The Vault

nineteen

DIAMOND USUALLY TRIED TO keep Saturdays free for shopping and sport, or-more accurately-looking at shopping and sport. This morning there was no chance he would be standing in some dress shop while Steph tried on the latest creation. Or relaxing in front of the television. Dr Frankenstein had put paid to that.

Without much confidence of progress, he drove up to Chippenham to look at those bones. They were brought out in a cardboard evidence box tagged with the details of when and where they had been found. It was hard to believe they might have belonged to Hands. Stained yellowish brown, they were quite unlike the chalk-white bones from the vault. But he told himself these had spent time in the river and over ten years in this box.

He handled them with respect, as if the act of touching would give some clue to their origin. Dry bones, chipped and broken, difficult to think of as once having supported living tissue. A small, curved section of a rib-cage; a complete femur; a fibula; and the one that interested him most, the radius, or main bone of a forearm. This one was broken close to where the wrist would have been, and it was obvious that the bone had been shattered, not sawn through. He fingered the splintered end thoughtfully.

"Nothing's ever simple, is it?" he said to soften up the evidence sergeant who acted as curator of the macabre little collection. The man had already made it clear that he was a stickler for protocol and inclined to be pompous, a Jeeves in police uniform. "The bones I want to compare them with" (Diamond said) "are in another country."

"That is inexpedient, sir."

"But not a catastrophe. The country is Wales."

"A pity. The Welsh are peculiarly possessive about bones, sir."

"But these are in the forensic laboratory at Chepstow."

"That's more promising."

"Just across the water, but it might as well be Zanzibar," said Diamond. "They're a stubborn lot over there, as you were saying. They have a skeleton hand broken off at the wrist. I sent it to them myself. I'd like to see if it fits this arm bone, but do you know they won't let the hand out of the building?"

"They wouldn't be permitted to take such a liberty, sir. I'm under the same obligation myself."

"Are you telling me these old bones aren't allowed out?"

"That is the rule."

"It isn't as if I want them all. I'm only interested in this arm bone and it's broken already."

"That's immaterial, sir. It's all about continuity of evidence."

A fact well known to Diamond.

The sergeant coughed politely. "One could make a sketch."

"If you saw my sketching…"

"A photo?"

Diamond shook his head and introduced a hint of conspiracy. "Be easier if you turned your back."

"I'm not permitted to do that, sir."

"One pesky bone that nobody has looked at in years?"

"Much as I would like to assist, sir, turning my back is not an option."

"You'd get the thing back."

The sergeant sensed the heavy pressure he was under. "If I may tender a suggestion, I could make you a cast."

"A cast?"

"A plaster cast."

"How long will that take?"

"With quick-drying plaster of Paris? Less time than it would take to subvert me, sir."

Clearly the sergeant also resembled Jeeves in resourcefulness. He went to a shelf and took down the wax for the mould and the packet of plaster.

CHEPSTOW IS an easy run from Chippenham, up the M4 motorway and across the old Severn Road Bridge. Diamond could have sent someone of lower rank, but after handling the bones himself, he had a boyish curiosity to see if the jigsaw fitted.

He was never going to be the flavour of the month at the Forensic Science Unit, having blasted the men in white coats for years, but by good fortune he was seen by a young officer called Amelia who had never heard of him. He had to brandish his ID to get in. Once admitted, he refrained from mentioning that the place was not exactly a hive of industry. They all stayed in bed on Saturday mornings, he supposed. And how many times had they told him they were working round the clock to get results?

Amelia had some difficulty in finding Hands, but eventually they tracked the bones to a lab bench upstairs. They had been cleaned of most of the cement.

"They must be working on them now," said Amelia.

"Oh, yes?" Diamond said evenly. It was obvious that nobody had been in the lab all morning.

Humming "Dry Bones" as he worked, he took the cast from his pocket and tried fitting it to the stump of bone, watched by the young woman.

It didn't match.

"Too bad," he said, resisting the impulse to swear, and chucking the cast into the nearest bin. "Thanks for your help, love. It was worth a try."

Amelia gave a sympathetic murmur.

He asked if it was coffee time.

Amelia said tentatively, "Do you mind if I have a go? You were a bit quick making up your mind."

"It's a lost cause."

