The Vault (17 page)

"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.

twenty

THE DAY OF REST started restfully enough. Peter Diamond remained horizontal until about nine, when Raffles the cat started hunting in the bed, the quarry being human toes and the toes at serious risk of getting clawed in the process. The Diamonds had invented the game when Raffles was a kitten. They had got some good entertainment simply by wriggling their toes. Raffles was fully grown now, still more than willing to play kitten games with a set of claws that would not have disgraced a leopard. This cat, and perhaps all cats who ever chanced upon a set of bare toes, treated them as separate entities unconnected with the owner. Under a winter duvet there had been some protection, but this was heat-wave weather and the Diamonds slept with a cotton sheet loosely over them. An uncovered foot was irresistible to Raffles.

The man who held Manvers Street in thrall moaned in submission, rolled out of bed, put on his moccasins, padded downstairs and opened a tin of Whiskas.

In twenty minutes, he was showered, dressed and off to the paper shop. Sunday might be a day off, but he was curious to see whether Ingeborg's story had made the front page.

It was there in a banner headline with the word "Exclusive" printed over it in red:

FRANKENSTEIN FRESH BONES HORROR

He scanned it rapidly, not expecting much correspondence with the facts. "Fresh" was hardly the word for those dusty bits of skeleton that had been lying in a box in Chippenham nick since 1986. Broadly, however, the paper had got the story right, dressed up as it was with horror movie trappings and sensational writing. He was styled as "Bath's burly Murder Supremo". He could live with that. Was it Ingeborg's phrase, he wondered, or dreamed up by a sub-editor?

Strolling home in the sunshine, he planned his day. Nothing strenuous in this weather. The garden would benefit from some water after so many days of sun—if he could summon up the energy to unroll the hose. First, he would cook a good breakfast and tempt Steph downstairs with the world's most potent appetizer, the whiff of fried bacon.

But when he turned the corner she was standing at the front gate in her dressing gown, extraordinary behaviour for Steph. Her strained, anxious expression was alarming enough, and she was also signalling to him to hurry. A series of potential disasters raced through his mind: someone in the family had died; the kitchen was on fire; the tank had burst and flooded the house. He ran the last yards.

"What's up, love?"

"They called from Manvers Street. John Wigfull has been attacked."

"Attacked? What? How come?"

"A head injury, they said. Someone found him in a field this morning."

"What—dead?"

"He was alive when they called, but it sounds bad. He's unconscious, in intensive care in the RUH. They need you, Pete."

"They'll get me."

Driving in from Weston, still dressed in his Sunday casuals, he was at a loss to understand, seesawing between anger and guilt. What in the name of sanity had Wigfull been doing, to get attacked in a field? The last he had seen of him was driving out of the nick on Saturday, the cue for some unkind comments that had to be regretted now. "He thinks he's the dog's bollocks." What a tribute to a wounded colleague. What an epitaph, if it came to that.

Because the Royal United Hospital was on his side of town, he drove straight into the Accident and Emergency reserved parking. Inside A &. E, they sent him to another section. He stepped out along the corridor, breathing in the sick-sweet air that you only ever find in hospitals. There was a Sunday morning indolence about the place. No sign of a doctor. Smokers in dressing gowns and slippers stood in the small courtyards between the wards. Then a set of swing doors ahead burst open and a patient on a trolley was wheeled towards Diamond, with nurses walking at speed to keep up, holding containers connected by tubes.

He moved aside, his back to the wall, and caught a glimpse of a dead-white face, half-bandaged, the comical, overgrown moustache caked with blood. It was Wigfull. They rushed him by.

Diamond had not fully believed until this moment. The shock gripped him. He stood rigidly long after the trolley had been hurrried through another set of doors. Someone in a white coat passing the other way asked if he needed help. He shook his head and left the building.

AT MANVERS Street, the desk sergeant told him the Assistant Chief Constable wanted him in her office.

"What for?" he snapped, targeting his troubled emotions on the first hapless person within range. "I know sod all of what's going on."

