The Last Detective pd-1

by Peter Lovesey

  If Diamond's thoughts had really taken on aesthetic overtones (which is doubtful), they must have been galvanized by the sight of Andy Coventry crouching down on the floor among the columns at the far end.

  Diamond froze, undecided whether to go down there. Coventry hadn't looked up; he was absorbed in whatever he was doing.

  The right course, Diamond decided, was to watch and wait. He backed away, out of Coventry's sight, up a flight of stairs that led to the toilets.

  There was an interval of two or three minutes when nothing happened; then the scrunch of shoes on the gritty under-floor of the hypocaust, followed by the sound of Coventry hoisting himself back on to the walkway; and brisk steps as he returned to the Great Bath.

  Peter Diamond was down the steps and over the barrier before the drumming of the footsteps had ceased. With agility born of urgency, he sidestepped between the columns until he came to the place where he had seen Coventry. As he had anticipated, there was a cavity near one of the vents to the flue. He knelt, put his hand inside and touched something most unlike a Roman relic. It was soft, smooth and light in weight.

  He lifted it out – a plastic bag containing a white, glittering substance.

  In appearance it was identical to the cocaine he had found in the bag of flour in Jackman's kitchen. He felt inside the cavity again and located similar bags, stacks of them, too many to remove now.

  As a hiding place for drugs, the hypocaust had advantages. Unlike much of the site, it was dry. The cavity was masked by one of the brick columns, and nobody had reason to look there, because this section of the Baths had been comprehensively excavated. The public were kept well back behind the plexiglass. Yet it was neutral ground that Andy Coventry could visit twice-weekly without fear of being seen. Whether collecting or depositing, he could carry the stuff in and out of the building in his sports-bag. And who in his right mind in the Avon and Somerset Drugs Squad would suggest the Roman Baths for a bust?

  Diamond stood up. The immediate problem was what to do about it. He was entitled to make a citizen's arrest. But was that the wisest course of action? Ideally he wanted to question the man about the murder. Drug-dealing was dangerous and despicable and Coventry would take the rap for it, but not immediately.

  Then the lights went out.

  This part of the building had no windows. It was pitch-black. Diamond reached out to steady himself. He didn't want to blunder into those columns of bricks and lose his balance. His first thought was that the lights had been routinely switched off now that the place was officially closed.

  His second thought was more alarming, prompted by a sound somewhere ahead like the scuffing of a shoe on limestone grit. Of course it might simply have been a fragment of stone dislodged by some natural means. He doubted that. Suppose Coventry had returned and spotted him at the hiding place. Suppose he had deliberately cut the lights.

  It wasn't wise to remain where he was.

  There was no question of finding a way through the hypocaust. He would have to edge along the back wall like a spider trapped in a sink. Tentatively he slid his hand along the surface, put out a foot and shifted his weight sideways. He paused, listened, heard nothing, and repeated the move, this time finding one of the columns in his way. Still with his palms flat to the wall, he edged around the obstruction, intent on putting as much distance as possible between himself and the cavity where the drugs were hidden.

  By this means he negotiated three more columns. He was feeling his way around a fourth when he heard a scrunch from the far side. No doubt about it: someone had climbed down from the walkway and let himself on to the gritty surface of the underfloor.

  A voice, definitely Coventry's, called out, 'I know you're there, fatso.'

  Diamond made no response. Remaining still and silent was the best way to limit the damage.

  Coventry was on the move. The steps were quick and even. Either he was willing to risk skinning his knees on the columns of the hypocaust, or he knew the layout perfectly.

  It was a test of nerve. Diamond waited, tense and poised to defend himself.

  Coventry was heading for the place where the drugs were hidden. He must have moved right along one of the aisles between the columns, because he didn't falter. Only when he reached the wall did he stop.

  There was a short silence. Then Coventry spoke up again. 'All right, you bastard, let's see where you are.' With that, a cigarette-lighter flamed.

