“Britt? I told you all I know, ducky.”
“You won’t have heard that her former landlord is in hospital after a fracas with his wife.”
“He’s in hospital?”
“She cracked him over the head with a bagful of coins and now she’s accused him of murdering Britt.”
“God Almighty!” She gave a huge, wheezy laugh and took a seat opposite Diamond at the kitchen table.
Cutting the merriment short, he broached the main business of his visit. “You called at the house a few times, I believe. Did you meet the Billingtons?”
She was shaking her head, not as a response, but a reaction to the latest twist in the Britt Strand saga. “Did I meet them? Yes, miserable buggers, both of them. Nary a smile between them. You pass the time of day and they treat it as a personal insult.”
“They remember you calling. At least, she does.”
“I don’t exactly merge into the background, do I?”
“So you didn’t have much conversation?”
“In a word, zilch.”
“I’m interested to know what Britt had to say about them, if anything. The man in particular.”
“Him? Silly old tosser! He fancied her, of course. Tell me a man who didn’t. She told me he used to chat her up, or try to, when his wife wasn’t about. Gave her the odd present. Is he really under suspicion?”
“Did he ever try anything?” Diamond persevered.
“You mean with Britt?”
What else did she think he meant? “Yes.”
She paused before replying. “Who knows? I didn’t know her that well. There were other men, weren’t there? It came out at the trial. She wasn’t unapproachable, but I think she’d draw the line at old Billington. She could do better than that. Are you married, Mr. Diamond?”
Annoyingly, he felt himself go pink. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he told her in a shirty tone.
“Kids?”
“No. Is this of any relevance?”
“I’m just interested. You don’t wear a ring, I notice.”
“Maybe you should be doing my job.” He recovered his poise. “You don’t wear one either.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing these days, ducky,” she said with a laugh that was more guarded than usual.
“But you were married once?”
She nodded. “It’s an unfair world, isn’t it? You probably wanted a kid and I got mine through a slipup. The father did the decent thing, as they say, and it lasted just over a year.”
“Did he get custody?”
“No. Johnny was happy for me to keep her, because he was clearing off to Northern Ireland.” She gave a belly laugh. “He’s been stuck in Belfast with his mother and the troubles since 1982, and the best of luck. Men? You can keep them. I went back to my maiden name. Why should I put up with his for the rest of my life?”
“So you became-what’s the current expression?-a lone parent.”
She hesitated and her tone of voice altered. “I won’t pretend it was easy, but if I could have the time back, I would. Sometimes I’m asked to make birthday cakes for other people’s kids. I usually shed a few tears.”
“And now?” said Diamond, to steer the conversation back to a less distressing topic.
“Now?”
“Is there anyone else?”
She said sharply, “If you’re about to ask me if I’m a dyke, save your breath. I saw it in your eyes the first time you came here. Just because I don’t diet or wear pretty clothes, it doesn’t mean I was always built like a planet.”
Diamond said, “I wasn’t probing. Just now you asked me if I was married and I responded.”
The face relaxed slightly. “Fair enough. I’m unattached. I’m straight. And interested in other people. We chubbies have a lot in common, right?”
He wasn’t happy with “chubby.” “Burly” was how he preferred to think of himself. She pushed more cake toward him to show solidarity, only at that moment he wanted to appear less solid. “Did Britt ever discuss her sex life with you?” This was a question he could ask more easily now.
“The men she had? No. I told you when you came before, she didn’t gossip. What I learned, I picked up here and there. The last boyfriend-I hate that word, but ‘lover’ sounds even more outdated-was that show jumper.”
“Marcus Martin. Did you meet him?”
“No. She was watching him on telly one day when I called. Frankly, he’s the last one I would have picked out of ail the riders. Little red-haired runt.”
“But a rich red-headed runt,” said Diamond. “And G.B.? Last time we spoke, you weren’t willing to rate him as a boyfriend. I’ve met him since. He admitted to being keen at the time.”
“You’re telling me. He was undressing her with his eyes when we did the shoot in Trim Street,” she confirmed. “He certainly fancied his chances. She certainly didn’t. She was just toying with him.”
“That’s what he says now.”
“Men are so gullible.”
He gave a shrug. “If I may, I’d like to take another look at the, em, pics you took.”
“The Trim Street set? No problem.”
She went upstairs to fetch them. The smell of fruit cake was undermining Diamond’s defenses, so he stepped out of the kitchen. She had moved things round in the living room since his first visit. The alcove where the small violin had been displayed now had a green porcelain bowl, a special piece, no doubt, but of less appeal to Diamond, who warmed to children’s things in a house-with the exception of samplers, which tended to depress him when he thought of the forced labor involved. There were none here. Some of the pictures had been changed, however; instead of the Redoute roses, she had hung woodland scenes that weren’t much to his taste.
“What do you think?” she asked, on her way downstairs with the photos. “I found them in an antique shop in Bradford-on-Avon.”
“You collect Corots then?”
She shrilled in surprise, “You know about art?”
“I know he writes his name very clearly in the corner.”
“Ah.”
