Cop to Corpse

by Peter Lovesey

‘Right.’

  ‘Which we’re asking Wiltshire to provide, but with their limited resources. It’s a bigger area than it first appears, that wood, and he seems to know it well. He’ll back himself to outwit a few coppers on a twenty-four hour watch. The question is when does he return? He’ll go by night, when he has the advantage of knowing the terrain. But does he play the long game and leave it until he’s ready to stage another murder, or will he want to collect his gun before then?’

  ‘He’s cool. He’ll play the long game,’ Gull said.

  ‘Can’t agree. Every hour that gun is in the wood it will prey on his mind that we’ll find it.’

  ‘In his shoes, what would you do, then?’ Gull clearly resented having to ask.

  ‘Go back tonight or tomorrow. I’d approach the wood on foot and be armed, maybe with a handgun, in case I was spotted.’

  ‘You’d need a torch.’

  ‘That goes without saying. And a backpack.’

  ‘What time would you go?’

  ‘Well after midnight. All of the shootings have occurred not long before dawn. He’ll need some shut-eye after last night. I expect he’s catching up right now, while we agonise over what he does next.’

  Reluctantly, Gull was persuaded. He chewed at his thumbnail. ‘Are you recommending we step up the numbers on watch in Becky Addy tonight?’

  Diamond shrugged. ‘Put out as many men as we can spare. The odds are still stacked in his favour.’

  John Leaman made a point of his own. ‘Especially with local knowledge.’

  ‘We’ll stake out all the footpaths leading up to the wood,’ Gull said.

  ‘He’ll have thought of that,’ Leaman said.

  ‘What’s he going to do, then, smart-arse? Parachute in?’

  ‘He’ll avoid the footpaths,’ Diamond said before Leaman got into a slanging match. ‘He’ll cut across country. We’d do better looking at the map and deciding where he might leave the motorbike. I’m assuming he’ll arrive on wheels and park it somewhere out of earshot. That’s the biggest risk he takes. Does he leave it along a country lane where it would stand out or in a street with other vehicles?’

  ‘The street option sounds more likely.’

  ‘Agreed. Shall we look?’

  The map of Becky Addy Wood was already pinned on the incident board. ‘You’ve got Avoncliff down in the valley with the canal, the river and the railway acting as barriers,’ Leaman said, spreading his hand across the features he mentioned. ‘Above the wood you’ve got the village of Westwood and quite a few small streets.’

  Diamond weighed the options. ‘This morning he escaped down the hill and presumably along the towpath. He’ll figure that we’ll have that route covered. I doubt if he’ll come by way of Avoncliff.’

  ‘Westwood, then?’

  ‘It’s more likely.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Gull asked. He traced his finger along the fine double line that snaked from Westwood eastwards to the edge of the town of Bradford on Avon, about a mile off. At the top end it passed close to Becky Addy Wood.

  ‘Jones Hill.’

  ‘We should stake that out.’

  ‘Fine, but I don’t think he’ll come that way,’ Diamond said. ‘There’s no obvious point where he can change route if he’s seen. You know what local lanes are like, with high sides. He’s got better options through Westwood.’

  ‘You’re really getting into this guy’s head,’ Gull said.

  ‘He almost got into mine, literally.’

  ‘Right, then.’ Needing to assert himself, Gull inflated his chest and jutted his chin in a posture reminiscent of Mussolini. ‘We warn Wiltshire Police Authority that we expect the sniper to return to Becky Addy tonight or tomorrow, so they can get a strong presence there, and we tell them we’re blanketing Westwood with our own people. Cross-border co-operation. Will you take care of that?’

  ‘I was thinking in view of these …’ Diamond lifted one of his crutches a few inches off the floor.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Not acute pain. I took something for it.’

  ‘My role as head of serial crimes is to decide the strategy,’ Gull said, regardless that Diamond had been deciding it for the past ten minutes. ‘It’s up to you to implement the action. If you’re unfit, you’d better say so and we’ll appoint a deputy.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Good. I’ve been on the go some hours and I’m going to leave you in charge for the time being.’ He noticed Leaman checking the clock. ‘No need to log my comings and goings, by the way. The SCU is free ranging.’ He stalked out.

