Cop to Corpse

by Peter Lovesey

  Peter Diamond bucked the tradition. Years ago as a fresh-faced rookie in the Met he’d served his rites of passage, knocking on a door in Hammersmith to inform an elderly couple that their only son had been killed in a hit and run. In those days you were given no advice how to break the news. You improvised as well as you could. With mixed results. He’d done it ineptly. The parents had assumed the worst when they saw him in uniform solemn-faced at the door, yet, after repeatedly rehearsing what he would say, he’d stumbled over the words and — sin of sins — got the name of the deceased wrong, calling him Mike when he should have said Mark. ‘That isn’t our son,’ the man had said, clutching at any straw. Diamond had been forced to stumble through his piece again, causing even more distress. That night he’d drunk himself legless. The memory was still vivid and painful. He’d resolved never to ask an inexperienced officer to do the job.

  In the near-panic after the Walcot Street shooting, with every available officer called to the scene, no one had visited Harry Tasker’s next of kin. The thing had to be done urgently, before the story broke in the media.

  Others may have thought of it and kept quiet. Diamond was the first to speak out.

  The uniformed sergeant he raised it with said, ‘God, yes. We should have done this an hour ago. I’d better find someone.’

  ‘Do we know who the next of kin is? Was he married?’

  ‘Married, yes, or in a partnership for sure. He lived near the old gasworks off the Upper Bristol Road.’

  ‘I pass there on the way to work,’ Diamond said. ‘Is there anyone on the strength who would know the partner?’

  ‘Unlikely. Harry was a quiet guy. A bit of a loner, in fact. We’ll just have to send one of the young lads he worked with.’

  ‘We won’t.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Get me the address. I’ll break the news. I’ve done this before.’

  His part of the investigation was on hold. Each of the potential witnesses in the Paragon house had been seen and Keith Halliwell was interviewing the neighbours. Until the search of the basement flat and garden was complete, little else could happen. Nothing would be gained from standing over the crime scene investigators.

  The Upper Bristol Road is busy, dirty and noisy and has some oddly named addresses, like Comfortable Place, which has the look of an almshouse and actually houses a fitness centre. Just behind Comfortable Place stands Onega Terrace, where Harry Tasker lived. The row of small houses has a view from the back of the last remaining gasholder of the old Bath Gas, Light and Coke Company, a mighty drum in its supporting framework with a majesty all its own. It was 140 years old. Diamond often passed it and marvelled at the way it had rusted to an umber shade not unlike the stone for which Bath was famous. But not everyone appreciates industrial architecture so close to home, so the proximity of this giant relic must have depressed house prices and made it possible for a constable on Harry’s modest income to pay the rent. The seven houses of the terrace, built probably in the 1890s, were accessed along a narrow pathway blocked with refuse sacks on the day Diamond arrived. Each house had its own bay window and most of them had satellite dishes.

  Her name was Emma, he had learned from the office, and yes, they were married. She was Harry Tasker’s wife turned widow, a change of status she had yet to find out. She came to the door in a red zipper jacket and white jeans, in the act of wheeling out a bike. She was small, with large, intelligent eyes and shoulder-length black hair. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve chosen the wrong moment, whoever you are,’ she told him. ‘I’m on my way out and I’m already late.’

  She had probably taken him for a doorstep evangelist. Not many other callers wear suits and ties.

  ‘It’s about Harry,’ he said. ‘I work with him.’ He showed his ID. ‘May we go inside?’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘Something’s the matter.’

  He nodded.

  She leaned the bike against the wall of the hallway and stepped back for him to enter. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You’d better sit down first.’

  Shaking her head as if she didn’t believe this was happening, she opened a door into a small living room and sat on the edge of a short leather sofa. The homely setting, the wedding photo and the family pictures over the fireplace made the task of breaking the news all the harder.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I wish there was a gentler way of telling you. It was very sudden, early this morning while he was still on duty.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He won’t have known anything about it. He was shot.’

  She took a sharp breath and didn’t speak. She blinked several times and her front teeth pressed down on her lower lip. A shock as terrible as this takes people in different ways. Emma Tasker was internalising it.

  What can you do to ease the agony for the suddenly, violently bereaved? Diamond’s way was to fill the silence with information. ‘We’ve got every available officer hunting for the gunman. It happened about 4 A.M. in Walcot Street, at the end nearest the city centre, two or three shots from high up when Harry was on his way back from checking one of the clubs. There had been no reports of trouble. This seems to have been unprovoked. Take it from me, ma’am, we’ll find the scum who did this. You know how we feel when one of our own is murdered.’ As his words tailed off, he watched her, prepared for an outpouring of grief.

  It didn’t come. She was silent, immobile.

  Some seconds went by.

  ‘Do you have any brandy in the house?’ he asked.

  He could have saved his breath.

  ‘Whisky?’ he said. ‘Sometimes it can help. Or I can make tea. How about tea?’

  No reaction. Her brown eyes could have been painted, they were so still, so inscrutable.

