Bloodhounds (19 page)

"Leaving the rest of you to talk it over?"

Rupert shook his head. "There was no more talk, squire. The meeting broke up. I've no idea what time it was."

"Eight forty-five, I was told," said Diamond. "What did you do?"

"Went into the Saracen's to collect my dog."

"Who with?"

"No one. We all went our different ways. I may have had one drink. I wasn't there long. I rescued Marlowe and took him for a walk. The poor old tyke was bursting. Some people's idea of fun is tanking up my dog with Guinness."

"So where did he lift his leg?"

"That is rather personal, isn't it? Along the riverbank."

"And then did you come back here?"

"Yes. I needed to eat by then."

"Can anyone vouch for your movements?"

"I can."

"I mean an independent witness, Mr. Darby."

"No one I can think of. Look, you don't seriously suspect—"

"Have you got wheels?"

"What?"

"Wheels. A car."

"Now, come on," said Rupert, drawing the blanket closer around him.

"Have you?"

He sighed. "An ancient Lada that I keep in Beehive Yard by special arrangement with a drinking chum who has a business down there. I suppose you'd like to know if it's taxed and insured."

"No," said Diamond. "I'd like to know if you used it last Monday evening."

"Absolutely not, seeing that the tax ran out in August."

"Would that stop you?"

Rupert wasn't meant to respond, and didn't. Most of the questions he couldn't have answered more directly, thanks to the conditioning of his education. He was a pushover, the type of suspect Diamond generally found easy to entrap—when there was anything inconsistent. There was the police record with this one, too. Yet he was a fellow who made you smile, even when he was on the defensive. His comments on the other Bloodhounds had brought them vividly to life. It would be almost a pity to put the boot in.

"Fair enough," said Diamond. "Let's talk about Sid Towers."

"There isn't much to say, is there?"

"Did you ever meet him in any other place than the crypt of St. Michael's?"

"You mean the pub afterward?"

"I mean anywhere at all."

Rupert closed his eyes in thought. "Aboard Milo's boat last Christmas. The Bloodhounds' party. Sid was there, trying to merge with the woodwork."

"Nowhere else?"

"Can't remember an occasion."

"Perhaps he was in touch some other way," suggested Diamond. "A letter?"

"The phone?" Julie contributed.

"What on earth about?" asked Rupert, his gaze moving suspiciously from Diamond to Julie. "He and I had practically nothing in common."

Diamond couldn't hold off any longer. He'd kept the goodwill flowing past the point when it was still productive. His voice took on a harder tone. "I have to think of every possibility, Mr. Darby. Let's face facts. Sid worked with a security firm. They keep files on people. I want to know if he got nasty with you. Demanded money in return for his silence over your prison record."

A muscle twitched in Rupert's cheek.

"You wouldn't want your literary friends to know you've done bird, would you?" Diamond pressed him. "Obtaining money by deception. Twice. And the other convictions aren't too edifying. How many fines is it for drunkenness? Indecency? What are you—a flasher? What would Miss Chilmark say about that if she found out?"

"She wouldn't say a word. She'd be hyperventilating again," said Rupert, buying time with an easy jibe. There was a pause while he adjusted mentally. Then: "If you want to know, it was a joke that misfired. I was up for the fifth time before Bath Magistrates on a drunk and disorderly charge and it was December twenty-third. After the beak fined me fifty quid I lowered my trousers and treated him to a view of my backside with the words MERRY CHRISTMAS stuck to it. It was a paper decoration off a Christmas cake. I was done for contempt of court and indecency. 'Pull up your trousers and face the bench, Mr. Darby. You may have thought that seasonal goodwill justifies some leniency over this disgusting exhibition, but the law is not to be mocked. You are fined one hundred pounds for the contempt,,and a conviction for indecency will be entered on your record. Merry Christmas to you, too, and, let us hope, a sober New Year.' "

Diamond wasn't smiling. His disappointment was crushing; after Julie's work on the PNC he'd really thought he had a handle on Rupert Darby. The blackmail theory had just sunk like a punctured balloon. The man wasn't a sexual deviant. He was a clown. A couple of prison terms for fraudulent deals weren't going to worry an extrovert like this.

He turned to Julie and told her they were leaving.

They passed St. Michael's as they returned down Broad Street. Diamond decided to look into the crypt. "It's where the bloody thing started, Julie. And the way things are going, we'd better send up a prayer while we're there."

