The Summons pd-3

by Peter Lovesey

  “I told you this,” said Pinkerton with irritation.

  “You also told me she drank whiskey straight.”

  “And you said you heard she was TT, as if I was lying. But I wasn’t. She kicked the habit later.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Diamond agreed. “Everyone else I’ve asked about her drinking said she didn’t touch alcohol. You know damned well why I’m asking this, don’t you?”

  “You tell me,” Pinkerton parried.

  “First, let’s talk about the driving. We didn’t discuss her driving when we spoke. She was a driver when you met her, back in 1987, wasn’t she?”

  He hesitated, pulling back from the table between them. “What’s behind this?”

  Julie said, “Answer the question, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  He shifted position in the chair. “Yes, she had a sports car, an MGB, red.”

  “Good, we’re making progress now,” said Diamond. “Did you ever borrow it?”

  “The MGB? No, I had wheels of my own. A Merc, I think, at that time. I’ve had so many.”

  “I’m interested in Britt’s car,” said Diamond, choosing his words with care. He needed to trap Pinkerton into a lie, and this was his best opportunity. “She didn’t possess a car at the time of her death. Hadn’t driven for at least two years, according to people who knew her. I wonder what she did with the MGB?”

  “Sold it, I expect.”

  So that’s how you want to play it, Diamond thought. “No, she didn’t sell it. We checked the ownership. The car still officially belongs to Britt, four years after her death.”

  “I can’t help,” said Pinkerton.

  “You can. It’s in your possession, isn’t it?”

  He tried to look mystified. “What do you mean?”

  “We found it this evening, with a little help from your friends.” Diamond grinned. “Out at Conkwell in a shed in the wood behind the studio. Had you forgotten?”

  Fingering the tab on the zip of his tracksuit, Pinkerton sighed and said, “Totally. It was so long ago.”

  “We could see that from the weeds and things growing all over it,” Diamond agreed. “It’s definitely Britt’s car. How did it get there?”

  “She must have asked me to look after it. Yes, I’m sure she did.”

  “This was when you were having the affair with her?”

  “Right on.” He sounded casual, but he was looking miserable.

  Diamond tightened the screw. “Come on, Jake. The affair was over by the end of 1988. Why didn’t she collect her car?”

  “Good question.”

  “Answer it, then.”

  Pinkerton ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. “The way she told it to me, she wanted it off the street. She had no garage for it. She saw I had this shed at Conkwell big enough to take a car, so she asked me if she could keep it there.”

  “Not very convenient when she was living in Larkhall.”

  “No.”

  “So what happened? Did she ever use the car again?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did you?”

  “I answered that already.”

  “The reason I ask,” said Diamond, “is that the car is damaged. It shouldn’t be on the road in the condition it’s in. The nearside headlamp is shattered, the wing is badly dented and the bumper has been knocked out of shape.”

  “So what’s the problem?” said Pinkerton, making a good attempt to seem untroubled. “It hasn’t been on the road.”

  Diamond leaned forward and spoke companionably. “Jake, the problem is that you haven’t been giving me the whole truth. When she put the car in your shed, it wasn’t for convenience, it was to hide the damage, and you colluded with her. She failed to report an accident she caused. You must have seen the state of the car.”

  He examined his fingernails again. “Yes.”

  “It could have been repaired,” Diamond pointed out. “Why wasn’t it repaired?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “Could the reason be that she was afraid the damage would be reported?”

  “I can’t speak for her.”

  “Speak for yourself, then,” said Diamond sharply. “That car has been sitting in your shed for six years. It’s worth a bit, an MGB. It should have been part of Britt’s estate.”

  “I’m not into stealing motors, if that’s your drift,” said Pinkerton. “I never wanted the bloody thing.”

  “You didn’t want it known that you conspired with her to conceal an accident.”

  After a pause, he said, “Is that what this is about?”

  “That’s why you did nothing, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?”

  Pinkerton looked away.

  This time, Julie followed up. “You saw the state of the car. You must have asked her how it was damaged and she must have told you.”