  ‘Free-range, as distinct from battery birds, like you and me,’ Diamond said to Leaman.

  ‘If you want a rest, guv, I can set things up for tonight.’

  ‘You heard me say I’m okay,’ Diamond said. ‘Would I lie to Jack Gull?’

  No response.

  Diamond eased the crutch from his right arm and let it fall to the floor. ‘I don’t need both of these any longer. I can manage with one.’ He hobbled a few steps to the board plastered with photos of all three shootings. ‘Gull and his people are convinced these attacks are random. They say they researched the murdered officers and there’s no reason anyone would want to shoot them for who they were.’

  A frown from Leaman suggested he, too, had taken this as gospel.

  Diamond continued, ‘They made up their minds before Harry Tasker was killed.’

  Leaman scratched the back of his head, unsure where this was leading. ‘They must have gone into it carefully.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘But you think they could be mistaken?’

  ‘Put it this way, John. They’re the Serial Crimes Unit. Serial killing is their business and serial killing is usually random. After two shootings they look at the history of the victims and can’t see any link between PC Hart, the Wells guy, and Richmond, the Radstock guy. So it’s random. And when shooting number three occurs — same weapon, same time of day, same MO — their suspicion hardens into certainty. They’re so sure that they don’t even consider checking whether victim three has anything in common with victim one or victim two — apart from being a cop.’

  Leaman’s eyes widened. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘It ought to be looked at. We have Harry Tasker’s file here and more importantly we have people who knew him. Personally I know sweet FA about Hart and Richmond.’

  ‘Their records will be at headquarters. Must be, if Jack Gull and his team were studying them. I can ask them to share them.’

  Diamond shook his head. Some craft was wanted here. He didn’t want headquarters thinking he’d pulled the rug from under Gull. ‘Rather than dealing with Portishead, I’ll speak to Wells and Radstock, where these guys were based. Their personnel units must have supplied the profiles. They can supply us as well. I’ll tell them we have an incident room here and we need everything in our system. We’re not dealing with one case in isolation.’

  In twenty minutes, he had the information he wanted. Leaman brought it up on the screen. Diamond wheeled his office chair closer.

  PC Hart, Martin, aged 31 at death, had joined the police only four years before, after a short career teaching physical education. Born in a village near Wells, he had attended a local comprehensive where he had excelled at sport, notably basketball and fencing. As a fencer, he’d been on the fringe of international selection and this had helped him to a sports course at Bridgwater in spite of mediocre exam results. He’d trained as a teacher and taken up water sports. While still at college he’d met Juliet Strang, from Portsmouth, a swimmer, and they lived together until after obtaining their degrees, when they married. He was appointed teacher of PE at a state school in Minehead. His wife gave birth to twin daughters in the first year. Schoolteaching hadn’t suited Martin Hart’s temperament. He found working to a timetable restrictive, preferring games and leading school teams to the daily routine of lessons. But there had been no problems over discipline. If anything, he was
too demanding of the students and expected standards they were unable to match. After six years of teaching, he decided on a change of career and applied to join the police. He was regarded as a good candidate, physically fit and with satisfactory references from the school. He’d completed the training and joined Wells as a probationer and impressed everyone with his communication skills and confidence dealing with a variety of situations. Confirmed as a fully fledged constable he was tipped to get promotion to sergeant within another year. His home life appeared good. After the twins, another child, a son, had been born, and the family lived in a rented house in a well-regarded estate north of the city. His wife Juliet worked part-time as a lifeguard at the local sports centre and coached the swim team.

  ‘A sheltered life, really,’ Leaman said in summary

  Diamond nodded. ‘Family man, lived in Somerset all his life. How would a country boy like this give offence to a gunman?’

  ‘Are we assuming it wasn’t a random killing?’

  ‘That’s the point of this exercise,’ Diamond reminded him.

  ‘Maybe the gunman happened to have been a kid at the school where he taught.’

  ‘Not bad, John. Not bad. And had a grudge about the way he was treated? Compulsory games?’

