The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those mummies.”

  Halliwell rolled his eyes. “Get the names on the board, John. Let’s get some background on these villains.”

  But Leaman refused to back off. “I don’t think we should get carried away by what this woman said. Any rational assessment points to an armed robbery that went wrong.”

  Diamond relented a bit. “You’re right about that, John, and it’s still the main line of enquiry. These other suspects are side issues for the present, but we won’t discount them.”

  Ingeborg said, “It sounds as if Monica Gildersleeve impressed you, guv.”

  He hesitated, sensing disapproval behind the remark. “I believe she was speaking the truth.”

  “It’s just that she’s got us all thinking about Wefers and Poke. Is that why she asked to see you—to finger them as suspects?”

  “It’s one interpretation. What’s your point here?”

  “Shouldn’t we ask ourselves why?”

  “Her husband was shot. She’s entitled to an opinion.”

  “And the two people she named are her ex and the guy who wanted her husband’s job.”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “What’s her agenda? That’s my point. Can’t she accept that her husband of six months got killed making a fool of himself over a lump of limestone? He’d been telling all and sundry how much he wanted the thing. It must have really got to her, him going on like that.”

  “She didn’t say so.”

  “What’s more, he was willing to pay twenty-four grand.”

  “I doubt whether money came into it. She’s a rich woman.”

  “He died trying to hold onto the Wife of Bath, not the wife he’d recently married.”

  The words Monica Gildersleeve had used came back to him: I was starting to wonder if he preferred her to me. He nodded. “I follow what you’re saying, Inge. It must be really tough for her to take.”

  “Well, it may explain why she favours another explanation.”

  “Okay. In matters like this it’s helpful to get the woman’s angle.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she said in a low voice, “Don’t patronise me.”

  From nowhere, he’d got a putdown from the brightest of his team, the one he still hoped would volunteer to go undercover. He didn’t fully understand how it had happened. He’d tried to give her credit for speaking out.

  He had another try. “I was about to say we mustn’t get deflected. It would be useful to find out more about the stone before it got into the auction, and I’m thinking of making a trip to Bridgwater tomorrow. We could take in North Petherton as well. Feel like a break from this lot?”

  “Are you speaking to me?” she said in the same disenchanted voice.

  “I thought I was.”

  She hesitated. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I’d like to be closer to home tomorrow. Personal reasons.”

  There wasn’t much arguing with that. “Fair enough.”

  Leaman spoke up. “I’ll go with you, guv. I’m getting interested in the history of North Petherton since I started researching online.”

  “Thanks,” Diamond said without any gratitude. “I’ll enjoy your company.” His mind wasn’t really on Bridgwater or North Petherton. He turned back to Ingeborg. “Can we have a chat in my office?”

  She was more relaxed when alone with him. She smiled when he warned her not to trip over the Wife of Bath.

  “It’s easily done,” he added. “I ought to push her into a corner out of the way.”

  “She might not appreciate that. You may not have noticed, but women like to know precisely what’s going on.”

  He smiled. “You and I seemed to be on different wavelengths out there. I didn’t set out to upset you.”

  “No problem. I’m a little edgy, that’s all.”

  “Something I said?”

  She exhaled like a smoker, using the pause to choose the right words. “All this stuff about suspects and deliberate murder got to me, guv. I spent a lot of the past twenty-four hours thinking over what you said about going undercover and my mind was made up. I was going to speak to you as soon as you were alone. So it came as a shock to hear you talking about these new theories fed to you by Monica Gildersleeve.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “I know, but it seemed to show you don’t have total confidence in the scenario we’ve been pursuing up to now.”

  “You’ve known me a long time, Inge,” he said. “Keeping an open mind is the only way forward. In this job, it’s essential. We don’t know everything, so we have to stay receptive.”

  “I understand that.”

  “But …?”

  “But if I’m going to put my career and maybe my life on the line by associating with known criminals, I want to know it’s for solid reasons. I want to be certain I’m not on a wild goose chase.”

  His mouth had gone dry. Now that she was on the point of volunteering, he was becoming unsettled instead of relieved. “Nothing is certain, Inge. I’d be dishonest if I promised you it was. The only solid fact we have is that three armed robbers held up the auction and shot the professor. None of our theories, however over the top, can alter that. I don’t know how we’re going to make progress without tracing the gunmen. This isn’t the kind of stuff you get from talking to snouts in a pub.”

  She nodded, more reconciled, it seemed. “So nothing fundamental has changed since we spoke?”

  “Nothing has, and nothing will if you’re taking risks for us.”

  She fixed her flame-blue eyes on him, and they burned into his conscience. “If I do it, I want the freedom to act as I choose.”

  “Within the law?”

  There was a long pause. “If not, I’ll cover my tracks.”

  He didn’t care for that answer, but he understood why she used it. “Fair enough. I trust your judgement.”

  “I won’t report in until I get a breakthrough. It may take some time.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  “You’ll cover for me at this end?”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “What about the ACC? Will you be telling her?”

  “It’s better Georgina doesn’t find out. She’ll only think of what can go wrong. I’ll keep her from interfering.” He plucked at his ear lobe. “Is there anyone in your private life who might get suspicious?”

