Skeleton Hill (8 page)

‘You mentioned Mrs White. Is she still in the society?’

‘You mentioned Mrs White. Is ‘Oh, yes. Have you met her?’

‘In court from time to time.’

‘Splendid woman. And, as you say, useful to have the law on our side. What
is
that wretched object on the green?’

Diamond could see it better now. Not a plastic bag, he was sure. Chalky white and unmoving, it lay close to the pin. Was his mind predisposed to death, or did it have the rounded shape of a cranium?

‘I’m going to take a look.’

He’d not expected ever to find the missing skull. The whole point of decapitating the victim was surely to prevent identification. The killer would have disposed of it miles from here.

What could it be doing in plain view on a golf course?

He quickened his pace.

And was disappointed.

The round, white object was a partially deflated balloon. He picked it up. A label was attached. The wording was
Number 297.
Bath Rugby Club Balloon Race.
This balloon hadn’t travelled far. He wouldn’t be ringing the number on the reverse. Unlucky for number 297 and unlucky for him, too.

‘What is it?’ Tipping shouted.

‘Only a balloon.’

‘Keep hold of it. We don’t want litter on the course. At one time, we made a collection of all the rubbish collected off the down in a single week. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting things we recovered. Are you sure it’s a balloon?’

‘Positive.’

‘Take out the pin, then. I’m going to try a long putt.’

Diamond did so. The ball rolled past and off the green again. ‘You could have stuck your foot in the way,’ Tipping said as he approached. ‘Reggie isn’t far behind now.’

‘I’m a little disappointed in you and your Lansdown Society, Sir Colin,’ Diamond said, trying a different approach. ‘I thought you missed nothing of what goes on up here, yet someone is killed and buried and you don’t seem to have any knowledge of it.’

‘I’m concerned, naturally, but it’s a mystery to me.’

‘You were one of the original members?’

‘I was, along with Reggie and Mrs White, who are still very much with us. Do you want to wait for Reggie?’

‘Aren’t you going to take another putt?’

He winked. ‘I’m taking it as holed.’ He picked up his ball and pocketed it. ‘That goes down as a seven for the first hole.’

There was a shout of ‘Fore!’ from behind them.

‘That’s Reggie,’ Tipping said. ‘I can’t see him, can you?’

Another shout from the major: ‘Move the bloody buggy. It’s blocking my line.’

‘As if he ever hits straight,’ Tipping said. He returned to the golf cart and moved it off the fairway.

Diamond could see the major hunched over his ball now, not all that far from the green. By luck or skill the shot came off and the ball stopped inches from the hole.

‘Not bad. Was that your seventh?’ Tipping asked his opponent.

‘Fifth.’ The major held up five fingers.

‘He’s lying,’ Tipping muttered to Diamond. ‘Tap it in, then. That hole is halved.’

‘You took six?’ the major said. ‘You’ve never done that before. Is that true?’ He strode up to the green and asked Diamond, ‘Did he really take only six?’

‘I lost count,’ Diamond said, not wishing to get involved. ‘I was distracting him, anyway. Questions about the buried skeleton. Do you remember anything suspicious going on around the fallen oak tree some years back?’

‘“Some years back” is far too vague,’ the major said. ‘Can’t you be more precise?’

‘All right. After 1987, when the tree came down, and before 1997.’

‘What do you mean by suspicious?’

Tipping was quick to say, ‘Your score for the first hole, old boy.’

Diamond said, ‘A car or van parked near the tree. People digging.’

‘No,’ the major said. ‘I would have noticed. Can we get on with the golf ?’

‘I’ll not delay you much longer,’ Diamond told them. ‘I must get back anyway. You said Mrs White is the other founder member of the society. There were eight originally. Who were the other five?’

‘Two of them are dead,’ Tipping said. ‘Roger Rhodes was a gentleman farmer. Crashed his light plane, poor chap, and Willy Drake-Allen, the BBC man, caught one of those hospital bugs. The others moved away. Jamie Fleming went back to his beloved Edinburgh. He was our policeman – before your time, I expect. George Philpot bought a villa in Italy. Who was the other one?’

‘Underhill,’ the major said. ‘The vicar of St Vincent’s.’

‘Of course. He served his time locally and was given a new parish in Norfolk.’

‘So you had the Church and the police on side as well?’ Diamond said, impressed by the power base of this small group.

‘Still do. We recruited the next incumbent at St Vincent’s, the Reverend Charlie Smart.’

‘And who is your policeman?’

‘Policewoman,’ the major said, ‘Assistant Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore.’

Diamond’s boss. He had to bite back a strong word. He couldn’t believe it.

9

Strictly it wasn’t his job to interview witnesses, but – he reasoned to himself – everyone knew he was more than just a PR man. He’d worked in CID for years. Besides, the cavalier was his pet project. He didn’t want some rookie constable taking it on and missing the significance. He would meet these people himself.

