The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  “Downwind of Junior is where I’m sitting,” One-Eye said. “Look at you. You’re a fucking disgrace. How old are you?”

  “Dunno,” Junior said.

  “He knows sod all,” Shakes said. “He’s simple. I can tell you when I was born, 1952, the year the king died. He doesn’t know shit. He can’t even tell you his name.”

  “Me, I was born the year we landed on the moon,” One-Eye said as if he’d personally completed the Apollo Eleven mission. “When was that?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Shakes said. “And don’t ask him. He wouldn’t know. Work it out yourself.”

  “Where was you before you came to Bristol?” One-Eye asked Junior, shifting the attention away from himself.

  There was no answer.

  “I’d say you’re from round here, going by the way you talk. Brissle, born and bred, you be.”

  “D’you think so?”

  “Bloody obvious.”

  With her head feeling divorced from the rest of her, Ingeborg stood at the end of Saville Row near enough to the corner of Alfred Street to back out of sight when necessary. She expected Miss Brie to emerge from Mon Repos before long. The Courvoisier-lubricated meeting had not delivered much, but she was confident there was more to come. She had seen the way the old lady’s mind was working, the paranoia about hidden mikes and tapped phones. In her statements about surveillance, Miss Brie had revealed more than she intended. By denying that she would make a phone call, she had confirmed that she had it in mind to get in touch with somebody. Out of loyalty to her previous employer, she planned to warn the anonymous client as soon as possible about this attention from the police.

  How would a paranoid old lady make contact if she was convinced her house was bugged?

  She’d go out.

  If the client was local she’d visit in person. If not, she’d use a public phone. She was unlikely to own a mobile.

  Worth waiting to find out? Ingeborg believed so.

  The day had reached that busy time between one and two when office workers were out on the streets along with tourists, students and shoppers. Busy only in the sense of large numbers—No one was especially active. There was much standing about in groups, laughing, gossiping and generally enjoying the spring sun. This suited Ingeborg nicely. If you are tailing someone, you take advantage of every opportunity of cover and the chance to linger unnoticed on street corners.

  The alcohol may have had something to do with it, but she was feeling buoyant again. She’d wanted more action and this was it. Tailing an innocent old lady didn’t have the cachet of tangling with an arms supplier, but it beat sitting at a desk in Manvers Street with John Leaman for company.

  Fifteen minutes later, some of the elation had drained away. Miss Brie had not made the expected move. Be patient, Ingeborg told herself. Old ladies don’t rush. She’ll be choosing what to wear, dabbing on more of the lipstick and eau de cologne, checking herself in the mirror and making sure all the lights and appliances are switched off before she steps out.

  She looked at her watch. Nearly two. The lunchtime crowds were already thinning out. Saville Row was getting into afternoon mode, with just a few window-gazing at the antiques.

  Then she took a sharp breath. A petite figure in a grey coat and black straw hat had stepped into the alley and started walking towards her with a firm step. Miss Brie was on the move at last.

  Ingeborg backed out of sight a short way along Alfred Street and waited. She expected her quarry to continue straight down the hill towards the centre of the city by way of Bartlett Street, a wider walkway lined with yet more restaurants and antique shops, and she was right. Without a glance right or left, Miss Brie moved on, definitely on a mission. Steady on her feet and with a clear eye, she showed no effect from the several shots of brandy.

  So it became a sedate pursuit, suited to a civilised city like Bath, keeping the black straw hat in sight, but remaining alert, ready to step aside into a shop doorway if necessary. At the foot of Bartlett Street, Miss Brie turned into George Street and used the pedestrian crossing. She was still so purposeful that it was tempting to get closer and trust she wouldn’t suddenly look round and realise she was being followed.

  Don’t risk it, Ingeborg urged herself.

  At the corner of Gay Street, a voice unexpectedly said, “Hi, Ingeborg. How are you doing?”

  Not what she needed. James, her karate instructor.