Inside, a playgroup had taken over for the morning. While three-year-olds were squabbling over wooden trains it was difficult to picture the Bloodhounds in session discussing locked room murders. The woman in charge was monopolized by a tearful girl who wouldn't budge from her lap, so Diamond sorted the problem of the boys and the trains. It was a wonder to Julie that his bulk and his gruff manner didn't frighten children. She'd seen plenty of adults in awe of him. The reason seemed to be that he didn't patronize kids; he listened to them solemnly and talked back to them with sincerity. He'd told her once that his wife, Stephanie, had miscarried several times. He'd said nothing else.

Now that harmony was restored, they looked at the layout of the crypt. There was a row of hooks near the door. The playgroup supervisor had her coat hanging there, and beside it, the children's tiny garments with gloves attached to elastic and dangling from the sleeves.

"This, presumably, is where Sid Towers switched Milo Motion's keys," said Diamond. "Fished the bunch out of his coat pocket, slipped the original off the key ring and replaced it with a key he'd bought from Foxton's. He could turn his back to the circle of chairs and make the switch without being seen. Simple."

"The quiet man. Everyone underestimated him," said Julie.

"Except wily John Wigfull."

She smiled. "That really irks, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "But I blame myself."

Back at Manvers Street, there was a message asking Diamond to contact PC Hogarth.

"Who's he?"

"I thought you knew, sir," said the woman who had taken the call. "He seemed to know you."

"Where was he calling from?"

"I'm afraid he didn't say."

"What was it about?"

"He wanted to speak to you personally."

"Well, that's a fat lot of use. He isn't one of my detectives, I can tell you that."

Julie hadn't heard of the man either.

It was another hour before PC Hogarth called in again. "He said he's down at Avoncliff, sir," said the woman from the wireless room.

"Avoncliff? Avoncliff?" A lightbulb switched on in his head. "Jesus Christ. The divers."

Chapter Twenty-five

Without looking up, Julie was aware of someone in a brown suit, carrying a tray. She was sure from the way he was moving steadily between the tables in the police canteen that he would come to hers. Her first impulse was to leave, but she still had most of her lunch in front of her. Although she rarely ate much at this time—today's meal was just a tuna salad and some yogurt—she knew some food was essential to get her through the afternoon.

"You don't mind?" John Wigfull said, as he pulled out a chair.

She minded, but she knew he wouldn't go away whatever she replied. A grin like broken glass was spread under that great broom of a mustache. He wasted no time over pleasantries. "I hear your boss goofed over the divers, poor blighters. What was that old catchphrase: 'Don't forget the diver?"

"There was never any question of forgetting them." Julie found herself distorting the truth in defense of Diamond. "It was always going to be a long job."

"A soul-destroying job, I should think. Not even a proper diving assignment. It's only a few feet deep at the most. More like wading than diving. They weren't too thrilled, I was told."

"Really?"

"It's a bit much, being left that long."

"They were just getting on with the job, I expect," she said casually. "They didn't want one of us standing over them."

"You're very loyal, Julie. Always have been."

She forked some food into her mouth.

He didn't hand out compliments without wanting some return on them. The pumping started. "How's it going? Is he getting anywhere with the murder?"

She answered with as much conviction as she could muster. "We're following several leads."

Wigfull allowed that claim to wither and die in silence.

"Personally," he said finally, "I'd have handled it differently. "

"Oh, yes?"

"I'd have given you more freedom to act. He doesn't delegate, does he?"

"If you don't mind, it's no business of mine to discuss Mr. Diamond's handling of the case," she was quick to tell him.

"Yes, but what's your part in the investigation? Sitting in front of the PNC. Don't deny it. I saw you yesterday. You should be out conducting interviews, not stuck in front of a ruddy screen by the hour. That's a sure way to get a headache."

She couldn't resist saying, "I thought you were all in favor of information technology, Mr. Wigfull."

He swayed to one side, as if riding a blow. He was still cockahoop over Diamond's lapse. "You can say that again, Julie, but I wouldn't put my best DI on the job. We employ civilians to operate the hardware. Whose form were you checking? One of the Bloodhounds?"

"It was just routine," she said, fencing as well as she could.

"Leaving no stone unturned, eh?"

"Well
..."

He followed up quickly. "The divers will vouch for that, poor buggers. They must have run out of stones to turn over." This amused him vastly. The whole table shook, and he spilled some of his coffee.

Julie remained impassive.

He went on to say, "He isn't a team man, is he? If you worked for me—"

"But I don't," Julie cut in, wanting to put a quick end to this.

"Anytime you'd care to . . ."

"Thanks," she said in a tone that made clear how unwelcome the prospect was.

Now the offer turned into a threat. "It could happen sooner than you think. I sorted the stamp theft, didn't I? Proved that Towers was the man and showed how he did it. That didn't go unnoticed. Someone's going to give me a crack at the murder soon. They want a result."

