The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  Was this the worst mistake of Ingeborg’s career? Today of all days she needed a clear head.

  Sylvie had moved on to the lunch menu. “You haven’t gone veggie or anything? You were never predictable. I want you to try the braised octopus with harissa, coriander and potato.”

  “Don’t I get a choice?”

  “Trust me.”

  After they’d ordered, Sylvie pitched her voice at a more normal level, which was a blessing, because she was straight into her journalistic Q&A mode. “You got made up to sergeant, I hear. How’s the detective business going?”

  Questions like this were to be expected. Ingeborg would normally be relaxed about them. She was clear in her mind how much she could safely say. The danger was that girl-talk loosens the tongue and that was without the assistance of alcohol. “Good and bad days. You get them in any job, don’t you? I wouldn’t go back to being a hack.”

  “And how do Bath CID take to a sassy blonde telling them Colonel Mustard did it with the candlestick in the library?”

  “They’re fine. Some are more serious-minded than others, but you need people like that. Policing isn’t one big laugh.”

  “And the boss?”

  “He’s good.”

  “Yes, but what’s he like? What makes him tick?”

  “Now you’re asking.” She could picture Diamond’s horrified reaction if he ever discovered his personal qualities were the small talk in a public restaurant. “He brings out the best in the team. A good brain, which is essential. You think you can predict how he’ll handle any situation because he’s a seasoned cop, and then suddenly he’ll surprise you. I’ve never known anyone quite like him. He plays up to his image of being all fingers and thumbs and at war with technology, but I suspect he could build his own spacecraft and fly it to the moon if needed.”

  “Sounds like you’re a secret admirer.”

  Ingeborg smiled. “Give me a break, Syl. He’s at least twenty years older than me. But if I wanted to bank on someone to save my life, I’d pick Peter Diamond every time.”

  “I bet he fancies you, whatever age he is.”

  “There you go. Don’t you ever stop working? He’s in a relationship with a smart lady who understands him better than I ever will.” Ingeborg paused while the wine was poured, and told herself she really must go on with this. “And now that I’ve given you the rundown on my professional life, how’s yours? Thriving, by the look of you.”

  Sylvie flicked the curls into motion again. “It’s cut-throat, as always. Changes of owner, bosses who can barely speak a word of English. We’re like one of those premiership football clubs, easy prey to foreign oligarchs. They hire and fire at will, and you can never be sure who’ll be sitting in the chair when you walk into the boardroom.”

  “But you keep your job.”

  She gave a broad wink. “Made myself indispensable, haven’t I? If they sacked me, they’d lose my contact list, which I guard like the Crown Jewels. It is the Crown Jewels.”

  “Can’t someone hack into it?”

  “No chance. The numbers aren’t on any computer. They’re in a battered old Filofax that stays zipped in my bag. It’s there now. And if anyone nicked it they wouldn’t be able to read my shorthand. You’re under the letter S with all the other Smiths, in case you’re wondering. I’m rather chuffed to have a private line into Bath CID.”

  “Not much use to you,” Ingeborg said.

  “No?”

  “Absolutely no.”

  “Go on. I wouldn’t mind betting you know secrets about the glitterati of Bath I could share with my readers. A hint about some celeb in the frame for pimping in the pumproom?”

  “Sylvie, if it happened, you’d be the first to know.”

  “Says who?”

  “You’d be on the case before I was.”

  “Oh, come on. Now I understand where the word ‘copout’ comes from. You must have any number of juicy stories crossing your desk.”

  “You wish.”

  The good-natured fencing continued right through the main course. It was becoming obvious to Ingeborg that she’d have to give a little to get the favour she wanted.

  “That was truly out of this world,” she said when she put knife and fork together on her empty plate. “You should write the food column for your magazine.”

  “Between you, me and the manager, I sometimes do.”

  “I still read your feature articles regularly. Even when you don’t give yourself a byline the style is unmistakable.”

  Sylvie took a long sip of the Chablis and stared over the glass with a look that refused to be schmoozed. “And the reason we’re here must be because some piece of deathless prose I wrote lately has caught your beady blue eye? Go on, nice cop. I’m listening.”

  No backing off now. Out of sight under the table Ingeborg’s fingers laced together and squeezed. She hoped to God she’d judged this right. “The issue before last, you had a piece on a singer from the Far East who is moving up the charts.”

  “Lee Li. You saw it?”

  “I did.”

  “Okay,” Sylvie said. “She’s definitely one to watch. She blends classical Chinese melodies with modern music of all sorts from reggae to soul. A bright kid who will make it big if I’m any judge.”

  “Was she pleased with what you wrote?”

  “Over the moon. I’m quoting her actual words, as texted on the day of publication. She talks in clichés, by the way, and I found it rather endearing. English is her second language. What’s your interest? Professional, no doubt.”

  “I downloaded her Cherry Blossoms album. The voice is special, thrilling on the lower registers.”

  “But that’s not what we’re here about,” Sylvie said with her trademark directness.

  “True. Towards the end of the article you throw in the names of some people who helped Lee in her career so far, producers mostly.”