  “Sorry. Can’t stop,” she told him. “I’m late for a meeting.” And she knew how unconvincing she sounded, especially as she was moving at Miss Brie’s plodding rate and couldn’t allow herself to speed up.

  “No problem,” James said, frowning a little and turning to watch her ambling past.

  The hazards of stalking so close to home. Meeting a friend rather undermined the drama of the mission. Back on track, she continued down Gay Street and past the Jane Austen Centre hoping fervently that the man outside dressed as Mr. Darcy and built more like Mr. Pickwick didn’t invite her in. Mercifully he didn’t.

  Meanwhile Miss Brie progressed down the hill as true to her line as if she was pushing a surveyor’s wheel. She’d now reached the west side of the most elegant roundabout in Britain, John Wood’s majestic Queen Square, where traffic circulated around lawns, boules pitches, tall trees and an obelisk, all enclosed by railings and bordered by palatial buildings—in the grandest of which Dr. Oliver, the inventor of Miss Brie’s favourite biscuit, had once lived. How galling, the thought crossed Ingeborg’s mind, if it turned out that Miss Brie had come out only to replenish her stock of Bath Olivers.

  The dignified pursuit moved on towards the opposite side of the square. Here the route was more open, so Ingeborg allowed Miss Brie to get even further ahead, just in case she had a sudden loss of confidence and looked behind her.

  And now, as Ingeborg was crossing Old King Street, behind the back of Jolly’s, someone else she hadn’t spotted spoke up. “What’s this, Sergeant Smith? On patrol, are you?”

  Of all the people in all of Avon and Somerset, Georgina, in civvies, carrying a large bag that looked like clothes shopping.

  You couldn’t cold-shoulder the Assistant Chief Constable—even in the course of duty.

  The remark had been pitched in a friendly way. Best be civil and keep it short. “I’m on my way back to the station, ma’am. I had to speak to a witness in Saville Row.”

  “One of the people at that auction?”

  “Not exactly, but someone with information.”

  “And how is the investigation progressing?”

  Where do I start? Ingeborg thought. What a question to ask, and what a time and place to ask it. She noticed Georgina had manoeuvred the shopping bag behind her ample thighs, but not swiftly enough to hide the name on the side. Honey of Bath, in Lilliput Court, was a well-known boutique. This unnecessary conversation was a deflection, just to cover Georgina’s embarrassment. “We’re doing as well as expected, ma’am.”

  “That’s good. I haven’t seen you around the station for a few days.”

  “I had some time off.”

  “Really? In the middle of a major investigation?”

  “Not exactly time off. I was on surveillance.” At all costs, she must avoid using the word undercover.

  “And was it a success?”

  “In some respects, ma’am.”

  “Well done, then.” Georgina was sidling past Ingeborg, still keeping the Honey of Bath bag hidden behind her. “Keep up the good work.” And then, glory hallelujah, she moved swiftly on.

  Ingeborg breathed a massive sigh of relief—and then discovered that Miss Brie was nowhere in sight.

  Damn you, Georgina.

  She started sprinting along the side of the square. It didn’t matter any more if heads turned. The one head that wouldn’t turn was Miss Brie’s, because she wasn’t here any more. But which way had she gone? She hadn’t continued around the square or she’d still be in sight. Barton Street was straight ahead, Wood Street to the left,
each of them leading towards one of the busiest pedestrian thoroughfares in the city. In that sea of people it would be hopeless trying to pick out the little old lady in the straw hat.

  Then she stopped running and stood still with her hand pressed to her mouth like the actress in a silent film suddenly confronted with the sheikh. Ahead on the northwest corner was the board for Morton’s Auction Rooms, where all this had started. Could Miss Brie be visiting there?

  Of course she could.

  She crossed the road and went inside. A receptionist behind a desk looked up. A sign above her said VALUATIONS TODAY: ANTIQUE CLOCKS AND WATCHES.

  “Did an elderly lady in a black straw hat just come in?”

  “She did.”

