The Vault

eighteen

PEG REDBIRD HAD LIVED over the shop.

"I don't believe this," said Wigfull when they forced open the door to her flat and looked in.

"It's not a bad principle," Diamond commented.

"What's that?"

"Never take your work home."

There was not an antique in sight. The sitting room furniture was modern in style, in light ash, with pale upholstery and scatter cushions in strong colours. She had sunken lighting, roller-blinds, steel-framed Hockney prints of his Californian swimming-pool phase, cork-tiled floors with plain, pastel-coloured rugs, and a total absence of clutter.

Finding this hard to reconcile with the glorified scrapyard that was Noble and Nude, the two detectives opened the doors to the bedroom and kitchen. Those, also, were straight out of a Sunday colour supplement.

"Obviously a split personality," said Wigfull the Open University degree man, in that self-regarding tone that Diamond found so irritating. "Jekyll and Hyde."

"That's putting it strongly considering she was the victim."

"You should have been on the Bramshill course in criminology that I did last year. Victims often provoke their attackers."

"With their choice of interior decoration? Come off it, John."

"People's rooms reveal more than they realise about their inner selves."

"I'll stick with the outer self, thanks. Let's get to work. You do this room. I'll take the bedroom."

"Shouldn't we call in the SOCOs first?"

Diamond eyed him with searing scorn. "Does this look like a scene of crime to you? Do you really believe she was bludgeoned in here and dragged all the way downstairs through the shop and off to the river?"

After a lengthy pause, Wigfull admitted, "It doesn't appear so."

"Well, then."

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know until we find it, do I? Anything that links her to the rest of humanity. Answerphone messages, letters, address-books, diaries. You've done this before, man."

He stepped into the bedroom. This should not take long. Seeing it, he began to have second thoughts about Wigfull's Jekyll and Hyde theory. Peg, it seemed, had been slavishly tidy at home. The duvet was squared on the bed, the pillow plumped and all the clothes put away. The bedside drawers contained no item more interesting than a bottle of herbal sedative pills.

From the sitting room, Wigfull called out, "No answer phone, but there's an address-book here."

Diamond confirmed that nothing of interest was secreted in the dressing-table drawers and was on his way through when the phone rang.

Wigfull put out a hand for it, then hesitated.

Diamond gave him the go-ahead with a nod.

The right way to deal with an incoming call at a possible crime scene was to listen and say nothing. If you spoke and the caller heard an unfamiliar voice, you could be sure they would slam down the phone if they had anything to hide.

Wigfull knew the procedure. He had the phone to his ear.

After listening briefly, he rolled his eyes and said, "I'll put him on." He handed the phone to Diamond. "Keith Halliwell."

Disappointing.

"What is it now?"

"Something new has come up, sir," Halliwell told him.

"Another stiff?"

"Not entirely."

"What do you mean-not entirely?"

"Not an entire body. We're talking parts. Some leg bones, a rib cage and a piece of an arm."

Bones. With an effort he made a mental switch to the case Halliwell was working on. "Not in the vault? We dug every inch of the vault."

"No. The River Wylye, near Warminster."

"That's Wiltshire."

"It's only a half-hour drive."

"It's not our patch."

"With respect, sir, killers don't work to county borders like us."

"What do you mean-'with respect'?" he rasped into the mouthpiece. "I'm not questioning whether the bones are worth checking out. I'm trying to work out how we got onto them. Are they still available for inspection?"

"At Chippenham. I've just been speaking to CID there."

"When you said a piece of an arm…"

"The radius."

"Come again."

"Radius. The long bone in the forearm. In my opinion…em, I wonder if you think it's worth comparing it with the hand we have, see if they join up at the wrist."

"It's a long shot, considering our bones were in the cellar nearly twenty years."

"These haven't just been found, sir. They were picked up in 1986 by some boys fishing."

"And this is the first we've heard of it?"

"It didn't get much attention at the time."

"It's going to get plenty now. When the press get to work on it, they'll tell us Frankenstein's monster is roaming the country ripping people apart. Get it organised, then," Diamond said mechanically, more interested in the way this came to light. "Was this your idea, Keith, checking old files?"

"I can't take the credit, sir."

"Don't depress me. You got it off a flaming computer."

"No. It's one-up to the human race. Someone had the bright idea of checking newspapers. They found this report in the files of the Wiltshire Times."

"Nice work. One of our rising stars in CID?"

"Actually it was a tip-off."

"Oh, yes? From a member of the public?"

"Not exactly." Halliwell's stonewalling was ominous.

A chill note of reserve crept into Diamond's voice. "Anyone I know?"

"You do know her actually. Ingeborg Smith."

Diamond sighed in a way that confirmed the inevitable. "Something else to put in the job application."

"She'd like to tell you about it herself. I told her if she looked in here again about five-thirty…"

"Thanks a bunch, Keith."