  He held it at arm's length and moved it in a wide arc, casting long shadows across the floor of the hypocaust. Inevitably, the flame picked out Diamond.

  The triathlon was Coventry's sport, but he could certainly have made a success of all-in wrestling. He came at Diamond as if he'd just rebounded off the ropes. The lighter went out – too late to be of help to Diamond, who stepped back to avert the force of the charge, and fell. A brick column that had endured for two thousand years was flattened under his bulk. On a reflex learned in rugby scrums, he brought his knees and arms to his chest and swung his body hard to the right. He felt a searing pain in his side as he was crushed against the debris. One of his ribs had snapped. Using the leverage of his thighs, he succeeded in forcing the man aside and followed it up with a jab with the elbow that made contact with yielding flesh.

  The pain in his side was severe. In a hand-to-hand fight, he wasn't going to last long. He groped in the darkness and made contact with another of the columns. Blessedly, it took the strain. He hauled himself on to his haunches. Then something hard hit his head.

  Coventry must have picked up a brick and swung it wildly. The full force would have brained Peter Diamond. Instead, it scraped down the side of his skull, raking the skin just behind his right ear, and sank into the muscle tissue of his shoulder. He staggered, held on to the column, and lurched forward. His shoulder went numb.

  Andy Coventry meant to kill him.

  He was upright and moving between the columns with no idea which direction he was taking, except that it had to be away from his assailant. The darkness was absolute. Heightened by the deprivation, his other senses gave him a vivid animal awareness. The dank, dead smell of the stones filled his nostrils. The chill ripped through his flesh. The crunch of his steps resounded from the roof and walls. This was the blind rush of the hunted. He didn't care if he transformed the hypocaust into a heap of rubble, so long as he survived. Taking huge, audible gasps, he stumbled through the black void, hands outstretched.

  And stopped.

  His hands were flat against a smooth surface which had to be the plexiglass side of the walkway. Reaching up, he found it impossible to make contact with the rail, so he worked his way to the left until a stone obstruction stopped him. The wall again. Behind him, he could hear the crunch of Coventry's steps.

  He reached up with his right hand to see if there was any chance of scaling the wall, and got an agonizing reminder of the injury to his rib. Using the left hand instead, he discovered a ledge about three feet above the ground. He got his knees up to the level and hauled himself higher. A second step now presented itself. Laboriously, he scrambled up, made contact with the plexiglass again and then – mercifully – the rail of the walkway. He got his legs over and felt the flat rubber surface under his feet. Now he could discern a faint gray light. Daylight. He staggered towards it, conscious that Coventry must reach the walkway at any moment.

  The Great Bath was ahead. There, common sense argued, he would be safe from further attack. Coventry could hardly carry on the fight in front of his students.

  Diamond assessed his injuries as he moved. The rib was the most disabling, and there was also blood trickling down his scalp from the head-wound. He could feel its warmth on the side of his neck. The blood was conspicuous. When he reached the Great Bath, he didn't want the students crowding around him asking questions. Somehow he must hold himself together and convince anyone who was watching that he was walking normally. That the blood, if they noticed it, was some sort of blemish, a strawberry mark on the skin. Then he neede
d only to get to one of the doors leading to an exit.

  He would have to leave Matthew to find his own way out. Thank God the boy was familiar with the place. He was smart enough to escape.

  But Diamond was not. Within a few yards of the entrance to the Great Bath, he was surprised by a sudden movement to his right. He turned. Enough daylight had penetrated the place to show him Andy Coventry coming at him with a spade, a heavy-duty, long-handled spade of the sort used by builders. There was no escape this time. Wielded like a sledgehammer, it was about to cleave Peter Diamond's skull.

  PART SIX

  Trial

  Chapter One

  A BLACK BAR ACROSS WHITE. A thin black bar, dividing the field of vision like a cable across the sky.

  Too uniformly white for sky. It had to be something else.

  A ceiling.

  A cable across the ceiling? No. Something more rigid. A black bar. A rod. Or rail.