Georgina, grim-faced, was on the phone when Diamond arrived upstairs. She beckoned him in. He strode across to the window and stared out, knowing he ought to compose himself before saying anything.

From this end of the conversation, he gathered she was getting the latest from the hospital. The back of Wigfull's skull was impacted and more X-rays were being taken. He was still unconscious. The ACC asked what his chances were. Her reaction to the answer was more than Diamond wanted to know.

She put down the receiver. This was a hard emotional test for her as well. She let out a long breath, closed her eyes for some few seconds, then said in a low voice, "We're not to expect anything except bad news."

He had to say something, and it sounded trite to the point of callousness. "He's survived a few hours, anyway."

She added, "There's a grace period, if I've got the term right. The shock to the nervous system puts everything on hold. The real crisis comes after."

Still Diamond found himself taking refuge in platitudes. "In all my time here, we've never had an officer killed."

"Was he investigating the woman found in the river?"

"Peg Redbird, yes."

"Wasn't she beaten about the head?"

"That's right."

"Do you know who John Wigfull was seeing yesterday?"

"No, ma'am." He was going to add, "Your orders," but wisely held back the words.

"We must find out from his team. I suppose he got too close to the truth and panicked the killer."

Diamond said nothing about that. If she wanted to speculate, fine. He would wait a bit.

Georgina was making a huge effort to sound rational, in control. "I don't attach any blame to you, Peter. It was my decision to put him in the front line, though I didn't expect this." She sighed and looked away. Then she turned and prepared to speak to him, folding her arms decisively.

Diamond had a fair idea what was coming.

"I'm going to ask you—instruct you—to drop whatever you were doing and take this on."

"Find the scum who clobbered him?"

:r "Yes. For God's sake, don't take any risks. There's real dangei out there. Don't do anything without back-up. John Wigfull must have been alone when he was attacked."

"Where was he found exactly?"

"In a cornfield near Stowford. Do you know it?"

He knew Stowford, but he did not understand. So far as he could remember, the place was out in the country, a picture postcard setting beside the River Frome, a few ancient farm buildings converted to holiday houses and craft workshops. One Sunday afternoon a couple of summers ago he had driven there with Steph and sat in a rickety chair in the farmhouse garden and put away an unforgettable cream tea. But what could have taken Wigfull out there? Cream teas were not his scene at all. "It's on the A366, near Farleigh Hungerford."

"I couldn't even find it on the map," Georgina admitted.

"There isn't much there. He was in a field, you said?"

"A woman walking her dog across a footpath found him, or the dog did. This was early this morning, 6.30. His warrant card was in his pocket. Trowbridge Police notified us."

"So the scene is secured?"

"Yes, and being searched."

Diamond skimmed through the possibilities. "He had Joe Dougan in the frame for Peg Redbird's murder."

"The American?" This ACC was right up with events.

"You've met this man, haven't you? Did he strike you as dangerous?"

"You can't tell. He's under stress. His wife is missing."

"No reason to attack a police officer."

"Unless John Wigfull is right and he really has something to hide."

"You'd better check his movements yesterday."

He cast his thoughts back. "And there was someone else Wigfull planned to see, someone he didn't rate as a suspect because he was supposedly friendly with Peg. He told me the name. Peg Redbird's assistant. Ellison? No, Ellis. Ellis was the first name. Ellis Somerset. He meant to talk to Ellis Somerset."

"You'll check him, too?"

"Of course."

"The other business, the bones in the vault, had better be given to someone else."

"Keith Halliwell is on it already."

"Can he handle all the hassle from the media?"

"He handles me, ma'am."

He left the room to go down and talk to Wigfull's team, his emotions still churned up. Years of despising the man could not be shrugged off because of the attack. Everyone in Manvers Street knew of the bitterness between them. Yet when a colleague is seriously injured, the entire police force stands together, outraged, committed to finding the attacker. He cared about Wigfull as a brother officer, and there was something more that he would not have admitted until now. For all the feuding, there had evolved a recognition of each other's way of working amounting—on the better days—to something like respect, though sugared by amusement. The image of his old antagonist, bleeding and unconscious, being wheeled past in the hospital, was not amusing. It would stay in his mind.

