‘Good thinking. Make sure it’s switched on.’
The front door looked as solid as the door of a jumbo jet. No bell, no letter-flap, no means of announcing their arrival.
‘What are we meant to do, rap with our knuckles?’ Ingeborg said.
‘They know we’re here,’ he said with a glance at the security camera above their heads. ‘The question is will they let us in?’
The sound of bolts being released answered that. The door swung inwards.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The speaker was in a blue bathrobe and flip-flops. He didn’t seem to be wearing anything else. Dense tattoos down each side of his neck looked as if they were an extension of the robe, like a stand-up collar. In his late forties, broad-shouldered, with shaven head, but bristly face and hostile grey unblinking eyes, he plainly wasn’t overjoyed to have callers. And, to be fair, Diamond’s get-up — like a character out of a Whitehall farce — didn’t encourage respect. ‘How did you get through the bloody gate?’
‘My colleague has a way with dogs,’ Diamond said, held up his ID and gave their ranks and names. ‘Would you be Mr. Nuttall senior?’
‘If you’re any use at your job, I don’t have to answer that. What’s it about?’
‘May we discuss it inside?’
‘I want to know what there is to discuss.’
‘Your son Royston.’
‘Him?’ The eyes narrowed. ‘What’s he been up to this time?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of PC Tasker in Walcot Street last weekend.’
Soldier Nuttall rocked back as if avoiding a punch. ‘You won’t pin that on my boy.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘In bed. He keeps late hours. What’s all this about, then?’
‘Would you ask him to get up and answer some questions?’
‘Is that all it is — questions?’
Diamond nodded.
Soldier Nuttall snatched a mobile phone off a table behind the door and pressed a key. Several seconds passed. Then: ‘Roy, get down here quick. The fuzz have come calling.’ With that, he stepped aside and let them in.
The hallway was large enough to be called an entrance court. A full-size stone lion dominated on a plinth in the centre, jaws forever open in a silent roar. Hanging above it was a large flag of St. George. Beyond was a flight of marble stairs that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Buckingham Palace.
‘You’d better come in here.’ He led them into what appeared to be a military briefing-room with ordnance survey maps and photos of uniformed groups on the walls and a huge table with about twenty chairs around it. There was a screen and some kind of projector.
‘The games room?’ Diamond said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘War games.’
‘Nothing done in here is games,’ Nuttall said. ‘What were you doing poking around my firing range?’
‘Just that — poking around,’ Diamond said. ‘We couldn’t make ourselves heard at the door so we went looking for you. Saw those targets you use. Not nice.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Taking shots at policemen?’
‘Chipboard policemen. It’s harmless. You’ve got to see the funny side,’ Nuttall said without smiling.
‘Funny, is it?’
‘It’s a free country. I can do what I like in private.’
‘If it’s legal. It looks like a military range. You wouldn’t get a licence for the assault rifles the army use.’
He gave Diamond a long look before answering, ‘We do things properly in my organisation.’
‘Fight for Britain?’
‘That’s our name, yes. Do I have to explain that it doesn’t mean violence? You can fight for your rights, and sometimes you need to in this ineptly led country. You can fight for your health, your future, your right to live in peace. Everything we do is lawful, or they’d have clapped me behind bars years ago.’
This could have been a nice moment to raise the matter of the hidden arsenal, but Diamond had something else on his mind.
‘When you phoned your son just now,’ he said, ‘did you get an answer? I heard what you said. I didn’t hear his end of the conversation.’
Nuttall frowned and walked over to the doorway. ‘He said something. He ought to be down by now.’ He stepped out into the hall and yelled, ‘Royston, get your arse down here double-quick.’
Diamond murmured to Ingeborg, ‘Could have scarpered.’
She nodded.
They heard Nuttall’s flipflops slapping the stairs as he stomped up them shouting his son’s name.
‘I’m going after him,’ Diamond said.