The first was a woman who’d seen the piece in the
Bath Chronicle
and was certain she recognised the missing man as a down-and-out who was caught stealing food from tables at Saturday’s car boot sale at Lansdown. Wigfull soon learned that she was a witness with attitude. ‘I had you lot come out to him after he helped himself to one of me home-made meat pies, but the bobbies you sent were woodentops. They asked him his name and he told them it was Noddy and they didn’t turn a hair. They let him walk away scot-free. There’s no respect any more. And when I got home and opened the paper there the thieving bastard was, all dressed up in a fancy hat.’

Wigfull decided not to go into an explanation about the hat. The Civil War connection would be lost on this lady. ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same man? He isn’t a down-and-out, as you put it. He’s a university lecturer.’

‘It was him. No question.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Now you mention it, though, he didn’t sound like a dosser. The voice was posh.’

‘Did he say why he’d helped himself to the pie?’

‘Stole it, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade. No, he had no conscience. I asked him to pay and he said he didn’t have no money. That much I believe, but he shouldn’t have picked up my pie, should he?’

‘How was he dressed?’

‘Dead scruffy, in muddy old jeans and one of them hoodie things, and he smelt.’

‘Don’t you think you might be mistaken?’

Her face reddened. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

He was tempted to answer ‘yes – and a time-waster, too.’ He’d met plenty like her and they’d go on for ever if you let them. ‘Frankly, madam, we know who the missing man is and he isn’t the sort to behave the way you describe.’

‘Is that so? Well, that’s me and the fucking police finished!’ she said in an explosion of outrage. ‘You’re all the same, on the side of the villains, looking for excuses for them. I came here out of the goodness of my heart, giving you important information, and you treat me like I’m a bloody liar. If that’s the way you want to run the city, you can stuff it where the monkey puts his nuts.’ She marched out, leaving Wigfull untroubled by the tirade. He’d been told on a PR course he’d attended that the majority of so-called witnesses are attention-seekers. The woman was a prime example. His spirits improved when Mrs Swithin came in: one of those well-bred old ladies you know will keep their emotions in check. Dressed in a tweed jacket and pleated tartan skirt, she radiated good sense. ‘Is the photo in the paper reliable?’ she asked first. ‘I’m talking about the face, not the way they dressed him up. Is that really the missing man?’

‘Rupert Hope, yes.’

‘And he’s an academic?’

‘Bristol University.’

‘I have to tell you, then, that he’s been behaving out of character, trying to open people’s car doors. This was up at the racecourse, in the car park. Reggie, my husband – the major – was convinced he was up to no good, so we phoned the police. I happen to possess a powerful pair of binoculars and I stayed on watch while Reggie went to meet the police car. I had the man in focus for quite ten minutes and saw his face clearly. He was definitely the gentleman in the paper.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘A hooded garment and blue denim trousers.’

The same man, apparently. Wigfull’s promising morning took a roller-coaster plunge. ‘Did the police come?’

‘Yes, but unfortunately the man had left by then, in the direction of the main enclosure.’

‘Was this on a race day?’

‘Not at all. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It was Wednesday of last week and very quiet at the time. People use the car park every day of the week. We’re often up there keeping an eye on things. That’s how I noticed his suspicious behaviour.’

‘Did he actually break into any of the cars?’

‘No, I think they were all locked.’

‘And did the police catch up with him?’

‘As it turned out, no. They returned later and took statements. We had to wait almost an hour. Reggie’s a responsible citizen, but he gets testy if he’s kept waiting. Anyway, we saw the item in the
Chronicle
and both agreed it was our duty to get in touch with you. The man wasn’t behaving as one expects a university lecturer to conduct himself, but these days one never knows. They employ some strange types in so-called higher education.’

‘You did the right thing.’ Wigfull was thinking as he spoke that he’d done the
wrong
thing in letting the pie woman go.

‘What will happen now?’

‘I’ll find out which of our officers answered your call and speak to them. We heard of another sighting as well. It begins to look as if our man is behaving erratically.’

‘Either that, or he’s a Trot.’

‘A what?’

‘A Trotskyist. The universities are full of left-wing people trying to change the world.’

The world had moved on a bit, since Trotsky, but Wigfull had a rough idea what was meant and shared the sentiment. He still thought Mrs Swithin a dependable witness.

Just to be certain, he returned a couple of the overnight phone calls about the cavalier. More sightings. Rupert Hope must have been wandering about Lansdown for days drawing attention to himself through minor misdemeanours. Probably not as a left wing protest, but drunk, drugged, or unwell.

Why, then, hadn’t the officers on patrol picked him up?

Smoothly, he transferred his own failing onto others. Picked up the phone and asked to have the occurrence file checked. Someone ought to face the music. It turned out that the same two officers had responded to both calls.

Peter Diamond drove back from the golf club thinking dark thoughts about the Lansdown Society. If, as they claimed, they monitored everything that happened on the hill they may well have heard or seen something suspicious connected with the burial of the body. And as guardians of the terrain – vigilantes, whatever they said to the contrary – they might conceivably be suspects. The whole point about vigilantes was that they took the law into their own hands. What if they’d found some undesirable flouting their rules and killed her, maybe by accident? They’d have been well placed to find a burial site.

