“Me, too.”
“I’ll keep going unless you have other plans.”
He nodded, trying not to load his disappointment on to Ingeborg. “This one was never going to be simple.” He hesitated again before confiding a personal experience. “I was at the hospital yesterday. He’s lying there with eyes closed and no movement except what the ventilator is doing, but I got a kind of message—call it telepathy if you like—that he knows who I am and what I’m about and he’s well satisfied because he’s way ahead of me. Is that possible or is it my insecurity?”
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “I get something like that from working with the computer data. You can’t avoid thinking about the brain that set up the system. This is one very smart guy.”
“We need to raise our game, Inge.”
“But how?”
“We can find out more about how the Filiputs died. There’s the friend called Cyril who spoke at the funeral. He ought to be able to give us the inside story.”
“Do we know his surname?”
“Neither Dr. Mukherjee nor Mrs. Stratford could tell me, but he used to lecture at the same college in Salisbury that Filiput did. That’s how they knew each other. Someone there must remember him. Cyril—it’s unusual, isn’t it, a bit old-fashioned?”
She smiled. “You could be right. None of my friends are called Cyril.”
“You’d remember if you met one?”
“For sure.”
First he needed to find the college. He went off to make a search on his own computer. The first to arrive on his screen was Salisbury College of Funeral Sciences. He grinned and scrolled down the choices.
Up came Wiltshire College. Now that he saw the name he remembered passing it often on his way through the city to the A36, a massive white block several stories high with rows and rows of windows.
He found a phone number to call. Eventually he was put through to someone in the science department who had been on the staff long enough to remember. There was only one Cyril he could recall and he’d retired more than twenty years ago. Cyril Hardstaff. He’d lived in a cottage in Little Langford.
This had to be the man. Diamond remembered a signpost to the Langfords not far out of Salisbury on the A36.
He told Ingeborg.
“Are you going there yourself?” she asked with a glance at the car key already in his hand.
“It’s not far.” In this unsanctioned investigation he couldn’t ask Wiltshire police to check the address for him. Besides, he had a gut feeling it would go wrong if he didn’t make the trip himself. The gods had not been charitable lately.
“Do you want company?” she asked.
“You’re better employed on the computer.”
She rolled her eyes upwards. “Thanks.”
“We went to a lot of trouble to copy the disk. I’m not giving up.”
“You’re not giving up?”
He got out fast.
Driving away from Keynsham, he felt some sympathy for Ingeborg, but this, surely, was the best use of his small team. At some point he expected to elevate the enquiry into a full-scale murder investigation with the whole of CID actively involved, but until strong suspicion turned to certainty, it wasn’t on. Convincing Georgina and Headquarters was a challenge yet to be faced.
There was still a chance, wasn’t there, that Pellegrini was innocent?
The day was clear, the road not too cluttered with commercial traffic and the vast open spaces of the Wiltshire countryside were a joy to drive through. He passed Warminster inside fifty minutes and started looking for the Langfords. Great and Little, Upper and Lower, they liked subdividing villages in this county. It turned out, when he came to the sign he remembered and took the right turn, that there was a Steeple Langford leading to a junction that offered Hanging Langford and Little Langford. Good to avoid Hanging Langford, he told himself. The lane became more narrow and the signs of habitation fewer as he entered Cyril Hardstaff’s home territory. Little Langford was a place of scattered buildings, including a church of its own.
He reached a farmyard and stopped to ask for directions. The young lad he met listened carefully but said nothing. He simply pointed up the lane.
“Is it far?” Diamond asked, hoping for at least a word or two.
The boy shook his head and walked off.
About two hundred yards further on was a slate roof. Trees and bushes obscured the view. As he got closer he saw this stone cottage in a neglected, overgrown garden. A white van was outside and someone’s legs were visible below the open rear doors.
Diamond stopped and got out.
“Morning.”
A woman in her sixties stepped back and looked him up and down. Men in suits are not often seen in villages. She was wearing a tank-top and jeans. Her tanned arms were well muscled.
“I’m looking for a gentleman called Cyril Hardstaff, a retired lecturer. I was told he has a cottage here.”
She nodded as if to confirm it. “What’s it about?”
Nosy, he thought. Village life was like that. “I’m saving my news for him. Can you tell me where he lives?”
“I’m his niece Hilary,” she said.
“Well, that’s a bit of luck.” But he still didn’t plan to share anything with Hilary about Cyril’s links to a murder plot.
She seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Anything you want to know, you’ll have to ask me. I’m clearing out the place by stages. This old heap was where my uncle used to live.”
“Used to live?”
“He died six weeks ago.”
He played the words over, mentally reeling.
“I had no idea.” All the optimism built on the journey had just vanished like hot breath on a mirror. “You have my sympathy.”
She shrugged as if to show she was past needing sympathy. “He had a long life. He was over ninety.”
