Diamond Dust (6 page)

He shrugged. Couldn't argue with that.

Georgina looked to McGarvie to pick up the baton.

'Can't ignore the stalker theory either,' McGarvie said.

'She wasn't a pop star.'

'Come on, Peter. Ordinary people get stalked. If you're unlucky enough to grab the attention of some crazy, you get stalked, whoever you are.'

'No one was stalking Steph.'

'She may not have mentioned it.'

'She'd have told me. I don't buy this at all.'

'But you'll agree as a detective it has to be given an airing?'

He leaned back in the chair. They seemed to want his endorsement. 'Air it, then.'

'All right. She worked in the charity shop. Any woman - anyone at all - who works in a shop is on display. A stalker knows where he can see her, and when. It's the kind of shop anyone can step into and browse around without being asked what he wants. Sometimes he can walk by and just look in the window. He fantasises that she'll take an interest in him. Maybe he asks a question, or buys something. She was an outgoing woman, good at her job, pleasant to the customers. He takes it as a come-on.'

'You don't have to labour it,' Diamond interrupted. 'Why does he turn nasty?'

'When this obsession is at its height, he finds out she's happily married to you. In his eyes, that's disloyalty. The love turns to hate. If he can't have her, neither will you.'

Diamond rolled his eyes upwards and let out a long sigh. McGarvie was right. It couldn't be discounted. 'Any other scenarios?'

McGarvie nodded and said, 'The mugging that goes wrong. Some drug-user desperate for cash points a gun at the first woman he sees in the park. She tells him to get lost and he pulls the trigger.'

'If someone pointed a gun at Steph and asked for money, she'd have the sense to hand it over.'

'Her bag was missing.'

'Anyone could have picked that up, including the wino who found her.'

'I know, I know.'

There was an awkward silence while McGarvie exchanged a look with Georgina. Neither seemed ready to go on. Finally Georgina cleared her throat.

'We have to explore every avenue. Do we agree on that?'

'Doesn't need saying.'

Still she hesitated over the real purpose of this meeting. 'Well, in a straightforward case of murder, there are procedures we use almost without thinking.' Another pause. 'You don't have to take this personally, Peter. The first person questioned is the spouse.'

He gripped the arms of the chair and looked at each of the embarrassed faces. Now he knew what this pantomime had been about: easing him into the frame. 'Isn't that what's going on now?'

'I'm speaking of something more formal.'

'You're serious?'

'We can't make any assumptions,' Georgina went on. 'Of course it's an imposition. You're a trusted colleague. None of us seriously believes ... In short, I've asked Curtis to conduct an interview with you.'

'What do you think I'm hiding, for Christ's sake?' he demanded. 'He's been to my house, been over every room, taken things away. I've told you all I can.'

'You're one of us,' McGarvie said without any conviction at all, fingering the knot of his tie, 'and that's the problem. I can't put certain questions to you without giving offence.'

'Such as?'

'I don't propose to start here. This should be done in a structured way, in an interview room, on the record.'

'An
interview room?
Give me strength.'

'It may seem over-formal, but . . .'

'You really do have your suspicions.'

'An open mind.'

To think he'd been impressed by McGarvie.

Georgina tried her best to give it an ethical spin. 'We owe this to Stephanie, you know, leaving absolutely nothing to chance. You wouldn't want us to skimp. Why don't I send for some coffee before we do anything else?'

'I'd rather get on with it,' Diamond muttered from deep in his gut.

9

I
n Interview Room C, in the same chair his attacker, Janie Forsyth, had occupied only an hour ago, Diamond listened in a dazed, disbelieving way to the familiar preamble to a taped interview with a suspect. Was told the identity of his interrogators, McGarvie and Georgina Dallymore, as though he had never met them. Was advised that he was attending voluntarily and was entitled to leave at will unless informed that he was under arrest.

The world had gone mad.

'For the record,' McGarvie was saying, 'I'd like to clarify your movements on the morning your wife was shot. You were at home first thing, I gather?'

'Mm?' He stared blankly.

'What time did you leave the house?'

'The day it happened? I told you already. Eight-fifteen.'

'Can anyone confirm the time? Did you see a neighbour? The postman?'

He shrugged. 'I got into my car and backed it out and drove off.'

'Leaving your wife at the house?'

'You don't have to make it sound like a crime.'

'Do you sometimes give her a lift into town?'

'Only if she wants one.' With each response he was stilling the urge to tell them it was no business of theirs. Until now he hadn't ever considered how closely he guarded his private life.

'She didn't want the lift on this occasion because it was her morning off. Right?'

'Correct'

'How was she dressed at the time you left?'

'Is that important?'

'Night-things? Day clothes?'

'I see. The things she was found in, apart from the raincoat and scarf.'

'So you drove here, to work?'

'Yes.'

'Arriving at what time?'

'Must have been before nine. I didn't check exactly. Ten to?'

'It takes you that long?'

'The traffic is heavy that time of day.'

'Which way did you enter the building?'

'From the car park.'

'Using the back stairs?'

'Does it matter which stairs I used?'

'Anyone see you arrive?'

'I've no idea.'