  Still no response.

  “Tell us exactly what she said. At this point,” she added, “we’re looking to you for cooperation.”

  Pinkerton was bright enough to recognize a hint. He glanced toward Diamond, then back to Julie, knowing that they wouldn’t offer a no-prosecution deal while the tape was running. They sat like two Sphinxes.

  He talked. “Britt came to my house in Monkton Coombe one night, late. She was in a state. She’d been working on a story, as she put it, out at Warminster, and she’d had a liquid lunch.”

  “When was this?” said Julie.

  “I was working on the Sons of Slade album, so it must have been 1988. October,‘88.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “Yes. She told me she’d been well over the limit when she started for home and she got on the wrong road and found she was heading for Westbury, instead of Bath. It wasn’t too serious because she knew the way back through Trowbridge. But then she noticed a police car in her mirror and she got the idea he was following her. She knew damn well if she was Breathalyzed, she’d lose her license. To shake him off, she left the main road, and then lost her way altogether in the lanes. It was already starting to get dark, so I guess it was around five by then. As she told me, she was driving through a village when a pedestrian stepped into the road suddenly. Britt swerved, but couldn’t avoid hitting the person and tipping them over, as she put it. The car scraped against a drystone wall, but she held on to the wheel and got it under control again and kept going.”

  “Kept going. She’d hit this person and didn’t stop?”

  “Right.”

  “Man? Woman?”

  “She didn’t say. She didn’t actually drive over them, and she was braking when she hit them, so she thought they couldn’t be seriously hurt. But if the shunt was reported, she could be in real trouble. She couldn’t leave the motor in the street outside the house. She had to get it out of sight. She came to me asking for help, so I said she could keep the motor there, at least until the incident was forgotten and she could get the damned thing repaired and back on the road again.”

  “And she never did,” said Diamond.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you hear any more about the accident?” Julie asked.

  “She never mentioned anything to me.”

  Diamond said, “Didn’t you bring it up? I mean, you had her car sitting in your shed long after you split up with her.”

  Pinkerton gave a shrug. “You’re going to find this hard to believe, but it’s true. I forgot all about the thing. My business was expanding. I was being given new bands almost every month, creating sensational new sounds. Bloody snowed under.”

  “You’re quite sure she didn’t discuss the accident again?”

  “Not with me. It was a sensitive area. I mean, she cut out the booze completely, and we both knew why. And as far as I know, she stopped driving.”

  “The way you described it when I interviewed you last time was different. You led me to believe that you hadn’t the foggiest idea why she gave up.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Give me a break, man. I didn’t wan
t to get involved.”

  “We’re investigating a murder, and you ask me to give you a break?” Diamond piped. “You’ve withheld evidence, put me in risk of my life, and you ask me to give you a break? You’re joking. And I’m not satisfied with your answers. I don’t believe you forgot about the car’s existence.”

  “It’s gospel truth,” insisted Pinkerton.

  “It’s bullshit. When she was murdered, and there was all the stuff in the papers, you must have thought of the car.”

  He rubbed his face.

  “Out with it,” said Diamond.

  He sighed. “Okay-I kept quiet about the motor. I’m bloody well-known in the biz, Mr. Diamond, much bigger than you realize. As it was, I had the press on to me asking questions about my relationship with Britt. I said it was over, history, and that was the truth. If they’d known I still had her car, they’d have put the knife in, and so would you. No one would have believed we broke up.”

  “You told me when we spoke before that you kept in touch with her. Was that correct?”

  “Sure. We stayed friends.”

  “And she never mentioned the accident or the car?”

  “I told you it was a sensitive area.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About three weeks before she died. In Milsom Street, by chance. She was alone, shopping.”

  “What was said?”

  “Nothing much. We got up to date. I gave her the dope on the bands I was working with and she talked about the magazines she was in. That’s all. Just a few minutes in the street.”

  “Did you speak on the phone after that?”

