“And the chocolate.”
“And the chocolate.”
She said, “I don’t see why you have to treat a bag of shopping as a state secret.”
He said, “Because it’s boring.” And out of her line of vision he took the final item from the bag and tucked it out of sight on top of the cupboard.
It was a packet of hair tint, labeled Mocha.
Chapter Five
A whiff of fried bacon was in the air.
From deep in the bed came an utterance just comprehensible as, “You can chuck my clothes off the chair and leave the tray.”
“It’s five past eight, sir,” the cadet announced as he went out.
Diamond heaved himself up to a sitting position.
The breakfast had been a brilliant idea. He was less convinced about the sleep. Three hours had not been enough. He was left with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted as if it had Hoovered the carpet. He reached for the mug on the tray.
The tea tasted good. It hadn’t come from an urn. This was almost like home.
Out of curiosity he leaned toward the tray and lifted the cover. Some angel in the canteen had a long memory: two eggs coated pale pink on a slice of thick fried bread, with several strips of crisp streaky bacon, a sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and a heap of fried potato.
Then it occurred to him that the last meal of a condemned man is supposed to be exactly what he desires. Were they telling him something?
Keith Halliwell looked around the door. “How do you feel, chief?”
“In need of some aspirin. No, before you get it, what’s new?”
“Damn all, really. Nothing on Mountjoy or the girl. There’s a car ready in case you ...”
“... want to make a getaway?”
Halliwell smiled as if a couple of aspirin might also do him some good.
Diamond asked, “Is Tott still about?”
“Yes, and Mr. Farr-Jones is in.”
“Full dress parade, is it?”
“I’ll see to the aspirin for you.”
“Thanks. And, Keith ...”
“Yes?”
“Keep the top brass out if you can. I want to eat this in peace.”
Just after eight-forty, with a clearer head and contented stomach, he looked into the nearest locker room. “Could anyone lend me a razor?”
He meant to have a wet shave, but one of the new sergeants on the strength seemed determined to lend him an electric shaver, not knowing the jinx he put on anything mechanical.
“This is neat. How does it work—like this?”
He slid back a cover on the side and one of the batteries fell out and rolled under a locker. “How about that? There’s an arrow thing on the side. What do they expect people to do?”
“You press the switch.”
“What switch?”
“On the side, sir.”
“Doesn’t work.”
“It won’t. It’s short of a battery now.”
“You wouldn’t be taking the piss by any chance, sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Where did it go, then—and what happens if you press this side?”
“Don’t.”
Too late, his thumb flicked off the head guard and shot it across the room. “Strewth.” He handed back what was left of the shaver. “Does anyone have one in working order?”
It was ten to nine when he completed a wet shave, courtesy of Keith Halliwell, and put on a shirt and tie and ventured out to check some old haunts. His arrival in the main office was disconcerting because three or four faces he remembered from two years ago looked up and smiled. Smiled. The Manvers Street mob usually put their heads down when he appeared and tried not to be noticed. Something in the looks he was getting made him deeply uneasy. It was almost like admiration. It dawned on him that the entire station knew what he was being asked to take on. He was being treated like Gary Cooper in High Noon and he hadn’t even agreed to the shootout.
He returned upstairs to where the Chief Constable was waiting. Farr-Jones definitely wasn’t out of a Western. Short and dapper, with a rosebud in his lapel, he could have doubled for John Mills in one of his English country gentleman roles. He shook hands as if he was applying a tourniquet.
“Man of the hour, eh? Sensible, getting some sleep.”
“I don’t think sense had much to do with it,” said Diamond. “I was bushed.” He had noted the “man of the hour” remark and let it pass.
“Yes, I think Mr. Tott ought to bunk down very soon. You can’t keep going forever on black coffee.”
Tott, leaning against the wall with the back of his head against a graph of the crime statistics, certainly looked exhausted, but insisted that he would wait and see whether Mountjoy sent the promised instructions.