  Maybe a rail. There was something right about a rail. A connection, but with what?

  With a sound. The rustle and scrape of something metallic. Curtain rings. So why not a curtain rail?

  What would a curtain rail be doing across a ceiling? Curtains were for windows. No window here.

  Unless this was a bed, a hospital bed with curtains for privacy. That would explain the scrape of the rings. It ought to be easy to check, because the rail would go at least three sides around the bed.

  Unfortunately it wasn't so easy when one couldn't move one's head to left or right. When one felt muzzy and tired, too tired really to care…

  'He opened his eyes again, sir,' the voice of a woman announced, a woman difficult to place.

  'Didn't move his lips, I suppose?' A man's voice.

  'No.'

  'Poor sod. Keep your ears open, just in case. I know it's bloody tedious, but it has to be done. You want to try talking to him when you're here by the hour. Anything that comes in to your head. Tell him the secrets of your love life. That's what the nurses do. Anything to stir up the brain cells.'

  'Do you mind? My private life isn't for Mr Diamond's ears, sir.'

  'Relax, Constable. Even if he heard you, which is doubtful, he wouldn't remember a thing. Well, I'm off. See you tomorrow.'

  'Gutso.'

  'Mm?'

  'You see?' The voice was triumphant. 'It is a response. He heard. Peter Diamond, you fat slob. What do we have to do to bring you round? What's your taste in music? The Hippopotamus Song, I reckon.'

  'He's moving his lips, sir.'

  'Jesus Christ, he is. Peter? Can you hear me?'

  'Mm.'

  'Again.'

  'Mm.'

  Terrific. Mr Diamond, do you understand? This is Keith Halliwell. Remember me? Avon and Somerset Police. Your old sidekick, DI Halliwell.'

  'Halliwell?'

  'He spoke! Did you hear that, Constable?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Brilliant. Put a call through to Mr Wigfull. We're in business at last.'

  His eyes were open, and instead of the curtain rail in front of them, there was a face, a dark face dominated by a moustache. A face he didn't particularly care for.

  'Mr Diamond?'

  'John Wigfull.'

  'How are you feeling?'

  'I can't move.'

  'Don't try. Your head's clamped. You're lucky to be alive.'

  The trite remark irked Diamond, even at this level of consciousness. 'Where am I?'

  'In the RUH. You've been in a coma. They said if you did come round, there was no obvious physical damage to the brain, but no one can stay in a coma too long. Do you follow me?'

  'Perfectly,' said Diamond.

  'You were found in a pool of blood in the Roman Baths. The Didrikson boy alerted us.'

  'Good lad.'

  'Your skull was cracked and impacted. The only reason your head isn't in two pieces is that the spade was curved at the edge. Do you remember being struck?' the edge. Do you 'Not really.'

  'It may come back to you slowly. We'll be needing a statement.'

  'You pulled Coventry in?'

  'You remember a certain amount then?'

  Diamond summarized what he remembered, up to the moment when Andy Coventry had set off in pursuit of him.

  Wigfull informed him that the drugs squad were holding Coventry on a charge of possession. 'We'll do him for dealing, as well. He had two kilos of cocaine stashed away in the Baths.'

  The brain was functioning, sluggishly, but reliably. 'He was supplying Mrs Jackman, the woman who was murdered.'

  Wigfull frowned. 'What's your evidence for that?'

  'The boy and his mother witnessed Andy coming out of the house.'

  'The Jackman house? When was this?'

  'Months ago. Last summer. You remember. Mrs Didrikson told us in her statement. Geraldine Jackman was begging Coventry not to leave.'

  'That was Coventry?' Wigfull's tone was sceptical.

  'The boy is certain of it.'

  'What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Diamond – a drugs angle on the Jackman case? Is that the best the defence can think up?'

  'I'm talking facts, John. Geraldine Jackman was snorting coke. Go to the house. You'll find packets of cocaine hidden in bags of flour in the kitchen.'

