Skeleton Hill (11 page)

Shock was written plainly on their faces.

‘That’s awful,’ Denise said. ‘He was gentle, no threat to anyone. If we’d arrested him, it couldn’t have happened.’

‘Don’t lose any sleep over that,’ Diamond said. ‘You did your job. I wouldn’t have done any different and neither would Andy here, would you, Andy?’

‘Er, no.’

‘You won’t be playing the blame game, right?’

‘Right, sir.’

Sullivan would. He would undoubtedly accuse Denise of dis-loyalty later, but the sting had been taken out of it. This young woman cared more about what had happened to the victim than her own good record. Diamond liked what he’d seen of her. She’d make a better copper than Sullivan.

After they’d left the office he thought more about his own sighting of Rupert Hope on the racecourse and the shambolic, wayward figure he’d cut. He’d misjudged the man. Everyone seemed to have got him wrong. This investigation was more personal now.

12

K
eith Halliwell looked in.

‘You don’t mind me asking, guv? As I’m running the skeleton enquiry now, I wonder if you’ve got any pointers for me. Where were you going next with it?’

‘You want some tips?’ Diamond said, basking in the respect of this old colleague.

‘I’d be a fool to let you go without asking.’

‘A total idiot.’

Halliwell grinned sheepishly. ‘As you know, we looked at the mispers index and there was no one obvious.’

‘Plenty of missing persons don’t get on that list for all kinds of reasons, Keith.’

‘I know that, but I can’t see how we can move on until we identify the woman. We know her approximate age and when she died, within a year or two, and that’s all. Without the skull we can’t use dental records.’

‘I doubt if you’ll find the skull. The point of the killer removing it is to hinder identification. You know what I’d do if I was wanting to get rid of my victim’s head? I’d chuck it into a reservoir. A skull isn’t going to float like the rest of the body. Drop it in deep water and it’s gone like a stone.’

Halliwell was frowning. ‘I don’t have the manpower to go dredging reservoirs.’

‘I know. I’m telling you why you won’t find that skull.’

‘I was looking for encouragement.’

‘Okay. Has anything resulted from the press coverage? There are always members of the public who call in.’

‘Some have. I’m not optimistic.’

‘Have you done a computer search of our own files from the nineties?’

‘Unfortunately the time we’re interested in is before we went over to computers in a big way. A lot of case notes are still on paper.’

‘But retained?’

Halliwell nodded unhappily. Both men knew about the piles of dusty files boxed away in a store room downstairs.

‘Still has to be done,’ Diamond said. ‘And you’ll need to go through the local papers of twenty years ago. Crucial witnesses may have moved away, died, or whatever, but a disappearance could still have been reported. Look for mentions of Lansdown in particular. It’s hard graft. Let’s hope the effort brings a result.’ Privately he was relieved it was now someone else’s job. ‘And there’s one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’ Halliwell asked. The encouragement was coming at the rate of a drip-feed.

‘The zip fly we found with the body. Is it still in an evidence bag?’

‘Must be.’

‘Covered in rust and dirt?’

‘Yep.’

‘Have it cleaned up in the lab. They might find something on it. We assumed she was wearing jeans. What sort – cheap or designer? You sometimes get a manufacturer’s mark on the tab.’

‘Can we do that? Doesn’t it have to be shown to the court as we found it?’

‘It’s been photographed, hasn’t it? And the chain of evidence isn’t in doubt. No one can argue that this isn’t the zip found at the site. We have a right to make a forensic examination.’

‘And will it help, knowing which brand of jeans she wore?’

‘We don’t know yet, do we?’

Before setting out his stall in Bristol, Diamond had one more interview in mind, one he could do himself. He still believed there was mileage in the Lansdown Society. People like that, self-appointed busybodies dedicated to keeping the place respectable, were the kinds of allies he needed.

Mrs Augusta White, the magistrate, was easy to contact, less easy to approach. ‘Yes, of course I know you,’ she told him over the phone. ‘You’re not easily forgotten.’

‘Oh?’

‘The way you give evidence.’ Before he had time to reflect on that, she said, ‘But if you think I’m going to sit here and wait for you, you’ve got another think coming. My dear Mr Diamond, I’ve spent the whole afternoon in court dealing with pathetic young people destroying their lives with drugs and I promised myself some refreshment.’

‘Good thinking,’ he said. ‘I could do with some myself. May I join you?’

‘I suspect you have the wrong idea,’ she said. ‘Refreshment for me isn’t a couple of beers. It’s exercise.’

