Cop to Corpse (12 page)

‘Maybe the gunman happened to have been a kid at the school where he taught.’

‘Not bad, John. Not bad. And had a grudge about the way he was treated? Compulsory games?’

Leaman smiled. ‘It would have to be worse than that. Some of these PE teachers are sadistic bastards.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Memories of school cross-country runs stirred in Diamond’s brain. Those formative experiences went deep, himself with the stragglers, smokers and fat boys at the back of the pack, too breathless to run, shivering in shorts and singlet, and being threatened with an extra round of the course by a bully in a tracksuit. ‘There were times when I would gladly have shot mine, but I hope I’ve got over it.’

‘They say it’s self-perpetuating.’

‘What is?’

‘You get bullied and in due course you become a bully.’

‘Get away.’

It was a rare moment of triumph for Leaman. He’d got one over his assertive boss.

‘We’re guessing here,’ Diamond said testily. ‘Move this on. Let’s look at the other victim.’

PC Richmond, Stanley, had been older than Hart. 41 at death, a career policeman, he had joined Bristol Central after leaving school. His file showed he’d moved around more than most in his first few years: Crewkerne, Minehead, Glastonbury, Somerton, Ilminster, Wincanton.

‘Why so many moves?’ Diamond said.

‘Sometimes you get a bloke who doesn’t fit in.’

‘An awkward bugger? I’ve met a few.’

Leaman reddened.

‘Nothing personal. Then there are restless guys who are always putting in for transfers. Was he married?’

‘No. Ah, this could explain why he was often on the move,’ Leaman said, and read aloud. ‘ “Has an interest in folklore and writes articles for
Somerset Life
and other magazines.” I expect he was gathering material for his writings.’

‘He was supposed to be keeping law and order.’

‘He could still have combined it with his hobby.’

‘Which must be why he never made it to sergeant.’

‘Just look at the list of postings. Glastonbury, famous for its mystical connections. Somerton, supposedly the meeting place of various ley lines. Wincanton had its witch trials. He did his research, wrote it up and then asked for another transfer.’

‘He ended up at Radstock. What’s there, apart from disused coal mines?’

‘Bronze age stuff. Saxon burials.’

Diamond was impressed. ‘You’re well up on all this. Are you a rucksack and shorts man on your days off?’

Leaman hesitated. ‘I take an interest, but I wouldn’t say I’m well up on it, not like Stan Richmond.’

‘Ever met him on a dig?’

Leaman shook his head. ‘I can see I’m going to regret this.’

Diamond revolved his chair to turn his back on the screen. ‘So we have a sporting ex-teacher and a folklore buff. A muscleman and a hippie. Not a lot in common except they both joined the police.’

‘Both lived in Minehead at one time.’

‘Did they?’ Something he’d missed. Once more he was forced to respect Leaman’s attention to detail.

‘Hart taught there and Richmond was on the strength, but not at the same time.’

‘May be of interest, maybe not. Personal files only tell you so much. Christ only knows what mine says. They leave out the really interesting bits. For that, we need to talk to family and friends. I read in one of the tabloids that Martin Hart was known to his friends as Ossy. Why was that, I wonder?’

‘Aussie, like Down Under?’

‘Ossy. With a double s.’

‘Short for Oscar?’

‘Search me. His name wasn’t Oscar. That’s what it said in the press. Reporters are good at finding out personal stuff like that. Brings them to life. It’s what people like to read. Why Ossy? Ozzy Osbourne I can understand, but Ossy Hart? Am I missing something?’

Leaman gave a shrug.

‘I’m not saying it’s important,’ Diamond went on, ‘but this is the kind of detail you don’t get from reading official files on a bloody computer.’

‘Most of the newspapers are on computer,’ Leaman said, as a true apostle of the world wide web.

‘Check them out, then,’ Diamond countered, never one to miss an opening. ‘See if they teased out anything we don’t know. But I’m going to send Ingeborg to Wells and Radstock to get the real dope on the victims.’

DC Ingeborg Smith had once been a crime reporter who had more than once put Diamond through the wringer.

‘Is that wise? Jack Gull won’t like us going it alone,’ Leaman said.