  Leaman smiled. ‘It would have to be worse than that. Some of these PE teachers are sadistic bastards.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Memories of school cross-country runs stirred in Diamond’s brain. Those formative experiences went deep, himself with the stragglers, smokers and fat boys at the back of the pack, too breathless to run, shivering in shorts and singlet, and being threatened with an extra round of the course by a bully in a tracksuit. ‘There were times when I would gladly have shot mine, but I hope I’ve got over it.’

  ‘They say it’s self-perpetuating.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You get bullied and in due course you become a bully.’

  ‘Get away.’

  It was a rare moment of triumph for Leaman. He’d got one over his assertive boss.

  ‘We’re guessing here,’ Diamond said testily. ‘Move this on. Let’s look at the other victim.’

  PC Richmond, Stanley, had been older than Hart. 41 at death, a career policeman, he had joined Bristol Central after leaving school. His file showed he’d moved around more than most in his first few years: Crewkerne, Minehead, Glastonbury, Somerton, Ilminster, Wincanton.

  ‘Why so many moves?’ Diamond said.

  ‘Sometimes you get a bloke who doesn’t fit in.’

  ‘An awkward bugger? I’ve met a few.’

  Leaman reddened.

  ‘Nothing personal. Then there are restless guys who are always putting in for transfers. Was he married?’

  ‘No. Ah, this could explain why he was often on the move,’ Leaman said, and read aloud. ‘ “Has an interest in folklore and writes articles for Somerset Life and other magazines.” I expect he was gathering material for his writings.’

  ‘He was supposed to be keeping law and order.’

  ‘He could still have combined it with his hobby.’

  ‘Which must be why he never made it to sergeant.’

  ‘Just look at the list of postings. Glastonbury, famous for its mystical connections. Somerton, supposedly the meeting place of various ley lines. Wincanton had its witch trials. He did his research, wrote it up and then asked for another transfer.’

  ‘He ended up at Radstock. What’s there, apart from disused coal mines?’

  ‘Bronze age stuff. Saxon burials.’

  Diamond was impressed. ‘You’re well up on all this. Are you a rucksack and shorts man on your days off?’

  Leaman hesitated. ‘I take an interest, but I wouldn’t say I’m well up on it, not like Stan Richmond.’

  ‘Ever met him on a dig?’

  Leaman shook his head. ‘I can see I’m going to regret this.’

  Diamond revolved his chair to turn his back on the screen. ‘So we have a sporting ex-teacher and a folklore buff. A muscleman and a hippie. Not a lot in common except they both joined the police.’

  ‘Both lived in Minehead at one time.’

  ‘Did they?’ Something he’d missed. Once more he was forced to respect Leaman’s attention to detail.

  ‘Hart taught there and Richmond was on the strength, but not at the same time.’

  ‘May be of interest, maybe not. Personal files only tell you so much. Christ only knows what mine says. They leave out the really interesting bits. For that, we need to talk to family and friends. I read in one of the tabloids that Martin Hart was known to his friends as Ossy. Why was that, I wonder?’

  ‘Aussie, like Down Under?’

  ‘Ossy. With a double s.’

  ‘Short for Oscar?’

  ‘Search me. His name wasn’t Oscar. That’s what it said in the press. Reporters are good at finding out personal stuff like that. Brings them to life. It’s what people like to read. Why Ossy? Ozzy Osbourne I can understand, but Ossy Hart? Am I missing something?’

  Leaman gave a shrug.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s important,’ Diamond went on, ‘but this is the kind of detail you don’t get from reading official files on a bloody computer.’

  ‘Most of the newspapers are on computer,’ Leaman said, as a true apostle of the world wide web.

  ‘Check them out, then,’ Diamond countered, never one to miss an opening. ‘See if they teased out anything we don’t know. But I’m going to send Ingeborg to Wells and Radstock to get the real dope on the victims.’

  DC Ingeborg Smith had once been a crime reporter who had more than once put Diamond through the wringer.

  ‘Is that wise? Jack Gull won’t like us going it alone,’ Leaman said.

  ‘Gull is too busy to notice. I wish we could find a connection between these two and Harry Tasker,’ Diamond said. ‘All I got from Tasker’s wife is that he fished and watched TV in his time off. Was that really all he did? Does anyone here know any more about him?’