End of commercial. The talk turned to performance-related pay. Wigfull was one of the few at Manvers Street in favor of it. He had nothing to fear from appraisals, he said.

When she finished and was carrying her tray back to the collection point, Wigfull called after her.

She turned. "Yes?"

"Tell your boss."

"Tell him what?"

"What I said: 'Don't forget the diver.' "

That afternoon there was some rare autumn sunshine, and Shirley-Ann Miller took a slow stroll through Sydney Gardens and along the canal towpath. In the winter months this is a part of the city where you may walk for stretches without seeing anyone, yet once it was the fashionable place to be and be seen, a park you paid an entrance fee to visit, with a bandstand, grottoes, a labyrinth, and regular firework displays. It was all so cherished by the Georgians and Victorians that when the canal builders and railway engineers wanted to cut through, elaborate measures were insisted upon to disguise the construction. So there are tunnels, balustrades, and wrought iron bridges that are a credit to the planners, though rarely seen by modern visitors. Shirley-Ann was not the sort who looked for solitude, but after a morning doing her damnedest to hand out leaflets about the bus tour and getting not much response and a couple of vulgar suggestions, she wanted a break from people.

She had decided to walk as far as Top Lock, along the last, spectacular section of the canal before it joins the Avon. Here, after a wooded stretch, you suddenly look right and become aware that you are on an escarpment above most of the city except the church spires. That view always lifted Shirley-Ann's spirits. This lunchtime she would walk as far as the lockkeeper's cottage, a small gothic building of great charm restored by the Canal Trust—in no way as notable or noble as the sights she pointed out when she was giving her commentary on the bus, but pleasing to Shirley-Ann because she thought of it as a personal discovery. Today, however, she was distracted along the way by a discovery of a different kind. At Sydney Wharf Bridge, where George Street crosses the canal, the towpath switches sides. She climbed the cobbled slope on one side and passed over the bridge to rejoin the path by way of the descending steps by the Mercedes-Benz showroom. Her view of the towpath was hidden until she stepped onto it—which was why she was surprised by the man and woman coming towards her. She felt herself blush scarlet. The woman was Jessica Shaw.

Jessica, the murderer.

She did for Sid.

After the long, sleepless night when her mind had fizzed with the facts that pointed to Jessica's guilt, this was the last person on earth Shirley-Ann wished to meet.

Worse still, the man was AJ. Meeting Jessica at all was rotten luck; catching her out with her fancy man was a double blow from the fates. Of course she'd been sure in her mind that Jessica had something going with A.J., but up to now the liaison hadn't been paraded in front of her.

On the narrow towpath she couldn't avoid them without making it obvious.

They weren't actually arm in arm or holding hands, but so close to each other that they were practically in contact. Recognizing her, they broke off the earnest conversation they were having. Jessica said, probably in case AJ. hadn't spotted who it was, "Shirley-Ann, what a nice surprise."

AJ. half-lifted his hand in greeting and said, "Small world."

Shirley-Ann couldn't have felt more embarrassed if she had caught them in bed. She managed to say, "Isn't this a treat? The weather, I mean."

"Glorious." Jessica seemed unfazed. In a short, wine-red padded coat trimmed with black fur, and with black leggings and ankle boots, she looked more suitably kitted for the cat-walk than the towpath.

Since the weather hadn't yielded much in the way of conversation, Shirley-Ann remarked, "I passed some swans back there. A pair, with their family. At least five cygnets. Fairly grown-up, but really sweet."

"I expect we'll see them, then," said Jessica.

"They're worth looking out for, and the place is easy to spot. There's some pampas grass and a little wild area where they nest. They mate for life, don't they?"
Dear God,
she thought,
what am I saying?

"I've no idea," said Jessica evenly.

"Nor me," said AJ.

Words, words in profusion, were Shirley-Ann's instinctive means of dealing with embarrassment. She had a horror of silences. She had to communicate something to get her over the mating-swans gaffe. "By the way, I did enjoy the preview last night. A party like that must have cost you an arm and a leg— all the buck's fizz and the refreshments. It seemed as if the whole of Bath had crowded in there. I hope you sold lots of pictures."

"We just about covered our costs," said Jessica. "An evening like that isn't only about the money you take. It's a way of spreading the word."

"PR," said A.J.

Jessica added, "Most of them there last night have never bought a piece of work from the gallery and never will, but that isn't the point."

"I understand."

"It was a near-disaster, actually," she went on. "I'm still hopping mad about that vile thing that was written on the gallery window."

"We've dismissed that," said A.J. quickly. "We agreed to erase it from our minds, didn't we?" He was addressing Shirley-Ann now.