Diamond couldn’t be so philosophical. Another death. Another old person. It was too mind-blowing to take in properly.
“What did he die of?”
“Old age. He went peacefully.”
That word again.
“Here? At home?”
“In his sleep, the doctor said. Heart. He’d treated him for years.”
“Six weeks ago was February.”
“February seventeenth. I had to register the death.”
“Who was it who found him, then?”
“The housekeeper, Jessie.”
“Is she about?”
A shake of the head. “She packed her things and left the same day. She had no reason to stay. She’d lost her job, hadn’t she? I’m his closest relative, so it fell to me to make the arrangements. It’s been non-stop.”
“Did he own the cottage?”
“He left it to me. He left everything and it’s more trouble than it’s worth. No use to me, most of it. Goods and chattels, the lawyers call it. I spend more in petrol carting goods and chattels to the council tip every day than I’ll ever inherit.”
“I’m shocked. He spoke at a funeral less than a year ago. He seemed to be in fine form then, made a witty speech, I was told.”
“That’s Uncle Cyril for you,” she said. “He was a charming man as any round here will testify and there was nothing wrong with his brain. His passing was very sudden. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss. His body gave up, I reckon. Bound to, if you live long enough, isn’t that the truth of it?”
The logic was inescapable. “I’d like to speak to the housekeeper. Where is she now?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“No forwarding address?”
“If you ask me, she didn’t know where she would end up next.”
“Didn’t she even leave a contact number?”
A shake of the head. “She’ll be in another job by now.
There’s no call for her sort of work in the Langfords.”
He couldn’t allow Jessie the housekeeper to go off the radar. She’d been at Massimo Filiput’s funeral. Maybe the lawyers would have her new address.
“Did she receive a legacy?”
“No, it all came to me—and I wish to God it hadn’t. Who exactly are you, asking all these questions?”
If he said he was police, all communication would cease. “I’m Peter Diamond from Bath. There was an accident there a few days ago and a man is in hospital in a coma. We’re trying to trace people who might know him. Your uncle Cyril was a possibility.”
“How come?”
“They both used to visit a house in Cavendish Crescent.”
“Is that so?”
It was hard to tell whether Hilary was holding back information or treating him with the suspicion many country people had for townies.
“He never mentioned them?”
“I didn’t see much of Uncle Cyril. I live on the other side of Warminster.”
“I suppose you had to arrange his funeral.”
“It wasn’t much. A short service at the crematorium in Sarum. Being so old, he’d outlived most of his friends. A few folk from the village came out of respect.” This was better: freely given.
“Nobody from Bath?”
She shook her head. “His old friend Max passed over last year.”
“Max was the person I mentioned, the one he used to visit in Bath. Max Filiput. They played Scrabble once a week.”
“Did they indeed? Crafty old bugger,” she said, eyes lighting up in amusement.
“You mean Cyril? Why do you say that?”
“He had the Scrabble dictionary with words you’d never know unless you had one yourself. It’s on the shelf over there. Does that count as cheating? They will have played for money, that’s for sure. He’d bet on anything, would Uncle Cyril. I threw out his box of Scrabble yesterday. No use to me and I couldn’t be bothered checking if all the grubby little tiles were still in the box.”
“Is there much else to sort out?”
“I’m hoping to finish tomorrow and put the place up for sale.”
“What happened to the car?”
“Which car was that?”
“He used to be driven to Bath when he visited Max.”
“Jessie had a little runabout of her own. I expect they used that. Uncle Cyril had a rusty old Volvo at one time that he serviced himself, but he got rid of it after he gave up driving. Most likely it went for scrap. He wouldn’t have got much for it.”
There was more to extract from her, he was confident. “Now that I’m here, can I help you move anything out of the cottage?” If nothing else, he’d get a look inside.
She glanced at his suit. “You’re not dressed for work.”
“I’ll take off my jacket.”
“If you mean it, you could help shift a couple of beds from upstairs.”
A couple of beds? He’d been thinking of something more portable, like a laptop or some box files.
She stepped back to allow him inside. The living room was bare except for some half-filled cartons and a bookcase. He could tell by the marks on the carpet where other furniture had stood. After removing his jacket and tie he followed her upstairs, where there were two bedrooms divided by a bathroom.
“This was his. Can you take the bed to bits?”
“Let’s give it a go.” He was better at dismantling things than assembling them.
They were in a small room with little else except a fitted wardrobe and a chest of drawers.
He shifted the double mattress from the wooden bed frame and propped it against the nearest wall, and knocked off a picture as he did so. The Laughing Cavalier didn’t enjoy the joke as he hit the floor hard and his glass smashed.
“Oh Christ. I was born clumsy.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Leave it.”
The least he could do was stand the frame upright and push the broken glass with his foot into a tidy heap in the corner. He’d just about finished when he noticed at one end of the mattress the manufacturer’s label with information about the features, notably a thousand sprung pockets that ensured comfort, elegance and value.