She retrieved the cast and began trying it with more sensitivity than Diamond, rotating it minutely each time. He watched with a bored expression, thinking of that coffee. His clumsiness was renowned, but he was not expecting to be shown up.

She said as she worked, "The thickness is about the same. Looking at the jagged end, I'd say it's quite likely that there was some splintering, in which case you're not going to get a perfect join." She held the cast steady. "Ah. Now look at the points where it's touching. They're coming together. Clearly there's a biggish piece missing, but if the bone shattered, that's to be expected."

Diamond screwed up his eyes in the attempt to see.

Amelia said, "I think it's worth looking at under a magnifier."

In another ten minutes she had convinced him that the bones at Chippenham belonged to Hands.

HE FORGOT to wind up the window as he approached the nick, so half a dozen microphones were thrust in his face when he turned off Manvers Street. If anything, there were more hacks about than yesterday. They wanted something juicy for the Sunday papers.

No, he told them blandly, he had nothing new to say and he did not expect to make any kind of statement that day.

Inside the building, he was more forthcoming, treating Keith Halliwell to an overcoloured account of the morning's discovery. In this version, he took all the credit for the plaster cast and he surprised the scientists at Chepstow with his deft work matching the cast to the bone.

Halliwell, who knew Diamond's limitations with technology as well as anyone at Manvers Street, listened to this with patience and then summed it up. "So Ingeborg was right."

"What?"

"She said the bones were worth comparing. She came up trumps."

"This time, yes," Diamond grudgingly conceded.

"Are you going to tell her?"

The thought had not occurred to him. "Why should I?"

"Give her the exclusive. She's earned it."

"If I do, the jackals out there will tear me to bits tomorrow." He gave a rueful smile as he thought it through. "And if I don't, she'll talk to her friend the ACC and I'll be serving on that cruddy committee for the rest of my days."

He rummaged among the papers on his desk for Ingeborg Smith's business card.

Halliwell tactfully found something else to do.

ALL THE ballyhoo about the vault meant that hardly any media attention was being given to Peg Redbird's death. Out at Walcot Street, house-to-house enquiries were being conducted without any interference from reporters.

Before lunch, Diamond decided to take what the ACC termed as an overview. He went looking for Wigfull and found him downstairs in what had swiftly been set up as an incident room, with phones, computers and a board covered in maps and photographs.

"How goes it?"

"As well as I can expect at this stage," Wigfull answered guardedly.

"Is the professor still in the frame?"

"Naturally."

"You had another go at him, I heard."

"I searched his hotel suite yesterday evening, yes."

"For Mary Shelley's writing box? No joy?"

"It was a long shot anyway, but it had to be tried."

"If he nicked it from the shop, he'd be a fool to keep it in the hotel. He isn't that."

Wigfull shrugged.

"No news of the wife, I suppose?" Diamond continued to press for information. "Do you take her disappearance seriously?"

"Is that meant to be sarcastic?" said Wigfull. "Of course I take it seriously."

"I mean when do you step up the search?"

"I'll run this in my own way, if you don't object."

"Just enquiring, John. That's my job. Has anything come out of the house-to-house?"

Wigfull gave a nod so slight he might have been watching a money spider crawl down Diamond's shirt front.

Diamond pricked up his eyebrows. "A witness?"

"Good Lord, no. Nothing so helpful as that. Just a name."

"Who's this, then?"

"Oh, a fellow by the name of Somerset helps out in the shop. He was seen there on the day of the murder."

"Acting suspiciously?"

"No, no. We've got nothing on him. By all accounts he was a big support to Peg. They got on well. I'll be talking to him later. He may give me something on the professor."

"So Joe Dougan is still your main suspect?"

"Definitely. Motive, opportunity."

"Means?"

"She was cracked over the head with something. It could have been that precious writing box he was so desperate to own."

"Which has disappeared."

"For the time being, yes."

"The box has disappeared. The wife has disappeared. How will you stop Joe from disappearing with them?"

"I've covered that. The hotel people will call me the minute he tries to check out. But I don't think he will. He's too smart."

"You could ask for his passport."

Wigfull sighed.

"All right," said Diamond. "Do it your way."

"This is a battle of wits," said Wigfull. "I know he killed her, and he knows I know. He'll put a foot wrong some time, and I'm going to keep going back to him until he does."

"Like Columbo."

"Who?"

"Detective Columbo on the telly."

"I don't follow you."