‘Gull is too busy to notice. I wish we could find a connection between these two and Harry Tasker,’ Diamond said. ‘All I got from Tasker’s wife is that he fished and watched TV in his time off. Was that really all he did? Does anyone here know any more about him?’

‘He wasn’t much of a communicator.’

‘She mentioned that, too. And he griped about freemasonry in the police.’

‘Why was that?’ Leaman said in a challenging tone. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth.

Diamond raised his hand as if to concede that he’d bowled one bouncer too many. ‘You’re one of them. I forgot.’

Leaman twitched again. ‘There’s nothing in our conditions of service to say I shouldn’t be one of them, as you put it. Plenty of us are, and proud to be. What was Harry Tasker’s problem with it?’

‘Favours, I expect.’

Leaman simply clicked his tongue.

‘Isn’t that what persuaded you to join?’

Leaman sighed and rolled his eyes upwards.

Diamond grinned. ‘No need to get shirty, John. You’re a secretive bunch, up to all kinds of weird practices, but I don’t think you take shots at non-members, even stroppy non-members like Harry Tasker.’

Ingeborg was delighted to be asked.

‘It’s not exactly undercover,’ Diamond told her, ‘but you don’t need to go through official channels. I’d rather you shared a drink with the Wells CID lads than knocked on the Chief Superintendent’s door.’

‘Do I get expenses?’

‘You can claim for your travel. You’ll drive, I expect?’

‘Will it also go to a round of drinks?’

‘You’re a girl,’ he said, frowning. ‘You get drinks put in front of you.’

There was a pause while Ingeborg composed herself. ‘Not necessarily, guv.’

‘If all else fails, then.’

‘And what am I meant to find out?’

‘All you can on Ossy Hart. His friends, contacts, the things he talked about, particularly his life outside the police. Family, sports. Was he one of these hearty types who make themselves unpopular? Why was he known as Ossy when his name was Martin? You’re going to seem nosy and they may resent it from a stranger, but if anyone can charm it out of them, you will, and we’re doing this for professional reasons. Let them know you’re CID and from Bath. They’ll know all about the shooting.’

‘And you want me to do the same in Radstock?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Stanley Richmond.’

‘Even if you catch the sniper tonight?’

‘If we catch him, we’ll want to know why he did it.’

‘Wasn’t it random?’

She didn’t get an answer.

9

D
iamond was never sure whether sleeping in the day helped. Generally he would wake feeling worse than when he closed his eyes. Today he had no choice. He was dog tired and the painkillers acted as sedatives. After getting home at five, he made short work of a stack of cheese and pickle sandwiches, opened a pouch of tuna for the cat and fell into bed. Good thing he had enough of his wits about him to set the alarm for eleven –
P.M
., not
A.M
., as he felt he deserved.

The sleep must have helped, but it didn’t feel like that when the beep-beep broke into his dream of cruising the shallows of a slow-moving river in a flat-bottomed boat with Steph miraculously alive again, lightly holding his arm. When he flexed he found he’d been stroking his right bicep with his left hand. With an anguished groan, he reached out to stop the alarm repeating. Darkness had set in. He heaved himself off the pillow, groped for the light switch and stared at the clock. Stark reality replaced the dream: three brother officers murdered and their killer out there somewhere. Under an hour to get to Westwood.

He put his feet to the floor and was sharply reminded to reach for the crutch.

Curled up at the end of the bed on the softest part of the duvet, Raffles must have heard the yelp of pain. The ears pricked, but that was the only move.

The temptation to prod that cat was strong. Instead Diamond
phoned John Leaman to check what had happened in the last few hours.

Nothing of note. The search for the weapon in Becky Addy Wood had been abandoned at dusk. Ken Lockton remained comatose in the Royal United. No significant finds were reported from the Walcot Street murder scene.

The route took Diamond through the city, so quiet on a Sunday night you could have heard the wheeze of sleeping pigeons. He went over Claverton Down and linked up with the Warminster Road, the A36, where the only other vehicle he saw was a huge articulated truck parked in a lay-by, the driver dozing in his cab. Was everyone asleep? The people of Westwood would be. In all the outlying villages they kept country hours.

He opened a window to let in some reviving air.

