Upon A Dark Night

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘You mean we need some good news?’

  ‘We’ve got quite a log-jam of suicides,’ said the ACC, getting closer to the point.

  ‘On the force?’

  ‘For God’s sake, no. On our patch.’ He went on to itemise them. The farmer, up at Tormarton two weeks ago. A foreign student found yesterday in a garage, killed by exhaust fumes from his car. And – this very morning – a young woman in her twenties who had chosen the spectacular way, leaping off the balustrade of the Royal Crescent.

  ‘Looking on the bright side,’ said Diamond after this catalogue of tragedies, ‘at least we have the bodies. The ones who disappear take up most time.’

  The ACC made a dismissive gesture. ‘Be a good man, Peter. You’re not fully stretched on the murder squad. John Wigfull discovered that the farmer wasn’t the simple matter he appeared to be at first. We still haven’t had the post-mortem.’

  ‘You want me to take it over?’ he said, trying not to sound over-eager.

  ‘No. John will see it through. It’s just a matter of contacting people now, and he’s good at that. Help him out by taking a look at one of the other two, you and your team.’

  ‘It would be no hardship, sir. The farmer, I mean. I visited the scene at the time.’

  ‘No point. Wigfull has it buttoned up.’

  His offer spurned, Diamond mentally compared the remaining two suicides. If taking a look was meant literally, he thought the asphyxiated student might be easier on the eye than the high diver. ‘Any particular one?’

  ‘Talk to John. He’s co-ordinating this.’

  His knee behaved as if someone had hit it with a rubber hammer. ‘In charge, you mean?’

  ‘I said co-ordinating.’

  ‘Co-ordinating what? There’s no connection, is there? Serial suicides?’

  This new ACC had no sense of humour. ‘I don’t think I follow you.’

  ‘Where’s the co-ordinating?’

  ‘Just the manpower, Peter. Co-ordinating the manpower.’

  ‘Wigfull is not co-ordinating me. I out-rank him.’

  ‘We know that. You can handle this with your well-known tact.’

  A look passed between them. No more was said.

  The desk sergeant buzzed him. ‘I’ve got a lady here, sir, asking to see the senior detective on duty.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Suspicious circumstances, she says.’

  ‘Concerning what?’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Mr Diamond.’ There was a pause, then: ‘A possible abduction.’

  ‘What of-a child?’

  ‘A woman friend of hers.’ Some angry shouting could be heard at the end of the line. The sergeant’s voice dropped to a confidential mutter. ‘She’s been here over an hour, Mr Diamond. She won’t speak to anyone else. She’s a right pain, sir.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Mouthing off about how bloody useless we are.’

  ‘So she is speaking to other people.’

  ‘Everyone who comes in. Even the postman copped an earful.’

  ‘Get someone to take a statement and I’ll look at it. I’m on a suicide right now.’

  ‘I tried that. She wants to see the top man, she says.’

  Over the background noise came a shout: ‘I said the head dick, dickhead.’

  He thought he recognised the voice. This was not turning out to be much of a day. ‘Do you know this woman?’

  ‘No, sir, but she seems to think I should. I’m new here. I’m normally based at Yeovil.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that, laddie. What’s her name?’

  ‘Just a sec’

  Diamond pressed the earpiece closer, but it wasn’t necessary. He heard the name clearly.

  The sergeant started to say, ‘She’s-’

  ‘Just now I said I was on a suicide,’ Diamond cut him off. ‘That was wrong. I’m on three suicides.’

  ‘So can’t you see her right now, Mr Diamond?’

  ‘Right now, sergeant, I’d rather see my dentist standing over me with the needle.’

  Ada Shaftsbury’s treatment of police officers was a well-known hazard at Manvers Street. She had a stream of abuse worthy of a camel-driver. Rookies and recent arrivals would bring her in for shoplifting and suffer public humiliation. When Ada was in full flow the older hands would leave their offices to listen.

  ‘Too busy?’ said the sergeant, near desperation.

  ‘Ask her to put it in writing.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t think she’ll go away.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I will, sergeant.’ He put down the phone.

