Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  Georgina’s visitor went in. And if it wasn’t two minutes, it was still pretty quick.

  The Fixer came out and raised a thumb. “No probs, dude.”

  Diamond said, “Cool,” and sounded cool and got the satisfaction of a double-take before he stepped inside the office himself.

  Georgina greeted him with a wide, unexpected smile.

  “Peter, I’m glad you looked in.”

  “Are you, ma’am?” he said, puzzled.

  “It’s high time we made some progress on the Twerton murder. What is it, a week since we found the skeleton?”

  “Six days actually.”

  “Six days too long.” She still looked pleased.

  “I wouldn’t say that, considering we had no reason to suspect it was a murder.”

  “Until the postmortem, you mean?”

  “In the two days since, we’ve achieved plenty. We’re better informed than we were at the start.”

  “‘Better informed’ isn’t exactly naming names.”

  “This isn’t simple,” he said. “The more we investigate, the more intricate it gets. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It’s defeated you?”

  “No.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “We’re checking the previous tenants of the house—which is a tough nut to crack because the letting agency closed down and there’s no documentation anywhere. We’re having to rely on hearsay, but we can’t afford to ignore it.”

  “And?”

  “We traced the squatters who were in the place and they led us to the last paying tenant, who is an electrician, Polish. He was there ten or eleven years, most of the time with a partner, also Polish, and her elderly father. And in case you’re suspecting what I did, the old man was given a proper funeral and cremated. He isn’t the skeleton.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  He frowned. The smile was lingering on Georgina’s face. Clearly she knew something he didn’t. “I can’t tell yet, but the Polish guy remembered who was living in the same house before him. A couple.”

  “Did he say who they were?”

  “He didn’t meet them. His partner heard about them from the locals.”

  “When would this have been?”

  “The time slot we’re interested in. The late nineties.”

  “About the time the murder was done?”

  He nodded.

  “Excellent,” Georgina said rubbing her hands. “We must find other sources, get descriptions, names.”

  “That’s proving difficult. But the Pole did know something else. The woman walked out at some stage.”

  “They argued?”

  “He doesn’t have the details. She left one day and wasn’t seen again.”

  “Ah.”

  “And with my suspicious mind I’m thinking if her man was the killer, did he also murder the woman?”

  “A double killing? You said she walked out.”

  “The Pole said that. It’s what other people would assume if she vanished from the house. I’m thinking perhaps she never left.”

  “What would he have done with the body? It wasn’t in the loft.”

  “The small back garden.”

  “Buried her?”

  “Under the forget-me-nots.”

  “Peter, there’s a lot of supposition here.”

  He wasn’t going to admit he’d been influenced by Ingeborg. When you hit a brick wall, intuition might get you over it. “Ma’am, you asked me to investigate and this is where it’s led me. That’s why I’m here. I need bobbies with spades and sieves.”

  “Hasn’t the garden been gone over already?”

  “Not dug for human remains. After the terrace was demolished the contractors removed the rubble and now they want to start work on their supermarket as soon as possible, putting down foundations. I’m trying to preserve it as a crime scene, what there is of it. To them it’s days lost. Time is money.”

  “You’re asking me to conjure up a working party?”

  “Please.”

  She took a deep breath. “You couldn’t have asked at a worse time. Uniform are fully stretched this week.”

  “There’s never a good time, ma’am. We’re under-resourced. We both know that.”

  “Just about everyone is on overtime with these fireworks displays each night. They can be dangerous events if they’re not policed properly.”

  “Half a dozen officers could do the job.”

  “What? Patrol the World Fireworks Championships?”

  “Dig up the Twerton garden.”

  “We can’t spare them,” she said, shaking her head.

  “The digging has to be in daylight. I won’t take them away from the fireworks.”

  “That isn’t the point. These men and women are working their socks off day and night.”

  He tried flattery. It sometimes worked with Georgina. “We in CID have confidence in you. When the pressure is on, we always know we can count on you.”

  “Really?”

  “In all honesty, ma’am.”

  She sighed. “Between ourselves, I enjoy fireworks as much as anyone, but I’m not best pleased about the way this was foisted on us. Did you see the young man who was leaving as you came in?”

  “The dude with badges on his hat?”

  “Dude?” She gave him a look that let him know he would never make chief superintendent while she was in charge. “He’s the organiser. As far as I can tell, he’s a self-appointed impresario who offered Bath as a venue. The event is usually in Blackpool when it’s in Britain. He put in a bid and they were only too pleased to take him up on it. He goes by the—to me—alarming name of Perry the Pyro.”

  “Pyromaniac?”

  “My thought exactly, but apparently it means he’s a pyrotechnics expert. He must have some influence with the council and the rugby club because he managed to get the Rec for the shows. I’m assured they all worked well so far and tonight will be the end of it.”

  “That’s all right, then. He can get by with fewer bobbies.”

  “No, no. Quite the reverse. Tonight’s finale will be on the lawn in front of the Royal Crescent.”

  “On the lawn?” Diamond was doing his best to look surprised. Better not tell Georgina he and Paloma planned to be there. She might decide he could help with the policing.

  “God knows how he persuaded the residents it was a good idea.”

  The occupants of the crescent zealously guarded their exclusive rights of use of the patch of turf in front of their building.

  “Where will the audience be? Below the ha-ha, I suppose. Open ground.”

  “That’s my concern. It’s a free show. Anyone can turn up, so we’ll need a big police presence.”

  “You can’t spare a few men for my dig?”

  She didn’t answer. She drew herself up in her chair and looked as if she was about to announce the host city of the next Olympics. “Peter, listen to this. I have some important information for you. I—personally—have been working behind the scenes.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “I became interested in the costume the skeleton was found in—the frock coat and breeches that led us all to believe he could have been Beau Nash. My thoughts turned to occasions where such clothes are worn, even in the twenty-first century.”

