The Summons (21 page)

“If you play it right,” Diamond broached a more positive offer, “you ought to survive. The gun isn’t going to help. I don’t know where you got it, but you’d be safer without it.”

The warning seemed timely when Mountjoy used the back of the hand that was holding the gun to wipe his mouth. Whatever the man’s misdemeanors, he was no gunman.

Diamond sensed that he was on the brink of getting some information about Samantha. It was worth giving more. “As a matter of fact,” he volunteered, “I don’t have the name of this witness who saw you leaving the house. He’s a crusty, a traveler.”

“One of that lot? Who’s going to believe him?”

“I do, for one.”

This caused Mountjoy to frown. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“You sent me down. Are you actually admitting you got it wrong?”

“It’s beginning to look that way.”

“Was this crusty the killer?”

“Probably not.”

This wasn’t the answer Mountjoy had expected. The muscles in his face tensed and he said thickly, “Who the hell is it, then?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What?”

“—but I’m closing in,” Diamond added quickly. “That’s why it’s so important that Samantha is released unhurt. She
is
all right still, isn’t she?” And after receiving no reply, he said, “Look, the people who are running the manhunt are getting anxious. If you could give them some proof that she is still alive, it might buy us both some time. If not”—he glanced at the gun—“it could end very soon, John, and in a bloody shoot-out.”

Mountjoy’s troubled eyes held his for a moment, but he gave no response.

“Will you tell me something else?” Diamond asked him, his brain in overdrive. “That last evening you spent with Britt: did she mention anyone she was seeing?”

“Other men, you mean? I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“I mean no. Why would she want to talk to me about boyfriends?”

“Perhaps to give you the message that she was already dating someone.”

“Well, she didn’t. I did most of the talking, chatting her up, you could say.”

“Didn’t that involve asking her questions about herself?”

“Yes, but you don’t ask a woman who else she’s sleeping with.”

Fair point. Diamond was compelled to admit that on a first date the conversation was unlikely to venture down such byways. It was a long time since he’d been on a first date. “Who paid for the meal in the Beaujolais?”

“I used my credit card, but she insisted on giving me money to cover her share. She said something about modern women valuing their independence.”

“You must have expected her to offer.” Diamond moved on—smoothly, considering the circumstances—to the real point that interested him. “Did you by any chance give her some flowers?”

Mountjoy was annoyed by the question. Muscles tensed in his cheek. “The roses? No. Will you get it into your thick head that I didn’t murder her?”

“There’s a big difference between buying flowers for a lady and murdering her,” Diamond said. “Someone else could have seen your flowers and taken it to mean she was two-timing.”

“They were not my flowers.”

“Pity. It would have made a nice gesture, the kind of gift a woman would appreciate from a mature man such as yourself. You wouldn’t have to arrive at the restaurant with them. You could have had them delivered to the house.”

“I didn’t.”

“So did you notice any roses in the flat when you went back there?”

“No.”

“Would
you have noticed?”

“Probably.”

“So—getting back to your conversation over dinner— did you talk about her work?”

“Hardly at all. Mostly we discussed Swedish cooking and various cars I’ve owned.”

Heady stuff! Diamond thought. “You’re a keen driver?”

“Used to be.”

“Was she?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted to keep the man talking.

“She seemed to understand what I was on about, only I don’t think she owned a car. She said you could manage easily in Bath without one, what with the minibuses and the trains.”

“And friends with cars. You drove her back to Larkhall after the meal in the Beaujolais?”

“Yes.” Mountjoy was becoming twitchy again, rubbing the gun against his sleeve.

“Did you get the impression that the house was empty?”

“It was. It was in darkness. We had it to ourselves. I thought I had it made until she started on about the Iraqi students I was enrolling. Then I knew she’d set me up. I was pretty sure she had a tape recorder running somewhere.”

“Of course,” Diamond said aloud, and it sounded as if he’d expected nothing less, whereas in reality he spoke the words self-critically. Of course she would have used a tape recorder, a top journalist. “Did you look for it?”

“There was no need. She went on about evidence and pictures and documentation, but I admitted nothing. Didn’t even finish the coffee. I got up and left. I was pretty upset, but I saw no point in giving her abuse.”

“She saw you to the door?”