  Detective Chief Inspector John Wigfull wasn’t his favourite person by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to Ada he was a baa-lamb. On entering Wigfull’s office, Diamond caught the end of his briefing of three detectives who looked straight out of school. ‘… and I don’t want to hear anyone use the word “suicide”. This is a suspicious death until proved otherwise, do you understand? Get to it, then.’

  Before the trio were out of the door, Diamond said, ‘Morning, John. I’m told you’ve got three suicides now.’

  Wigfull sat up even taller and grasped the edge of his desk. His moustache, less perky these days, was into a Mexican phase that hid most of his mouth. ‘I’m assuming nothing.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Then shall we get our terminology straight?’

  ‘Before we do,’ said Diamond. ‘I’m quoting the ACC. He asked me to take over one of these…suicides.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I was thinking about the fellow found in the garage.’

  ‘Chou.’

  The Mexican phase was confirmed.‘Ciao? ‘

  ‘Yes, Chou,’ said Wigfull. ‘From Singapore. A final-year student of engineering. Found last night. He left a note. Very organised. If it’s all the same to you, I’d value your help more on the case at the Royal Crescent.’

  Diamond played the phrase over in his mind. ‘Value your help’ was Wigfull at his most diplomatic. And the organised engineering student did sound dull, even though he was less messy. ‘What’s the story, then?’

  ‘This was also last night. We don’t know her name yet. The start of it was when two couples won the lottery. When I say “won”, they had four numbers up. They watched the draw in the Grapes in Westgate Street – that pub that’s always full of music and young people – and of course there were celebrations and soon it transferred to the Crescent, where they live.’

  ‘Four numbers isn’t the jackpot,’ said Diamond.

  ‘Any excuse, isn’t it? The word went round the pubs that some lucky blighter had won and was giving a party, and in no time half young Bath was making a beeline for the house. It was out of control. People who didn’t know the tenants were letting in other people. There wasn’t much drink, but there was music. At ten-thirty or thereabouts, one of the neighbours complained about the noise. Two of our lads went in and tried to find the tenants. They got the volume turned down a bit and left. By this time, the discos in town were open and quite a few were leaving. We thought the problem was over. Around seven-thirty this morning we had a call to say a woman was lying dead in the basement yard, apparently from a fall.’

  ‘That’s certain, is it?’

  ‘The fall? The injuries bear it out.’

  Diamond said as if to a child, ‘What I mean, John, is was it a fall or did she jump?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Wigfull said with irritation. ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out. All we know is that at some point after eleven – eleven the previous evening, I mean – a couple who were leaving heard a sound, looked up and spotted a figure on the roof.’

  ‘The roof?’

  ‘You know the Crescent, Peter. It’s three storeys high with a balustrade at the level of the roof. You reach it from the attic windows. The witnesses saw her sitting on the balustrade with her legs dangling.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘There’s
a street lamp right outside.’

  ‘What did they do about it? Bugger all?’

  ‘No. They showed some responsibility. Went back to tell someone, and by degrees the message got to the tenants, who went to look, they think about eleven-thirty. There was no sign of her there. The attic window was still open, but they assumed she’d gone inside the house again.’

  ‘No one checked downstairs?’

  ‘The body wasn’t found until this morning.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘A paper-boy on his round. What happened was that the woman fell into the well of the basement – the coalhole, as it would have been originally – in shadow and out of sight of people leaving the party unless they had some reason to look over the railings. She must have died instantly. The skull was badly impacted. It was a fall of sixty feet or so.’

  The injuries were all too easy to imagine in full colour.

  ‘Where’s the body now?’

  ‘At the Royal United. We had the police surgeon on the scene quite fast. If you’d like to go up to the Crescent now, you can still see where the head met the flagstones.’

  Diamond backpedalled. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take on the Chinese student instead? This one could run and run. Did she fall, did she jump or was she pushed?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any question of pushing,’ said Wigfull, with a sudden twitch of the eyebrows.