"That's his style," said Diamond. "The battle of wits. He knows who did it before the first commercial break. He always gets his man in the end." But he couldn't help thinking that Columbo was light years ahead of Wigfull in wheedling out the truth.

IN THE spirit of Saturday, he took Halliwell across the street for a beer and a bite of lunch at the Bloomsbury, that unique watering-hole that combined Virginia Woolf, fried scampi and a pool table. Under a "Duncan Grant" mural, they talked football and the prospects for the coming season. They were into their second beer before Halliwell looked out of the window and remarked that the press people seemed to have quit the front of the nick.

"It's Saturday, isn't it?" said Diamond. "They file their stories early for the Sundays. I was giving them nothing, so they shut up shop. They'll be back tomorrow."

"Did you speak to Ingeborg?"

"I did."

"She was pleased, no doubt."

"Mote 'I told you so' than pleased, but you were right, Keith.

She earned her scoop."

"She wants a job on the force."

"Don't I know it!"

"She's bright."

He eyed Halliwell amusedly. "Has she recruited you as her agent?"

"She'd fit in all right, that's all I'm saying."

"Squeezed into your corner of the office?"

"No problem."

Diamond's mood had improved. Regardless of whether Ingeborg claimed credit for the morning's work, it had given a boost to the inquiry. "We've moved on, haven't we?" he said. "We're looking for someone who dismembered his victim and disposed of the parts in more than one place. Someone with transport, probably in the building trade. A van, maybe. Someone who thought he'd got away with it until the news broke a couple of days ago. That will have come as a shock. He'll be even more shaken if he reads Ingeborg's report in the paper tomorrow."

"A bloke?"

"Almost certainly. Dismembering is hard work. The way the bones shattered, my guess is that he used an axe or something like it, heavy as well sharp."

"We're still looking at these two brickies, then? Banger and Mash."

"One of them. Or bits of him, or bits of his victim." He looked expectantly at Halliwell. "Any progress?"

He wouldn't yet be shouting for drinks all round, if Halliwell's sigh was anything to go by. "I called everyone-well, everyone we traced-and there isn't much to report. I think they were only in the job a few weeks. Apart from that plasterer who put us onto this, just one other man had any memory of them."

"And…?"

"Similar descriptions. Banger's long, messy hair and leather."

"Did he notice the Motorhead ring?"

"No. But he gave us a better description. Banger was lanky. Well over six feet tall and thin as a streak of chewing gum, as he put it."

"That may help. What about Mash?"

"He was more like average height. Went in for jeans and tee-shirts."

"No clue as to their real names?"

Halliwell shook his head. "One thing he does remember is that the vault was used for storing bags of cement."

"That's good. We know their job was wheeling the cement to the brickies working on the extension. Did you ask how these two got along?"

"Were they buddies, do you mean? He seemed to think so. They took some verbal from the older men, being inexperienced, and they got treated as a pair and stood up to it together."

They finished their drinks and crossed the street again. John Wigfull drove out of the police station as they approached and didn't even give them a nod.

"He's on the case," said Diamond.

"Which one?"

"Peg Redbird."

"Has he taken it over?"

"To all intents and purposes. I'm nominally in charge, but I've been told to keep at arm's length."

"I thought he looked pleased with himself."

"He thinks he's the dog's bollocks."

Unable to resist stoking up the old rivalry, Halliwell commented, "He's worked it well if he can get away as early as this."

"Not that bugger," Diamond said. "He's a workaholic. He's off to have another go at Joe Dougan if I'm any judge."

"The American professor?"

"Yes. He'll keep wearing him down."

"If I was the professor, I'd check out of that hotel and get back to wherever I came from," said Halliwell.

"Ah, but his wife is missing. If he hops it, he'll be revealed as callous and uncaring, which is what Wigfull wants."

"So it's cat and mouse," said Halliwell.

Diamond rolled his eyes.

Back in the office, he put through a call to his friend the evidence sergeant at Chippenham. "Thought you'd like to know we scored a hit. That plaster cast fitted the hand at Chepstow."

"Congratulations, sir. I dare say Chepstow will want to see the bones, then?"

"No doubt-in due time and through official channels and without violating the rules of evidence. Tell me, sergeant, when they first came in, those bones, I expect you got a forensic report on them. They weren't just put in the box and filed away."

"There's a report for sure, sir."

