Diamond Dust
Peter Lovesey
“A consummate storyteller.” – Colin Dexter
With another court case over and a local villain banged up for a few years, Detective Inspector Peter Diamond is keen to get his teeth into another case. So when a call comes in that a woman’s body has been found in one of Bath’s parks he gets himself to the scene in record time, where he is able to identify the victim as his wife and to establish the fact she’s been shot. Mad with grief, Diamond eventually concedes he cannot be an unbiased member of the investigation. Keeping himself away from the team becomes all the harder when he suddenly finds himself under suspicion, and when his colleagues find no case against him but appear unwilling to follow up any of his suggestions – did Steph’s previous husband have an alibi – Diamond decides that a little independent action is called for. As well as following his theory that a family of local thugs killed Steph to get at him, he is also intrigued by the fact that the wife of another policeman has gone missing. He’d served with the husband in the Met and they revisit the cases they’d worked on together. Between them they unearth many startling possibilities and some unexpected facts, but it is Diamond who ultimately avenges his beloved wife.
Peter Lovesey
Diamond Dust
The seventh book in the Peter Diamond series, 2002
1
The prisoner stared at the jury as they filed in. Every one of them avoided eye contact.
The foreman was asked for the verdict and gave it.
A few stifled cries were heard.
Peter Diamond of Bath CID, watching from the back of the court, displayed no emotion, though he felt plenty. Unseen by anyone, his fists tightened, his pulses quickened and his throat warmed as if he’d taken a sip of brandy. This was a moment to savour.
‘And is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
‘But I’m innocent!’ the man guilty of murder shouted, his hands outstretched in appeal. ‘I didn’t do it. I was stitched up.’
Yes, stitched up well and truly, Diamond thought, in a Pink Brothers shirt and a fine Italian suit that didn’t fool the jury, thank God. Any minute now the lowlife inside those clothes will say something nakedly uncouth.
‘Stitch-up!’ a woman supporter screamed from the public gallery, and more voices took up the cry. The people up there began chanting and stamping their feet as if this was a wrestling match.
The judge slammed down his gavel and ordered the court to be cleared.
Almost an hour after, the prisoner was back for sentencing, a short, swarthy man with eyes like burn holes in a bed-sheet.
‘Jacob Barry Carpenter, you have been found guilty of murder, a murder as callous as any it has been my misfortune to come across. If there was the slightest uncertainty in the minds of the jury, it will have been removed upon hearing your criminal record. You are a man of habitual violence, and you have acted in character once again, and this time you will not escape with a light sentence.’
‘You got the wrong man, for Jesus’ sake.’
‘Be quiet. As you well know, the mandatory sentence for murder is life imprisonment, and that is the sentence of this court. As you are also aware, a life sentence has a discretionary element. It need not mean life in the literal sense. In your case – are you listening? – I recommend that it should. You are such a danger to the public that I cannot foresee a time when it will be safe to release you.’
The man reverted to basics. ‘Arsehole! I was fitted up!’
‘Take him down.’
Shouting more abuse, Carpenter was bundled from view by the prison guards.
The judge thanked the jury and discharged them. The court rose.
Peter Diamond turned to leave. His pudgy face revealed no joy in the verdict, nor concern at the prisoner’s outburst. A mature detective learns to conceal his feelings when a verdict is announced. But when his deputy, DI Keith Halliwell, said, ‘Are we going for a bevvy?’ the suspicion of a smile appeared at the edge of his mouth.
‘You bet.’
The pub was just across the street from the Bristol Crown Court and some of the team would already be there, celebrating.
Daniel Houldsworth, the QC who had led for the Crown, put a hand on Diamond’s shoulder. ‘Pleased with the outcome, Superintendent?’
‘It’s the right one.’
The lawyer made it clear he wanted to say more, so Diamond told Halliwell to go ahead. He would join the team shortly.
‘I expected the abuse at the end and so did the judge,’ Houldsworth commented, as if he felt some of the gloss had been taken off the triumph. ‘They’re a cancer, the Carpenters. They’ve run Bristol for too long.’ He went on in this vein for some time, until it became obvious he was fishing for larger compliments.
‘Top result, anyway,’ Diamond said, and that seemed to do the trick. He shook hands with Houldsworth and a couple of junior lawyers and left the court. Funny how everyone wanted credit: barristers, solicitor, jury, and, no doubt, judge – when it was obvious the murder squad had done the job. With a shake of the head unseen by anyone else he made for the exit across the flagstoned corridor where the principals in another case waited nervously. He’d missed one round of drinks, and maybe another.
Thinking only how much he would savour that first cool gulp of bitter, he came down the Court steps into Small Street on a beeline for the Bar Oz. Stared up at the sallow February sun, the promise of brighter times ahead. Didn’t glance at the small group in conversation on the pavement. Didn’t even react when a woman’s voice shrilled, ‘There he is, the shitbag.’ Simply reached the bottom step and started forward.
His sleeve was tugged from behind. He swung around and got a gob of spit full between the eyes. There was a blur of blond hair, a shout of ‘Sodding pig!’ and the woman clawed her fingernails down the right side of his face from eye to neck. The nails ripped the skin, a searing, sudden pain. She was screaming, ‘Stinking filth. He done nothing. My Jake done nothing, and you know it.’
