The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  He laughed. “Christ, no. What do you think I am?”

  “What’s in your section, then—a cocktail bar?”

  “You don’t want to know what I get up to.”

  “But I do. Let me try. Men’s stuff. Snooker and darts?”

  “I’ll own up to that.” He was leading her along a white-walled corridor into the extension.

  “A gun-room?”

  He turned to stare at her. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re a powerful guy,” she answered as smoothly as she could. “I can see you target shooting and hitting the bull, no problem. Wouldn’t surprise me if you have some kind of shooting gallery as well.”

  “You’d be wrong,” Nathan said.

  “About the gallery? Then I reckon you have a range somewhere outside. Or do you just shoot squirrels and pigeons?” She was pressing him harder than she intended because she could see he was practically purring over the macho image she was suggesting for him. “As for foxes, I bet they know better than to come visiting your estate.”

  “Did Lily speak to you about me and guns?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause.

  “No.”

  “What put this in your head, then?”

  Stay cool, she thought. He’s not suspicious. He’s trying to be friendly, making conversation.

  “If you remember, I was squeezed between you and one of your employees in the car last night—close enough to feel what was clipped to his belt. And if your men are armed, I’d expect you to know how to handle a weapon.”

  Satisfied, apparently, he gave a shrug and moved on. He hadn’t denied a strong connection with guns. He hadn’t denied anything except owning a shooting gallery.

  They reached the door at the end of the corridor. “The studio.”

  She entered a large oval room with chairs and cushions behind a semi-circular console and plenty of light from high windows. “You expected it to look like a bunker?” Nathan said. “So did I before we designed this. It’s a myth that a studio has to be totally enclosed. Your musician needs to feel relaxed. Look around you. Everything she needs. She’s had a band in here and made recordings. I don’t clip her wings, whatever she may have said to you.”

  “It’s got a nice feel to it. I would have been happier here last night than in that tower room.”

  “Not so secure,” he said with a smirk. He stepped behind the console and pressed a couple of switches and a track from Cherry Blossoms came through the speakers, surrounding them.

  “What do you think?” Nathan shouted, to be heard.

  “Great. I bought the album myself.”

  “The studio acoustics.”

  “Ah—outstanding.” But the purity of Lee’s voice surrounding them was disturbingly at odds with the duplicity to come.

  “Want to see the gym?” Leaving the track still playing, Nathan strode towards a door at the end and led her into another well-lit space furnished with enough state-of-the-art exercise machines to train an Olympic team. “If she gets stressed in the studio she can step in here and work out any time she wants. Would you walk away from all this?”

  “Not for long. But I’m not a singer or a sports girl. All I need is my laptop and I can work anywhere.”

  “You would have been a cheaper deal.”

  She smiled. “Is that a compliment?”

  “No offence,” he said. “You can’t budget for love is what I’m saying. You just have to go with it.”

  It was bizarre to hear this kind of talk from a hard-nosed criminal. Nathan had convinced himself he was in love with his pop singer and he was starting to convince Ingeborg, too.

  “Seen enough?” he said. “I’m taking you back to the TV room now and one of my staff will sit with you until we leave. I have arrangements to make.”

  “This is all very neat for you,” she said, “but I can’t see my story getting filed. She won’t trust me any more.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “Lily will play along, whatever she thinks of you. When it comes to PR, she doesn’t miss a trick.”

  “But you heard what I said on the phone. I have to meet a deadline.”

  “Sure. We’ll bring you back here and you can take as many pictures as you like. You can spend another night here, no problem.”

  “Not in the tower room.”

  He slid his brown eyes sideways and fixed them on her. “Listen up, Miss Smith. Prove you’re on side when we get to Queen Square and you can have the five-star guest room.”

  15

  The first thing Keith Halliwell told Diamond when he arrived at work was that Ingeborg wasn’t in.

  “I’m not expecting her. Gave her the day off, didn’t I?” he said. If Halliwell hadn’t cottoned on, he didn’t deserve to be called a detective.

  “I don’t think I heard about that.”

  Diamond understood now. There was a subtext to this conversation and it was about confidences being shared between senior colleagues. Reasonable enough. But another principle was in play here, the need to know. The fewer people who were privy to Ingeborg’s undercover mission, the safer she would be. If her personal safety was weighed against Halliwell’s dignity, there was only one winner.

  Diamond relented enough to give a wink. “We’ll manage without her. What’s the real news, then? What have you got to show for a day without me in the office?”

  “Mainly we were getting the background on Monica’s ‘ex.”

  “Tell me all.”

  “He’s a huge name in the construction world, as we know, but it’s not your conventional CV. Mr. Bernie Wefers has form.”

  “Violence?”

  “Plenty of it. He spent most of his youth in young offenders’ institutions. Gang stuff, mostly. Shoplifting, leading to robbery with violence—and then absconding from one borstal after another.”

  “Where was he raised?”

  “A council estate in Swindon. A single mum with multiple relationships and four kids. He was the youngest and she’d just about given up by then. He was always in trouble.”

  “Firearms?”