  “Lifted straight out of the promo literature. They all like their credit if they can get it.”

  “One name stood out because I didn’t know he has form in the popular music world.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nathan Hazael.”

  “Can’t hear you.”

  Of course she’d heard. She just wanted a moment to think. Ingeborg leaned forward and repeated the name without raising her voice.

  Sylvie laughed. “He’s not a muso. He’s a crook.” She stabbed a finger in Ingeborg’s direction. “Now I know what this reunion is really about.”

  “You could be getting warm.”

  “Well, I hope Bath police will be picking up the bill. I only mentioned the son of a bitch because the girl kept on about him and his many acts of kindness.”

  “So he wasn’t in the promo material?”

  She laughed. “He’s the sugar daddy. She may be talented, she may have a voice in a million and a sweet personality, but it’s who you know, isn’t it? She needs Nathan’s help to rocket her to the top of the music business.”

  “Is she living with him in his mansion on the Leigh Woods estate?”

  “That’s the price of success.”

  “And does she know he supplies the firearms for threequarters of the serious crime in the southwest? Allegedly.”

  “Remarkable as it may seem to you, my precious, my interview with Lee didn’t get round to the subject of guns. She spoke of him with unbridled admiration every time his name came up. That’s what I’m telling you and that’s what I’ll tell Nathan’s lawyers if they come visiting. Have you got something new on the scumbag, because it had better be foolproof.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Ingeborg said with feeling. “The last time a major investigation targeted him he walked out of court a free man and the DCI on the case and two others were suspended. No, I don’t have an arrest warrant in my back pocket. I simply find it bizarre that this godfather figure suddenly has a stake in a pop singer from Taiwan.”

  “A peach of a singer. And a rising star. You said so yourself. It’s
the old, old story. He likes young flesh and Lee Li needs funding. It may be distasteful, but she’s a grown-up. It’s not against the law.”

  Trying to sound casual and not feeling it in the least, Ingeborg put the question she’d rehearsed in her mind a hundred times. “If I wanted to meet her what’s the best way to go about it?”

  “Meet her—or him?” Sylvie said. “You’re too transparent for a super sleuth, darling.”

  “I can’t knock on his door with my list of questions,” Ingeborg said.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. He’s nobody’s fool. And he’s very, very dangerous. Even I know that, and I haven’t met the guy.”

  “So the best approach is through Lee.”

  “And you want me to set it up? How, exactly?”

  “It can’t be too obvious. I’m thinking of telling her I’m a freelance.”

  “As you were.”

  “And wanting to do a photo feature.”

  “As you—” Sylvie rocked back in her chair. “Hold on, you’re no photographer.”

  “Let me explain. I’d tell her I’m pitching an idea for a regular two-page spot in one of the weekend colour magazines in the national Sundays, a new take on one of those ‘day in the life’ things. It would be called iPhone Diary and consist of up to a dozen shots taken with my phone to give a record of her wild and wacky day from wake-up to lights out.”

  “Wicked—but no picture editor I know would agree to use your fuzzy iPhone pictures.”

  “The fuzziness doesn’t matter,” Ingeborg said. “It’s meant to have a slightly amateurish look, as if these are sneaky pics of something private. With an intro from you, I can convince Lee that I’m genuine. I’ll flatter her by telling her she’s been picked because she’s so famous and attractive, my number one choice for the pilot feature.”

  “This is your passport into Nathan’s fortress?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Isn’t there a tiny flaw? He’s not going to let you and your iPhone anywhere near his stately home, sweetie.”

  “Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that the male ego knows no bounds. He’ll be chuffed to bits to let the world see him sitting up bare-chested in bed with a stunning little creature like Lee. But if I have to settle for Lee in her bathrobe eating muesli, so be it. The object of all this is to get me under Nathan’s radar.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’d rather not go into that.”

  “I mean what happens when your photo feature doesn’t make it into print?”

  “I’ll say the stupid newspapers turned me down. By then I’ll be out of it, anyway.”

  “You hope. You’re playing with fire.”

  “Not playing. It’s my job.”

  “And all you want from me is the intro? What’s wrong with approaching her yourself if she’s going to be as eager to please as you say?”

  “You bring credibility. She knows you. She likes you. If Nathan asks who the hell I am, she’ll say I was recommended by the writer of that brilliant interview in South West.”

  “Greaser.” Sylvie smiled and sighed. “All right, chuck, I’ll call her this afternoon. How much am I allowed to say?”

  The hours that followed weren’t easy. Ingeborg could imagine any number of ways her fast-talking, well-lubricated friend could torpedo the plan. So it came as a welcome surprise when Sylvie called early in the evening.

  “She swallowed the bait, darling. She wants to meet you first and she’s suggesting—wait for this—tonight at midnight on the promenade deck of the Great Britain.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Am I ever not? She’ll be there to film her next video, Seabird. A night shoot. All very hush-hush in case the fans get to hear of it, so keep it to yourself. The crew have to set up after dark and be out before sunrise. She’ll talk to you between takes. Indulge her. This is her chance to be seen doing something glamorous. Get a few pics with your mobile and you’re under way, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Come on, be positive. You’re the big-time journo certain to boost her reputation.”