‘Both of us are, guv.’
Large as this house was, it was easy following the owner through it. The uncarpeted corridors acted like soundboxes. Nuttall had stopped at a door on the middle level and was rattling the handle when Diamond and Ingeborg caught up. He didn’t seem to mind that they’d followed him. He was fully focussed on his unresponsive son.
‘If you don’t open this sodding door, son, I’ll kick it in and you can pay for the repair.’
Not with those flipflops, you won’t, Diamond thought.
Nothing was heard from Royston.
‘I’m not messing. It’s up to you.’ Nuttall stepped away, opened the door opposite, went inside and staggered out carrying an entire bedside cabinet and heaved it at Royston’s door. The panel above the door handle burst inwards and Nuttall had to be nimble to avoid the cupboard bouncing off and hitting his feet. He thrust his arm through the hole and turned the key. High-stepping over the cupboard, he went in.
‘Bloody hell.’
Diamond and Ingeborg followed him in. The interior was typical of any adolescent’s bedroom in its clutter of clothes, shoes and magazines scattered across the carpet. A huge built-in wardrobe dominated one wall and was stuffed with what were obviously expensive clothes, among them a rail filled with studded leather jackets. The walls were covered with posters of pop groups, motorcycles and body-builders flexing their muscles. Two guitars were propped against a keyboard. A quilt with the red cross of St. George was on the bed. But Royston wasn’t.
Soldier Nuttall was at the open window, leaning out. ‘He must have climbed down the wall.’
Diamond joined him and looked out. ‘Down the creeper, anyway.’ The branches of the wisteria, some as thick as drainpipes, would certainly have given enough support. Down on the ground there was no sign of a teenager. The bare lawns and the driveway stretched for a long distance. ‘Can he get the front gate to open?’
‘He’s got a remote, same as me,’ Nuttall said.
‘There must be a way to override it.’
‘Downstairs.’
‘Better do it now.’
Nuttall swung around and practically shoved Ingeborg aside in his eagerness to take up the suggestion. He was over the barrier of the cupboard, through the door and heading towards the stairs like a bat out of hell. Exactly why he was so keen to stop his son escaping wasn’t clear. Possibly, Diamond thought, having Royston in the line of fire was preferable to being questioned about the activities of Fight for Britain. The man had been visibly shaken at being asked about military weapons.
‘Search the room for anything dodgy,’ Diamond told Ingeborg. ‘I’m going after him.’
Downstairs, Nuttall was in the hall, hitting the digits of a control panel mounted on the wall just inside the front door. ‘I’ve locked everything,’ he said. ‘No one can get in or out.’
‘Can you tell if the front gate was open in the last few minutes?’
‘It wasn’t. Definitely.’
‘He’s still in the grounds, then.’
‘He’ll have gone for his bike,’ Nuttall said.
‘Where the Porsche is?’
‘Christ — I’ll kill him if he uses that.’
‘Shall we check?’
Outside, Nuttall kicked off the flipflops and sprinted across the lawn towards the open barn
, with Diamond doing his insufficient best to keep up. Royston wasn’t in sight, but as Nuttall got closer the sound of barking started and the Dobermann raced towards him. He stooped and grabbed it by the collar and held on.
Diamond approached with caution.
‘The dog won’t go for you,’ Nuttall said. ‘It’s a guard dog, but I won’t let go of it. I feed the brute, so it knows me. But if it was sniffing here, the boy must be somewhere around.’
‘Does it know Royston?’
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t feed it. If he steps outside when the dog’s on guard, it’ll have him.’
‘Let’s see if there’s anything left of him,’ Diamond said.
They approached the collection of vehicles. The motorbike was still in place and so was the Porsche.
The dog started growling, straining to be free and showing its teeth.
‘I’m going to let go of it,’ Nuttall said.
‘Is that wise?’
‘Stay real close and it won’t touch you.’