Farr-Jones said to Diamond, “I don’t think you have met Commander Warrilow from Hampshire. We’re fortunate to have him with us.”
A silver-haired man at his side who looked as if he might be chairman of a golf club gave a nod and said, “I’m coordinating the recapture operation.” Positive thinking. A recapture, not a hunt.
Farr-Jones said to Diamond, “The Mountjoy case was before my time, of course, but I’ve looked at the file. You were commended by the judge.”
“The police work was mentioned, not me,” recalled Diamond with modesty. “It was a team effort.”
Farr-Jones turned to Wigfull, who in spite of a night’s growth of stubble on his chin succeeded in looking reasonably alert. “Were you on the team?”
“No, sir. At that time I was in CID Administration.”
“Less newsworthy, but no less important.” Farr-Jones was obviously a student of psychology. He saw the advantage in making everyone feel important.
“It was useful experience, anyway,” said Wigfull. “But I prefer being in the front line.”
In the front line waiting to see me go over the top, thought Diamond.
“Apart from his record, what sort of man are we dealing with?” Farr-Jones asked.
Diamond realized that the question was meant for him. “Mountjoy? A good brain. Went through university. Opened his own private college, of course. A glib talker and good-looking, which is why the ladies get taken in. Physically strong. Underneath, he’s violent, as you know. He had a conviction for assaulting his girlfriend in about 1980. Badly. She had to be treated as a casualty. Sensibly the hospital reported him. Some idiot magistrate let him off with a fine and a year’s remand.”
“He also assaulted his wife, I believe.”
“Several times. The marriage survived only six months and then she had to get an injunction to keep him away. Sophie Mountjoy hadn’t much to say in his favor when I talked to her. She petitioned on the grounds of cruelty. He used to get into a frenzy of rage over quite trivial matters and beat her.”
“Not really a sadist, then?” said Farr-Jones.
Diamond gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he didn’t do it for sexual gratification.”
“Does that excuse it?”
“I think you’re missing the point,” Farr-Jones said, indicating Mr. Tott with his eyes.
Diamond understood now. The remark had been intended to allay Tott’s worst fears, not to whitewash Mountjoy. He glanced across to see how his case summary was affecting the Assistant Chief Constable. Very little, apparently—if he was taking anything in at all. “No, I don’t think it was a sex thing. He lost his cool and went berserk, which is how the unfortunate Britt Strand met her death.”
“How did he behave under questioning?”
“Denied everything.”
“Did he lose control?”
“He raised Cain when I told him we’d traced his ex-wife and girlfriend. I saw the temper then. To be fair, he was approachable ninety-five percent of the time.”
“Would you say that you established some kind of rapport with Mountjoy?”
Diamond gave the Chief Constable a frown softened by a smile and made no
reply.
Farr-Jones nodded. “All right, that was rather obvious. I’ll lay off. What time is it?”
Wigfull said, “Five past, sir.”
“Anyone care to place a bet?”
“I give him another five minutes,” said Diamond. “No more.”
Farr-Jones looked round at the others. “Why don’t we all sit down? My money’s on nine-thirty. He’ll make us suffer a little longer.”
“If he said nine, he’ll get in touch at nine,” insisted Diamond. “The delay won’t be his. It will be due to the way the message comes through.”
The phone on the desk rang.
“You do have a rapport with him,” said Farr-Jones as he picked it up. “Farr-Jones . . . Good. Put them through.” He covered the mouthpiece and said, “He’s resourceful. British Rail Passenger Inquiries this time.”
The others listened to the responses.
“Yes? . . . When was this? . . . Nine precisely? ... If you would be so kind. Exactly as it was given.” He picked up a pen and started to write. After a moment, he said, “Thank you. I’ll read it back and I’d be obliged if you would check every word most carefully. ‘J.M. to Diamond. Take a taxi up to the Grenville Monument immediately and collect instructions. Alone. Carry no weapon, phone, radio or bug. If you trap me the girl will die slowly, so lay off.’ Is that correct? . . . And was the caller male or female? ... a man? . . . Thank you. And—this is important—would you kindly destroy the message now and say nothing about this to the press or anyone else?” He cradled the phone and spread his hands.