Smarting at the contempt in that “Ah,” Diamond went on to say, “But I’ll tell you something about Corot. For every one of his paintings there are over a hundred forgeries. He’s the most forged painter in the world.” This useful piece of trivia had lodged in his memory thanks to a lecture at police training college. “These, I’m sure, must be genuine.”
“Genuine prints, ducky.” She handed him the manila folder of photos. “What are you looking for this time?”
“Some reason why Britt went to the trouble of visiting a squat,” he answered truthfully. “I still haven’t worked it out and G.B. was no help.”
“At least you caught up with him.”
“Yes. He’s a bright lad, but he couldn’t help.”
“Why is it important?”
He started working his way slowly through the photographs. “Because it may yet provide the answer to why she was murdered.”
“Isn’t old man Billington the answer?”
“We don’t know for sure.”
“You think Britt stumbled into something dangerous?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think Britt ever stumbled into anything. She knew precisely what she was up to, and why. I wish we did.”
“She could still have given one of the crusties a fright without knowing it,” Prue Shorter speculated, standing close to Diamond. “Just look at this lot! There really were some hard cases among them. God knows what unspeakable things they got up to. It only wanted one of them to think his past was about to be resurrected. I tell you, ducky, they scared me.”
He studied each photograph, characterizing the hard-faced people as individuals rather than an amorphous mob. Certain of them had obviously appealed to Prue as subjects, for they were prominent in the majority of the shots: a man with a Mohican bar of hair down the center of an otherwise shaven skull; a woman with a cropped head and round glasses; a heavily tattooed man clut
ching a bottle of cider and lying with his eyes closed in most of the pictures; and of course G.B., dominant in height and personality, judging by the attitudes others around him struck. Having established the leading players, Diamond took stock of the others, the less photogenic, sometimes just out of focus, or half obscured by furniture or bisected by the frame of the picture.
“This one,” he said, his finger on a slim, large-eyed girl with dark hair in a plait, “do you remember her?”
“I remember them all,” said Prue, “but I’ve no idea of their names, if that’s what you’re asking. Introductions weren’t encouraged.”
“I think I know this one’s name,” said Diamond.
“The thin woman?”
“Can you remember her?”
“Only vaguely. She stayed in the background. One of the squaws. Who is she?”
“Her name is Una Moon.”
“Should I have heard of her?”
“No.” And he didn’t enlighten her. Una Moon was the young woman he had last seen at the nick with Warrilow, the one who had first reported that Samantha Tott was missing.
Chapter Nineteen
Mountjoy’s barely functioning brain struggled to explain how it was possible that a woman was with him in his cell in Albany. He could definitely hear her moaning quite close to him. A conjugal visit-that great myth so often spoken of by the wishful thinkers? Conjugal visits-in Albany? About as likely as balloon trips. Even if they were permitted, who in the world would want to be conjugal with him? Sophie had sworn never to speak to him again after the divorce, let alone visit him in jail for what she would surely regard as the ultimate degradation.
And why was he lying on the floor instead of in bed? The thin mattress they provided was bloody uncomfortable and sometimes you could hardly tell the bed from the floor, only this felt cold as well as solid. And there was a woman somewhere close.
He shifted slightly, freeing his right arm and confirming that he was lying on a flat, smooth surface that had to be lino. His fingertips ran across one of the joins. He lifted the corner of the lino and felt underneath and traced the join between two floorboards. No prison he knew had a board floor.
He opened his eyes, saw an old-fashioned fireplace and a window without bars and remembered where he was. He cursed himself for falling asleep.
He told Samantha, “Stop moaning, will you?”
“I hate it here.”
“What?”
“This place.” She was sitting in the center of the floor wrapped in blankets, rubbing at her face with the back of her tied hands. “It’s giving me the creeps. I’ve never been anywhere so musty and horrible.”
“For God’s sake, I got you out of that cave, didn’t I?” Mountjoy said. “I brought you blankets, food, drink. I let you keep your precious violin.”
None of that counted, apparently. “It feels as if no one’s been in here for a hundred years. The toilet, with that wooden seat. That’s antique. This old fireplace with the iron grate. It’s bizarre, like being in a time warp.”
“Give it a rest, will you?”
“Where are we?” she asked. “I can hear traffic. Why won’t you tell me where we are?”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“Cold?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then.”
“I’d like to know where I am.”
“Wouldn’t you just?”
“I’ve lived nearly all my life in Bath. I wouldn’t have believed a place like this still existed.”
“You live and learn.” Mountjoy yawned. Needing to stop himself drifting into sleep again, he got up and went to the window. Below, a long way below, the traffic moved tidily around the one-way system of the Orange Grove, past Bog Island and up Pierrepont Street toward the railway station. The view from this height was unmatched anywhere in the city because there was no obstruction except for the great square tower of the abbey to his right. He could see the gleam of the Avon and the lawns of the Parade Gardens. Further off, beyond the spire of the Catholic Church, rising above Brunei’s railway viaduct, was the wooded slope of Lyncombe Hill, leading the eye to Beechen Cliff. And out to the left was Bathampton Down; last night, out on the balcony, he’d seen Sham Castle floodlit. For Mountjoy’s purposes, this bolt-hole had certain merits, but he would still have favored the caravan park if only bad luck hadn’t forced them out. The stone mine was always going to be unsuitable, an overnight stop, no more. He’d seriously considered taking over the house in Morford Street, but that would have compelled him to take two more hostages. What a prospect! So he’d brought Samantha here. She would have to put up with the Edwardian plumbing.