The substantial fly in the ointment was Georgina.

Diamond had never shirked a confrontation. Noting that the ACC’s Mercedes was parked in her reserved space outside, putting her on the premises, he went upstairs to her eyrie. The traffic light entrance system was showing green.

‘Troubles, Peter?’ she said when she saw him.

‘Not really, ma’am. I just want your advice.’

‘That must be a first.’

‘About the Lansdown Society.’

Her voice took on a defensive note. ‘What about it?’

‘I was told you’re a member.’

‘That’s right. I do have a life outside the police.’

‘They seem to think it’s because you’re in the police that you’re one of them.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘Sir Colin Tipping and Major Swithin. They said Jamie Fleming was the police member before you.’

‘That is true, but I want to make it clear, Peter, that I didn’t join in my official capacity. I happen to support the conservation of the countryside. I don’t want to see any more building on Lansdown. It’s a protected site, which in reality means nothing unless people like me with some influence guarantee its integrity. I know why you’ve raised this. It’s the skeleton, isn’t it?’

‘Right, ma’am. The society keeps abreast of what’s happening on the down. I was hoping they might know something.’

‘And do they?’

‘Not the two gents I saw this morning.’

‘They’re the most likely to know. They’ve been members from the beginning. When was your victim buried?’

‘Some time after 1987, when the tree was blown down.’

‘Ah well.’ She spread her hands. ‘The society wasn’t formed until 1993.’

‘Yes, but we don’t know which year she was buried. We have a ten-year time frame.’

‘If Colin and Reggie say they can’t help, it’s no good coming to me. I didn’t join until three years ago.’

Colin and Reggie.
He had to be careful here. A conflict of loyalties was looming. ‘The other founder member is Mrs White, the magistrate.’

Georgina was losing patience. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Peter.’

‘I was about to say I might have a word with her as well – unless you would like to approach her yourself.’

She folded her arms and gave a defiant tilt to the most eloquent bosom in Bath. ‘Is this your only line of enquiry? I can’t see it being very productive.’

‘It looked more promising when I started.’ He got bolder. ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you seem a close-knit society.’

‘Perhaps we don’t have anything to tell you.’

‘It’s no easy matter when your victim is dry bones and no one remembers anything.’

‘So this
is
your only line of enquiry.’

‘I’m speaking to the press this afternoon. We’ll see if memor -ies are jogged when the papers get onto the story.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She lowered her chest by at least two inches. ‘Are you taking advice from John Wigfull, our new media relations manager? He could probably get some headlines for you.’

‘I’ve discussed it with him.’

‘He was extremely impressive at interview. He’s well up on all the latest techniques.’

‘I’m sure. About Mrs White . . .’

‘Well?’ The low slung chest became just a memory.

‘There’s no need for you to do anything, ma’am. I’ll speak to her myself.’

He left while he had the opportunity.

* * *

To his credit, John Wigfull had marshalled most of the local press and some of the nationals as well. Poster-size photos of the site and the skeleton in its grave formed a backdrop for Diamond’s statement. Press-kits stuffed with pictures were handed to everyone.

After outlining the facts and responding to questions, Diamond did more interviews for local TV and radio, stressing repeatedly that the team were waiting to be contacted by anyone with a memory of anything suspicious going on near the fallen tree ten to twenty years ago.

Much of the questioning was about the missing skull. Did he expect to find it?

He admitted that he didn’t. The crime scene team had sifted all the loose earth for more evidence and found nothing apart from the metal zip. It was clear that the skull was elsewhere.

One TV reporter pressed him to speculate on whether the killer had removed the head to prevent identification.

He knew better than to go down that road. ‘We don’t know yet how she died. Murder is a possibility, but we can’t discount a fatal accident on the road not far up the slope. Whoever buried her didn’t want the body discovered. That much is clear.’

‘Are you saying someone ran her over and tried to dispose of the body?’

‘That’s one interpretation.’

‘And decapitated her? In the accident, or after?’

He was trying so hard to stay cool. ‘All we’ve got is a headless skeleton. How could I possibly know?’

‘Do you think the head is buried somewhere else?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind.’ Long experience had taught him how to steer an interview to a close. ‘I’ve told you all I know at this juncture. With your help, we’ll carry the investigation a stage further.’

Wigfull was fishing for compliments afterwards. ‘I thought it went rather well. These events work so much better with good visuals like the posters.’

‘Let’s see what results we get,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ve done press statements with dartboards as a background and still made the front page of the
News of the World
. Thanks, anyway. You did your job.’

Ingeborg rushed in, bursting to tell them something.

‘Someone phoned in already?’ Diamond said. ‘That
is
a result.’

Self-congratulation started spreading over Wigfull’s features.

‘No, guv,’ Ingeborg said. ‘This has nothing to do with the press conference. A body has been found. The thing is, it’s Lansdown again.’