  “Flick knives. The usual pattern, threatening shop-owners and nicking the cigarettes and the contents of the till.”

  “Gangs, you said.”

  “He had his own mob of tearaways from an early age. He was a kid with leadership qualities, without a doubt. Even when he was locked away, he was the main man, organising the scams. There was a riot and a fire at one place and he was definitely the ringleader. The probation officers seemed to give him up as beyond redemption. But then at seventeen, he comes to his senses. He’s learned a trade inside as a bricklayer and he gets employment in Birmingham in the early nineties when there is plenty of construction going on. He disappears from criminal records and just about every other record for ten to twelve years and then he turns up in the south of England as a vehicle owner in Surbiton and the vehicle is a new BMW.”

  “Did all right as a brickie, then.”

  “Suspiciously all right. Nice address, paying his council tax. Nothing worse than a couple of speeding fines. He was changing cars all the time, buying the new models as they came on the market.”

  “Not laying bricks any more, I’ll warrant.”

  “He’d become a contractor. The Wefers name starts getting on vans and lorries. But he isn’t content with that. He starts a private construction company and it takes off in a big way and is floated on the stock market.”

  “And the rest is history. How we all wish we’d bought a slice of it. What’s he doing these days?”

  “Still very active in management. He excels at land deals, identifying prime sites, dealing with the owners and seeing off any objectors.”

  “What with—power drills?”

  Halliwell shrugged. “Better than that, he has a team of planning experts who run rings round the local authorities. They’re paid almost entirely on commission, and are known in the trade as the piranhas. Even in the leaner years of this century he’s managed to forge ahead of th
e opposition. His developments always include an element of affordable housing along with the profit-making four- and five-bedroom houses, so he gets the blessing of the government.”

  “In short, he’s got it made.”

  Halliwell nodded. “Got it made. That wouldn’t be a bad motto for Wefers Construction, unless it’s ‘concrete the country.’ ”

  “Do I detect a note of bitterness?”

  “Only about developers in general. Another lot built a car park over the churchyard where my grandparents were buried. The church was closed and became a pub restaurant and the gravestones have been moved to the boundary and set into a new stone wall as someone’s weird idea of respect for the past. They’re passing it off as the wall of remembrance—as if we ought to be grateful.”

  “That’s sick, Keith. I sympathise. I’d feel the same.” Diamond let a suitable interval go by before saying, “Okay, that’s the business side of Bernie. Instead of nicking cigarettes at knife-point, he grabs land with his piranhas and builds on it. That’s known as channelling your talent. Smart guy. No doubt he’ll end up with a knighthood. Did you get anything on his private life?”

  “Twice divorced, with any number of broken relationships as well. He has no problems attracting the women, but he doesn’t keep them long. If you Google images of him you’ll see him with his arm round any number of women, all different.”

  “Kids?”

  “None that he admits to.”

  “So how does he spend his money?”

  “Cars, holidays abroad, night clubs, racing.”

  “Not a student of fourteenth century poetry, then?”

  “No, but he has a sideline in old carvings.”

  Diamond laughed in disbelief. “Get away.”

  “I mean it. One of his companies deals in statues and garden ornaments.”

  “A salvage yard?”

  “They have a massive warehouse called Stone Rescue in the London dockland area. The stuff is harvested from all over the country as he buys old property for redevelopment. And then they’re sold at a tidy profit. But I don’t think he’d be in the market for the Wife of Bath unless it was dirt cheap.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, he could have it for nothing if he’d cart it away.”

  “Who does it belong to now?” Halliwell asked.

  “Bridgwater museum.”

  “Not the auctioneers?”

  “No, they’re the middle men. It didn’t go under the hammer, so technically it still belongs to the seller. The museum people are only too pleased to have it under police protection now they know it’s worth a small fortune.” He hesitated as a thought distracted him. “It is still with us? I haven’t looked yet.”

  “It’s unlikely to walk.”

  Just to be certain, Diamond got up and opened his office door. The slab remained defiantly in front of his desk. There was still a faint whiff from the decontamination. “My cactus has had it.”

  “Shame.”

  He closed the office door. If there was ever an incentive to work in there, it had gone. “I’d better interview Bernie myself. Send someone else and they could end up as part of the foundations of a luxury home. Where is he based?”

  “All over. He hops around the country in his private helicopter.”

  “But where does he live?”

  “Several houses. The closest is Maidenhead.”

  “Long drive. Get on to his office and find out his schedule for this week. With a bit of luck that chopper could be landing closer to home.”

  While Halliwell was on the phone, Diamond started a slow patrol of the CID room, checking progress on the investigation. Just as he reached John Leaman’s desk, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He swung round in annoyance. No one in the team dared touch him.

  He was faced with Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable. She was in the full dress uniform with the silver buttons strained to the point of separation. “A word, if you don’t mind,” she told him.

  “What’s that, ma’am?” he said, privately thinking a word of four letters. A visit from Georgina never brought welcome news.

  “In your office, if you don’t mind.”

  Seven words already, and not to his liking.

  “As you wish.” He led her across the room and opened the door. “Mind you don’t trip.”