Muttering, he put down the phone and shifted his thoughts back to the immaculate home life of Peg Redbird. The address book Wigfull had found was helpful only in the sense that it contained about three hundred entries. Peg had not been short of contacts.

"We'd do just as well knocking on doors," he said. "What we want first is an itinerary of the last hours she was alive-the last day, in fact. The only information we have so far comes from Joe Dougan."

"And I wouldn't put any reliance on that," Wigfull sourly added.

"But do you agree with me?"

"About what?"

Some subtle power-play was in progress here. Diamond wanted more than a consultative role. He was willing to cede the nuts-and-bolts work to Wigfull and his team whilst reserving the crucial decisions for himself. "Knocking on doors."

"Of course I agree."

"Then will you get a door-stepping team on the job, or shall I?"

"Leave it to me," said Wigfull, thinking this was the opening he needed. "You've got enough on your plate."

"Enough on my plate? You know me, John. No table manners at all. If I see something tasty on another fellow's plate, I help myself, whether mine is full or not."

BY USING the back door of the nick, he avoided being waylaid by Ingeborg. She would be out front somewhere, wanting her pound of flesh for providing the breakthrough in the case. He wasn't ready to admit such a thing. Ingeborg had given him one false lead already-Violet "Tricks" Turner-and the bones from the River Wylye might prove to be another.

So he gave Ingeborg the slip-and that was how he met the Assistant Chief Constable coming out to the car park with Councillor Sturr. A polite exchange of words was inescapable.

The councillor said with a smile as slick as his three-piece pinstripe, "Fancy meeting you, superintendent. Only just now I was reminded of your comforting remarks at the PCCG meeting. The Assistant Chief Constable tells me you have another violent death to investigate. Ironic, isn't it? Rather bears out my point that Bath is a dangerous place to live these days."

"One swallow doesn't make a summer," was the best Diamond could think to say in reply.

"Quite a high-flying swallow, Peg Redbird. The antiques trade is not going to like this. They're a close-knit group, as I'm sure you're finding out, and they'll expect some rapid action from you."

"People always do," said Diamond. "Rapid can mean hasty, and hasty can mean faulty, so I don't let it get to me."

"Well, if I can be of service…"

"I don't suppose you can, sir, unless you were in the area of Walcot Street last evening."

"I'm not offering myself as a witness. I meant in my official capacity, backing your efforts."

"Much appreciated, sir."

"I was on the other side of town," Sturr volunteered, in case there was any doubt, "at a rather enjoyable 'At Home'." He smiled at Georgina Dallymore.

"Of course you were," said Diamond.

"If you want to know who I was with…" Sturr was milking this for more than it was worth.

"I saw you leaving together."

"So it seems I can't help you after all."

"Shame. I'll have to widen the net."

For this ill-considered quip, Diamond received a cold stare.

Sturr shook hands with Georgina and strolled across to his car.

Diamond, too, started to move on, but the ACC asked him to wait.

"That last remark was uncalled for," she rebuked him.

"I'm sure he's heard worse than that, ma'am. He's a politician."

"But we're not in the business of baiting people, least of all the people who make decisions about resources." She raised her hand in salute as the councillor drove past them in his silver Mercedes, out of the car park.

"He was having a swipe at me, going on about the murdered woman. Right, I was out of order," he said quickly, noting the muscles tighten at the edge of Georgina's mouth. "Pressure of work, I expect."

"I'm glad you mentioned that," she said. "I was going to raise it with you anyway. This is too much, the murder of the antiques dealer, coming on top of all the brouhaha about the hand in the vault. It's obvious that you can't run two inquiries yourself. You must delegate."

The word was not in Diamond's vocabulary. "I've got Chief Inspector Wigfull on the antiques case," he said at once.

"In theory, yes, but you're breathing down his neck. I understand you've been with him almost all day, at the Royal Crescent, at Walcot Street."

"It's my job," he pointed out. "I'm the murder man here."

"Yes, and Mr Wigfull ran the show when you were otherwise employed." Georgina was revealing a grasp of events that happened long before her arrival in Bath. "This new case is well within his capacity. Let him run it his way. Keep an overview, by all means. But concentrate your efforts on the Frankenstein business. That's the number one investigation. Do you understand?"

"Has Wigfull complained?"

She said, "Just do it, Mr Diamond. You're too easily provoked for a man of your rank. You won't go any higher in the police until you learn about priorities."

AT ABOUT six the same evening in the Royal Crescent Hotel, someone was at the door of Joe Dougan's suite, disturbing his deep, delayed sleep. Joe's tired brain registered dimly that the knocking had been going on for some time. Groaning, he rolled off the bed and groped his way forward, practically falling over the little white balustrade that acted as a room divider. Still dressed only in boxer shorts, he opened the door to find one of the detectives who had called earlier, the one with the large moustache. This time Chief Inspector Wigfull was accompanied by two younger men in plain clothes.