  Her eyes flared again. “Why should there be?”

  “You said you didn’t want to come with me to Bridgwater tomorrow.”

  “Because I’m keen to get started.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  She gave a short, nervous laugh. “There you go, wanting to keep tabs on me. I just said I need to be a free agent. I’m not going in blindly, guv. I’ve done my research. Okay, it’s Bristol, but I’m not saying which part.”

  Anxieties he’d been suppressing bubbled over. “Shall I alert our colleagues at Trinity Road?”

  “God, no. I don’t want minders.”

  “There are places in Bristol where a white blonde woman is going to stand out.”

  “You’re starting to talk like my dad. I’m a detective sergeant. I’ve got a game plan, and it doesn’t include telling you or anyone else what I’m up to. You can leave messages on my voicemail at home if you want.”

  “Will you be armed?”

  “It’s all taken care of. I just hope you and the rest of CID survive without me for as long as it takes.”

  She’d avoided the direct answer. He continued to fret. “The gang culture isn’t as clear cut as it’s reported by the media. You’d think it was all youth crime, muggings and car thefts, but there’s another, more sinister, layer. These are the people you’ll be rubbing shoulders with, hardened professionals, men in their thirties and forties who keep a lower profile and authorise bigger crimes using guns rather than knives. They were there when I joined the force and the faces may have changed, but the level of violence hasn’t
. If anything, it’s worse.”

  “Guv, I know this. When I was freelancing as a journalist I wrote a series of articles for the Western Daily Press on organised crime. I’ve kept up. I know who the head honchos are. I’m not cosying up to a bunch of fifteen-year-olds doing drugs on street corners.”

  He stopped himself asking for a second time where she would start. She was right. He had to act like her boss rather than her father. “Inge, I can’t put into words how much I appreciate what you’re doing. If you need back-up, call me any time, day or night.”

  In the CID room, John Leaman had been busy on the computer. The prospect of the Bridgwater trip had got him going. He gave an uncharacteristic cry of triumph when Diamond came in.

  “Guv, I’ve found something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Stradling’s book.”

  “Stradling?” Diamond said without taking it in, still troubled by the risks he was asking Ingeborg to take.

  “William Stradling of Chilton Polden, the antiquarian who owned the Wife of Bath before she was acquired by the museum. He wrote this book, A Description of the Priory of Chilton-super-Polden, about his weird collection of objects and how he built Chilton Priory to house them, and it’s here online.”

  “Does it tell us anything?”

  “The collection included the head of a Maori chieftain, an ancient canoe-paddle, a bishop’s mitre, a German executioner’s sword, an oak chest from Glastonbury Abbey, a stone cannonball from the Civil War, stained glass, a Roman handbasin, a tomahawk, a scarab from the breast of an Egyptian mummy, a brass drum from the Battle of Copenhagen and numerous chunks of masonry rescued when local houses and churches were being knocked down in the name of restoration.”

  “How do you remember that lot?”

  “It’s a knack I’ve always had. I’m unbeatable at that party game with objects on a tray.”

  Diamond believed him. “But you left out the Wife of Bath.”

  Leaman cleared his throat. “She doesn’t actually get a mention.”

  “Because he didn’t know what the carving was?”

  “Nothing in the book sounds much like it, to tell you the truth. There are plenty of carvings—busts, gargoyles, bits of buildings scavenged from stonemasons’ yards—and he describes them. I’ve checked the whole thing more than once.”

  “It isn’t listed? So why are you telling me this?”

  “Hang on a minute, guv. This isn’t the whole story. I found another website with the history of the Stradling family. They go back a long way. They were Welsh, originally, from Glamorgan. William traced them back.”

  “Cut to the chase, John. I haven’t got all day.”

  “It’s this. Edward Stradling, a direct ancestor, born about 1398, married Jane Beaufort, who was the granddaughter of John of Gaunt, who was married to Catherine de Roet, and—this is the interesting bit—Catherine’s sister Philippa was Chaucer’s wife. The families were linked by marriage.”

  “My head is spinning.”

  “You said you wanted it fast. Listen, I’ll say it again more slowly.”

  “No, you won’t. I get the point—a family link we didn’t know about.”

  “But old William Stradling, being an antiquarian, would certainly have known about it, and been proud of being related to the father of English poetry. So it’s not surprising he took a special interest in Chaucer.”

  “If he did.” Diamond needed more persuading. “You just told me the Wife of Bath doesn’t get a mention in his bloody book.”

  A superior look surfaced on Leaman’s face, as if his overweight boss had just dropped into a tiger trap. “The book appeared in 1839. He lived another twenty years. Obviously he found the carving after publication.”

  It was a fair point. “That’s possible, I suppose.”

  “We know for certain that Stradling once owned the thing. It’s part of the provenance set out in the auction catalogue. That sort of claim has to be accurate, with money involved. And because of his family’s link with Chaucer, I’m suggesting he recognised it for what it was, but never published the fact.”

  “Where’s Chilton Priory?”

  “We’ll pass it on the road tomorrow. It’s on the A Thrty-Nine, about five miles this side of Bridgwater.”