  “No. It was definitely the last time. I’ve told you everything now, honest to God.”

  “What was the point of all that?” Farr-Jones demanded in an irritated tone. “I was led to believe you were about to extract a confession of murder.”

  “Murder? No. Vital information, yes,” said Diamond.

  “Hearsay, most of it.”

  “True,” he conceded.

  “He did admit to keeping the car hidden,” said Julie. “He conspired with her to withhold evidence.”

  “You’re not seriously proposing to charge him with that?” said Farr-Jones. “I’ve had a very long day, you know, and it’s late. Personally, I’m adjourning until tomorrow.”

  “Right, sir,” said Diamond mildly. “What time would you care to see us?”

  “Is there any more to discuss?”

  “Some clearing up.”

  “Eleven o’clock, then.” The thought of another day made Farr-Jones yawn.

  “Fine,” said Diamond. “Outside the church?”

  “Which church? It isn’t Sunday, is it?”

  “Steeple Ashton.”

  “Whatever for?”

  When Farr-Jones had left, Diamond shook his head slowly. “He’s had a very long day. Doesn’t it bring tears to your eyes, Julie?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  By one of those contradictions that enhance the charm of the English countryside, the parish church at Steeple Ashton has no steeple. A storm removed it in 1670. The tower survived and dominated the village and the landscape north of Westbury Hill, for even in its truncated form St. Mary’s is a tall church. Knobbly pinnacles in profusion compensate for the lack of a steeple, and, if anything, the building looks over-ostentatious rather than incomplete. The lavishness of the decoration is a testimony to the profits of the wool trade in medieval Wiltshire and curiously most of the gargoyles carved on its hood molds and battlements have the chunky character of knitted toys.

  All this was lost on the group of senior policemen stamping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands while they stood under the south porch like mourners waiting to line up behind a coffin. A hard frost had whitened the churchyard and a sharp east wind was blowing.

  Precisely as the hour of eleven showed on the blue and gold dial of the church clock, Peter Diamond and Julie Hargreaves came around the side of the building.

  “Good day to you, gentlemen. Is everyone here?”

  It was a gratifying turnout. As well as Farr-Jones and Tott, there were John Wigfull, Keith Halliwell and a pair of uniformed inspectors who had earlier been assigned to Commander Warrilow. The latter, to everyone’s relief, had returned in triumph to the Isle of Wight the same morning with his patched-up prisoner.

  Diamond and Julie had arrived more than an hour before and made use of every minute; their comings and goings in the frost showed as gray tracks between the graves in the section of churchyard to the west of the church.

  “Would you care to follow me, then? This won’t take long.” Diamond picked a fresh track over the crisp turf, leading the others in single file toward a layout of graves as regular as an actor’s teeth. Eventually he stopped beside a plot with a short stone cross as headstone. On it was a simple inscription:

  GEORGINA MAY HIGGINSON

  13/9/1981 – 17/10/1988

  “Barely seven,” remarked Tott.

  “Dreadfully sad,” murmured Halliwell, the most sensitive of the group. Something else had needed to be said, even though words were inadequate.

  “You’ll have noticed the date, sir,” Diamond said for the benefit of Farr-Jones.

  “October,‘88. You’re assuming this little girl was the victim of the hit-and-run accident?”

  “We’re certain of it. This is the only child’s grave we could find for 1988.”

  Farr-Jones blew out a plume of white breath. “Did this child actually die in a road accident? Have you checked with records?”

  “DI Hargreaves just has, on her personal.”

  Julie reported, “A child of this name was knocked down and killed by a car, here in Steeple Ashton, opposite the village stores, at 4:45 P.M. on this date. The driver was never traced.”

  Diamond added, “The next of kin are John Higginson, father, resident in Belfast, and Prue Shorter, mother, who still lives here. She is the photographer who worked with Britt Strand.”

  Up to now, each statement had made sense to Farr-Jones. The last one did not, and his face showed it.

