Hen picked her way carefully over the children’s digging and out to a stretch of sand beyond the breakwaters, where she could walk freely. She lit one of her small cigars and let her thoughts turn to Peter Diamond. Up to now, he’d proved less of an ogre than she’d expected. He was brusque at times, but funny, too, and willing to listen. He wasn’t a misery-guts, like so many senior detectives. She couldn’t fault the way he’d conducted the case so far, keeping her informed of each development. Mind, he was a risk-taker. This plan of his to take over the protection of Anna Walpurgis could so easily go wrong. It gave him what he’d wanted all along, a legitimate reason to be involved. But what resources did he have in Bath, and what guarantee that a spirited woman wouldn’t upset everything? Hen could only hope he had a strategy. He’d talked of Walpurgis being “bait” to the Mariner. He’d set his heart on catching this killer, but at what cost?
One of the problems with all this concentration on the Mariner was that there was a big incentive to wrap up the Emma Tysoe case as fast as possible. Hen wasn’t going to allow Diamond to cut corners. The murder of Emma was a Bognor Regis case- hers. If Ken Bellman proved beyond doubt to be the killer, well and good. But if there were doubts, she wouldn’t let Diamond ride roughshod over them.
So she liked the man, enjoyed his company, admired his independent ways, yet couldn’t rest all of her confidence in him. The loss of his wife must have cast him adrift, even though he appeared strong. The shock was bound to have wounded him. She suspected he was hiding the pain.
She picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the surface of the water, watching it bounce several times before meeting a wave and disappearing, a trick she’d tried many times before but never mastered. Typical, she thought, that I do it when no one is here to see. She continued her walk as far as the flagpole at East Head. If she walked any farther she’d be late getting back to her car, and she had no confidence Garth would let her out of the car park.
Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on her guard that morning. It wasn’t like Peter Diamond to knock on her door and ask if she could spare a few minutes. He was the man who avoided her at all costs. He’d once nipped into the ladies’ room and locked himself in a cubicle when he spotted her approaching along a corridor.
She folded her arms and rotated her chair a little. “To what do we owe this, Peter?”
“I expect you noticed the furniture disappeared from the corridor, ma’am?”
“No,” she said with a faint flush of pink. “I hadn’t noticed. Do I have you to thank for that?”
“No problem.”
“It had to be sorted. It was a fire hazard.”
“You can enjoy your cruise now. When are you off?”
She relaxed a little. He was only there to get some credit for doing a good turn. “Tomorrow, actually.”
“All set, then?”
“Pretty well.”
As if it was mere politeness, he asked, “What’s happening to the cat? That handsome white Persian?”
“Sultan. You know about Sultan?”
Everyone who’d been in her office knew about Sultan. There was a photo on her desk of this mound of fur with fierce blue eyes and a snub nose.
“Sultan, yes,” Diamond said.
“He has to go into a cattery, unfortunately. He doesn’t care for it at all, but you can’t let them run your life.”
“Shame. Quite a change in his routine.” He paused. “I don’t suppose he’ll suffer.”
“Suffer?” A cloud of concern passed across Georgina’s face. “I should hope not. The place is well recommended, and very expensive.”
“He doesn’t know that. Has he been there before?”
“No, this will be the first time.”
“Poor old Sultan.” Diamond picked up the photo in its gilt frame. “I’ve got a cat myself, just a moggy, but a character. They hate their routine being messed about. Personally, I favour having a house sitter if I go away. They stay in your house and look after the place and feed the cat as well. It’s nicer for your pet and you can relax knowing someone is there.”
“Ideally, that sounds a good solution,” Georgina agreed.
“Bit of a holiday for the sitter as well. In a city like Bath, house sitting is no hardship. You’re convenient for everything in Bennett Street.”
Now she frowned. This was becoming a touch too personal. “How do you know where I live?”
“You gave a party not long after you arrived. I came with Steph. Very good evening, it was.”
She looked relieved to have her memory jogged. “My ‘At Home’. It slipped my mind.”
“A house sitter would jump at the chance.”
“It’s a lovely idea, Peter. Unfortunately, it’s too late for me to start looking for someone now.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Georgina tried to appear unmoved, but he could see she was all attentiveness.
“If you’d like one, I may be able to help,” he offered. “I know of a lady shortly coming to Bath who would gladly look after your home-and Sultan-for no charge at all.”
“No charge?”
“A chance to stay in Bennett Street would be reward enough.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Georgina said. “Who is she?”
He sidestepped the question, letting his sales pitch sink in. “All you’d need to do is get in some tins of his favourite catmeat.”
“I bought those anyway,” she said, and there was something in her eyes she tried not to have there, a strong desire to clinch this deal and save herself some money.
“Then you’re laughing. You may have heard of her-Anna Walpurgis.”
The eyes widened. “The pop star?”