He could be certain John Leaman was awake. The call to his mobile had found the reliable DI already in Westwood. If their estimate of the sniper’s intention was right, there wouldn’t be anything happening for some hours yet, but the men had to be strategically posted and the village streets checked for parked vehicles, especially motorcycles. Leaman was seeing to this. There could be no better choice for the job. He was a biker himself and bored everyone rigid with his talk of Suzuki Bandits.

A winding minor road brought Diamond on a steep descent through the village of Freshford, a place he regarded with some respect, and not only for its well-stocked inn. In 1974 when North Somerset was redesignated as Avon, the defiant inhabitants held a mock funeral in protest.

Passing through that hotbed of insurrection, he crossed the sixteenth century bridge over the Frome and his headlights picked out a rare stretch of level road, the floor of the Limpley Stoke valley. This didn’t last long. He was soon climbing Staples Hill and entering another county. Wiltshire was outside his jurisdiction.

But he hadn’t been expecting a border control.

Lights. Cones. A figure in a reflective jacket waved him down.

He lowered the window. ‘What’s up?’

The young police officer had to be a Wiltshire man. Not a glimmer of recognition. ‘Do you mind telling me where you’re going, sir?’

‘No, but I’ll tell you who I am.’ Diamond brandished his warrant card. ‘Is there a lion on the loose?’

There was no answer.

‘Why are you stopping the traffic?’

A sharp change of tone. ‘Sorry, sir. Orders, sir.’

‘Who from?’

‘DI Polehampton, sir, Serial Crimes Unit.’

Polehampton. The blood pressure rocketed. What was the point of a stakeout if everyone coming into the area was alerted?

‘You can stop this nonsense right now, clear the road and get out of sight, do you understand? Those are my orders. Do it.’

Chuntering, gripping the wheel, Diamond almost missed the narrow lane leading to the village.

Westwood is large enough to be divided into Upper and Lower. The part he had reached, on the edge of the ridge above the Avon valley, was the Upper. He drove past a mix of cottages and modern houses to a clearing where upwards of thirty uniformed police had gathered. These were Avon and Somerset men he recognised. John Leaman was among them.

How ridiculous.

At boiling point by now, Diamond flung open the door, put his crutch to the ground and emerged with a limp almost as menacing as Anthony Sher playing Richard III.

He had their complete attention.

‘This is supposed to be an undercover operation,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Leaman cleared his throat. ‘Guv, this is me, John Leaman.’

‘I can see who you are. In fact, I can see all of you. I could see the checkered caps from two hundred yards off in the moonlight.’ To be truthful he’d seen them in his headlamps, but the point was the same. ‘We’re supposed to be staging an ambush, not a passing-out parade. I suggest you remove them now.’

They did so.

Leaman said, ‘I’m responsible, guv. I picked this as the quietest place to meet.’

They had to assemble somewhere to get orders, even Diamond had to concede, and this was away from most of the houses, with only a farmyard across the street. He asked Leaman for a progress report. All the streets in Upper and Lower Westwood had been checked for parked vehicles. Registration numbers had been noted. Four motorcycles had been located, three in the lower part of the village. Leaman reeled off the makes and
details. All were registered to local residents and were now under surveillance.

‘Was this done without waking half the village?’ he asked. ‘We don’t want an audience tonight.’

‘Those were their orders, guv.’

‘Get them dispersed, then, and out of sight. Do they know what to do? No heroics. Leave that to the armed officers. Simply observe and report. I don’t want to see another bobby until the sniper is dead or disarmed.’

‘They’ve all been told.’

Actually Leaman had done a good job. The hat-bands could be forgiven. The men moved off in different directions.

‘Where’s Polehampton?’ Diamond asked, switching his anger to the main offender.

‘With Jack Gull, I believe. They went to the woods to liaise with the Wiltshire team.’

‘Did you know he ordered a stop on vehicles approaching Westwood?’

Leaman put his hand to his head. ‘He said something about surveillance.’

‘Since when was surveillance Mr. Plod with a torch in the middle of the road? I’m wondering if he’s sealed off all the other approaches. Can you reach him on your radio?’

All Leaman got was static.

‘Try Jack Gull, then.’

Supergull’s abrasive voice came on the line. ‘That you, Diamond, on the fucking scene at last?’

‘Yes, but no thanks to your deputy,’ Diamond said, and told him about the road block. ‘If he’s sealed off the village, we’re all wasting our time here.’