Skeleton Hill (4 page)

Diamond stood over the trench with arms folded. ‘You’ve got something to tell me?’

‘Only if you’re still interested,’ Duckett said. ‘You asked about the skull. There isn’t one – not where it ought to be, anyway. This would appear to be a headless corpse.’

4

T
hat evening Peter Diamond had a pub meal with Paloma Kean, the one woman he’d been out with since his wife Steph had died six years ago. Their friendship – still more of a friendship than a relationship, although they’d slept together – had got them both through a testing beginning and tough times since. They drew strength from each other. She understood his moods, his brash manner, even his conviction that no one would ever replace Steph as the ideal woman. And he treated Paloma with the warmth that sprang from a shared sense of humour and physical attraction.

They managed to get a candlelit table on the patio at the Hop Pole, in Albion Buildings, off the Upper Bristol Road. This warm summer evening had brought out drinkers and diners in large numbers. With a pint of Barnstormer real ale in front of him and steak pie on order, Diamond was more expansive than usual, telling Paloma about his frustrating day.

‘You got out of the office, anyway,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘It wasn’t a bad day to be getting some fresh air.’

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘A simple walk across the down would have been very agreeable. Instead, we were standing around like dummies all afternoon in the hope that the crime scene people would find something.’

‘Well, they did.’

‘In the end.’

‘It could have been worse, then.’

He gave a grudging nod.

‘Personally, I like Lansdown,’ Paloma said, doing her best to lighten his mood. ‘The history isn’t as obvious as it is down here among all the old buildings, but you get a sense of it whichever way you look.’

‘The Civil War, you mean?’

‘The Civil War, ‘Not just that.’

‘Iron Age settlements?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You have hidden depths.’

‘I was briefed today by Ingeborg, our pet culture vulture.’

‘Did she mention Beckford’s Tower?’

He’d often driven past the folly towards the city end of the hill, two miles from the crime scene. On the hill today he’d noticed its octagonal gilt lantern on the skyline catching the sunlight. ‘He was a weirdo, wasn’t he, William Beckford?’

‘An extremely rich weirdo,’ Paloma said. ‘I provided some costume drawings for a TV company doing a documentary on him, so I read the books.’ She had amassed a huge collection of archive material on historical costume and built a successful company much used by the lucrative film and television markets. ‘An amazing man. He had a much taller tower built at his family seat, at Fonthill Abbey, twice the height of Nelson’s Column. Can you imagine that?’

‘A Victorian skyscraper.’

‘Pre-Victorian. Early nineteenth century. But it lasted only about thirty years. Soon after he sold up, it collapsed.’

‘Why?’

‘Poor building, bad foundations, something like that. He’d moved to Bath by then.’

‘He wasn’t so daft, then.’

‘Weird, but not daft.’

‘You’re well up on all this.’

‘Another culture vulture in your life – is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget I took you to the theatre once.’

She smiled. ‘On two complimentary tickets. And it was
An
Inspector Calls.
’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. I enjoyed it.’ Another smile. ‘Next time let’s see something unconnected with the police.’

She told him more about the eccentric Beckford, how he created a mile-long landscaped walk across country to his tower and would set off each day from his home in Lansdown Crescent accompanied by a dwarf servant and four dogs. ‘I’ll lend you a book. You’ll enjoy him – witty, wilful and scandalous, too.’

‘Thanks.’ He doubted if he’d do more than dip into the book. His preference in reading was true crime of the trench coat and trilby days.

The food arrived. Paloma’s was a crab and prawn salad. For a while eating had priority over conversation. Only when they’d each confirmed that the food was up to Hop Pole standards did Paloma ask, ‘What have you got lined up for tomorrow? Another day watching the dig?’

He shook his head. ‘Some chance.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘But it’s a murder case, isn’t it? You said you’ve got a headless body.’

‘A skeleton without a skull.’

‘That’s murder, surely?’

‘War injury. My best guess is that the head was blown off by a cannonball in the Civil War. A case for
Time Team
, not me and my lads.’

‘Don’t you have to investigate, even if it’s history?’

‘The forensics lot are doing that. They may dig up some bits of armour when they go deeper. Fun for them, but no help to us. I’m outta there.’

‘Doesn’t the coroner get involved?’

‘Too true, he does. And when they report to him they’re stuck with all the paperwork. I’m not daft. Anyway, I’ve got other fish to fry.’