  “Is that what you told her?”

  “In a nutshell. I’m not going to repeat all the stuff I said in case you get big-headed.”

  “Nothing was said about you-know-who?”

  “Not a syllable. You’re primed and ready to go and my job is done, right?”

  The location and the timing may have been unusual, but the arrangement suited Ingeborg rather nicely. She would establish herself as the hotshot hack and give the appearance of being under way with the project before she had to meet Nathan Hazael.

  10

  Approaching on the A39, you could easily have mistaken it for a church. Chilton Priory, known locally as Stradling’s Folly, was visible from some distance as a grey tower with battlements and gargoyles, but until you got close you didn’t see the full extent of the building, mostly obscured below the steep banking at the side of the road.

  They got out of the car. To Diamond’s eye, this was a perfect setting for a horror film. Extending from the tower were a gothic nave and an oratory that must have been part of the original, housing the antiques collection. More parts had been added at intervals since. Perversely the late nineteenth century two-storey wings were in the Tudor style, but still constructed from the grim, grey lias found locally. So this much-enlarged building now boasted at least four different styles of window—lancet, oriel, stone-mullioned and casement. Turrets and chimneys sprouted from the otherwise flat roofs. On the east side of the building was a twentieth century feature, an integral garage that still managed to look sinister, as though it led directly through the Tudor section into Stradling’s crypt below the tower. And the whole building was topped with battlements in an attempt to salvage some sort of unity from chaos.

  “Is it me, or is it a mess?” Diamond said.

  “Stradling called it his repository,” Leaman said.

  “Sums it up.”

  “You may be thinking of something else.”

  “Terrific view. I’ll give it that.”

  The so-called priory—which had never housed a monk or a nun—stood on Cox’s hill, a high point of the Polden ridge. The peat moor stretched for miles below them, across the Vale of Avalon to the north where the Mendips made a dramatic blue backdrop. But in reality (difficult to grasp here) they weren’t particularly high up. The flatness of the terrain below made the impression.

  “He claimed that when he used a telescope from his tower on a clear day he could see across the Bristol Channel to his other house in South Wales,” Leaman said.

  “My second home is the nick,” Diamond said, “and I thank the Lord I can’t see it from my place. When did you say this was built?”

  “1838–9 the same year the book came out.” Leaman as always couldn’t be faulted on his facts.

  “So he wrote the book to promote his collection.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And as he didn’t mention the Wife of Bath, we can assume he acquired her some time after?”

  Leaman’s eyebrows popped up in tribute. The boss seemed to have grasped the fundamentals now.

  “But from where?” Diamond said.

  “Some stonemason’s yard, I expect. He found a lot of his pieces lying about when buildings were being renovated. He was on a mission. Victorian restoration, so-called, stripped bits from a lot of churches and great houses and he salvaged whatever he could.”

  Diamond was silent, thinking.

  Leaman continued to prattle on like an audio guide. “The three pinnacles up there are very old and were originally part of the tower at Langport, which you can see from the other side of the road. He says in his book—he has a good way with words—that they now look down on their tawdry usurpers.”

  “What time are we meeting our local contact?” Diamond said, weary of words and gingerbread architecture. “We’d better move on.”

  As it turned out, they had time for a coffee in Bridg
water. Diamond ordered a Cornish pasty and a double helping of chips with his. “One useful tip I learned early on in my police career: never go past a food outlet or a toilet. It might be the last you see all day.”

  “I had a good breakfast,” Leaman said.

  “So did I. That was two hours ago.” He leaned back in the chair. “I’m thinking when we meet this guy we’ll straight away drop the charade of being writers or researchers, or whatever poppycock you told them. I believe in being honest with people.”

  “As you wish,” Leaman said, piqued. “Sometimes they clam up when you tell them you’re police.”

  “If you witter on about pinnacles like you do, they will. They can’t get a word in. Let him do the talking, right?”

  Leaman tilted his head in annoyance. “I thought you were interested.”

  “I was. This guy won’t be. He could be the pinnacle of pinnacle experts. Leave him to me.”

  Leaman stood up suddenly.

  “What’s up now?” Diamond said, thinking he’d taken offence.

  “Nothing. I’m taking your advice, or part of it.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “This seems as good a time as any to find the toilet.”

  The local contact waiting for them at the entrance of Bridgwater’s Blake Museum appeared to be a woman until they got close enough to tell he was a slightly built man in his thirties with shoulder-length black hair and a white bandana. At home, Diamond sometimes caught a few seconds of Time Team when he was flicking through the TV channels and he’d noticed how most of the experts sported an impressive growth of hair. Once, the mark of a serious archaeologist would have been a beard. Not these days.

  A friendly smile greeted them. “Mr. Leaman?”

  “Detective Inspector, actually,” Diamond said, to get things on the proper footing he’d announced to Leaman, “and I’m Detective Superintendent Diamond.”

  “Policemen?” The smile turned to something worthy of a dentist’s chair. “I was told you were writers.”

  “You were told wrong.”

  “We do a certain amount of writing,” Leaman added to compensate for the abruptness.