“What’s the Grenville Monument?” Warrilow asked.
“Offhand, I can’t say,” Farr-Jones admitted.
Wigfull was afforded his chance to shine. “Isn’t it on Lansdown? You know, where the battle was fought in the Civil War? Grenville was one of the Royalist leaders. They put up a stone pillar where he fell.”
“Lansdown, you say?” Warrilow turned to a map on the wall.
“Yes, sir. It’s one of the highest points hereabouts, beyond the racecourse on the Lansdown Road.” Wigfull traced the road with his finger. “I walked the Cotswold Way once and passed close to it. See, the monument is marked. Just here, to the east of Hanging Hill.”
“Open ground?”
“I have a vague recollection of some trees or bushes not far away, but there isn’t much else up there. It still looks like a battlefield. On one side of the road you can see the ridges of earth they dug out for their defenses.”
“Still deep enough to give some cover?”
“Not where the monument is.”
“Ideally I’d use a helicopter for an operation like this,” Warrilow reflected, “but obviously we’ve got to be careful.”
Tott, becoming pink, said, “I’m not prepared to see my daughter’s life put at risk.”
“No question of that, Harry,” said Farr-Jones. “Samantha’s safety is paramount in our planning.”
“Which is why I’m recommending subtlety in our surveillance,” Warrilow added smoothly.
“Surveillance of what?” Diamond said.
“Your meeting with Mountjoy.”
“I haven’t agreed to meet him.”
“But surely—”
“Nothing is sure,” said Diamond. “Nothing is agreed. I’m a civilian. Remember?”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Something had been troubling John Wigfull. Tentatively, he said, “There’s an inconsistency in the two messages from Mountjoy, isn’t there? Yesterday he asked us to have a car ready. Today we’re told to use a taxi.”
“And is there a car ready?” said Diamond.
“Of course. I told you.”
“Is it bugged—invisibly, of course—but bugged?”
“Yes.”
Diamond smiled. “You won’t need it. That was the decoy. Mountjoy is ahead in this game. He’s had years to plan it.”
Warrilow drew in a sibilant breath and folded his arms as if to convey that he, too, had seen through this transparent ruse. “You’ll have to carry something,” he told Diamond.
The moment had arrived for Diamond to lay out his cards. “If you want my cooperation, gentlemen, you can have it on my terms. My terms are Mountjoy’s, exactly. No bugs, no radios, weapons or”—his eyes locked with Warrilow’s— “surveillance. I go up to Lansdown alone to see what this is about. I’m your surveillance, right? If I come back alive, as I intend to, I’ll have plenty to tell you.”
“Come on, man, you were in the police,” said Warrilow abrasively. “We’re a professional force, not the Boy Scouts. Mountjoy is an escaped convict, a lifer with a record of violence. Our job is to recapture him. We can’t let this opportunity pass.”
“And if you do pick him up, what happens to Mr. Tott’s daughter?”
“He’ll tell us where she is.”
“That’s your assessment, is it?”
“He’s no idiot. He’s an educated man. He’ll know when the game is up.”
Diamond glanced at the others, practically inviting them to support Warrilow’s line of reasoning. They were silent. Speaking in a flat tone that let the story supply its own force, he said, “There was a stickup artist a few years back who did post offices in the Midlands and murdered three sub-postmasters. They called him the Black Panther because of the hood he wore. Remember?”
Warrilow gave a grudging nod. The case had been notorious and was frequently quoted on training courses, but no one was going to stop Diamond from pointing out its relevance.