“What have we got here?”
The label appeared to be one more pocket, bulging oddly, but Diamond had noticed it was unstitched on three sides. He tugged at the edge and heard the sound of Velcro separating. Underneath was a small cavity. Something black had been stuffed inside. He drew it out carefully.
A velvet bag.
“Hey ho.”
Light in weight, it definitely contained some small object.
He loosened the drawstring and brought out a gold necklace that was clearly antique, the pendant in the shape of an engraved serpent’s head, with five inset diamonds and blue enamel for the eyes.
He draped the piece across his palm and held it out to Hilary. “What do you reckon?”
“Where in the name of heaven did the old rogue get this from?” she said, looking but making no move to handle it.
Diamond had a good idea but didn’t say. “Want to try it on?”
She shook her head. “Not my thing at all.”
“The label says comfort, elegance and value. I’d say this has got elegance and value even if you’re not comfortable with it.”
“My flesh creeps just looking at it. I hate snakes.”
“A popular design at one time.”
She put her hand to her mouth. “Is it stolen goods, do you think?”
“He was too old for smash-and-grab raids or break-ins.”
“Well, I can’t think what he was doing with it. What am I going to do with the bloody thing? I was taking the mattress to the council tip.”
He’d been making a rapid review of his options. He didn’t want to reveal that he was from the police, but there was no other way he could reasonably take possession of the bag and its contents. He already had a fair idea where it came from. He could suggest Hilary took it to the lawyers handling Cyril’s estate, but they’d be obliged to inform the police, and if Wiltshire CID got involved one of the first things they’d ask was who had found it.
“Actually,” he said, “I ought to have shown you this before.” He produced his warrant card.
She nodded as if to confirm she’d known all along. “Why the heck didn’t you say you’re a cop?”
“A plain-clothes cop. The general idea is that we don’t go round introducing ourselves to people.”
“And now you think you ought to come clean?”
“So as to hand this in. I’ll write you a receipt. It’s yours by rights if it isn’t stolen.”
“Take it, and welcome,” she said. “What are you really here for? Was he in trouble with the police?”
“As I told you at the start, this is about the man in a coma. I thought your uncle Cyril was alive and might help us identify him.”
“You’ve got another mystery now.” Unexpectedly, she was reconciled to the police presence.
He made a point of writing a form of receipt on the reverse of one of his official cards. Then he pocketed the bag containing the necklace.
“You spoke of betting before we found this. Uncle Cyril liked a flutter, then?”
“He was addicted. It’s why there’s nothing left that’s worth having, apart from . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Wicked old blighter. Any money I get from the sale of the cottage will go to paying off his debts.”
“That’s tough, really tough. I didn’t know.”
“You said something about him playing Scrabble with Max. That wouldn’t have been for matchsticks, he’ll have made sure of that. You get points for making words, don’t you?”
“I believe you do.”
“He’d lay money on anything. Horses, footba
ll, poker. He had a few good wins, but of course in the long run he lost, big time. He ran up massive debts and had some nasty people coming to collect from time to time.”
“Who were they—do you know?”
“He never said. I heard about it from Jessie one time. She was shocked. She said they acted like bailiffs, seizing his electrical goods, his TV, his laptop, even his power tools. She told him to report them but he wouldn’t. He was so worried, he was taking Temazepam to get any sleep at all. Are you still going to help me with this job?”
“Of course. We started and we’ll finish.”
“What we need is an Allen key,” she told him after examining the bolts on the bed frame.
“Definitely,” he said, trying to sound competent. He was not a handyman. He wouldn’t have known an Allen key from a pineapple.
“There’s one downstairs.”
While she was fetching it, he weighed the new information. If Cyril Hardstaff had been in hock to some loan shark he must have felt insecure, to say the least. Unsurprising that he’d have a hiding place for anything of value. Presumably it had been waiting there to be pawned or sold. A man of charm and wit on the surface, at desperation point underneath. These old men and their personal failings were bringing extra layers of deception to the case.
He was relieved to find that the Allen key was nothing more complicated than an L-shaped spanner you used like a key. While loosening the bolts, he asked Hilary whether Cyril had ever been married.
“He was, yes, to my aunt Winnie. She died of a brain tumour seven or eight years ago. A tough lady and very successful. She started a secretarial agency in the days when every business wanted typing staff and it got to be one of the biggest in London, worth millions. She kept Uncle Cyril well under her thumb. He didn’t do much of his gambling while she was alive. We were all a bit scared of Aunt Winnie.”
“I was wondering if the necklace could have been hers.”
“No chance. She went in for fashion jewellery. Showy modern stuff. We’d better turn the bed on its side. It’s going to collapse if you loosen the other bolt.”
“Good thinking,” he said. “I was on the point of doing it.”
In a short time he had the headboard and footboard separated from the frame.
Another One Goes Tonight Page 18