‘But I don’t have an order with me, do I? I’m calling on people all day long. Some of them I remember by where they live. He’s at the top end of Blahblah Avenue (made-up name).’
‘Nice neighbourhood. What does he do?’
‘Apart from opening the door and taking in buttonholes? I can’t tell you. I don’t question the clients. If he had a brass plate on his door I’d know, but he hasn’t.’
She gave up trying to dig the name out of me. ‘Well, it’s not beyond the power of three intelligent women to find out. It’s so much easier when he’s local.’
‘We know he’s in a relationship,’ Vicky added.
‘And they go to functions together.’ Anita clicked her fingers. ‘I reckon we’ve identified the go-between, the woman who meets city break man and collects the tickets.’
‘Could be. Could well be,’ I went. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.’
‘You can get his name from the shop. They’ll have copies of receipts. They must have.’
‘I’ll try and get it tomorrow.’
‘We may still need to do surveillance to find his line of work. Don’t you chat him up when you go to the house?’
‘We’re not all as chummy as you,’ Vicky went, smiling at Anita.
‘I can’t let clients think I’m nosy,’ I explained.
Anita gave me a pained look with her Nefertiti eyes. ‘Friendly isn’t nosy. You learn a lot by being friendly.’
There was a second or so of thoughtful silence while I’m certain each of us was wondering how many of our innermost secrets we’d revealed to the others.
Then I was like, ‘All right, leave it with me and I’ll definitely find out who he is, or who he claims to be. Then we can decide what to do next.’
I was already wishing I hadn’t opened my big mouth. I was putting my job at risk here, giving out information about clients. You may not think a flower deliverer is in a position of trust, but she is. She knows about the passions and desires of half the town. I didn’t take an oath when I started the job, or sign the Official Secrets Act, but it gets home to you day by day that you’d better keep certain things to yourself. Once you break a confidence, where do you stop?
Maybe I do know the true identity of Heathrow man and something in my brain is blocking it out.
16
In sunshine early next morning Diamond drove down to the cathedral city of Wells, through a series of places that sounded as if they had been dreamed up by Agatha Christie: Peasedown St. John, Midsomer Norton and Farrington Gurney. In reality much of this was former mining land rather than the English countryside at its most picturesque. When the Somerset coal industry withered and died in the fifties and sixties, these little communities, much extended by affordable housing, became dormitory outposts for Bath.
The journey was not much over twenty miles, and he took it sedately in his Honda using most of the hour to get there, thinking not about social change in rural England, but where he would get breakfast.
In Wells, he found a privately owned cafe open before eight-thirty, so rare a discovery in the West Country that he was tempted to believe this would be his lucky day. Over a plate of fried bacon, two eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans, he studied the file he’d brought with him. He was in Ossy Hart territory now, but with a different agenda from the one he had given Ingeborg. First he was going to find the spot where Ossy had been gunned down. Then he would call on Mrs. Hart. A widow too far: get away.
He marked both locations on the street map, checked his watch, drained his cup, paid up and moved on. The city was barely awake. Window-cleaners were at work on the shop fronts. How they got clean results with so little water he couldn’t fathom. His own efforts at home always left smears that he rubbed with paper tissue and usually made worse.
He had no difficulty finding the scene of the shooting. The tree house the sniper had used as a firing position was in a private garden west of the town. A walnut tree with a massive trunk towered over the street from behind an eight-foot brick wall. Where the first great limbs thrust out from the bole, a platform had been erected twelve feet above ground and stabilized with struts bolted into the trunk. A child-size wooden cabin was built on it and a ladder of split logs gave access. You could just see the top rungs above the wall.
It could have been purpose-built for murder.
Across the road and a short way to the right, between twenty and thirty yards off, was a street lamp. Anyone walking under there by night was an easy target. Enclosed, crouched in this snug hideout built for play by some loving father, Ossy Hart’s killer had pointed his assault rifle from an open window. With a secure position and a ledge to prop his elbows, he’d taken aim across an unimpeded view. When his victim had stepped in front of the cross hairs or been pinpointed by the red spot the sniper had released the bullets. Then he’d climbed down the ladder and escaped unseen, sheltered by the wall. A convenient garden gate was only thirty yards off.