'You didn't pass the time of day with anyone, in the car park, or coming upstairs?'

'Don't remember.'

'Okay. Where did you go?'

'My office.'

'Without speaking to anyone at all?'

'You asked that already.'

'And then?'

'Took off all my clothes, stood on my head and recited
The Charge of the Light Brigade.
For the love of God. What does anyone do when he comes into his office in the morning? Opens the window, looks at the stuff on the desk, kicks the wastepaper basket. One day is like another, and I can't tell you what I did.'

'Perhaps you used the phone?'

'First thing? I doubt it.' Eyes closed, he made an effort to think back. 'At some point I was called by Helen, the ACC's PA, and asked upstairs.'

'We know that.'

'Then you don't need to ask. And you know what time it was.'

'Shortly after eleven. Were there any callers prior to that?'

'Not that I remember.'

'In short, you can't name anyone who can place you at work in your office between nine and eleven o'clock.'

'Someone could have come in. I don't recall.' He was in difficulty with this line of questioning. Everything prior to Steph's murder was very hazy indeed. It was almost like the after-effect of concussion, with the trauma blocking out everything. He hadn't expected to be questioned about it, and until now hadn't given a thought to what he had been doing.

'Two hours, alone in your office?'

'Things were quiet in CID. I was keeping my head down. If you show you're at a loose end in this place you get dumped on.' Having said this, he knew it wouldn't win any sympathy from Georgina, but it was the truth and he was too far gone to care. Georgina was tight-lipped.

McGarvie drew his right hand slowly across the table as though testing for dust and pressed his palms together, rubbing them lightly. He was ill at ease, and his next question showed why. 'Forgive me. I have to ask this. Was your marriage in good shape?'

Diamond heard the words, played them over in his head, and had an impulse to grab the man by the shirt and head-butt him. He'd asked the same insulting question when he came to the house. This was bloody incitement.

Then Georgina chose to come in with her smooth talk, learned in all those management courses for high-ranking officers. 'You appreciate that we need to know for sure. It is a legitimate question, Peter.'

Legitimate? It was a bastard question, and they knew it. 'I didn't have any reason to shoot my wife, if that's what you're asking.'

'No,' McGarvie said, 'that isn't what I asked.'

He pressed down on his legs to stop them shaking. The stress had to break out some way. 'Steph and I were happy together, happy as any couple can be. Is that what you want to hear?'

'Do you own a gun?'

Another crass question. He hesitated before answering, 'No.' It was the truth . . .just about. The Smith & Wesson revolver in his loft at home was police properly, acquired years ago when he worked in London.

'In the Met, you were listed as an authorised shot.'

'I let it lapse some years back.'

'The .38 that was used to shoot your wife could well have been a police weapon.'

He took a sharp, deep breath. 'What are you on about? I don't believe this.'

Sensing that it was time to draw back a little, McGarvie said, 'In the days leading up to the incident, did your wife mention any concerns, anything that might have suggested she was under stress?'

He'd been over this in his own mind many times. 'No. Nothing at all.'

'Was she at all secretive?'

'If you'd known her, you wouldn't ask that question.'

'Had there been any change in her routine?'

'Not that I noticed.'

'Had she received any threatening phone calls or letters?'

His patience was draining fast.

'For the tape,' McGarvie said, 'the subject just shook his head.' Then he tossed in another grenade. 'Did she have links with the criminal world?'

'What? Steph? Are you completely out of your mind?'

It wasn't the kind of response McGarvie wanted for his precious tape, but the gist was clear. He sniffed and moved on. 'Did she have a car of her own?'

'No. We shared it.'

'She could drive, then?'

'Oh, yes. But I was using it.'

'We need to establish how she travelled to the park. Would she have walked?'

'Could have, quite easily. It's scarcely a mile from where we live, but not too nice when the traffic is heavy on the Upper Bristol Road. It's more likely she caught a minibus. They pass the end of the street every fifteen minutes, so she generally took one if she was going into town.'

'She'd be at the park in a very short time.'

'Depending on the traffic'

'We reckon she'd have got off at the Marlborough Lane stop to make her way up to the park.'

'If she took the bus, yes.'

'We've questioned each of the drivers on that route. Not one remembers a passenger of your wife's description. Of course they don't necessarily take note of every middle-aged woman who boards their bus.'

'You could ask the passengers.'

'The regulars? It's being tried. Nothing so far.'

Diamond remarked, 'All this presupposes she went to the park of her own free will.'

'You think otherwise?'

'I don't know any reason she would go there.'

'By arrangement?'

'Then she would have told me.'

McGarvie commented tardy, 'If she told you everything.' He leaned forward, showing more of his bloodshot eyes than Diamond cared to see. 'Before you take offence again, consider this. The whole thing is strange, you've got to admit. You tell us she was acting normally that morning, had no secrets from you, had no reason to visit the park, yet that's where she was shot within two hours of your leaving for work.'

'If I knew why, I'd have told you.'

'At what stage were you told she'd been shot?'

'Nobody told me. I found out for myself.'