The next strike would have got his eye if he hadn’t grabbed the woman’s wrist and swung her out of range. In this frenzied state she was a match for any middle-aged man and she lunged at him again, aiming a kick at his crotch. He jackknifed to save himself, caught his heel against the steps and tripped, falling heavily. He lay there trying to protect his groin, and instead got a vicious kicking in the kidneys.
No one stopped it. People outside the Guildhall stared across Small Street with glazed expressions and pretended they hadn’t noticed. What do you do when a woman is assaulting a man twice her size?
What do you do if you’re that man? Diamond struggled upright and tried to hobble away. Where were the police? Someone should have seen this coming after the rumpus inside the court.
Still she vented her hate on him, pummelling his back and screaming abuse. If he turned and swung a punch at her it was sod’s law someone would get a photo and sell it to the papers. So he moved on stoically. Then, thank God, spotted a taxi and waved to the driver.
The cabbie stared at this man with a bleeding face and a screaming woman raining punches on his back and, not unreasonably, didn’t want them in his vehicle. He shook his head and drove off.
Further up the street, a second taxi had been hailed by one of the junior barristers on the case.
Diamond charged towards it and shoved the lawyer aside. ‘Emergency,’ he said with as much authority as he had left.
His attacker had come after him and still had a hold on his coat. He elbowed her off and slammed the door. ‘Police. Foot down,’ he told the driver.
‘Where to?’
‘Out of here.’
The woman and her friends were running beside the cab beating the windows.
‘Leave it.’ He ran a finger over his smarting face and looked at the blood.
‘Top cop, are you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Got to be Jake Carpenter’s bird, hasn’t she, the blonde? Wasn’t he on trial?’
He confirmed it with a murmur.
‘Guilty, then?’
‘As hell.’
‘She’s marked you. You could do her for assault.’
‘No chance.’ He’d been onto a loser the moment she attacked. Really, he had only himself to blame, leaving the court unaccompanied like that. If he nicked her, she’d use it as a publicity stunt, a chance to go over the trial again. And her counsel would plead extenuating circumstances and she’d get off with a caution.
‘So where shall I put you down?’
They were heading south, towards the river. He was in no shape now to join the celebration in the pub.
‘Bath. I’m going home.’
2
‘You’ll tell me if it hurts, won’t you?’ Stephanie Diamond was dabbing her husband’s scratched face with TCP. ‘Is that painful?’
Without thinking, he started to shake his head, and felt the full pressure of the swab. ‘Jee-eez!’
She drew it away. ‘Sorry, love.’
‘My fault.’ Mortified for being such a wimp, he said, ‘Iodine’s the stuff that hurts. They always used that when I was a kid. Wicked. Why, I couldn’t tell you.’
Steph waited, swab in hand. She was still in her work clothes, a white jumper with a magnolia design on the front and a close-fitting black skirt. She moved closer again and rested her free hand on his shoulder. ‘These are deep. She must be a vicious woman.’
‘Just angry.’
‘She’s marked you with all four fingernails. Do you think I should take a photo?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Evidence.’
He grinned. ‘Like when someone runs into the car, you mean?’ Patiently, he explained that he wouldn’t be charging the woman, and why.
Steph, with her strong sense of right and wrong, didn’t appreciate the explanation. ‘She shouldn’t get away with it.’
He was basking in her concern, even though it had to be cooled. ‘She believed he was innocent. I expect he told her he was fitted up and she believed him.’
‘That doesn’t excuse it.’
‘It means she acted out of genuine outrage, not just spite.’
Steph sighed. ‘Well, the scratches are genuine enough. They’re going to be on your face for some time. What are you going to tell people – that I did it?’
He smiled at the idea, and felt his cheek sting when the muscles stretched. ‘Would you rather I said it was one of my many mistresses?’
‘Do you want a scar on the other cheek? I could match them up, no problem.’
‘Okay. I’ll think of something better.’
‘I could mask it with a concealer-stick if you like.’
‘A what?’
‘Make-up.’
‘I don’t think make-up would play too well at the nick.’
Later the same evening, after supper, the rich aroma of beef casserole lingered. Diamond, in his favourite armchair, warmed by the cat at full stretch across his lap, was thinking life was improving. Then Steph asked, ‘What exactly did he do?’
‘Who?’
‘Jake Carpenter. All you’ve told me is that he’s a well-known criminal.’
‘And he is.’
‘But you haven’t said anything about the case.’
‘True.’ He made it obvious he didn’t intend saying much.
‘Is it as bad as that? You don’t usually shield me from the facts.’
‘I’m not shielding you, Steph. I wouldn’t do that’
‘The well-bred English gent sparing his delicate wife the gory details?’
‘Cobblers. I just didn’t think you wanted to know.’
‘I do now.’ Her eyes were on the scratches again.
He yawned, and stroked Raffles under the chin while considering where to begin. ‘They’re Bristol’s Mafia – the Carpenters, Jake and his brothers Des and Danny. They live in luxury and make their money out of protection and pimping. They’ve all got form – done time inside. They’re feared. Anyone standing up to them is dealt with, usually by one of their gorillas. But when we succeed in pinning things on any of the brothers they mysteriously get light sentences.’