Diamond didn’t cross the road to examine the spot where Ossy had died. The police tape had long since been removed, any blood washed away. Forensics had scoured the street for traces twelve weeks ago. Nothing would have escaped their attention. Instead he stood below the tree in empathy with the dead constable. Up to now, his prime concern had been the shooting of Harry Tasker and the attack on Ken Lockton. Today he felt kinship with PC Hart, the ex-teacher. Was it sheer bad luck that you happened to be the copper walking by, Ossy, or was your name on the bullet? Did you know your killer? Either way, a young married father had been picked off with one impassive squeeze of the trigger.
The murder of a police officer on duty is a rare event, rightly rated among the worst of crimes, sure to produce an eruption of outrage. SIOs will always say they treat every homicide with the same investigative zeal, yet the pressure to make an arrest for a police killing is unrelenting. Getting it done is a petrifying responsibility. Getting it right is no certainty.
He returned to his car and sat for a long time in silence, feeling that burden, an ordinary man doing his best to deal with the extraordinary. The tree house was still in sight through his windscreen. On this bright morning, yesterday’s theory that the sniper must have been a brother officer felt less tenable. The notion of a policeman sneaking into that hide and waiting for one of his own kind to come within firing distance was hard to accept. If Bath CID refused to swallow the new scenario for the shooting of Harry Tasker, what would they have made of Ossy Hart’s murder? Diamond knew the answer. And now he, too, was at risk of being swayed into disbelief.
Better do what I came here to do, he decided. He started the car and drove north to the estate where Ossy had lived. A small end-terrace house with a door painted red.
9:43 A.M. He’d spent longer contemplating the crime scene than he realised. He hadn’t made an appointment. He’d fixed 9.30 in his own mind as a reasonable time to call, after the kids had been taken to school.
Sounds from inside came as a relief. Juliet Hart opened the door and she was not the red-eyed widow he expected. Flushed with health, lean as a streak, bright-eyed and welcoming. Natural red hair combed back and fastened with a green ribbon. Silver jumpsuit, matching Nike trainers.
‘Hi.’
His hand went to raise a non-existent hat before he remembered his trilby was on the back seat of the car. He tried a polite smile. ‘Mrs. Hart? Sorry to bother you so early in the day. Sorry to bother you at all.’ He felt in his pocket for the ID. ‘But it’s necessary.’
‘Are you collecting for something?’ she asked, not unfriendly. She must have seen his stick and decided he was disabled.
‘No, ma’am. Surprising as it may seem, I’m a police officer.’
‘You’re on the investigation. Good for you,’ she said without looking at his warrant card. ‘But I doubt if there’s anything more I can tell you.’
‘I’m not from Wells Police. I expect you heard about the shooting in Bath at the weekend. That’s why I’m here.’
&nbs
p; ‘You’re over from Bath? Did you know the man who was killed there?’
‘Not all that well. I’m CID. He was uniform.’
‘Same as my Ossy.’ Said in as measured a tone as if she was talking about matching hats.
She’s over-compensating, he thought, remembering the sudden avalanche of anger from Emma Tasker. He prepared for something similar, or tears, at the very least.
But she added as if discussing last night’s TV, ‘Do you think it was the same gunman who shot Ossy?’
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, the interviewee asking the questions. ‘Everything points to it.’
‘They don’t seem to have made much progress.’ She glanced at his stick again. ‘You’d better come in and sit down. I was exercising, skipping in the garden. It’s my chance, when the children are in school.’ She led him into an open plan kitchen-diner and cleared newspapers from a chair. ‘Do you drink juice? I have beetroot, cranberry or pomegranate.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks. You carry on. You must be thirsty.’
‘Am I in a sweat, then? Is it so obvious?’