  ‘I’ll shut up, while you take it in,’ he said, easing a finger around his collar, remembering his own darkest moment. The difference was that when Steph had been murdered, he’d found out for himself. He’d attended a crime scene and had the unendurable shock of discovering that the victim was his own wife. It had all been so traumatic he still didn’t have any memory of how he had reacted. One thing he did recall from the days that followed: no one had been capable of comforting him.

  Would it be any different for Emma Tasker? He guessed you couldn’t generalise.

  If she had screamed, or fainted, or burst into tears, he would have coped better. He was in two minds whether to find the kitchen and make mild, sweet tea, that old remedy. He didn’t dare leave her at this moment. Instead, he turned and looked out of the window, waiting for whatever would happen next, be it an eruption of grief or a quiet request for him to leave.

  Minutes passed.

  The phone rang. It was on a low table beside the sofa. Automatically Emma Tasker put out a hand.

  Diamond moved fast across the room. ‘Leave it,’ he said, his hand closing over hers as she reached for the receiver. ‘This will be the press.’

  The contact brought a response from her, one he didn’t expect. Her eyes blazed hostility. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He withdrew his hand.

  The ringing stopped.

  She rubbed at the back of her hand as if his touch had been contagious.

  ‘I didn’t want you picking it up,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t want?’ She was angry, galvanized. ‘You think you have the right to tell me what to do? This is my home. It’s my phone.’

  ‘True.’

  The simple argument about the phone was the tipping point. She vented all the anger she’d been suppressing and Diamond took the full force. ‘You bastard! You come in here and flash your warrant card at me and tell me the worst thing I could hear and then you expect me to jump to your commands. Mister, you don’t impress me at all. I don’t care if you’re the chief constable. I could spit in your eye. I’ve only got to look at you to know you sit behind a desk ordering good men like my Harry out on the streets at night dealing with drug-d
ealers and drunks and gang members.’

  No use telling her he was CID and Harry was uniform. Her ferocity wasn’t amenable to reason. Better let this storm blow itself out.

  She continued with the rant. ‘He never got any credit for all the policing he did. He would have stayed a constable for ever. People like Harry don’t get promoted. They do their work and all the overtime keeping the streets safe without complaining while the creeps and arse-lickers put all their energy into sucking up to the likes of you. I know what I’m talking about. I was in the force for three years until I couldn’t stand it any more. That’s how we met. Are you a Freemason?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  She wasn’t listening. ‘The Brotherhood, he called it. Great if you’re a member. He was never asked. He wouldn’t have joined, anyway. He had principles.’ She glanced at the wedding photo on the wall showing a tight-lipped Harry standing rigidly to attention beside herself, his radiant, smiling bride. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not well,’ Diamond was forced to admit. ‘I work from a different office.’

  ‘Don’t you listen? He didn’t work in an office,’ she almost screamed at him. ‘He was pounding the streets while you had your feet up. Why the hell did they send you if you hardly knew him?’

  ‘No one sent me. I volunteered to come.’

  ‘That beats everything,’ she said. ‘What — do you get a kick out of giving bad news to people?’

  In this situation the bereaved can say whatever they want and there’s no comeback.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m here because I know what you’re going through. Four years ago my wife was shot and murdered in Victoria Park.’

  She gave a sharp, impatient sigh. ‘I’ve got my own cross to bear. I can’t find sympathy for you.’

  ‘I’m not asking for any,’ he said.

  ‘I hate the bloody police and all they stand for.’

  ‘There are times when I’d agree with you. Look, I really think you should drink something. You’ve had a terrific shock. Shall I make tea?’

  She stabbed a finger at him. ‘Don’t even think about stepping into my kitchen.’

  He’d not expected hostility like this. She’d taken against him and nothing he could do or say would alter that. The only way now was to find someone she was willing to relate to. Then think of an exit line.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact? A neighbour? A friend? I’m thinking somebody should be with you.’

  Those fierce brown eyes rejected the suggestion outright, but she relented enough to say. ‘Someone should tell them I won’t be in for work.’

  An opening. He went for it. ‘Fine. Where is it? What’s the number?’

  She was a supervisor at Playzone, the children’s activity centre, she told him before giving the details. He couldn’t help wondering how small kids fared with this pent-up aggression. Maybe she was totally different with them. He called the place and said Mrs. Tasker had suffered the loss of a close relative and might not be in for a few days. When he finished the call she was no longer in the room.

  He heard a kettle being filled, so he followed her into the kitchen, defying her order to keep out. She had her back to him yet she must have heard his approach because without turning to look she said, ‘I’m just so angry. He’s been on nights all week. We’ve scarcely seen each other.’

  ‘And there are things you wish you’d said?’ He was speaking from painful experience.

  ‘I feel cheated.’

  ‘You have every right. Believe me, we’ll pull out all the stops.’

  She snorted at that. ‘If you want sugar, it’s in the cupboard behind you.’

  While this embodiment of fury busied herself with milk carton and teapot, Diamond was bold enough to seek information. He asked if Harry had been threatened by anyone, recently or in the past.