Not liking this one bit, Diamond practically nudged shoulders with Nuttall on his free side. The instant it was released, the Dobermann dashed to the Porsche and prowled around it, continuing to snarl.
‘He’s inside, the scumbag,’ Nuttall said. ‘He was going to use my motor.’ He charged forward and flung open the door.
A youth was cowering on the rear seat.
The dog leapt inside and sank its teeth into the sleeve of the boy’s bomber jacket. Nuttall grabbed it by the collar and tugged, trying to haul it off. He only succeeded at the cost of a slice of leather that remained in the closed jaws.
‘Get outta there!’ Nuttall shouted at his son.
The dog had moved a short way off and was lying down, content to chew the leather.
Royston looked anxiously to see where the dog was and then emerged from the car, a tall, pale young man who had gone through the adolescent growth spurt and hadn’t yet put on much flesh or muscle. There was a slight resemblance to his father in the flat nose and puddle-brown eyes, but he didn’t have the military grooming. A mop of thick, dark hair drooped over his shoulders and he hadn’t shaved in some time. He was shaking, either from the experience with the dog or fear of what would happen next.
He said in a rush of words, ‘Dad, I wasn’t trying to take the car, honest. I haven’t got the key, have I? You left it unlocked. It was the only place I could find to get away from the dog. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know it was anywhere near the house. It would have gone for my throat. I was desperate.’
‘Get inside the house, you pillock,’ Nuttall said. ‘We’ll sort this later. This gentleman is a cop and he can have you for evading arrest if he wants. I’m not going to stop him.’
‘What does he want me for?’
‘Do as I say. In the briefing room. At the double.’
Royston wasn’t of a mind to argue. He turned and walked swiftly towards the house.
‘He won’t run off again,’ Nuttall said to Diamond.
Diamond nodded his thanks. ‘He was probably making a dash for the motorbike. Does it belong to him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Powerful. A present from you?’
A shake of the head. ‘He paid for it on the never-never. I brought him up to value things. I’ll say this for him: he’s no scrounger.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to speak to him without you in the room. He’s not being arrested. We want his help as a possible witness.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll put the dog in its pen.’
A double favour — better than Diamond could have hoped for. The man was only too relieved to be asked to keep his distance. It hardened Diamond’s opinion that Nuttall was more concerned about the hidden armoury than whatever trouble his own son might be in.
Back in the house, Ingeborg met Diamond at the door. He raised his eyebrows — a silent question.
‘A wad of banknotes,’ she said in a voice pitched low. ‘A grand or more, at a guess. Plenty of expensive clothes, some soft porn magazines and CDs and a small quantity of party drugs.’
‘Personal use?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Are you switched on?’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘The mini-recorder.’
‘Ah.’ She touched a point deep in her cleavage. ‘I am now.’
They went into the briefing room.
Royston was sitting at the far end of the long table, arms folded in such a way that one hand covered the hole in his sleeve, as if he’d resolved not to reveal any weak point. He’d got a little colour back. It was likely that after being mauled by a Dobermann everything else paled into insignificance, including a grilling from the police.
Diamond established the boy’s identity as well as confirming theirs, then said, ‘This is about the murder of PC Tasker in Walcot Street last weekend. You know about it, I’m sure.’
‘What do you mean — know about it?’ Royston said, shooting him a defiant look. ‘I know sod all.’
‘You heard about it.’
He shrugged. ‘Everyone did.’
‘And you’re often in Walcot Street, doing the pubs and clubs?’
‘It’s a free country,’ he said, echoing his father’s comment when justifying shooting at targets of policemen. Plainly this interview wasn’t going to be an easy ride, but at least the boy wasn’t playing dumb.
‘How old are you?’
‘Come on,’ he said, getting more confident. ‘You’re not going to do me for under-age drinking. Seventeen, and never touched a drop.’ He grinned, inviting a challenge.
‘You met Harry Tasker more than once.’