‘A brisk walk? I can walk for miles.’

‘Not walking.’

‘Jogging?’

‘Not my style, Mr Diamond.’

That was a relief. ‘Whatever. I need to speak to you today, if you don’t mind.’

‘If this is really necessary you can meet me in the Y.’

‘The what?’

‘The YMCA fitness centre. Shall we say in three-quarters of an hour? From what I remember of your physique some step’n’sweat would do you good. Wear something light. A T-shirt and shorts will do.’

He hadn’t worn shorts since his rugby-playing days. ‘I wasn’t aiming to work out.’

‘You’d better make a show of it. They don’t like men standing about eyeing the women and I’m certainly not making an exhibition of myself for your delectation. It’s a gym, Mr Diamond. Get there as soon as you can. I’m leaving presently.’

The Y was in Broad Street Place, no great distance from the police station. On the way he called at a sports shop and picked up a white T-shirt, cheap trainers and a pair of shorts that covered the butternut squashes that passed as his knees. He kept the receipt but doubted if he could claim it as a legitimate expense. At the front desk of the Y he asked the price of one session and was shocked, even after the peppy young woman told him it included one-to-one induction with a personal trainer and a lifestyle consultation to devise a training plan and fitness goals.

The anxieties of some days ago resurfaced. Were these people in league with the police doctor who’d said he was overweight and unfit? Augusta White was in touch with Georgina through the Lansdown Society. Surely they couldn’t have set him up?

‘I don’t need any of that,’ he said. ‘I was just enquiring.’

She looked at him and asked if he was a concession.

‘A what?’

‘Are you on benefits, dear?’

Annoyed, he leaned closer and showed her his warrant. ‘Actually, I’m a police officer . . . dear.’

She said, ‘You can get a corporate membership for twenty-six pounds.’

He was tempted to sign up the whole of Manvers Street just to see their reactions, but Georgina would never honour the cheque. ‘It’s part of an investigation.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Surveillance. You don’t mind if I go through?’

Now it was the receptionist’s turn to look worried. ‘Is this a sting?’

He thought of saying her prices were, but settled for a shake of the head. ‘No one’s going to get arrested.’

She sent him downstairs to the gym.

He spotted Augusta White’s tightly permed silver hair at once. She was one of several using the cardiovascular equipment, a row of machines facing picture windows with sensational views of the hills around Bath, including Lansdown. In a navy blue tracksuit, she was pedalling steadily on an exercise bike as if confident it would move off and take her Mary-Poppins style over the rooftops. He wasn’t the best at estimating women’s ages, but he reckoned Mrs White qualified as a concession and was about half his weight. Behind the bench she always looked a formidable figure. Here, she was just a scrap. Good for you, old girl, he thought.

‘Why don’t you step on the treadmill next to me?’ she said when he emerged, kitted and ready to go, from the changing room. ‘Be sure to put it on a low setting that you can handle.’

One of the staff showed him how to operate the machine by using the screen mounted at the front of the machine. He started at an ambling gait he was confident he could tolerate for ten minutes or so, by which time Mrs White would surely be exhausted. He was no stranger to fitness apparatus even though it had gone high-tech in the past twenty-five years.

‘I can’t discuss anything that’s
sub judice
,’ Mrs White said, contin-u ing to work her legs at the rate of a seasoned user.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘This is about your other life.’

‘What?’

‘Outside the courts.’

‘This is my other life – and you’ve invaded it.’

‘You invited me.’

‘So I did,’ she said in a more forgiving tone. ‘But be warned, Mr Diamond, my personal life is off limits as well.’

‘It’s not personal. It’s the Lansdown Society.’

‘That’s a private club.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Major Swithin and Sir Colin Tipping.’

‘Not so private as it should be. Those two.’ She clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘Yes, Sir Colin told me you’d interrupted their round of golf. I can’t think what you’re hoping to get from me that you haven’t heard from them. They’re about as discreet as a chorus line.’

‘You were in at the beginning,’ he said, pleased how comfortable he felt on the treadmill. Maybe he was fitter than anyone suspected.

‘And so were they.’

‘I reckon you have a better memory than theirs. You formed the society in 1993, I was told, to see that the down wasn’t mistreated by the people staging the mock battle up there.’

‘Correct. And later we put ourselves on a more permanent footing.’

‘Public spirited of you.’ A genuine compliment from Diamond. Mrs White’s contribution to the running of the city was well known to be altruistic and gladly given.

‘It isn’t a burden. I enjoy walking up there and I might as well check what’s happening at the same time.’