  ‘He wasn’t much of a communicator.’

  ‘She mentioned that, too. And he griped about freemasonry in the police.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Leaman said in a challenging tone. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth.

  Diamond raised his hand as if to concede that he’d bowled one bouncer too many. ‘You’re one of them. I forgot.’

  Leaman twitched again. ‘There’s nothing in our conditions of service to say I shouldn’t be one of them, as you put it. Plenty of us are, and proud to be. What was Harry Tasker’s problem with it?’

  ‘Favours, I expect.’

  Leaman simply clicked his tongue.

  ‘Isn’t that what persuaded you to join?’

  Leaman sighed and rolled his eyes upwards.

  Diamond grinned. ‘No need to get shirty, John. You’re a secretive bunch, up to all kinds of weird practices, but I don’t think you take shots at non-members, even stroppy non-members like Harry Tasker.’

  Ingeborg was delighted to be asked.

  ‘It’s not exactly undercover,’ Diamond told her, ‘but you don’t need to go through official channels. I’d rather you shared a drink with the Wells CID lads than knocked on the Chief Superintendent’s door.’

  ‘Do I get expenses?’

  ‘You can claim for your travel. You’ll drive, I expect?’

  ‘Will it also go to a round of drinks?’

  ‘You’re a girl,’ he said, frowning. ‘You get drinks put in front of you.’

  There was a pause while Ingeborg composed herself. ‘Not necessarily, guv.’

  ‘If all else fails, then.’

  ‘And what am I meant to find out?’

  ‘All you can on Ossy Hart. His friends, contacts, the things he talked about, particularly his life outside the police. Family, sports. Was he one of these hearty types who make themselves unpopular? Why was he known as Ossy when his name was Martin? You’re going to seem nosy and they may resent it from a stranger, but if anyone can charm it out of t
hem, you will, and we’re doing this for professional reasons. Let them know you’re CID and from Bath. They’ll know all about the shooting.’

  ‘And you want me to do the same in Radstock?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Stanley Richmond.’

  ‘Even if you catch the sniper tonight?’

  ‘If we catch him, we’ll want to know why he did it.’

  ‘Wasn’t it random?’

  She didn’t get an answer.

  9

  Diamond was never sure whether sleeping in the day helped. Generally he would wake feeling worse than when he closed his eyes. Today he had no choice. He was dog tired and the painkillers acted as sedatives. After getting home at five, he made short work of a stack of cheese and pickle sandwiches, opened a pouch of tuna for the cat and fell into bed. Good thing he had enough of his wits about him to set the alarm for eleven — P.M., not A.M., as he felt he deserved.

  The sleep must have helped, but it didn’t feel like that when the beep-beep broke into his dream of cruising the shallows of a slow-moving river in a flat-bottomed boat with Steph miraculously alive again, lightly holding his arm. When he flexed he found he’d been stroking his right bicep with his left hand. With an anguished groan, he reached out to stop the alarm repeating. Darkness had set in. He heaved himself off the pillow, groped for the light switch and stared at the clock. Stark reality replaced the dream: three brother officers murdered and their killer out there somewhere. Under an hour to get to Westwood.

  He put his feet to the floor and was sharply reminded to reach for the crutch.

  Curled up at the end of the bed on the softest part of the duvet, Raffles must have heard the yelp of pain. The ears pricked, but that was the only move.

  The temptation to prod that cat was strong. Instead Diamond phoned John Leaman to check what had happened in the last few hours.

  Nothing of note. The search for the weapon in Becky Addy Wood had been abandoned at dusk. Ken Lockton remained comatose in the Royal United. No significant finds were reported from the Walcot Street murder scene.

  The route took Diamond through the city, so quiet on a Sunday night you could have heard the wheeze of sleeping pigeons. He went over Claverton Down and linked up with the Warminster Road, the A36, where the only other vehicle he saw was a huge articulated truck parked in a lay-by, the driver dozing in his cab. Was everyone asleep? The people of Westwood would be. In all the outlying villages they kept country hours.