‘You mean the law is bought off?’
‘So it appears. It may not be cash passing hands, but it happens. This time was different. A mandatory life sentence if he was convicted.’
‘He’d murdered someone?’
‘A call girl by the name of Maeve Smith. Irish. Seventeen years old. Pretty, dark-haired, and a big earner. Unwisely young Maeve tried to transfer to another pimp, so Jake made an example of her. Two of his thugs took her to a tattooist and had her breasts and buttocks personalised with his initials.’
‘Beast.’
‘That’s tame for the Carpenters. Girls who step out of line sometimes have acid thrown in their faces. This one was still a top earner, so they left her face alone. After the tattooing he slept with her several times. I suppose he found it a turn-on seeing his initials on her.’
‘How could she, after what he’d done?’
‘I didn’t say she agreed to it.’
Steph took in a sharp breath.
‘In court, he claimed she was his girlfriend to support his case that he wouldn’t want to hurt her. He failed to see that it gave him a stronger motive when she slipped the leash again.’
‘Was that why she was killed?’
‘Yes, he considered her his property. Her naked body was found in the Avon below the Suspension Bridge, but she was dead before she was thrown in the water. She’d been beaten about the face and head. Really beaten, I mean. The face was pulp, unrecognisable. The tattooed initials helped us link her to Carpenter, so the rat did himself no service when he ordered that punishment. And this time the forensic stuff led us straight to him. Traces of her blood and DNA material in his car boot and on one of his shoes.’
‘No doubt about it, then?’
‘Not a jot.’
Steph looked away, her face creased in sympathy for the young victim, and then her eyes turned back to Diamond. ‘This other woman – the one who scratched you – must be deluding herself. If she was at the trial and heard the evidence, she knows he slept with the girl. And she knows he’s a sadist. How can she defend a brute like that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I’m saying, Peter – she’s deluded. She’s trying to convince herself you faked the evidence. She turned her anger on you.’
He spread his hands, and the cat jumped off his lap, surprised by the movement. ‘Steph, I’ve no interest what her motives are.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘A minor player.’ He stretched and stood up, wanting to talk of other things. ‘Hasn’t been around long.’
‘I still think she shouldn’t get away with this.’
He went over to her and touched her hair, letting a strand rest between finger and thumb. ‘Leave it, eh?’
‘Now you’ve told me about it-‘
Gently but with decision he interrupted. ‘There are more important things.’
‘Like?’
‘Like let’s have an early night.’
She hesitated, needing first to shut out the horrors of his work, then laughed and flicked her hair free. ‘Fancy your chances, Scarface?’
The taunt brought back the bittersweet agonies of nearly twenty years ago, being in love without being sure of her. They’d met in Hammersmith, when he was in uniform, doing a stint as community involvement officer, which meant lecturing groups on road safety and crime prevention. Much of it was with the very old or the very young. At that time Steph was not long out of her divorce and trying to forget it by being Brown Owl
to a troop, or pack, or whatever it was called, of Brownies. Diamond turned up to do his talk and made a total balls of it because he couldn’t take his eyes off Brown Owl. At the end he asked her out and she declined. Wouldn’t even give him a phone number. So he put in an appearance next week with some leaflets he said he’d forgotten to hand out to the girls. Then made himself useful changing a fuse when the lights failed. Week after week, using flimsy excuses for being there, he let her know how committed he was. These days it might well be called harassment. By degrees, she softened. It was a curious, chaste courtship, with each move witnessed by small giggling girls in brown uniforms. The turning point was the summer camp, when he breezed in unexpectedly with Bradford and Bingley, two donkeys he’d borrowed from the Hammersmith desk sergeant, who’d set up a donkey sanctuary as a retirement venture. Bradford and Bingley gave rides for the next two days. From that moment the girls called Diamond the Donkey Man and convinced Steph he deserved to be an honorary member of the Brownies.
Brown Owl married the Donkey Man the following spring, and it was a strong, loving relationship still, thanks in no small part to Steph’s calmness under stress. There had been desperately bad moments, like her miscarriage (she’d suffered three already with her first husband) and the hysterectomy that had followed. There were the plunges in Diamond’s rollercoaster career: the board of inquiry, the resignation, the move to the poky basement flat in London, being sacked from Harrods, and the spell of unemployment. Steph had kept them going by being positive and finding a funny side to every experience.
But rollercoasters have their upsides, and the police had needed him back. He returned to his old job as murder man in Bath CID. Since then, life had been kinder – their own house in Weston, a playful cat called Raffles, good neighbours and a Chinese takeaway at the end of the street.
Upstairs, he poured two glasses of Rioja before getting into bed. Steph had been to Spain twenty-five years ago as a student and always remembered the wine. She would cheerfully have migrated to Spain or France. No chance hitched to a man like Diamond, with GB plates welded to his soul.
‘When did you get this?’ she asked. The Diamonds didn’t have wine in store. When they bought a bottle, it was for immediate consumption.
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