  “As close as that?”

  “But there’s nothing to see any more. It’s privately owned.”

  “So it can’t be far from the place where the Chaucer house once stood?”

  “Eight or nine miles. The altar rails from North Petherton church were part of Stradling’s collection, so he certainly scoured the area for relics.”

  Diamond was finally persuaded. He said with more enthusiasm, “I’d still like to know exactly how he came across the carving. I’m getting hooked on this myself. Do you think the professor found out the Chaucer connection when the thing came up for sale?”

  Leaman shrugged. “It didn’t take me long on the internet.”

  “We’re not all computer geeks.”

  “He will surely have heard that a carving of the Wife of Bath was going to be auctioned. He must have done his research, or he wouldn’t have bid so much.”

  “You’re right. He was a Chaucer expert and he worked it out. And so did the British Museum and the bidders from New York and Tokyo. You’ve done well, John. I can’t wait to get started.” He turned towards his office, his brain still reeling from the overdose of information. A long car journey with the anorak of the team would be quite an ordeal.

  But Leaman hadn’t finished. “I hope it’s all right with you. I thought we might need some expert help tomorrow.”

  “You’re an expert yourself. Is that necessary?”

  “I don’t know the place at all. I called the Bridgwater museum and they’re providing a local history person to show us round.”

  “What did you tell them—that we’re the Bath murder squad?”

  “No, I thought that would put them off. I said we’re writers researching Chaucer.”

  “Couldn’t you think of anything better than that?”

  “We do have to write stuff.”

  Writers. Marvellous as he was at absorbing information, John Leaman hadn’t a creative thought in his head.

  9

  “Known to the police” is a badge of honour to certain people. They are the Teflon-coated tyrants behind most organised crime in the major cities. They preside over law-breaking on an industrial scale without ever getting blood on their hands.

  So Ingeborg had little difficulty targeting Nathan Hazael as the most likely supplier of the gun that had killed John Gildersleeve. This sinister individual was notorious in Bristol, ruthless, feared by the entire criminal fraternity—and just about untouchable. He occupied a unique position in the city, overseeing multiple scams, hold-ups and thefts enacted under threat of death, but impossible to trace to him personally. He was protected by layers of insulation: at the lowest level, thugs; at the highest, lawyers. And between, an army of hitmen, con artists, pimps and protection racketeers held in thrall by blackmail, old scores and threats.

  Most professional criminals in Britain do not own firearms. For a “hard job” they approach people like Hazael and rent by the day and the going rate is high. The trick is not to fire the things. There is a good rebate on a gun that was used merely as a threat. The science of ballistics and the difficulty in recovering used ammunition means that after a weapon has been discharged it becomes identifiable and loses almost all of its value. Most “hot” guns are broken up or buried.

  Getting under Hazael’s radar was the challenge. Ingeborg believed she’d worked out a way to do it. She’d done her research, read everything on file, checked the man and his associates, familiarised herself with his methods. The precious snippet of information she had seized on wasn’t in the police records at all. It was something she had found in a local arts magazine.

  She knew she had to act on the discovery and she had thought of a way to do it. But of course there was a risk.
<
br />   She needed to make a judgement about one of her oldest friends. Get this wrong and she could walk into a death trap. You can spend years being completely open with someone, sharing the ups and downs of life, but in the last analysis can you depend on them? She wasn’t going into this blindly. She knew Sylvie May was loyal and wouldn’t willingly betray her. This was a mate who stood by you, who wouldn’t allow anyone to get away with a mean-spirited remark. Given the opportunity, she would defend you to the death. But that same fighting spirit that made Sylvie who she was also made her a loose cannon. She never gave a moment’s forethought to what she was about to say. She was out with the response before she’d thought it through. Emotion ruled her, and that was the danger.

  Yet she was uniquely placed to help.

  She was the editor-in-chief of a popular weekly that covered the arts and entertainment in the southwest. There had been a time ten or so years ago when Ingeborg was freelancing as a journalist and Sylvie was the showbiz editor of a national daily and the two had helped each other to unearth the real stories behind the guff put out by the PR agencies. If you wanted the truth about some celeb’s secret dealings or latest conquest, Sylvie or Inge would have discovered it. They knew where the action was and time and again they came up with scoops any other journalist would have pawned her iPad to get.

  Heart-stopping as it was, the risk of confiding in Sylvie couldn’t outweigh the opportunity. Ingeborg got in touch and fixed a meeting.

  Any hope she might have had of a discreet tête-à-tête was quickly dashed. Sylvie’s tête was emerald green in corkscrew curls. Against the backdrop of the scrubbed-brick walls in Flinty Red, the small restaurant on Bristol’s Cotham Hill, the look was startling. Before they went to their table Sylvie loudly demanded a hug that had everyone else in the restaurant turning to see the two noisy women who had arrived. This wasn’t going to plan.

  Sylvie was a regular here and wanted everyone to know. She hugged the manager and the waiter. “They do the most amazing wine-tastings,” she told Ingeborg. “I can never remember the name of anything I try, so I have to keep coming back. All the reds are superb. For starters let’s plump for something Spanish and then we can think about France or Italy for the white.”