He found Sergeant Leaman at Wigfull's desk, going through the diary. They wasted no words on the sense of shock they both felt. Diamond said simply that he had been asked to inquire into the incident. "What I need from you is Mr Wigfull's itinerary."

"That's what I was trying to find, sir. There's no entry for yesterday afternoon or evening."

"That's unlike him."

"Yes, he took a lot of care about procedures. I mean he takes a lot of..." The sergeant's words trailed away in embarrassment.

"Didn't he tell you his plans? I saw him drive out of here some time pretty close to two o'clock. He wasn't going home."

"How do you know, sir?"

Diamond backed off a little. He wasn't going to talk about a gut feeling. "We both know he's a workaholic, don't we?"

Leaman gave a faint smile. No one in Wigfull's team ever spent much time in the canteen.

Diamond thought of another angle. "His car. Have the Trow-bridge Police found his car?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. I don't suppose they know what he drives."

His measured calm hit an obstruction. "It's our bloody business to tell them. What is it? I ought to know. I was in it the other day."

"A red Toyota Corolla, sir."

"Send out an alert, then. Have them check the farm at Stow-ford. That won't take five minutes. The damned car can't be far from the field unless he was driven there by his attacker. Get someone onto it."

While Leaman organized that, Diamond picked up the diary and leafed through it, sifting possibilities at near computer speed.

He said to Leaman when he returned, "This murder case was the biggest thing to come his way this year. He'd have cancelled his weekend. Yours, too, I reckon. How was he using you?"

Leaman said he had been collating witness statements, to get a picture of Peg Redbird's final hours. It had been an absorbing task. Not much had passed between Wigfull and him all morning.

"Didn't he say anything at all before he left?"

"About where he was going? No, sir."

"About anything?"

Leaman frowned, trying to remember. "He looked over my shoulder at the screen and asked if any new names had come up."

"People Peg Redbird met?"

"Yes. I said there was nothing he didn't know already. He asked me to leave a print-out on his desk."

"So he was coming back later in the day?"

"I thought so at the time."

"And you did as instructed?"

"Yes, sir. The print-out is still here."

"So we have this almighty gap between two p.m. Saturday and six thirty this morning when he was found in the cornfield. Let's assume he went to interview a witness, someone who visited Peg the day she died. The names are here, are they?" He picked the print-out off the desk.

"It's chronological," Leaman explained. "Starting Thursday morning. She was seen leaving the shop at ten a.m. by Miss Barclay, a neighbour. At ten oh five, she buys a pint of milk from a shop in Walcot Street."

"Cut to the chase," Diamond said. "Who came into Noble and Nude?"

"The first caller we know about is Ellis Somerset, who helps in the shop."

Diamond was all attentiveness. "Go on."

"He turned up about one thirty, after lunch."

"That's still lunch in my book."

Leaman looked for a hint of a smile and wasn't treated to one. Diamond's humour was difficult to read under any circumstances.

"Do you have a statement from Mr Somerset?"

"Yes, sir. He looked after the shop while Peg went up to Camden Crescent for a valuation. He was there for much of the afternoon. He's our main source."

"Who took the statement?"

"DC Paul."

"Did anyone follow it up?"

"Not yet, unless..."

Diamond gave an approving nod. Leaman didn't need to say it. Wigfull may well have decided on a personal meeting with Ellis Somerset. Perhaps he wanted it off the record, which would explain why it wasn't in the diary. "I'll catch up with Somerset shortly. And what about this valuation? Who was that for?"

"A Mr Pennycook, the nephew of Simon Minchendon, who died recently. It was in the local paper."

"Has anyone spoken to Pennycook?"

"He lives in Brighton."

"Yes, but has anyone—"

"The Brighton police took a statement, sir. It's on the computer if you want to read it."

"Have you?" Sitting in front of the screen was not Diamond's idea of police work.

"Yes, sir."

"Anything startling in it?"

Sergeant Leaman shook his head. "Except that Brighton have him down as a druggie."

"Crack?"