  ‘I thought your line was that these are unexplained deaths.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Got to keep an open mind, then.’ Artfully, knowing how Wigfull’s mind worked, he said, ‘We can’t rule out murder.’ After a pause to let that sink in, he enquired, ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to deal with this yourself, John?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m committed to the farmer. Those lads I sent out…’

  ‘They looked half-baked to me.’

  ‘They are. That’s why I’ve got to take a personal interest.’

  For once, Diamond had been outflanked by Wigfull.

  An unexplained death may be a misfortune, but it may also be someone else’s opportunity. This was the first solid job in months for Diamond, even if it was not his first choice. Generously he opted to share it with Julie Hargreaves. He phoned her at home and asked if she would sacrifice whatever she was doing for a crack at an unexplained death. she said she was cooking the Sunday roast, but if this was action stations, she would have to ask Charlie to take over. In that case, Diamond said, hand the apron to Charlie and he would expect her in the next half-hour.

  Every tourist worthy of the name makes a pilgrimage north-west of the city to see the Royal Crescent. Without question John Wood the younger’s spectacular terrace with its hundred and fourteen columns was the crowning achievement of Georgian architecture, but oddly, Diamond’s work rarely took him past the place. So this morning the sweep of the great curved monolith outlined against a powder blue sky above the lawns of Royal Victoria Park still made him catch his breath. Or so he convinced himself, unwilling to accept that the bumping from the cobbled roadway may have winded him.

  ‘Take it easy, Julie. Nobody’s expecting us.’

  The house where last night’s party had been was towards the Crescent’s west end.

  Police tape had been used to cordon off an area in front. On emerging from the car, Diamond and Julie were approached by an official-looking man with a clipboard.

  Diamond took him to be one of the scene of the crime team – until he spoke in an accent that would have made a Viceroy feel inferior.

  ‘I say, you there.’

  Sensing trouble, Diamond did his deaf act.

  ‘Yes, you in the trilby hat. Are you connected with the police?’

  He sighed and turned round. ‘We are.’

  ‘Then be so good as to tell me, will you, when you propose to remove these unsightly tapes and restore the place to normal? I’ve been here with my crew and some very distinguished actors since eight this morning and we haven’t shot a single frame of film.’

  ‘You’re filming the Crescent?’

  ‘I ought to be. It’s Sunday morning. The light is perfect. We went to no end of trouble and expense arranging for all the residents to park elsewhere – and here we are, faced with one house sectioned off with ghastly black and yellow tape, not to mention two police vans and now another eyesore in the shape of your car.’

  Diamond turned his head to take in the full majestic panorama of the building. ‘Can’t you point your camera at the other end?’

  ‘My dear sir, the camera is over there by the trees. The whole object is to capture the entire frontage in one establishing shot.’

  ‘What’s the film?’

  ‘The Pickwick Papers.’

  ‘So is the Crescent mentioned in The Pickwick Papers?’

  ‘Is it mentioned? Mr Pickwick took rooms here. Several chapters are set in Bath. He visits the Pump Room, the Assembly Rooms-’

  Diamond put up his hand. ‘Then I suggest you take your cameras down the road to the Assembly Rooms and keep your actors busy there. These tapes are staying as long as I want them, and I’ve only just arrived.’

  The film director reddened. ‘We’re not scheduled to be at the Assembly Rooms today.’

  ‘And I’m not scheduled to be here, sir. I’m scheduled to be in my office having a nice cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit. The best laid plans-’

  ‘You obviously know as little about filming as you do about The Pickwick Papers.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Diamond. ‘I’m wery much afeard you’re right.’ He lifted the barrier tape for Julie and they went inside.

  At Diamond’s request, the uniformed sergeant at the door gave them a rundown of the use of the building. A couple called Allardyce had the top floor and the attic. The first and ground floors were tenanted by Guy Treadwell, ARIBA, Chartered Architect, and Emma Treadwell, FRICS, Chartered Surveyor (the card above their doorbell stated). The basement flat was vacant. The Allardyces and the Treadwells were on good terms, the sergeant said, and were at this minute together in the upper apartment.