  Ingeborg was through the door and into the main auction room, now cleared of all the sales items that were here on the day of the shooting. Alone in the room, a bored-looking clock and watch expert in a tweed jacket and black jumper with an eyeglass hanging from his neck sat waiting behind a table covered with a black cloth. But no Miss Brie.

  She asked the man the same question.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “But she didn’t want a valuation.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the office at the back. She came especially to see Denis Doggart, the auctioneer.”

  “You want to get that cleaned up,” One-Eye said.

  The three were still in the cemetery, but Shakes was horizontal and appeared to be asleep.

  “Get what cleaned up?” Junior asked.

  “Your head. If that goes septic, your brain’s going to get pickled completely. You’ll be more confused than you are already.”

  Junior put his hand to his head and ran his finger down the length of an ugly-looking scab reaching from his crown to above his right ear. “It’s cleared up.”

  “Don’t scratch it, then. You’ll make it worse. How did you do it?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Looks like you were in a fight.”

  “Was I?”

  “Or fell off your bike. D’you ride a bike?”

  “Dunno.”

  “You don’t know nothing. Take my advice and get it seen to. Go to a hospital and see a nurse. That’s their job. When I lost my eye, I was well looked after. Years ago, that was. They was all for giving me a false one, but I didn’t want it. I wore a patch for a while, but people started calling me Nelson and I got fed up and slung it out. Now they call me One-Eye and I don’t mind at all.”

  “That’s all right, then.”

  “Can’t you remember nothing?”

  “Walking through the woods, that’s all. And round the streets. Sleeping in the underpass.”

  “You poor pathetic sod.”

  As if the remark was meant for him, Shakes woke up, yawned and propped himself on his elbows. “Was I asleep?”

  “Dreaming of a night in the Ritz, I reckon,” One-Eye said. “Have you ever slept in a real hotel?”

  “Only in my dreams.”

  “What’s the best place you’ve ever slept in?” He turned to Junior. “Shakes has been around, you know. He’s a traveller. A real traveller, I mean. A gentleman of the road, they would have called him in the old days. Up and down the country. There isn’t a dosshouse he hasn’t been to.”

  “That’s stretching it,” Shakes said.

  “You could write a book. Shakes’s Dosshouse Guide. We’d be queuing up to buy it.”

  “Five stars for the best,” Shakes said, entering into the spirit of this.

  “And where would that be?”

  He scratched his white curls, pondered the question for some time and finally decided. “There’s a small town near the coast, down Portsmouth way, except it isn’t Portsmouth. Christ, my memory is going like Junior’s. Anyway, the nightstop was the best I’ve ever stayed in and it was called Stonepillow.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that comfortable.”

  “Stonepillow, yes. You weren’t sharing with seventeen others. You had privacy. They fed you dinner and breakfast, gave you a bed, bath, laundry. And if you played your cards right you could stop there for twenty-eight days guaranteed.”

  “Did you hear that, Junior?” One-Eye said, tapping his own head. “Salt it away if you can. You may be glad of it one of these days.”

  “Young fellow his age doesn’t want to know about dosshouses,” Shakes said. “He wants a woman.”

  Junior continued to look blank.

  “Stone woman,” One-Eye said, laughing. “Better to have a stone woman than a stone pillow.”

  Junior blinked several times. “I know a stone woman.”

  One-Eye may have winked again. “Tell us about her.”

  He looked eagerly to each of the others, as if they could unlock the memory for him. “Hold on. It’s coming back to me. About this size.” He stretched his arms like a fisherman describing his catch.

  “That’s wide,” Shakes said. “Too wide for me.”

  “Was that her waist or her bust?” One-Eye asked.

  “She’s carved on a lump of stone and she’s not just a woman, she’s a wife.”

  “What’s he on about?” One-Eye said.

  “A stone wife,” Junior went on, digging deep through the layers of his concussion, trying to connect with the image. “My boss brought her back to the office. Him and her together was kind of comical. I can see her now. I can see him. If only I could remember his name.”