There was a pause while the horror of that moment was relived, and when McGarvie resumed again, there was less overt hostility. 'Okay, to be accurate, you heard that a woman had been shot and you went to the park and recognised the victim as your wife?'

'You know this. Do we have to go over it?'

'DI Halliwell was competent to deal with the incident. What prompted you to go there?'

Amazing. Even his attendance at the scene was viewed as suspicious. This experience on the receiving end, having to account for everything he had done, would change for ever his attitude to interviewing a suspect.

'I said we hadn't seen much action.'

'Point taken. Spurred on by the prospect of something happening, you went to the scene. You saw who it was, and you ignored procedure at the scene of a crime and handled the victim—'

'She was my wife, for pity's sake.'

'We're going to find blood on your clothes.'

'How inconvenient.' He'd taken enough. '\bu know what really pisses me off about this farce? It's not the personal smear, the assumption that I might have murdered her. It's knowing the real killer is out there, and every minute that goes by his chance improves of getting away with this.'

'This isn't our only line of enquiry,' McGarvie said. 'I've got over a hundred men on the case.'

'For how much longer? What happens when Headquarters ask for your budget report? They'll cut the overtime. The whole thing will be scaled down.'

Georgina said with determination, 'I'll deal with Headquarters.' She asked McGarvie if he had any more questions and he said he was through and they stopped the tapes.

'I've had it up to here with you lot,' Diamond said. 'I'm going home.'

But he didn't. Instead, he drove out to the crime scene, now abandoned by everyone, and restored to normal except for the wear on the turf of hundreds of police boots. The one place where the ground had not been trampled was a small oval of fresh grass where Steph's body had lain. Someone had placed a bunch of flowers there. No message. He could have brought some himself, but he knew Steph would have been troubled by the idea of cut flowers without water. She wouldn't willingly deprive anything of life.

If he'd written a message, it would have been the one hackneyed word people always attach to flowers they leave at murder scenes. 'Why?'

He looked around him, taking in the setting. Previously he'd been aware of nothing except Steph lying dead on the ground. Now he saw a curved path lined with benches about every thirty yards. In spring, he remembered, the daffodils sprouted here and made a glorious display. The shoots were already visible. Lower down, the remains of the Victorian shrubbery, a long line of trees and bushes, hid the Charlotte Street Car Park from view. You wouldn't believe all those cars were actually only a few paces away.

Higher up the slope was the unprepossessing rear of the old bandstand with its domed roof. He walked up to it and around to the front.

The facade was much more elegant than the back, being visible from the Crescent. He could imagine an audience seated here listening to one of the German bands that were so popular around the turn of the century. The shell-shaped design was more modern in concept than the weathered stonework suggested.

At either side, separate from the bandstand, two large stone vases with handles, chipped and stained, but evidently marble, were raised on plinths. Each was protected by a flat stone canopy mounted on pillars and surrounded by a low railing. Along the top of the stonework was an inscription stating that the vases were the gift of Napoleon to the Empress Josephine in 1805, something Diamond had never noticed until now. They were spoils of the Peninsular War, presented to the city by some Bath worthy. The overgrown bushes almost hid them from view, but he could make out the letter 'J' in an Imperial circlet of leaves. It was the kind of detail that fascinated Steph, and forgetting everything for a second, he looked forward to telling her what he had found and bringing her here to see it.

Caught again. This wasn't the first time. He supposed it was what psychologists referred to as denial.

He moved back to the spot where Steph had been found. Why had the murderer chosen this location? For one thing, the park was reasonably quiet, even now, in the afternoon, and fairly well screened by trees. If it was right that she had been lured here, her killer could have remained hidden among the bushes, or behind the bandstand, until the last minute, and then approached her, keeping the gun concealed. Since there had been no evidence of a struggle, it was reasonable to assume the weapon had been held to her face and fired twice in a swift, professional action. Most gunmen knew you couldn't be certain a single shot would kill, even at point-blank range. Apparently he (or she, though it was difficult to visualise a female assassin) had quit the scene by the short route to the car park - which was huge, with more than one exit. So that was the special appeal of this location: the certainty of getting away fast. All in all, a well-chosen place.

The biggest problem must have been persuading Steph to come here.

For the first time since the murder, he was functioning as a detective. Until now he had been too devastated to think straight. For that reason alone it was right that someone other than he should head the team. Moreover, the official line made sense: having the victim's husband in charge would undermine any prosecution. Fine - so long as McGarvie was a competent, energetic stand-in. But after that farcical interrogation, Diamond's confidence in the man was in tatters. The competence was flawed, the energy misdirected. There was a sense of desperation in what was going on.

A single crow stalked the lawn, foraging for worms. The bleak look of this scene reinforced the lost opportunities.

Steph deserved a good investigation.

No sense in offering advice. Georgina and McGarvie wouldn't listen to a man they were treating as a suspect. No, the only way to get results was to go solo. Throughout their marriage Steph had put up with his cack-handed attempts at all things practical: shelves that fell off the wall, doors that stuck in the winter and let in draughts in the summer, electrical wiring that blew the fuses. She had never directly benefited from the one skill he had: sleuthing. She was entitled to it now. He would find her killer, and to hell with the problems it raised.