  Diamond took his time in the entrance hall, taking stock of the artwork displayed on the walls, a set of gilt-framed engravings of local buildings and a number of eighteenth-century county maps. Predictable for people in architecture, he reflected. You wouldn’t expect them to decorate their hall with Michael Jackson posters. Entrance halls were all about making the right impression. He nodded to Julie and moved on.

  Litter from the party lay all over the staircase. After picking their way up two flights through beer-cans and cigarette-ends, they were admitted by Guy Treadwell. In case the card downstairs was not enough to establish his credentials, Treadwell wore a bow-tie, a black corduroy suit, half-glasses on a retaining-cord and a goatee beard – bizarre on a man not much over twenty-five.

  ‘The state of the whole house is disgusting, we know,’ this fashion plate said, ‘but your people gave us strict instructions to leave everything exactly as it is.’

  ‘Just the ticket,’ said Diamond with a glance around the Allardyces’ living-room. Just about every surface was crowded with mugs, glasses, cans, empty cigarette packs, half-eaten pizzas and soiled tissues. The pink carpet looked like the floor of an exhibition stand at the end of a busy Saturday. His eyes travelled upwards. ‘I like your ceiling.’

  ‘We’re not really in a mood for humour, officer,’ said Treadwell in a condescending tone meant to establish the pecking order.

  When it came to pecking, Diamond had seen off better men than Guy Treadwell. ‘Who said anything about humour? That’s handsome plasterwork. What sort of leaves are they around the centre bit?’

  ‘In the first place it isn’t my ceiling, and in the second I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Let’s hear from someone who has, then. Your ceiling, is it?’ said Diamond, switching to the other young man in the room.

  ‘We’re the tenants, yes,’ came the answer, ‘but eighteenth-century plasterwork isn’t our thing.’
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br />   ‘You don’t recognise the leaves either? I’m sure the ladies do.’

  ‘Acanthus, I believe,’ Julie Hargreaves unexpectedly said.

  Surprised and impressed, Diamond held out his hands as if to gather the approval of the others. ‘If you want to know about your antique ceilings, ask a policewoman.’

  Treadwell tried a second time to bring him to heel by pointing out that they were not introduced yet.

  ‘Detective Inspector Julie Hargreaves,’ said Diamond, ‘my ceiling consultant.’

  Stiffly, Treadwell introduced his wife Emma and his neighbours the Allardyces. They had the jaded look of people badly missing their Sunday morning lie-in. Sally Allardyce, a tall, willowy black woman with glossy hair drawn back into a red velvet scrunch, offered coffee.

  Diamond thanked her and said they’d had some.

  Her husband William apologised because there was no sherry left in the house. It was a poor show considering he was employed in public relations, he said with a tired smile, but everything in bottles had gone. William Allardyce was white, about as white as a man can look whose heart is still pumping. He had a white T-shirt as well, with some lettering across the chest that was difficult to read. He was wearing an old-fashioned grey tracksuit, baggy at the waist and ankles, and the top was only partially unzipped. The letters IGHT were all that could be seen.

  Guy Turnbull added, ‘They even drank our bloody cider-vinegar.’

  ‘It was a nightmare,’ said Emma Treadwell, large-eyed, pale and anxious. She must have showered recently, because she was still in a white bath-robe and flip-flops and her head was draped in a towel. ‘Three-quarters of the people were strangers to us.’

  ‘Including the woman who fell off the roof?’ asked Diamond.

  ‘Guy says we didn’t know her. I didn’t go out to look. I couldn’t bear to.’

  ‘Total stranger to me,’ said her husband.

  ‘And you, sir?’ Diamond asked William Allardyce. ‘You went to look at the body as well, I gather. Had you ever seen her before?’

  ‘Only briefly.’

  ‘So you remember seeing her at the party?’ Julie asked.

  Allardyce nodded. ‘We discussed that just before you came in. I’m the only one who remembers her. She was sitting on the stairs with a fellow in a leather jacket. Large, dark hair, drinking lager.’