“As was. More a lady of leisure now. Very used to living in nice surroundings, until recently. Some maniac threatened her life and she’s been stuck in a safe house being looked after by Special Branch for some time. It’s Salman Rushdie all over again. She got so bored. It would do everyone a good turn if she could escape to Bath for a week.”
“Anna Walpurgis.” Georgina repeated the name, and there was a discernible note of awe. The idea of such a celebrity coming to stay in one’s house had definite attraction. “She wouldn’t give parties?”
“Good Lord, no. She’s keeping a low profile.”
“Is she under guard?”
“Not any more. It’s a step towards a normal life. I can keep an eye on her, make sure she’s able to cope.”
“Let me think about this.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am. It’s a big decision, letting a stranger have the run of your home, but I’ve never heard a word of scandal about the lady. And I dare say Sultan would approve.” With a display of care, he replaced the photo on her desk.
At ten thirty, Ingeborg reported to Diamond that Ken Bellman was ready for interview.
“Did he give any problems?”
“He came like a lamb.”
“Say anything?”
“Just nodded and said, ‘All right.’”
“Resigned to it, maybe. Has DCI Mallin arrived from Bognor yet?”
“Down in the canteen, guv, tucking into a fried breakfast.”
“Wise woman.” He went down to join her.
While Hen had a smoke, and Diamond a doughnut and coffee, they agreed on a strategy. Hen would ask the first questions, with Diamond chipping in when the moment was right. With so much experience between them, they didn’t need the nice-cop-nasty-cop approach. They’d know how to pitch it.
* * *
Bellman had a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He slopped some on his jeans as his interrogators came in.
“Careful,” Hen said. “You could ruin your prospects that way.”
“It’s OK.” He didn’t smile. He looked nervous. Sweatmarks showed around the armpits of his blue tanktop shirt. He placed the coffee well to one side.
“Finish your drink, love,” Hen said.
“I’m fine.” Yet he couldn’t h
ide a ripple of tension across his cheek. The description they’d had from Olga Smith was spot on. Latin looks, definitely. Strong features. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, dark, curly hair that looked as if it never needed combing.
Hen and Diamond took their seats. Hen, unashamedly friendly, thanked him for coming in and apologised for the formality of asking his name and stating for the tape that he had been invited to attend of his own free will to assist with the enquiry into the death of Dr Emma Tysoe.
He blinked twice at the name.
“So may I call you Ken?” Hen asked after she’d identified herself and Diamond.
“Whatever you want.”
“You live locally, I gather. Do you work in Bath?”
“Batheaston. I’m an IT consultant.”
“Forgive my ignorance. What’s that exactly?”
“I’m with a firm called Knowhow & Fix. Kind of troubleshooters really. If a firm has a computer problem we do our best to sort it.”
“So people are always pleased to see you?”
“Usually.”
“Is it nine to five?”
“Not really. It can be any time. When they want help, they want help.”
“So you turn out in the evening sometimes?”
“I have done.”
“And-through the wonders of modern telecommunications -can you sometimes fix a problem from home?”
“Some of the work can be done on my own PC, yes.”
“Ken, this is beginning to sound like a job interview,” Hen said with a smile, “but I’m getting a picture of how you spend your time. I suppose you need a car in this job.”
“That’s essential.”
“What do you drive?”
“A BMW.”
“Nice.”
“It’s quite old, actually, but it belongs to me.”
“Reliable?”
“I think so.”
“How long have you owned it?”
“Five or six years. I bought it secondhand.”
“Before you came to Bath?”
“Yes.”
“When did you come here?”
“Just before Christmas.”
“And where were you before that?”
“The job? SW1.”
“London?”
“Right. But I was living in Putney.”
“What sort of work? Similar?”
“Not quite the same. I was a techie-technical support programmer.”
“You’ve been doing this sort of work for some time, then?”
“Since university.”
“Where was that?”
“Liverpool.”
“Computer science, I suppose?”
“Pretty close. Electronic engineering. I picked up my computer skills later, when I was doing my MSc. In the end IT proved more marketable than pure electronics.”
Hen nodded. “Seems to come into every job, doesn’t it? Changing the subject, Ken, how long have you known Emma Tysoe?”
His hands felt for the arms of the chair and gripped them. “About ten years.”
“As long as that?”
“I met her when we were students at Liverpool. She read psychology there. We went out a few times. I liked her.”
“And it developed into something?”
He shook his head. “Not at the time. We were friendly, and that was all. After she left to continue her studies in the south, we lost touch. It was pure chance that brought us together again. I didn’t know she was living in Bath until I met her one day in the library a few months ago. There was a lot to talk about, so we went for a drink together, caught up on old times, and what we’d each done since then. It blossomed into something stronger. Well, we weren’t living together, but we got serious, if you know what I mean.”
“You slept with her?”
“Right.”
“And it lasted some time?” Hen asked with the implicit suggestion that the friendship came to an end.
“Some weeks.”
“Can you be more specific?”
He frowned. “I didn’t keep count, if that’s what you mean. Six or seven weeks, probably.”
