

Halliwell gave him a look long enough for the words to be played back in his mind.

Remarkably, an extra tinge of pink suffused his cheeks and he launched into an elaborate self'justification. "I took my turn with the sieve and shovel. It wasn't all tea and toast in the Pump Room. And you've been slogging away, tracing these bloody builders. I don't like my squad being jumped all over by a pipsqueak straight out of Bramshill. So what have we got, Keith? Are we anywhere nearer to naming Hands?"

"I've got the names of twelve who worked on the site in the early eighties," said Halliwell. "Most of the activity was in the winter of eighty-two to eighty-three. It's a matter of tracing them, to see if they're alive, and what they remember about the others who worked there."

"You want more manpower? It's yours."

"Really?"

"Her Worship has spoken. It gets high priority as long as it stays in the papers, though she didn't put it in quite those terms."

"I'll see to it."

"Good man." In a confiding mood, he propped his elbow on Halliwell's computer monitor and felt it tilt under the weight. "These things move," he said in surprise.

"It's the adjustment. I shouldn't lean too hard on it."

"You know me, Keith. Never leaned too hard. Never will." He got back to the topic he had been about to broach. "There was a question in the press-room that stopped me in my tracks."

"From the Smith woman?"

"No. Some other hack. I couldn't tell you who it was. He asked if we'd considered a hoax as a possibility. I hadn't. Had you?"

"No." Halliwell was clearly puzzled. "What would be the point?"

"Practical joking. We're fair game, Keith. Some con artist gets hold of some bones and buries them in the cellar under the house where Frankenstein was written."

"Who would do that?"

"A medical student," said Diamond as if it were screamingly obvious. "They have to buy a skeleton, don't they? They used to, one time. They need them in their studies, anyway. All he has to do is remove the hand, plant it in thin cement and wait for it to be discovered. He'll be laughing his bloody head off tomorrow morning when he reads the papers."

"You think so?" Halliwell said, unimpressed.

Diamond backed off a little. "It's not impossible."

"It's a bit far-fetched, isn't it? For a start, he'd need to know about the Frankenstein link. Not many people did until this afternoon. You didn't, and nor did I."

"Someone made sure the press got onto it, didn't they?" Diamond said with more animation. "If there is a hoaxer, he must have tipped off the press. I got it from the News of the World, some wiseguy called Delany. John Delany. Who was his source, I wonder? It's got to be followed up."

Halliwell nodded and said almost apologetically, "If he spoke to you personally…"

"I know," said Diamond with a martyred air. "It's down to me."

But before he could do anything about it, he was called to the phone. The BBC wanted to know if he was willing to be interviewed on Newsnight, on BBC2 at 10.30 p.m. It could be prerecorded, if necessary.

He said he had nothing to add to the press statement he had already made.

There were two more requests for television interviews in the next half-hour. "You'd think I'd won the bloody lottery, wouldn't you?" he said to the woman on the switchboard. "They only want me to talk about a monster who never existed. Tell them I'm on a flight to the Bahamas, love, or washing my hair tonight. I leave it up to you. Anything to get them off my back."

"Like going to the ACC's party?"

"God, I am, too. It never rains but it pours."