‘Do you happen to remember if anyone was seriously hurt in the battle? You know why I’m asking?’

‘I know about the skeleton you found. It’s female, isn’t it? Women do take part. They’re sometimes in the gun crews. The less adventurous prefer a support role, ministering to the sick or preparing meals at the camp. They call themselves camp followers. Not too nice a description. Personally I’d rather be astride a horse wielding a sword.’

A scary mental image.

‘A camp follower could still be hit by a stray cannonball, I expect.’

‘I watched the battle,’ she said, ‘and I’m absolutely certain real cannonballs weren’t used.’

‘This woman was minus her head.’

‘Lord save us, the explosives aren’t that dangerous, or we’d never have sanctioned them. If there had been a serious accident like that, the papers would have been full of it.’

‘I know. I’m working on the theory that the death was covered up. She was buried close to the battleground.’

‘Surely her people would have raised the alarm: family, friends, workmates?’

‘Unless she was a loner.’

‘Loners don’t join in war games, Mr Diamond – certainly not female loners. Most of them join because their boyfriends or husbands are part of it. I don’t know why you’re wasting time on this.’ She took a hand off the handlebar and raised a finger. ‘Ah, but I do. I see it now. You want to link it with the killing of the man found in the cemetery. He was one of the battle people, a cavalier.’

‘We can’t ignore the possibility.’

‘It’s far more likely that your skeleton lady had nothing to do with cavaliers and roundheads. My best guess is that she was the victim of a sex crime and the killer disposed of her body afterwards. How are you doing? Do you want to step off?’

‘I’m all right. Is the battle area popular with courting couples?’

‘Don’t ask me. You’re the policeman.’

‘Yes, but you people patrol it regularly.’

‘“Patrol” is not the way I think of it. We make a point of spending time up there when other commitments allow. I like walking. Reggie and Colin do their golf and Colin never misses the race days. Your boss Georgina is a rambler, like me. Charlie Smart, our vicar, is interested in wildlife, so between us we keep an eye on things. Patrolling, no. We’re not vigilantes, you know.’

Speak for yourself, he thought. The major, for one, seemed to think he had a mission to catch anyone who misbehaved. ‘So you wouldn’t know what people get up to at night?’

She turned her head and gave him a magisterial glare. ‘Personally, no. Well,’ she said, ‘I must correct myself. I haven’t seen anything going on personally, but I’m informed what happens. There are several unofficial points where motorists can drive off the road, and do and sometimes throw out their used condoms. Reggie – the major – keeps count for some reason, and will insist on reporting the latest figure at our meetings.’

‘I didn’t think to ask him.’

‘I wouldn’t. It’s not good for his blood pressure. How’s yours, by the way? Don’t overdo this if it’s your first time.’

‘The problem with the sex murderer theory,’ he said, ignoring that, ‘is that he’d need to have a spade with him to bury his victim. If your thoughts are on sex, do you carry a spade in your car?’

A pause while he regretted phrasing it that way.

Then she said, ‘My thoughts in that department are not for you or anyone else to enquire about.’

‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m speaking of people in general.’

‘Drivers sometimes carry spades routinely in case of snow. Or if they’re treasure-hunters, or have an allotment. One can think of reasons.’

‘Agreed.’

‘As you well know, I’ve had a number of murderers brought into my court for preliminary hearings. They can be resourceful when it comes to covering up their crimes.’

‘Don’t I know it!’

‘A magistrate sees the whole spectrum of offenders, from speeding motorists to serial murderers.’

‘And I dare say some crimes are committed on Lansdown.’

‘Of course.’

‘Any habitual offenders up there?’

She laughed. ‘You’re scraping the barrel now.’

‘No. This man Rupert Hope was attacked twice in two weeks. He was living rough. We could be looking for someone with a grudge against him. Maybe someone who gets violent when drunk. You must see a few.’

‘Regularly, but not specially linked with Lansdown, except sometimes on race days.’

His calf muscles were aching. He’d need to step off soon. ‘No names, then?’

She gave the matter some thought. ‘I’ve seen a man from Charlcombe a few times, a big fellow with the unlikely name of Gentle. Ned Gentle. He’s put a few unfortunates into A&E on Saturday nights. I sent him down for six months last time. He’d still be inside.’

‘I’ll check.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve turned rather pink.’

He could feel his face glowing. ‘I’m stopping presently. In your rambles over the last couple of weeks did you see Rupert Hope at all?’

‘How would I know?’ she asked. ‘Was his head bandaged?’