‘Glowing.’ Steph had taught him that refinement.
She smiled, took a jug from the fridge and filled a glass with pink liquid that could have been any of the three on offer.
He took note of his surroundings. Mainly wood. Pine in the kitchen, beech slats along one wall. A wood-framed sofa and low tables. Parquet floor. Even the pictures on the wall were of forest scenes.
‘In case you’re wondering, I had a lot of sympathy cards, getting on for two hundred, but I don’t display them,’ she said. ‘Ossy had so many friends. However, I don’t need to be reminded that he’s gone, and I’m trying to get the children back to some kind of normality.’
‘I understand,’ he said. And he did. On the day after Steph’s funeral, he’d stuffed all the cards into a carrier bag and stowed them in the loft.
‘I’m not ungrateful for all the support. They gave him a mega send-off.’ There was pride in her voice. ‘When it comes to something like this, the police are brilliant. They offered to take over, and I’m so glad I let them. The funeral was in the cathedral. The Chief Constable came, and the Lord Lieutenant and lots of local people we didn’t know who just wanted to show respect, I suppose. Well, after that, I spent a week dealing with everything, writing letters and filling in forms. You wouldn’t believe all the paperwork there is when someone dies. But it stopped me feeling sorry for myself. And then I started my life again. That’s what Ossy would have wanted. He always believed in moving on, whatever problems cropped up.’
‘Sensible,’ Diamond said, thinking sensible if you can be like that. Grief makes its own agenda. For Emma Tasker, anger. For this woman, refusal to be downed. With three children to care for, she was forced to be forward-looking, but there would be an undercurrent of pain.
And in a strange way, he found the steely exclusion of grief just as difficult to deal with as the anger.
She brought the drink over to the armchair opposite him and sat with her legs curled under her.
This time he got a question in first. ‘Do you mind going over some things you may have been asked before?’
‘Not at all, if they lead to a result.’
‘Let’s hope so. Did Ossy ever speak of Stan Richmond, or Harry Tasker?’
She shook her head. ‘Not to me.’
‘Stan Richmond was the Radstock victim. Did Ossy visit Radstock?’
‘On the odd occasion. It’s not one of our favourite places.’
‘Bath?’
‘Rather more often. We’d go there for the sports facilities sometimes. The theatre, around Christmas, for the pantomime, but Wells has most of what we want.’
‘I’m wondering if he went there alone.’
‘To Bath? Hardly ever. Days off were precious, what with all the overtime and shift work, so we did things as a family.’
‘I heard he was keen on his job.’
‘That’s for sure. He was studying for the sergeants’ exam, hoping to get his stripes next year.’
‘He got along with the Wells lads, did he?’
‘Lasses, too. Yes, they’re a friendly lot.’
‘Nobody got up his nose?’
She shook her head. ‘He never mentioned anyone.’
‘And in his dealings with the public, did he make any enemies?’
‘A few, I expect. You’re bound to, if you’re doing your job and nicking people.’
‘Did anyone threaten him?’
‘I was asked this before. It’s obvious they could have, some of the hard lads he dealt with. If so, he didn’t tell me and her didn’t let it bother him. His years as a teacher helped him deal with troublemakers. He was quite a disciplinarian. Too much so, for schooling in the twenty-first century.’
‘Were there any feuds hanging over from his time as a teacher? Former pupils who still bore a grudge?’
‘I doubt that. Ossy always dealt with misbehaviour on the spot, twenty press-ups or whatever. Then it was over and forgotten. The Minehead kids respected him.’ She glanced down at her polished fingernails. ‘I understand where you’re coming from. I just think it’s not a profitable line of enquiry.’
‘Do you have a theory of your own?’
‘As to why he was shot? It was the uniform, wasn’t it? Someone hated the police and Ossy happened to be on duty that night. Simple as that.’
The standard line. Diamond didn’t want to dent her confidence with his disturbing theory of the killer targeting certain individuals. He was warming to this upbeat young woman and her positive way of dealing with her loss. ‘I’m curious to know where his nickname came from. He was Martin by birth, wasn’t he?’