‘So did loads of others. Walcot was his beat. He was always down there trying to get us to talk. Community policing, innit?’
‘Sometimes he caught people doing stuff they shouldn’t,’ Diamond said. ‘Did he ever catch you?’
‘What — drugs and that?’ Royston said, cool, as if prepared for this line of questioning. ‘Never. Not me.’
‘Other people?’
He shrugged. ‘Not for me to say.’
‘I was told you know a lot about what goes on.’
‘Doesn’t mean I do it.’
‘You’re not saying you never do drugs, are you, Royston?’
Ingeborg said, ‘We know different. There are some in your room.’
He glanced at her as if he’d only just noticed she was there, then frowned and shifted position on the chair. ‘I’ve never been nicked or anything.’
‘So you’ve got a clean record,’ Diamond said. ‘Was that thanks to Harry Tasker?’
‘No comment.’ He knew the jargon. But who was to say whether he’d learned it from watching TV or more direct experience?
‘Let’s be frank with each other. Harry made it his business to find out what was going on. You do some wheeling and dealing in the Walcot Street area. You’re known for it.’
‘Not drugs,’ Royston said firmly.
‘You make a good income. You bought the bike with your own money. Is it all paid off yet?’
‘The bike? Yeah. It’s mine.’ There was more than a hint of self-congratulation.
‘Several grand. How do you do it?’
‘Business, innit? You buy cheap and sell at a profit.’
‘What are you selling? What’s the commodity?’
‘Anything I can shift.’
‘Where do you get it?’
A tinge more of colour came to his face. ‘All over. Bristol, Bath. London sometimes.’
‘Wells?’
He shook his head.
‘Radstock?’
His lip curled and he looked away, as if the question didn’t even merit an answer.
‘You’re not being very open, Royston. Should we ask your father?’
‘He ain’t interested.’ Said swiftly, and without any sign of alarm.
‘In that case we’ll have to look more closely at PC Tasker’s notes.’ In the same even tone, Diamon
d expanded on this white lie. ‘Did you know he kept a detailed record of everything he observed on his beat?’
‘I bet,’ he said with scorn, but there was a frisson of concern.
‘How do you think we got onto you?’
Royston shifted in the chair again. ‘You can’t do me for anything. I could blow the whistle on your lot.’
‘Really?’ Diamond said. ‘Why haven’t you done it already?’
No answer.
‘I think PC Tasker was wise to everything you get up to, Royston, and you were scared shitless. He could have nicked you whenever he wanted, but he chose to hold off. I want you to tell me why.’
‘You’ve got it wrong.’
‘Was it because of who you are?’
‘What are you talking about — my old man? No way.’
‘You’re not short of money.’
‘Which I earn,’ Royston put in quickly.
‘Around the pubs and clubs?’
‘It’s legit. Like I said, I sell at a profit. It’s investment. I make money, buy more stuff and sell it on. That’s called trading, right? I’m a trader.’
‘Trading in what?’
‘All kinds of stuff. It changes. You need to know what’s hightone, right? Could be some flash new mobile one week, a bit of bling the next. The trick is to stay ahead of the game.’
‘Mobiles and bits of bling aren’t going to make you all that rich. I was told you’re in a bigger league than that. Larger items.’
He almost purred. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Never mind. Is it true?’
‘I’ve put a few things people’s way.’
‘Don’t piss me about, Royston. What items?’
‘Guitars. I can clear a good profit on a Japanese acoustic and still save money for my customer.’
The terminology tripped off his tongue slickly enough to carry conviction. Diamond followed up at once. ‘Ever traded in firearms?’
Royston shook his head, almost too quickly. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘You know about guns. Your father trains people to use them.’
‘And I know about the law, and all.’
‘How does your business go down with your father?’
‘I told you. Doesn’t give a toss.’
‘Are you a paid-up member of Fight for Britain?’
He flicked the ends of the long hair upwards. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
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