He knew what she meant about the time warp. It was slightly eerie here. The place did seem remote from modern life and it wasn’t merely the dust and cobwebs. Down there, somewhere, that fat detective Diamond ought to be working his butt off to get to the truth of the Britt Strand murder, yet here, six floors up, in another age, there were hours of waiting to be endured, hours when confidence drained.
How much longer?
Mountjoy yawned again. Chronic fatigue was his problem. He kept Samantha tied hand and foot and still didn’t allow himself proper rest because of the risk of being ambushed by the police. It was making him twitchy, shivery and depressed; if he hadn’t planned and worked so single-mindedly for justice-if he’d merely escaped-he would have traded his freedom right now for an undisturbed night in his cell in Albany. When it was over, whatever the outcome, he was going to sleep. For days.
He felt his head sinking. Catnaps were dangerous, yet he craved them like a fix. Deciding to sit rather than stand, he settled against the wall. His lids drooped.
Minutes must have passed when he opened his eyes next. How many, he couldn’t tell. The one thing he could see for sure was that Samantha was no longer in the room.
Gone.
The blankets lay in a heap beside her violin case. The rope that had bound her wrists was on the floor with the flex he used for her ankles.
He got up and dashed to the door.
It wouldn’t open. Locked. Momentarily he concluded that she had locked him in after escaping. Then he felt in his pocket and found the key still there. He’d locked the door himself. Where was she, then? He crossed to the second door that connected with the next room. The door was slightly ajar. Before flinging it fully open, he hesitated. What if she were waiting inside, poised to strike him?
He took the gun from his pocket and said, “Get out of there. I want you in here fast.”
She didn’t make a sound.
“Samantha.”
He kicked the door inward.
Still she made no move.
He said, “You’d better know that I have a gun in my hand.” Then he stepped inside.
The room was empty.
Mystified and in a panic, he stared around him. If she wasn’t inside and she hadn’t gone through the door, she must have used the balcony window. Must have-for it was unfastened.
He pushed open the window and stepped outside. Samantha was there, to the left of the windows where she couldn’t be seen from inside. She was half-naked. She’d stripped off the white T-shirt he had given her and she was waving it frantically.
She turned and saw him and took it as the cue to start screaming for help. Up to now, the waving had been a dumb show. Yelling at the top of her voice, she leaned over the stone balustrade like a ship’s figurehead, her bared breasts pale and pointed in the crisp October air, and continued to flap the T-shirt.
Mountjoy pocketed the gun; it was useless when she was in this hysterical state. Up to this time he’d been scrupulous in the physical contact he’d had with her, avoiding any kind of handling she could object to as indecent. The tying and untying had been necessary, but not once had his hand strayed. All that went out of the window, literally.
He had to get her off the balcony, and gentle persuasion wasn’t an option. He grabbed her from behind, one arm around her r
ibs, the other prising her fingers from the balustrade she was trying to anchor herself to. She continued to scream. And she was strong. When her grip on the stonework was loosened, she forced her foot against it and braced her leg, forcing him back against the window. One of the panes cracked and shattered under the weight of his shoulder. He fell and took her with him.
They were in a wrestling match now and Samantha was on top, but with her back against Mountjoy’s chest, her buttocks mashing his stomach, her hair pressing into his face. To stop her from getting up, he swung his left arm across her chest and felt his fingers sink into the flesh of her right breast. In a frenzy, she pummeled his ribs with one hand and tried to bend back his fingers with the other. Her thrashing legs threatened to get some leverage on the balustrade until he succeeded in clamping one with his right leg. Then he held on in the hope that she would give up the struggle at some stage.
It was as well that they were locked like this, using up their strength. He was angry enough to have beaten her senseless.
Chapter Twenty
Two police cars with beacons flashing swung out into Manvers Street just as Diamond was about to make the turn into the yard. Commander Warrilow, with patrician self-importance etched all over his features, was seated beside the driver in the second vehicle. Yet another “sighting” of Mount-joy, Diamond presumed, and yawned.
When he had parked, he went in and tracked Julie to the canteen, where she rose without obvious haste from a table of CID lads and came to meet him.
With a tolerant grin meant to soften the edge of his sarcasm, he said, “High level discussions, Inspector?”
“Just getting the latest buzz,” she responded evenly. “They’re the Bumblebee squad.”
The grin faded.
Julie added, “Want to whisk me away?” She was learning how to deal with his irony. Too well.
He said, “That’s why I’m here.”
“Have you got time for a coffee?”
“Do you drink the coffee in this place?”
Her eyes widened. “There isn’t anything the matter with it, is there?” She hadn’t entirely got his measure.
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