She laughed. ‘The “Ossy”? The kids he taught called him that and it stuck. He quite liked it and so did I. It seemed to suit him.’
‘But how did it start? These names generally mean something in the first place.’
‘Don’t they just? It was a very big deal at the time.’ She paused and looked away, clutching the back of her hair in the first suggestion of nervousness she’d shown. ‘After he came here and joined the force he played it down. I doubt if he told anyone.’
He waited while she composed herself. This wouldn’t be easy for her if Ossy himself had been guarded about the name.
‘No harm in talking about it now he’s gone,’ she said finally. She’d reached her decision and recovered her equilibrium. ‘Minehead, where he was teaching, has a rather special May Day celebration. Actually it goes on for several days. The first we knew of it was when one of our neighbours knocked on our door and said he was on the organising committee and he’d like to propose my husband for the Sailor’s Horse.’
‘What on earth …?’
This relaxed her again and she smiled. ‘That was exactly our reaction. It’s an honour, actually, but you have to be fit to do it. They have this age-old ritual involving people dressed as hobby horses, or ’obby ’osses, in the good old Zummerzet dialect.’
Diamond raised his thumb. ‘Got you.’
‘Have you heard of it?’
‘Vaguely. Tell me more.’
‘The Sailor’s Horse is the main one. He wears a brightly coloured headpiece with an ostrich feather plume. It’s supposed to be a horse’s head but actually is more like a clown’s face. Then he has a large wooden frame strapped to his shoulders supporting something that’s a cross between a boat, a horse and a party frock. The best you can say for it is that it’s colourful. It’s made up of thousands of ribbons and a fabric skirt with the words “Sailor’s Horse” written on it in big letters, in case anyone misses the point — which is quite possible.’
‘He agreed to do it?’
‘He had to parade around the town for several days dancing to a special tune played on drums and a squeeze box. What’s the proper name for those things?’
‘Accordion?’
‘That’s it. The men are dressed as sailors. They’re collecting for ch
arity — the lifeboats, I think — and if people don’t pay up they’d better look out, because they’re likely to be harassed by the ’oss.’
‘Strictly speaking, that breaks all the rules about collecting,’ he said, tongue in cheek.
‘Yes, and it gets worse. Any man refusing to pay up is liable to get a few lashes from the ’oss’s long tail. And just to add to the mayhem, the horse is supposed to chase the women and children.’
‘He’s a threatening figure, then?’
‘Certainly was in times past. He was backed up by men known as gullivers, armed with whips and huge pincers. They put a stop to that after one of the local townspeople was killed.’
‘Killed? When was this?’
She laughed and flapped her hand. ‘Not what you’re thinking. Way back in the eighteen hundreds.’
‘Even so, if someone died I’m surprised it was allowed to continue.’
‘They changed the way it was done. Nowadays the Sailor’s Horse just has some jolly jack tars in tow. I think the two rival horses are allowed to have their gullivers, but they dress in fancy costume and don’t threaten people. It’s pure carnival these days and stage-managed.’
‘What part do these rivals play?’
‘The Traditional Sailor’s Horse and the Town Horse? They appear from time to time and have ritual fights with the Original Sailor’s Horse, the one Ossy played.’
‘I can see why a PE teacher was picked for the job.’
‘Yes, it’s quite demanding physically, but Ossy didn’t mind. The worst bit was getting up really early on May Day to greet the sun at 5 A.M. Nobody seems to know for sure how far back the whole thing goes or what it represents, except that it ushers in the start of spring.’ She took a sip of her juice. ‘Do you really want to know about this? I doubt if it has anything to do with the shooting.’
‘Everything you can recall about it,’ Diamond said, trying to contain his excitement. He’d already made a link with Stan Richmond, the folklore enthusiast. The weird ceremonies in Minehead must have been followed with interest by the loner from Radstock.
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