"Have you found her?" Joe asked, eyes dilating like oil slicks.

"Not yet," said Wigfull. "With your permission, we'd like to search these rooms, sir."

He kept a firm hold on the door. "What for?"

Mary Shelley's writing box was the true answer to that one, but Wigfull didn't give it. He answered obliquely, "You want us to spare no efforts in finding your wife?"

"For the love of Mike, she isn't here," said Joe, still barring the way. There was no mistaking this detective's hostility.

"We know that."

"You already made a search."

"The officers who were here before weren't trained in CID work."

"What's that in plain English?"

"Criminal investigation." The stress Wigfull put on the first word made it into a personal slur. "There may be other clues to her disappearance, and you wouldn't want to get in the way of the search, would you?"

Joe couldn't argue with that. He took a half-step backwards. "Do what you want."

CID-trained the officers may have been, but the search did not take long. The possible hiding places for an object as large as the writing box were few. Once they had looked behind furniture and curtains, above and beneath the four-poster bed and in the bathroom, the job was virtually done. With no success.

"Where are your suitcases?" Wigfull asked.

Joe's eyes bulged. "You don't think she's in a suitcase?"

"I don't see them here, sir."

"The hotel people put them in storage for us, to give us more room."

"We'd like to see them."

"They're empty."

"The keys?"

Joe picked his trousers off the back of a chair, took out the keys and handed them across.

Wigfull tossed them to one of his men, who left the room.

"You said you left Noble and Nude when?"

"Around eleven."

"Without the writing box?"

"I left that on the desk."

"Well, it isn't there any more."

"You're wrong," said Joe. "It's there."

"I promise you it isn't."

The little American passed a hand distractedly through his dark hair. "It's got to be," he said as if beginning to doubt himself.

"Who-besides you-knew that the box may have belonged to Mary Shelley?"

"No one."

"Except Peg Redbird herself?"

Joe shook his head emphatically. "She's the last person I would have told. I wanted to buy at a fair price."

"Fair?"

"Used goods are worth as much as people are willing to pay, no more."

"She seemed reluctant to part with it if you had to go back a second time."

"I thought about that," said Joe. "I guess she could see I badly wanted that box. She thought there was something inside, a hidden drawer maybe, and she wasn't going to sell until she'd seen inside."

"So Peg Redbird didn't know what she was selling. Did you tell anyone else? Those other people you mentioned? The old bookseller? The Welshman, Uncle Evan?"

"Wise up, will you? How could I have told them? I didn't know the writing box existed when I spoke to them. I only found out when I got to the shop."

"Your wife?"

Joe drew in a quick, shallow breath.

Wigfull said with an air of triumph, "Over dinner you told your wife you had found Mary Shelley's writing box?"

"Yep, I told her," Joe admitted. "She's the woman I share my life with, for God's sake. She was entitled to know why I kept her waiting so long."

"In a public restaurant."

"Give me a break. It was quiet there. Nobody was listening."

"How do you know?" said Wigfull.

"We had a seat in the window. No one else was near."

"Except the waiter."

"Get away!" said Joe, becoming annoyed. "What are you trying to prove?"

"See it from the waiter's point of view. A couple come into the restaurant," said Wigfull, and as he laid out his scenario he found it increasingly persuasive. "The man is obviously excited. He starts to speak to his wife about something sensational that happened to him. The waiter is intrigued. He overhears a phrase or two that get repeated several times. 'Noble and Nude' and 'Mary Shelley' and 'writing box'. That's enough. This waiter sees a chance to get rich quick. At the end of the evening, when the restaurant closes, he decides to take a look at Noble and Nude. He makes his way down to Walcot Street, by car, motorbike-I don't know. This is after midnight. He finds Noble and Nude and it's open and nobody is about. He can't believe his luck. The writing box is on the desk in the office. He picks it up and walks out with it."

"Is that it?" said Joe. "Have you finished?"

"It was either your wife or the waiter. Who else knew the box was worth taking?"

"Now you think Donna took it?" Joe fairly squeaked in disbelief.

"That might explain why she went missing."

"I'm going to let you in on something," said Joe. "Donna wouldn't go out on the streets after dark in a strange city if you paid her a million bucks. And the waiter was a young girl about fifteen years old. I think she was Greek. She didn't understand English. We had to point to the items on the menu. That little girl wouldn't know Mary Shelley from appleseed."

It may have been Joe's imagination, but he thought the big moustache sagged a little. Certainly the mouth below it sagged. Wigfull had suffered a serious reverse.

The officer who had gone to look at the suitcases returned. He shook his head. Joe got his keys back.

He hitched his thumbs assertively in the waistband of his boxer shorts. "Any other business, gentlemen? Or can I go back to sleep?"