  Diamond explained, “Miss Shorter offered to work for Britt some time in the summer of 1990, almost two years after the child was killed. She had a strong suspicion by then that Britt had been the driver of that car, but she wanted to be certain, because she planned to avenge the killing of her daughter by taking the life of the person who caused it. So she worked as her photographer through the summer and autumn of 1990 until she was totally sure, and the right opportunity came.”

  “Weren’t we aware of any of this at this time?”

  “The accident? It was in the records as a hit and run, but we had no reason to link it with the Britt Strand murder. We routinely checked all the witnesses for previous convictions and Miss Shorter was clean. The fact that she happened to be the parent of an accident victim didn’t show on the computer.”

  “It wouldn’t,” Wigfull confirmed.

  Farr-Jones asked, “How did you get on to her, then?”

  Diamond unexpectedly tiptoed on the spot like one of the cygnets in Swan Lake. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir, but I need to take a leak. It must be the cold.”

  “Here?” said Farr-Jones, frowning.

  “I happened to notice that Prue Shorter has a fire going in her cottage. What say we nick her now?”

  It was the most civilized arrest in the combined experience of all the detectives. The timing couldn’t have been bettered. “How many of you are there?” Prue Shorter asked. “Eight, is it? I’m afraid I haven’t got chairs for all of you. Would you like to handle the knife, Mr. Diamond? It’s the large one in the drawer behind you.”

  She passed a steaming Dundee cake across the kitchen table for Diamond to cut.

  Several of the officers looked to the Chief Constable for guidance in this unprecedented situation. He had the good sense to give it his endorsement. “When I was a small boy, I used to read the Rupert books,” he surprised them all by
saying. “Rupert Bear-the original ones by Mary Tourtel with yellow covers and black-and-white illustrations. They always seemed to end with Rupert coming home from some adventure to find that homely Mrs. Bear had baked a cake.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Senior policemen rarely provided such insights into their personal lives.

  Prue Shorter ended it by saying, “Personally, I could never believe in animals wearing clothes. I liked the Famous Five.”

  “Enid Blyton,” said Wigfull, the walking encyclopedia.

  Tott said, “Wasn’t one of them known as-”

  “George. Yes,” Prue Shorter said quickly, and added almost unheard, “Georgina.”

  Their arrival at the cottage door had not fazed her. She had asked them in and said, “Now that you’ve come, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. What do you want first, my dears, a slice of cake or my confession?”

  After that, it had seemed churlish to mention that two uniformed officers were posted outside the back door to prevent her escaping. Regardless, she had welcomed them in and made filter coffee for all.

  Diamond finished cutting the cake and put the knife into the kitchen sink, out of Prue Shorter’s reach. He still had a vivid memory of Britt Strand’s lacerated body. This homely Mrs. Bear could wield a knife as well as bake cakes. “Are you ready to talk?” he asked her.

  She said with sublime composure, “Don’t you want to tell them how you sussed me out, ducky? Take your applause while you’ve got the chance. I’m totally gobsmacked by your brilliant detective work, but I’m not sure if the rest of them are.”

  Farr-Jones, in thrall to this redoubtable woman, said, “Yes, Mr. Diamond, why don’t you give us the rundown on your investigation?”

  “Not only mine,” Diamond pointed out. “There were two of us. DI Hargreaves must take a lot of the credit. In fact, she deserves a commendation.”

  Julie looked down at her coffee.

  Diamond was less modest. “You want to know what led us here?” he said. “It was the old, old story of observation and deduction. Some of it didn’t mean much at the beginning. For example, when Julie and I first came to this cottage we noticed a child’s violin in one of the alcoves in the other room. There was also a drawing pinned to the notice board, a stick figure, obviously the work of a young child. Not much to go on, but the next time I visited, the violin was gone. It emerged that Miss Shorter had been married briefly and given birth to a girl, who had died young, at the age of seven. I didn’t follow up by asking what she died of, and you may think that was a mistake on my part, but with the benefit of hindsight I doubt if I’d have got the truthful answer. I was straying into dangerous territory. Right?”