  31

  “Is he back from Melksham?” Ingeborg asked John Leaman, still on duty in the incident room he thought of as his own.

  “He was.”

  “I’ve got something urgent to tell him. Has he gone out again?”

  “He’s down in the yard with the fleet manager.”

  “Transport? What’s that about?”

  “He didn’t say. He’s more restless than ever. You’ll have to ask him.”

  Deep in the bowels of Manvers Street where the vehicles were kept and maintained, Diamond was examining a two-wheeled trailer. He gave one of the tyres a kick. “It’ll need to be strong.”

  The fleet manager, a civilian, said, “It’s meant to take loads. How much weight are we talking about?”

  “It takes six strong men to shift her. She was too heavy to carry down to the evidence room, which is why she ended up in my office.”

  “And now you want your office back?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “If six guys can lift her, this’ll do the job, no problem. What have you got to do the towing? Not your old banger?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Day after tomorrow?”

  Diamond nodded, looked behind him and saw Ingeborg fidgeting with her ponytail. “I doubt if her Ka is suitable either. Let me think about this. I may need one of your Land Rovers.”

  “You will, by the sound of things. Also ropes and a tarp,” the fleet manager said. “We can supply them. How about a motorcycle escort?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Only jesting.”

  “I could take you up on this. If robbers can ambush an auction, they can hijack a trailer.”

  “Do they know you’re making the trip?”

  “Not yet, but they could find out. A couple of outriders aren’t such a bad idea. Put me down for the Land Rover and trailer and I’ll let you know what else I need.” He walked across to Ingeborg. “In case you’re curious, I’ve decided to take the wife back to where she belongs.”

  “Bridgwater?”

  He nodded. “The museum is still the owner. They should take responsibility now. I’m there on Saturday for the scattering of the ashes. Monica doesn’t know where the Chaucer house stood. I promised to show her. She wants company. I know how she feels.”

  “That’s very noble, guv.”

  “Not entirely. It’s a chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Hasn’t the stone done enough damage already?”

  This earned a broad grin. The prospect of unloading the wife on
to someone else made him feel as if he’d got out of jail. “Okay,” he said. “There’s a certain look in your eye. What staggering news have you got to tell me?”

  Strange how one decision changed everything. It was as if the Wife of Bath, faced with the prospect of being sent back to the museum, decided the game was up and she would end her sport with Diamond. Little had gone right from the moment she had been dumped in his office, but the stubborn old cuss had refused to accept that he was jinxed. It was only a lump of stone, for God’s sake. Bad luck was just that and nothing more.

  In the course of the next hour, he made calls to the auction rooms, followed by Bridgwater, Bristol and Reading. When he finally put down the phone, the truth about the killing of John Gildersleeve had become as obvious to him as how he would deal with it. He was at peace with himself, quietly elated. At this stage he said nothing to the team. The right moment would come.

  Instead, he got out of his chair, rounded the desk and stood facing her. Since her return from the photo session she had been left at an oblique angle, so that she seemed to be riding towards the door. Pure chance? Much against his lifelong insistence on commonsense behaviour, he started speaking to her in a low voice inaudible to everyone in the CID room. “I don’t accept for a moment that you had any influence over me or anyone else. I’m not superstitious. Every case I’ve ever investigated had a rational explanation and I’ve proved it over and over. Just because you were the start of all this, it doesn’t mean you ran the show. You were the start and I’m allowing you also to be the finish, but that means nothing. Nothing at all. I think we understand each other, don’t we?”

  Let’s not give the Wife of Bath any credit for what occurred next. Diamond didn’t, then or later. The former US Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld could have been speaking for Diamond when, in another context, he uttered the immortal words, “Stuff happens.” At least ten minutes passed before any stuff did happen. It was an incident in the incident room. There was a shout of surprise followed by a scream overtaken by an outbreak of shouting and shrieking the like of which Manvers Street had never experienced.

  Diamond moved fast and flung open his door.