"Absolutely," she confirmed with all the conviction she could summon up, considering she had thought about little else since the party.

Jessica said, "I'd like to know who it was. I've got my suspicions."

"Let go, Jess," A.J. urged her, talking like a husband.

"If that's their game, they could try again."

"It was a prank," said A.J. "Someone with a warped sense of humor. You don't think anyone could seriously suspect you of murder? I mean, you had a lot of time for the bloke who was killed. He was a bit of a loner, you told me, lacking in confidence. You took him under your wing."

Took him under your wing and used him to pinch the Penny Black, thought Shirley-Ann cynically. Then clobbered the poor beggar because he stepped out of line and put the plot at risk. She was finding it a great test to keep her conclusions to herself.

"That isn't the point," said Jessica. "We all know I wouldn't have harmed Sid in a million years, but if this evilminded bastard points the finger at me again, I'm going to the police."

"He won't," said A.J.

"How do you know it wasn't a woman?" Jessica demanded, and Shirley-Ann, with her weakness for speaking first and thinking afterward, almost told her why.

A.J. grinned, and said, "Fair point, but I'm sure it's a closed book now. Hadn't we better get back and open the gallery?"

They moved on.

Shirley-Ann's thoughts were in ferment again as she continued toward Top Lock. She didn't give a thought to the marvelous view or the cottage. She was puzzled over the relationship between those two. Was it the modern morality that had stopped them from showing any embarrassment at being seen in each other's company? True, she had seen them together before, in the gallery, but this was something else, surely, being met along a secluded towpath. It was evident to anyone that they knew each other extremely well, almost like brother and sister. Yes, that was
exactly
the feeling she got from them, an intimacy that didn't give rise to shame.

Up to now Shirley-Ann had always believed she could tell if a woman was concealing a relationship. She'd spotted the signs quite early in several of her married friends. This was baffling, because there was no suggestion of concealment. In A.J.'s company, Jessica behaved as if she had every right to spend major time alone with him.

And there was still a huge question in Shirley-Ann's mind. Where did Sid Towers fit into this menage? To plot the theft of the Penny Black, there must have been meetings with Sid, long meetings to work on the details of an intricate plot. They must have cased the Postal Museum and talked over ways of gaining entry. They must have worked out their diversionary tactics, the riddles, and how to publicize them. There was the challenge—still a mystery to Shirley-Ann—of getting into Milo's locked boat. All of this must have been talked through by Sid and Jessica. Long sessions, debating ways of carrying out such an elaborate plot. How had Jessica achieved this without alerting A.J. or her husband? Or was either of them involved as well?

She walked on, unenlightened.

"He said what?"

Julie repeated the phrase for Diamond's benefit. " 'Don't forget the diver.' "

"Ah."

"His idea of a joke."

"It's one of those radio catchphrases, if I'm not mistaken. When I was a kid we listened to the radio a lot." He eased back in his chair, ready to reminisce, surprisingly untroubled by Wigfull's barbed message. "I enjoyed them.
Ray's a Laugh, Take
it from Here, Educating Archie,
and, of course,
The Goons.
The characters had their set phrases. All they had to do was repeat them each week, and the audience would be rolling in the aisles. And applauding." He smiled. "Mind, 'Don't forget the diver' was before my time or Wigfull's."

"I should hope so," said Julie. "I looked it up. It goes back to the nineteen twenties."

"The
twenties'!"

"It seems there was a one-legged man who used to dive off the pier for pennies at New Brighton. It was his catchphrase in the first place. Then it was taken up by Tommy Handley during the war."

"That would be
ITMA."

"Yes."

"I don't remember
ITMA
either," said Diamond. "Did John have any other gags to share with you?"

"That was the only one," said Julie. Truth to tell, she'd thought twice about passing that one on, but it was obvious that something had put her boss into a sunny mood. When she'd walked into his office he'd been humming "Yellow Submarine." "No, there was another joke," she said, "but it was unintended. He expects to take over the case."

He chuckled. "I've heard that one before, too."

"Once he did take over," she reminded him.

"Only after I resigned. It's not going to happen again." He opened the drawer in front of him, and took out a rusty object and let it fall on the desk with a metallic clunk. "Keys, Julie. A bunch of keys. The reason those divers got in touch was that they'd finished the job."

"Those are . . . ?"

"The keys Milo Motion dropped into the canal."

"Brilliant." She understood his singing now. "So now we know Milo was telling the truth about where he lost them."

"Yes. Only there's more to it than that." He took a padlock from the same desk drawer. "This is the one that was on the door of the
Mrs. Hudson
on the evening Sid Towers was found dead. Watch."