  ‘Apart from me, you mean?’ she said without a glimmer of irony. ‘I gave him hell on a regular basis. No, he was too easygoing to make enemies. Mind, he didn’t tell me everything. Harry wasn’t much of a communicator. He kept his feelings hidden. If I asked about his job, he’d say there wasn’t anything worth mentioning.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you police work is like that a lot of the time,’ Diamond said. ‘Loads of boring stuff you wouldn’t want to hear about.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you, bloody man?’ she said, widening her big eyes, ‘Anything is better than silence.’

  Lady, you’re going to get a lot of that in the weeks and months to come, he thought. ‘I’m asking these questions because we have to be certain he wasn’t shot by someone he knew.’

  ‘He was killed by that madman who’s been targeting policemen, wasn’t he?’ she said. ‘I’ve forgotten what they call him.’

  ‘The Somerset Sniper. That’s a strong possibility. If so, it was almost certainly done because Harry wore the uniform, nothing more. He was a cop, so he was fair game. Doesn’t make it any easier to accept.’

  ‘To come back to your question, I can’t think of anyone who hated him enough to kill him.’

  ‘Did he have any interests outside the police?’

  ‘Fishing.’

  He took this as another rebuke. ‘I’m doing my job. We need to know.’

  ‘I said. He fished, with a rod and line. Is that clear enough for you?’

  He gave a faint, embarrassed smile.

  She added, ‘He didn’t get much time for it.’

  ‘You must have gone out together sometimes. Where did you go? A favourite pub?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. If we went out more than twice in the past year I can’t recall it. All he ever wanted was to put his feet up and watch telly. It was the job. It tired him out. If I go out, it has to be with the girls, my buddies. That’s all the excitement I get.’

  ‘This being a murder enquiry, you’re going to have to put up with any number of questions like these. We’ll need to look at everything connected with Harry, bank statements, phone, address book, diary, computer. It’s a huge invasion of your privacy, but necessary. I’m telling you this so that you’re prepared.’

  ‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘You’re telling me so that the copper who gets the job doesn’t get the blasting you’ve just had. You’re shell-shocked. You look worse than I do.’

  Whatever his condition, he needed to drive into the city again. On the car radio the local news reports were coming in of the fatal shooting of a uniformed policeman in Walcot Street and they were linking it to the two previous shootings. He’d completed his next-of-kin mission in the nick of time, even though it hadn’t been the sympathetic heart-to-heart he’d planned. He’d left Emma Tasker in the care of a policewoman trained in helping the bereaved. She would surely cope better than he had. Next-of-kin interviews were never easy, but that one had shaken his confidence. He didn’t have time dwell on it. Soon the media tsunami would swamp everyone. Good thing Jack Gull was in charge.

  In the Paragon, the house-to-house was under way. Keith Halliwell had finished interviewing the close neighbours and nobody had spotted the sniper. Some had reacted to the sound of the shooting by going to their windows. So thick and high had been the crop of weeds that a gang of gunmen could have operated from that garden and not been seen.

  ‘Getting on for five hours since the shooting,’ Diamond said to Halliwell. ‘If he’s got any sense he’ll be miles away by now.’

  ‘Unless he lives here.’

  ‘Right. What’s your take on that civil servant, three-gun Willis on the top floor?’

  ‘In the clear. His licence has been checked. Each of those rifles is registered. The Devizes Gun Club confirms that all three are in their armoury, secure. There’s no way he could have used one this morning and got it back to Devizes by the time we interviewed him.’

  ‘An unlicensed gun?’

  ‘If there is one, we didn’t find it. His flat was well searched.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have it in his flat after using it, would he? He’s a car
eful bugger. Willis is still top of my list. That bedroom window.’

  Halliwell gave a faint grin. ‘If he’s as careful as you say, he wouldn’t have left the window open. The thing is, he may be nicely placed to have carried out this morning’s shooting from his bedroom, but what about the earlier killings in Wells and Radstock?’

  ‘Trust you to sabotage a good theory.’

  Diamond went through the house to the garden and stopped short of the stinging nettles. ‘Any joy?’ he called to the senior crime scene man.

  For an answer, a transparent evidence bag was held up. Whatever was inside was too small to make out.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A cartridge case. A shot was definitely fired from here.’

  ‘Only the one?’

  ‘I’m told two were heard. He could have tidied up the first and missed this one. He’s usually more careful. Now we’re checking the brambles for fibres. It’s going to take some time.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Good find, though.’ He stared up at the top flat, where Willis lived. A shell case ejected from that height could have dropped anywhere in the small garden. And that window was now closed.

  Out in the street, a patrol car joined the row of parked police vehicles just as Diamond emerged from the house. A uniformed sergeant got out, spotted him, and shouted, ‘Mr. Diamond, sir.’

  The big man waited with arms folded.

  The sergeant looked like a man who has been told he has a terminal illness. ‘Sergeant Stillman, sir.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Diamond said. ‘Is there news?’

  ‘I thought I’d better speak to you. I just heard about Inspector Lockton being injured.’

  ‘You’re the last, then. We found him all of two hours ago.’

  ‘It’s serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Serious enough to have put him in intensive care. He took a blow to the head. What’s your interest in all this?’

  ‘I drove him up here.’

  ‘This morning?’ Diamond’s attention quickened. ‘You must be the second man.’

  ‘Must I?’