"I knew you'd say that, sergeant. The minute I saw you, I thought here's a man who misses nothing. You probably know what I'm going to ask next."

"You want to know if forensic were able to tell us anything about the deceased, sir."

"Right on."

"I'll check the report and call you back directly."

"Directly" was an under-estimate. The call came back a good forty minutes later, but it was worth waiting for. The deceased, according to the expert who had measured the bones, was likely to have been over six feet in height and below the age of twenty-five.

"So it was Banger who bought it."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"No need, sergeant. I was talking to myself. How do they tell the age?"

"It's to do with the growth centres at the lower ends of the limb-bones, sir. If you remember this set of bones, they included a complete femur. The ends are soft-well, relatively soft-during the growing period. They harden as you get older, and by the time you're twenty-five they form solid bone and fuse with the rest of the skeleton."

Before the end of the afternoon, Diamond decided to go public on Banger and Mash. He would harness the media interest and appeal for information on the two young men who had worked in the vault in the spring of 1983.

"And that," he said to Keith Halliwell, "can wait till Monday. You and I are taking tomorrow off. I've been a lifelong supporter of the Lord's Day Observance Society."

JOHN WIGFULL, too, was using his Saturday afternoon profitably. Among the junk mail Diamond had handed him at Noble and Nude had been a flyer about a major antiques fair in the Assembly Rooms at the weekend. It was still on the back seat of his car. A real bonus. These fairs were big business in the antiques world. This one was sure to attract the local dealers and collectors-a marvellous chance for him to stroll about unnoticed doing surveillance, listening to unguarded gossip and perhaps getting information that would lead to an early arrest. It mattered to him more than anyone else could guess to get one over Diamond and make a favourable impression on the new Assistant Chief Constable. So he was playing this close to his chest. He hadn't even entered it in the diary. If it led to nothing, he lost nothing. He looked up last night's Bath Chronicle and, as he hoped, found an article describing some of the pieces on sale. He could pose as a genuine visitor.

He paid his entrance fee and went in, and spent some time in frustration, overhearing nothing at all of use. Eventually he identified Peg Redbird's helper, Ellis Somerset, a flamboyant character who didn't mind talking, and gave some useful information about what had happened in Noble and Nude on Friday. Nothing dramatic, but helpful. Somerset would make a good witness, he decided, intelligent, articulate and observant. The only cause for regret was that nothing he said conflicted with Professor Joe Dougan's statements.

The antiques fair had disappointed. Fortunately, John Wigfull had a back-up plan.

From there, he drove the short distance to Victoria Park. Earlier, whilst checking the Bath Chronicle, he had spotted a notice for a "Grand Day Out" for charity organized by the Bath Rotarians and featuring a traditional merry-go-round, dog obedience competition, pony rides and-the main attraction for Wigfull- Uncle Evan's Puppet Theatre. His sharp eye had spotted the words as if they were printed in red. Uncle Evan definitely existed, then. Joe Dougan had not invented the name.

Unlikely as it seemed, the Chief Inspector was now sitting on the grass with about thirty small children and a few parents in front of a wooden structure with an eight-foot-high proscenium arch and curtains, erected against the open back of a white van. The puppeteer could reach inside for extra puppets and scenery without interrupting the show. Helpfully for Wigfull, Uncle Evan was in view working the strings, a man probably past forty, of the sort you see in large numbers at folk festivals, with dark hair to his shoulders, beads around his neck and metal-framed glasses. Generally they are with thin women in long dresses and sandals.

The stage had a section cut out to allow Uncle Evan to step forward and make full use of the space. The children were not troubled by seeing how the puppets were controlled; they were wholly engrossed in the story, an action-filled plot borrowed from fairy tales, pantomime and television. There was even a Frankenstein's monster looking like Boris Karloff, a large cloth puppet that fitted onto Evan's arm and drew delighted screams from the small audience.

You would have to be totally insensitive to interrupt the show. Wigfull was only ninety per cent insensitive.

"The Monster, the Monster!" chorused the audience, as Uncle Evan made the Frankenstein figure sneak up on the little boy marionette who was the link for the story. Wigfull gave the drama only scant attention. He was thinking what he would ask Uncle Evan after the show. This, after all, was the man Joe Dougan claimed had pointed him in the direction of Noble and Nude. It was a heaven-sent chance to check out Dougan's story.