“If you mean she followed me downstairs saying she’d got all the evidence she wanted and I deserved everything that was coming to me, yes. She slammed the door after me. I walked to where I’d parked my car in St. Saviours Road and drove home.”

“Did you see anybody along the street?”

For some reason this inflamed Mountjoy. “I was too bloody angry to notice. Look, I’ve told you all this at least a dozen times before, you fat slob. You’re just trying to fob me off with this horseshit about the crusty. Britt Strand was a class act. She wouldn’t mix with rubbish.”

“She didn’t normally. She was using him, the same as she used you.”

“What for?”

“A story about a squat in Bath.”

“That’s no story. That wouldn’t even make an inside page in the local paper. I’m not satisfied, Diamond. We had an arrangement. I trusted you. When are you going to deliver?”

“Soon.”

“Tomorrow.”

Diamond thought fleetingly of the man lying unconscious in the RUH. “That’s too soon.”

“Tomorrow—or never.” He tugged open the door and was gone.

All Diamond had to do was pick up the phone and tip off Warrilow. Instead, he went to the kettle and switched it on, picked a sachet of coffee from the bowl and emptied it into a cup. He spilled some of the Nescafe, not because he was in a state of shock, but because he was cack-handed. Always had been. Couldn’t help it. He could handle an interview.

Well, considering his interview wasn’t planned, he hadn’t done too badly. True, he hadn’t confirmed whether Samantha Tott was still alive, but he had just teased out the clue that would transform the investigation.

If there was time.

His elation was short-lived. There was a strange sound in the room, a whine, rising to a fast crescendo, followed by a click. Acrid fumes invaded his nose. There was no water in the kettle and he’d burnt out the element.

Chapter Eighteen

Regardless of Peter Diamond’s warning that the day ahead promised to be a demanding one, his assistant Julie turned down the offer of the Heritage Platter. She breakfasted on muesli and tea, refusing to be tempted by the appetizing smell of crisp bacon and fried eggs wafting across the table. Diamond had once heard muesli likened to the sweepings from a hamster’s cage and had never touched the stuff since. He decently refrained from saying so.

They had a window table overlooking the lawn of Queen Square with its mighty plane trees. A table with starched linen cloth, silver tea service, silver cutlery and fresh flowers. Never mind the gray sky outside; the big, bald ex-detective, chatting affably to his attractive escort, was oblivious of the weather. He was basking in the interested glances of the Germans and Americans he had met in the bar the previous evening, for none of them had seen Julie arrive at the hotel entrance at 8:30.

“Brought my wife here for a meal once,” he reminisced with her. “Bit of a scene I caused. We must have had something to celebrate. Maybe it was when I got promoted to superintendent. Well, we ate a good meal and I asked Steph if she wanted a liqueur with her coffee. We’re not liqueur-drinking people normally. She likes to surprise me, though. She said she’d like a glass of that Italian stuff they set alight and serve with a coffee bean floating in it. We’d seen it once and she’d been keen to try.”

“Sambuca.”

“That’s right. Sambuca. It smells of aniseed. I wouldn’t touch it myself, but I was feeling chuffed that night and willing to order whatever the love of my life requested. It duly arrived at the table flaming merrily. We watched it for a bit and then Steph asked how long it would go on burning, because she wanted a taste. I said I thought you had to put the flame out. There wasn’t anything to hand except an empty wine glass, so, having told her the scientific principle that a flame needs air to keep it alight, I put the bottom of the wine glass over the liqueur glass. Result: the flame disappeared. I lifted up the wine glass. What I’d forgotten is that liqueurs are sticky. The rim of the glass stuck to the wine glass and it came up with it—”

“Oh God!” said Julie, beginning to laugh.

“—and then dropped on the table and tipped over.”

“No!”

“Unfortunately the flame hadn’t gone out completely. Next thing we had a fire going. Flames leaping up in front of me. I had to grab a soda syphon to put it out. The tablecloth was scorched and we had to be moved to another table to finish our coffee.”

Tears of amusement ran down Julie’s face. “I heard you were accident prone.”

“Who told you that?”

She wiped her eyes. “We’ve all got our weak points. My trouble is, I can never remember who told me things.”

True to his promise, he said nothing about the investigation until they had finished eating. Then he gave her a near-verbatim account of his latest brush with Mountjoy. “And now I’ve got a real problem,” he confided. “A jumbo-sized dilemma. Do I report all this to the top brass at Manvers Street? You’ll say I’m duty bound.”