“He got more ambitious. Kidnapped a teen-age girl from a well-off family in Kidderminster and demanded a ransom of fifty grand. Planned it like a military operation. Found an ingenious place to keep his victim. Sent his messages on strips of Dynotape. Early in the hunt, the police had a lucky break. A stolen car was found containing the girl’s slippers and a tape recording of her voice appealing to the family to cooperate. Forensic evidence provided a firm link with the Panther, so they knew they were dealing with a killer. They put terrific resources into the hunt. The girl was missing for about eight weeks. When they finally found her it was too late. She was hanging naked by a wire rope in an underground drainage tunnel. Ruddy sadist. They caught up with him by chance, nine months later, about to do another post office. The point is, why did that young girl die? The answer is that the guy was a killer already. What’s one more death? If the Panther had been nicked before the girl was found, do you believe he would have revealed where she was hidden?”
Warrilow said, “There’s no comparison.”
To which Diamond replied, “You’re right, of course.” Then added mildly, “I wonder where Mr. Tott’s daughter is being kept.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Tott had lowered his head. It wasn’t possible to see his expression.
Abruptly Farr-Jones said, “In the present exercise, I believe we should set aside any idea of arresting the man.”
Warrilow backtracked shamelessly. “I don’t say we need apprehend him immediately, but we have a duty to the public to take this opportunity of tracking his movements. Rest assured, Mr. Diamond, he won’t be aware of what is going on.”
“Fine,” said Diamond evenly. “You go ahead with your tracking. I’ll rest assured, as you put it—in the first InterCity back to London.”
Tott said in alarm, “Don’t do that!”
“He won’t,” said Warrilow. “He’d regret it for the rest of his life.”
Warrilow talked as if he had just completed a course in assertiveness, but he wasn’t the one who would be putting his life on the line. Nor was he the senior officer present. Farr-Jones cleared his throat. “This is an unusual situation, gentlemen, and it would be wise to establish some priorities. Your duty is to recapture Mountjoy, Mr. Warrilow, and we shall do everything in our power to support you. However, the top consideration must be Miss Tott’s safety.”
“Thank you for that, sir,” murmured Tott, while Diamond privately noted that nothing was said about his own s
afety.
Farr-Jones continued, “From all that I have heard, Mr. Diamond had a high rate of success in his time here.”
“Second to none,” said Tott without a trace of insincerity.
Sensitive, possibly, to the contradictions in the file he’d studied, Farr-Jones explained, “He didn’t always go by the book, but he achieved results. He knows Mountjoy. He sent him down. He’s our best hope in this emergency. I’m willing to back him one hundred percent.”
“Without surveillance?” said Diamond.
“Yes.”
“No bugs?”
“No bugs.”
Warrilow stated piously, “I should like my dissent placed on record.”
“So be it,” said Farr-Jones without looking at him. “Are you ready to leave at once, Mr. Diamond?”
Decision time. He’d talked some sense into the police. Now was he ready to take on Mountjoy?
“If someone will call a taxi. I’m sorry about the car you had ready, John. What is it, by the way?”
Wigfull frowned. “The make? A Vauxhall Cavalier.”
Diamond grinned.
“What’s funny?” asked Farr-Jones.
“The idea of taking a Cavaliet up to Lansdown. Didn’t they lose the Civil War?”
A long-serving Abbey Radio cab rattled up Broad Street in a slow stream of traffic past familiar landmarks like the Moon and Sixpence and the Postal Museum, with Peter Diamond beside the driver spotting the changes. The disfiguring grime on the stonework of St. Michael’s had been removed, leaving an unexpectedly handsome church. Rossiter’s, where Steph had always bought her greeting cards, remained, but the little cafe two doors up, where students used to congregate, renowned for its cheap, wholesome vegetable soup, had gone. Somehow the Bath Book Exchange had survived the recession, still displaying secondhand books with alluringly handwritten descriptions of their contents; he’d once found a fine copy of Fabian of the Yard there, a volume he treasured. If the city shops had changed, how much more had detective work, and not for the better in Diamond’s opinion; these days it was all bureaucrats and boffins. Strange, then, that this morning the central nick, that barracklike block in Manvers Street, had felt like his second home.
The Summons Page 6