‘Keeping the streets of Bath safe?’

‘Exactly.’

On cue, a patrol car’s siren sounded from somewhere in the city. ‘Here’s a thought, then,’ Paloma said. ‘All this talk of Lansdown reminds me that one of my well-heeled clients offered me a free day at the races any time I want. How would you like a flutter on the horses?’

‘He was chatting you up.’

‘
She.’

‘Oops.’

‘A lady owner, in a long term relationship with a very rich rock star, who shall be nameless. She really means it. She has a double annual badge for the Premier Enclosure.’

‘You think you can pass me off as the rock star?’

She laughed. ‘That
would
be a challenge. No, it’s perfectly legit. We go as ourselves. Shall I check the date of the next meeting?’

‘Why not?’ he said, thinking this was a long term suggestion. ‘Do you know, I’ve lived in Bath all this time and never gone racing.’

She took out her mobile and fingered the keys. ‘We can remedy that.’

It turned out that there was an evening of racing at Lansdown the next day. Cynic that he was, he suspected she’d planned this all along.

Police work has a knack of springing surprises. In the morning Diamond took a call from Dr Peake, the forensic anthropologist who had been given the femur to examine.

‘You said it was found up at Lansdown?’ Peake said in that way academics have of double-checking everything before committing themselves.

Diamond had nothing to hide. ‘Correct – and now we’ve found the rest of him, bar the skull. It’s a good bet he was a Civil War victim who failed to duck when a cannonball came his way.’

‘Have you any evidence for that?’

‘Heads don’t get parted from bodies that easily.’

‘I meant the Civil War connection,’ Peake said. ‘Are there relics as well as bones?’

‘Give us time. We’re still digging.’ He made it sound as if he wielded a spade himself.

‘Now that you’ve found more bones, I’d better visit the site and see for myself.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Mr Diamond, are you certain that the femur I was sent belonged to the skeleton you’re talking about?’

‘Put it this way, doc. It came from the same hole in the ground and the headless soldier is missing a thigh bone. Why?’

‘Because the first indications are that this bone is comparatively modern.’

Diamond said nothing for several seconds. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘Not from the Civil War era. More recent. Say within the last twenty-five years.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘“Sure” isn’t a word much favoured in my profession. We prefer “probably” or “maybe”. There are too many variables. Going by the state of the bone I wouldn’t say it’s been buried more than a quarter of a century.’

‘Did you carbon date it?’

‘I hate to disillusion you, but radiocarbon dating isn’t of the slightest use for the short periods in forensic medicine. There was no indication that this bone is ancient.’

‘We’re not talking
ancient
, doc. A few centuries.’

‘Anything over fifty years is classed as ancient in my work.’

‘Ouch. You don’t have to get personal.’

Peake didn’t get the joke. To be fair he hadn’t met Diamond to know he was over fifty. ‘These are the terms we use.’

‘What are your reasons?’

‘For saying the bone is modern? For one thing, the appearance. A modern bone has a smooth, soapy texture. And for another, the density. Bones a hundred years old or more are lighter in weight and tend to crumble.’

‘That’s observation. Have you done lab tests?’

‘On the femur? Indeed we have. The nitrogen content is a good indicator. It reduces with time. Typically, a bone three hundred and fifty years old contains a percentage of 2.5. Your femur came in at 4.3.’

‘Too much for a dead cavalier?’

‘Way too much. We also ran a fluorescence test. A modern bone will fluoresce under ultraviolet light, but an ancient one fades away to nothing. The femur gave a positive result, not the strongest, but fitting into the time frame I’m suggesting.’

‘Twenty-five years or less?’

‘Approximately.’

‘I don’t know whether to thank you or not. You’ve made me look a bloody fool, but on the other hand you’ve given me a mystery to work on. Shall we meet up at Lansdown this afternoon?’

Later the same morning he went looking for John Wigfull and found him in a small office studying a computer screen. ‘Is this urgent?’ Wigfull said, his face with the big moustache rising above the screen like a surfacing walrus. ‘I’m at work on a press release.’

‘I didn’t think you were playing online poker,’ Diamond said. ‘Is it about the missing cavalier, by any chance.’

‘No, that went out yesterday.’

‘Any response?’

‘It’s early days. Peter, if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something. My time is precious.’