“I think you are,” said she.

“But I’ve got nothing of substance to pass on except the fact that he is armed.”

“That’s more than enough.”

He continued as if Julie hadn’t spoken, “I learned sweet FA about Samantha, or where they are holed up. If I tell Warrilow that Mountjoy is carrying a handgun, he’ll issue weapons and some idiot will shoot him on sight.”

“You can’t
not
tell them,” she argued. “He could shoot an officer and you’d have to live with that knowledge.”

He sighed heavily. “He’s an idiot. He’s supposed to be trying to prove his innocence. Why does he need a bloody gun? I wasn’t going to jump him.”

“I suppose he wanted to give you a fright. He wants quick results.”

“In his shoes, so would I. But he’s getting good value from me. We’re in there pitching, Julie.” He spotted an uneaten slice of toast on the next table and reached for it. “I don’t need a gun at my head.”

She nudged the conversation forward. “You spoke of something Mountjoy said that throws the whole inquiry into uncertainty again.”

“Right.” Diamond’s mood improved; with a return to London looming, any delay in the unraveling of the mystery was to be welcomed. “Picture it, Julie. He’s back at the house with Britt, right?”

“This is the night of the murder?”

“Yes. They’ve had a pleasant meal and he thinks he’s been invited back for some action. But instead, she has chosen this moment to hit him with her evidence about the Iraqis he was enrolling. It’s a setup. He said to me last night that he reckoned she was taping the conversation. Of course she was! She was a smart journalist collecting evidence. We know she used tapes in her work. She had two recorders, one of those heavy-duty things that you stack up in your living room—”

“A music center?”

“Right. And a neat little Japanese thing dinky enough to fit into a pocket or a handbag. After the murder we carted off boxes of her stuff, including tapes. The question is what happened to the Mountjoy tape?”

“If one existed,” said Julie.

“You can bet your life it existed.”

“I’ve been through the inventory of her material,” she said. “She was very well organized. There were upwards of fifty cassettes, every one dated and labeled, but nothing for the date of the murder. I’m sure I would have noticed.”

“The only person with an interest in possessing such a tape would be Mountjoy himself.”

“Unless it was still recording when the murder took place,” said Julie.

Diamond stared at her and snapped his fingers. “Brilliant! The killer may have taken it.”

“Cool—after killing someone, to check the tape recorder.”

“Very.”

“Unless ...”

“Unless what?”

“... he had the opportunity to collect it later.”

He stared out across the Square. “We’re back to Billington.” The disappointment was clear in his voice. “He was the one on the scene.”

Nothing was said for some time.

Finally, Julie spoke. “You don’t
want
Billington to be proved the killer, do you?”

“It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I pay him more attention at the time?”

“Because of his alibi, you told me. Any news of his condition?”

“I phoned the hospital first thing this morning. He’s improving slowly, but they don’t think he’s capable of answering questions yet. Meanwhile if we could find that missing tape in his house—”

“Won’t he have destroyed it by now—or just erased the recording? I certainly would.”

“The chances are that he did,” Diamond agreed, but with reluctance.

“Should we search the house, just the same?”

“Without a warrant?”

“To examine the scene of yesterday’s assault.”

Julie was giving top value for her muesli breakfast.

He grinned. “Let’s do that.”

Realistic about his own limitations, Diamond assigned Julie to conduct the search of the Billingtons’ house unaided. As a constitutionally clumsy man, in a search he was more likely to destroy clues than find them. Instead, he resolved to find out more about Britt Strand’s investigative journalism. Interviewing was his forte. He drove to Steeple Ashton.

In time for elevenses.

The cottage was rich with the aroma of two fruit cakes recently out of the oven. The bounteous Prue Shorter explained that they were destined to be tiers of a wedding cake, and if Diamond didn’t mind having the trimmings that had overlapped the tins, there were plenty of crisp bits to sample.

She made coffee and handed him a well-filled plate. “How’s the finger?” she enquired.

“Finger?”

“Was it a thumb, then?”

“Ah—my bee sting.” He glanced down at his hand. “The agony I put up with! I’d forgotten all about it, so it must be all right.”

“And you haven’t found that convict yet? He isn’t here, you know.”

“No, he’s someone else’s job. I’m still tidying up the facts about your former colleague.”

“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?”