  Wigfull moved away from the bed, out of Diamond's limited range of vision. 'The post-mortem samples were negative for drugs. If you cast your mind back, Dr Merlin ordered a full screening test for drugs and alcohol. Chepstow found nothing.'

  'This is something you should check with Merlin,' Diamond advised. 'It doesn't mean she hadn't used cocaine. Unlike cannabis, it doesn't hang about in the body for long. A few days at the most. If she hadn't snorted the stuff in the few days prior to her death, it's unlikely that traces would have shown up in the samples.'

  'Even if what you're saying is true, it's a side issue,' Wigfull insisted. 'Nobody's suggesting Gerry Jackman was nice to know. That's no part of the prosecution case. All right, you tell me she was a junkie. I'll see that it's investigated, but the fact remains that Dana Didrikson killed her. The evidence is unassailable.'

  'When is the trial?'

  'In just over a week.'

  'A week?'

  'You've been here ten days. Take it easy. They bring the papers round. You won't miss a thing.'

  Later that morning, he met the surgeon who had pieced together his splintered skull. The operation, he learned, had been a five-hour job, and no one had been able to predict with confidence that he would come out of the coma, let alone come out of it with his brain unimpaired. The contraption clamped around his head was essential to his recovery. In twenty-four hours it would be replaced by something that permitted more movement. As for other injuries, two of his ribs had cracked, and there were superficial abrasions, but there was no reason why he shouldn't be on his feet in a week.

  'On my feet and out of here?' Diamond asked.

  'On your feet and as far as the toilet, Mr Diamond. As a ward sister once remarked to me, bedpans are nobody's cup of tea.'

  At least he had an opportunity to think. The matter that exercised him most was Andy Coventry's behaviour. He would dearly have liked to question the man, only it wasn't possible, now or later. John Wigfull must have taken a statement already, but John Wigfull was blinkered.

  The ferocity of the attack had been out of all proportion. Coventry could easily have killed him. Was a crack over the head with a spade a reasonable response to being caught with a couple of kilos of cocaine? People can panic, certainly. The chances were that Coventry wasn't a big wheel in the drugs trade, not an importer or a trafficker, just a pusher, probably with no form at all. Those are the people who are liable to strike back when threatened. The real professionals weigh the consequences.

  However, there was a more persuasive scenario. Andy Coventry had clearly been Geraldine Jackman's supplier. He'd kept her in cocaine and systematically emptied her bank account. Fine, until her funds ran out. She had been heavily overdrawn at the bank. He must have watched her becom
e increasingly desperate, knowing that ultimately there would be no point in offering the stuff to someone who couldn't pay. Maybe he'd told her the arrangement was at an end. Then – the scenario ran – Geraldine had got in touch again. She'd offered something of value in exchange for drugs. Coventry had gone to the house, and she had shown him the Jane Austen letters she had pilfered from her husband.

  Coventry must have been unimpressed. He would have foreseen the problems in turning the letters into cash. The discussion had turned ugly. Gerry, in one of her towering rages, had threatened to expose him as a pusher, and the hell with the consequences for herself, because without cocaine her life was closing down anyway. Andy Coventry, driven desperate, had silenced her for ever.

  Through the months since then, the man must have lived in dread of the truth emerging. When he became aware in the Baths that someone had been watching him stow away drugs, he had panicked. He had killed once to stop someone blowing the whistle on his dealing, so why not a second time?

  Towards the end of the week Gregory Jackman came to the hospital on a visit. Hollow-eyed and drooping at the shoulders, he looked ten years older than when Diamond had seen him last. 'The drug story has broken,' he explained. 'They came to the house – Chief Inspector Wigfull and some people from the drugs squad – and I showed them the bags of flour. Today it's all over the tabloids. Drugs Find in Profs House. Dead Woman's Cocaine Habit. The top brass in the university don't like it one bit. I've been told to take a year's sabbatical directly the trial is over.