“Was it a loving relationship?”
“I thought I loved her, yes.”
“You thought?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Love is more about feelings than thoughts, isn’t it?” Hen asked.
“I suppose you’re right. I’m a scientist. I analyse things, including my feelings. My estimation was that I loved Emma. It’s not easy, assessing your own emotions, trying to understand how genuine they are.”
“I’d say if you had to assess them, it’s questionable whether you really were in love,” Hen said.
“And I say if you can’t be honest with yourself how can you be honest with the person you’re sleeping with?”
It was a neat riposte. Hen tried to make use of it. “Was she honest with you?”
“I believe she was.”
“Did love come into it?”
“On her side? I don’t know what was in her mind. She said she enjoyed being with me. We had Liverpool in common, our student life. Lots of good memories.”
“No more than that?”
“It was enough to be going on with.”
“So is it fair to say, Ken, that you were keener than she was?”
He frowned a little. “Is that a trick question?”
“Why should it be?” Hen said.
“Let’s face it. Emma was murdered. If I come across as the guy who pestered her for sex, it doesn’t look good for me, does it? We were good friends, we slept together a few times because we wanted to.”
“I’m not trying to trick you, ducky. We just want to get the picture right. Did she have other friends? Did you go round in a group?”
“There were only the two of us. She wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed being in company.”
“I expect she had friends at work-in the university.”
“If she had, she didn’t talk about them.”
“So you and she spent the time in each other’s company- doing what?”
He shrugged. “What people do. Pubs, the cinema, a meal out sometimes.”
“And at the end of an evening, would you go back to her flat in Great Pulteney Street?”
“A few times. Or else she’d come to my place.”
“Not long before her death, you took her for a meal at Popjoy’s. Is that right?”
He gave a nod.
“Would it be true to say the evening didn’t go according to plan?”
There was a delay before he responded. “How do you know that?”
“We’re detectives,” Hen said. “It’s our job. We’d like to hear your take on the evening.”
He stared into the palm of his left hand, as if he was reading the lines. More likely, Peter Diamond thought, watching him, he didn’t want eye contact. “It started well enough. It was a very good meal. Towards the end she complained of a headache and blamed the wine. There was nothing wrong with it. She said some wines had that effect on her, letting me know, in a way, that I should have let her see the list instead of going ahead and ordering. She asked the waiter for an Alka Seltzer, which I found deeply embarrassing in a smart restaurant. Then we had to wait a long time for a taxi. I thought we could walk home-it isn’t far to her place-but she was wearing unsuitable shoes. I seemed to be saying the wrong thing at every turn.”
Diamond said, to keep the confidences coming, “We’ve all had evenings like that.”
Bellman gave a shrug and a sigh. “Well, it got no better. Back in her flat I made some coffee and asked if the headache was easing off and she said I was only asking because I wanted my money’s worth, which was pretty hurtful. I think I told her so. She was in a black mood, for sure. I can’t cope with women when they get like that. I left soon after.”
Hen asked, “Was it a break-up?”
“I didn’t think so at the time. I tried calling her next day to see if I was still in
the doghouse. I had to leave a message on the answerphone, which wasn’t easy. I think I just said I hoped she was feeling better and would she call me. But she didn’t. When I eventually got through to her some time in the evening, she told me straight out that she didn’t want to see me any more because she was seeing someone else. I was shattered. Gutted.” The pain of the memory showed in his face.
“Did she say who?” Hen asked.
“No. Just ‘someone’. I reacted badly. I’m ashamed now. I called her some ugly names. A rush of blood, I guess. She slammed down the phone and I can’t blame her for that.” He shook his head. “Wish I could take back what I said. Death is so final.”
The self-recrimination didn’t impress Diamond. With a glance towards Hen, he took up the questioning. “Did you hear from her again?”
“Not on the phone.”
“You’d said these things-called her names-so did you regard the break as final?”
“No. I’d lost control. I wanted her back. Thinking about it after that phone call, I wondered if she was speaking the truth about going out with someone else. I’d got no hint of another man up to then. I wondered if she’d made it up-invented him, in other words-to hurt me in the heat of the moment. I didn’t want our friendship to end. I thought if I handled it right we could get back together again. This was the first serious row we’d had.”
“You said you’d lost control. What do you mean by that?”
“Control of myself, when I shot off at the mouth.”
“Ah, so you didn’t mean you’d lost control of the relationship?”
“God, no! I was never in charge. Didn’t wish to be.”
“OK. So did you do any more about patching it up?”
“Not immediately. As I said, I was slightly suspicious about this other man she’d met.”
“Only slightly?”
He coloured noticeably. “More than slightly, then.” He shifted position in the chair. “This doesn’t reflect very well on me, but I’d better tell you. The next weekend I followed her, to try and find out. On Saturday morning she drove off in her sports car and I followed.”
“Didn’t she know your car?”
The House Sitter Page 25