‘Mine is as precious as yours, old chum. I’m not here on a social call. How long is it since the re-enactment man dis -appeared?’

‘Rupert Hope? Over two weeks now.’ He frowned. ‘Why – have you heard something?’

‘It’s just a coincidence. I’m dealing with a buried skeleton found up at Lansdown. I thought he was a Civil War soldier – a real one – but I’m told the bones are modern.’

‘My man wouldn’t be bones already,’ Wigfull said. ‘Not in our climate.’

‘I worked that out for myself.’

‘So I don’t see why you’re bothering me. It can’t be Rupert Hope.’

‘This one is without a head.’

‘I wouldn’t attach too much importance to that. Ploughing of the land does it.’

‘Under a fallen oak tree? That ground hasn’t been ploughed in a thousand years.’

‘You think he was decapitated?’

‘You’re a mind-reader.’

‘Why? To hinder identification?’

‘Probably.’

‘Was he murdered, then?’

Diamond rolled his eyes. ‘I’m trying to keep the proverbial open mind.’

‘A headless corpse,’ Wigfull said, beginning at last to be interested. ‘It might make an item for the press.’

‘Not yet, old chum. We’re still digging. We may get more information. Meanwhile I’m interested in your missing cavalier. Be sure to let me know when he turns up.’

‘I doubt if there’s a connection.’

‘Even so.’

He let Wigfull reconnect with his screen.

Back at the dig, the crime scene team were on another break, flasks and newspapers out, when Diamond turned up. An inflatable tent the size of a small barn had been erected over the area of excavation. He took a look inside. Nothing seemed to have changed since he’d last seen it. The bones were still partially embedded in soil.

‘How did you spend the morning?’ he asked after emerging from the tent.

Duckett, the head honcho, looked up from the
Daily Mail
. ‘What?’

‘I said how did you spend the morning? To me it looks the same as it did last night.’

‘Skeletons do, on the whole,’ Duckett said, and got some grins from his team.

Diamond contained his annoyance. ‘I don’t know if this makes any difference at all to your rate of work, but we could be dealing with a recent murder here. I’ve got an expert coming out. A forensic anthropologist.’

‘We heard. That’s why we downed tools. He won’t want it disturbed any more than it has been already.’

This was probably true. Not often did Peter Diamond come off the worst in an exchange of opinions. He turned his back on them and gazed across the vast landscape as if something of much more interest was happening two miles away.

Actually the action was much closer. Ingeborg’s head and shoulders appeared over the brow of the hill. Beside her, at about the level of her bobbing breasts, was a man in a white zipper suit carrying a cardboard box almost as big as himself. ‘This is Dr Peake,’ Ingeborg told Diamond when she was close enough.

‘Lofty,’ the small man said in a tone suggesting he’d heard every conceivable play on his name and settled for this one. ‘Ingeborg kindly gave me a lift here. Let’s have a look at what I came for.’ He dropped the box, put on surgical gloves, dipped under the crime scene tape and entered the tent, followed by Diamond and Ingeborg. ‘Ah, beautifully presented. Full marks to the diggers. Give me a few minutes with the young lady.’

Diamond had got accustomed to men making a play for the attractive Ingeborg, and it didn’t amuse him any more. ‘You can have your few minutes with me. I’m the SIO here.’

Lofty Peake said, ‘I think we’re at cross purposes. I was speaking of the deceased.’

‘You said “young lady
”
.’

‘Look at the pelvis. Obviously female.’

Time for a rapid rethink. Diamond had convinced himself the victim was male ever since he’d linked the death to the Battle of Lansdown.

He turned to Ingeborg. ‘You’d think that dozy lot would have recognised a female skeleton.’

‘Maybe they did,’ she said.

‘And said nothing to me? That would be so unprofessional.’

‘I wouldn’t take it up with them, guv.’

‘I don’t intend to. I’m not giving them the satisfaction.’

Lofty Peake was on his knees beside the skeleton, his face so close to the bones that he could have been sniffing them. ‘Has she had her picture taken?’

‘The victim? Yes, repeatedly.’

‘Soil samples taken? A search made for trace evidence? I think we can lift her, then. I’ll find out more in the lab. First impressions suggest she was a young adult, average in height. I don’t suppose there’s much chance of finding the skull, but you’ll make the effort, won’t you?’