  She peered at the Wife of Bath.

  “Don’t ask,” he said as he stepped over and moved behind his desk to open a window and let the fumes out. “Have a chair.”

  She sat down and said, “DS Smith.”

  “Ingeborg? Not in today,” he said with an effort to subdue the alarm going off in his head.

  “Unwell?”

  He did his best to appear casual. “Unlikely. She’s very fit.”

  “Hasn’t she called in?”

  “Not yet. No doubt she will.”

  “She isn’t pursuing enquiries, then?”

  He hesitated. How much did Georgina know? “She could be. I allow my team some scope, as you appreciate.”

  “She drives a Ford Ka—is that correct?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, she does.”

  “The reason I ask is that a query came in from Bristol. A foot patrol making a routine check of the harbour-side area early this morning came across a vehicle apparently left overnight close to the Great Britain.”

  “The old Brunel ship?” Now he was puzzled himself.

  “They did a vehicle check with the PNC and found it was registered to DS Smith. She doesn’t live in Bristol.”

  “No. She has a flat here.”

  “Then why would she leave her car overnight in Bristol?”

  “I’ll ask her when she comes in.”

  “You don’t have any enquiries currently going on in Bristol. Anything over there would be handled by their CID.”

  “Goes without saying.” He knew those silver buttons couldn’t possibly take the strain if Georgina learned that one of Bath’s officers had been authorised to go undercover in Bristol. Better she learned the truth at the conclusion of a successful investigation than now when it was barely under way. “I’ll certainly look into it.”

  “And report to me.”

  “Directly, ma’am.”

  She stood up and took a long, unadmiring look at the Wife of Bath. “I take it this is the item that provoked the fatal shooting at the auction last week?”

  “So we understand,” he said.

  “You’re not certain?”

  “It’s not impossible that the shooting was premeditated and made to look like an argument over the carving.”

  Georgina frowned. “That’s rather skewed thinking, if I may say so.”

  “Say whatever you like, ma’am. We prefer to use the term Byzantine.”

  16

  Keith Halliwell was through to the head office of Wefers Construction. No music, no voice asking him to hold and then telling him he was moving up the queue. He’d picked a good time and was through to Bernie Wefers’ personal assistant, Colleen. He raised a thumb to Diamond across the room. The big man shimmied between the desks and joined him.

  Halliwell stressed the urgency of the request. “If you give me the locations, we’ll arrange to meet him at the most convenient one … Very important, yes … His helicopter, yes. We know that … No, it’s a personal matter … Thank you. I have a pen ready.”

  Diamond stood at Halliwell’s side vetting the place names as they appeared on the notepad. Hastings was a no-no. Brighton out of the question. The Isle of Wight still too far to travel. The route seemed to be moving in their direction along the south coast. Then it veered north. Marlborough.

  Marlborough was possible.

  “Is that it, then?” Halliwell asked Colleen. “… He’s back to London after that?” He looked at Diamond, who nodded. “We’ll meet him in Marlborough. What time will he land there?… And where exactly is the site?”

  Before getting on the road, Diamond spoke to the youngest of the team, DC Paul Gilbert. “You
were looking for some action.”

  Gilbert looked up from his computer screen, eyes shining. “Ready to go, guv.”

  “This won’t be quite what you had in mind. I’m not asking you to go undercover, but it will get you out of the office and it’s a solo mission.”

  “Cool.”

  “The ACC is fussing over Ingeborg. A query came in from Bristol police this morning about a vehicle left overnight on the harbour-side where the Great Britain is. Do you know where I mean?”

  “That’ll be the car park for the Maritime Heritage Centre.”

  “Sounds like you know it better than I do. If Bristol haven’t got more urgent things to do than check on parked cars, they need downsizing, in my opinion, but I suppose this red Ford Ka stood out. Maybe it’s illegally parked. Turns out it’s registered to Ingeborg.”

  “That’s what she drives.”

  “And I expect there’s a very boring explanation.”

  “She isn’t in today.”

  “I know. She took a few days off with my blessing. What I want you to do is keep everyone happy by going over there and checking it out—if it’s still there. See if there’s any sign of a breakdown, a flat tyre, or whatever. The wardens could have served a parking notice by now. Make sure they don’t tow it away.”

  “Is Ingeborg interested in old ships?” Gilbert asked.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “There isn’t much else there. She could have left the car and taken the harbour railway from there, I suppose. Shall I ask the Great Britain people if they saw her yesterday?”

  “If you like. We’re not too fussed. This is mainly to keep Georgina sweet. Do you understand me?”

  Gilbert returned Diamond’s grin. “Sure thing, guv.”

  There was ample time. Marlborough was not much over thirty miles east along the old Bath Road.

  “If Bernie is building in Marlborough, nowhere is safe,” Diamond said while they were on the stretch between Chippenham and Calne. “It’s the ultimate NIMBY town. If you’re seen in the High Street without an old school tie you’re up before the magistrates.”

  Halliwell looked surprised. “I’ve often stopped there for a cup of tea. Nobody ever bothered me.”