  “Balls.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “They’re worn at costume balls at the Guildhall and the Assembly Rooms. Large annual events.”

  “You’ve done some research of your own, then?”

  “Covered every angle we can think of.”

  “In that case, you may have come across the Beau Nash Society.”

  Couldn’t deny it. He’d been homing in on the society in recent days. But he was cautious. “I in
terviewed a member, yes.”

  “You have already?” She sounded slightly deflated.

  “They meet at a house in the Circus. And they all dress up, bloody fools. Fine if you have the time and money. It’s mostly for the idle rich.”

  “Do I detect a note of envy?”

  “No. It wouldn’t appeal to me.”

  “But if you’ve spoken to a member you must believe they could help the investigation?”

  “No stone unturned, as they say.”

  “Well,”—she brought her fingertips together—“I may be able to help. I won’t bore you with the details, but I recently met some people who know more about the Beau Nash Society than you and I could learn in a lifetime. Sir Edward has been president ever since the year 2000. He is known to the members as the Beau. You may have heard of him as a property developer.”

  “You’re speaking of Sir Edward Paris,” he said. He could have said a tosspot called Sir Edward Paris. That was what he was thinking.

  “Ed, as I know him.” With a superior smile, Georgina said, “Over a drink at their ultra-modern home in Charlcombe last night, the subject of your investigation came up.”

  He frowned, not liking this. “How was that?”

  “No need to get hot under the collar. Only three of us were there—Sir Edward, Lady Sally and me. I ventured to suggest it might be helpful for you to meet Ed.”

  “Did you?”

  “And he agreed. No one is better placed to tell you what goes on.”

  He bit back his annoyance.

  “Better than that,” Georgina went on, “Ed himself suggested you come to their next meeting, a chance to rub shoulders with the members. Isn’t that a splendid offer?”

  “Bit of a problem there,” Diamond said straight away.

  “Oh?”

  “Like I said, they dress up. I’d stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Of course you will if you go in the kind of thing you’re wearing. Hire a costume.”

  His hands flew up like a kick-boxer under attack. “I’m not dressing up.”

  Georgina was unmoved. “I knew you’d say that. Take a moment to let the idea sink in, Peter. This is your chance to watch the society in session. Ed is offering to introduce you to some elderly members who were around at the time of the murder. It’s not for me to say that they know who the victim was and who did it, but you’ll look awfully silly if they do and you turn down this invitation.”

  “I don’t need to see them at their meeting. I can go to their houses.”

  “That won’t do.”

  “Why not?”

  “I promised Ed you’d be there.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He’ll make sure they talk. He’s very persuasive.”

  Diamond shook his head. “I’ll feel a total wuss.”

  “It’s not about you, Peter. It’s about bringing a killer to justice.”

  “I know, but—”

  “It’s an order. I’ll tell you what. Do this for Avon and Somerset and I’ll guarantee you get your six bobbies with spades and sieves.”

  Clobbered.

  He said nothing in the CID room about the dressing up. He simply announced that the dig would get under way the same afternoon.

  “Anyone heard of a dude called Perry the Pyro?” he asked.

  Looks were exchanged.

  “Perry Morgan.” Ingeborg said at once. “The man behind the fireworks.”

  “That’s him. Is he local?”

  “He’s been around sometime, staging events. Not long ago it was the balloon fest. And I think he was behind the pop festival in Prior Park. He’s only a young guy in his twenties and I believe he lives above the pet shop in Union Passage. They let him hang posters in the windows.”

  “I met him briefly this morning.”

  “He’s all over the social media.”

  “So he’s not really a fireworks expert?”

  “Not an expert on anything except working the crowds. Are we interested in him?”

  “Just checking. He seems to have got Georgina in a tizzy. She’s bothered about the fireworks moving to the Royal Crescent tonight. It’s too open, she thinks.”

  “The organisers must know about safety. They’ve done several evenings already.”

  “What really bothers her is the residents. They’re not people you mess with. They don’t take kindly to events like this. They have to move their cars from in front of the crescent.”

  Leaman said, “My heart bleeds.”

  “And they’re picky about the use of the lawn. They have a society that looks after the upkeep. I assume Perry the Pyro has cleared it with them.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Ingeborg said. “People like him take a lot for granted.” She was working her iPhone. “Here’s one of his tweets.” She handed him the phone.

  The tweet said: Must-see amazing free world fireworx finale Royal Crescent tonite. Be there.

  “How does he make his money if it’s free?”

  “It’s been going on all week at the Rec. He’ll already have made a killing in gate money. Are you thinking of going?”

  “Paloma wants to see it, so we’ll go along.”

  “I might do the same.”

  “I’m going for sure,” Paul Gilbert said.

  “There you are,” Ingeborg said. “If we’re typical, most of Bath will be there.”

  The dig that afternoon was started in hot sunshine. Five male constables and one female arrived at the site in a van and were met by Diamond. “It’s not a huge area, as you can see,” he said. “That’s the good news.”

  “What’s the bad news?” one of them asked.

  “I want to go down six feet.”

  Something was said that he pretended not to hear. They got out the spades and made a start. After an hour most of the surface rubble had been removed and it looked more like the garden it had once been. You could even see the remains of some forget-me-nots. He handed out bottles of water.

  Someone said, “I felt spots of rain.”

  They all looked skywards. A bank of dark cloud was moving in. “Should cool you down,” Diamond said.

  “Haven’t we done enough for today?” someone asked.

  One of the diggers said, “All the buried bodies I’ve ever read about were in shallow graves.”

  Nobody else said anything, so the man made his point again. “Shallow, not six feet under.”

  “They’re the ones we hear about,” Diamond said. “Think of the ones that never got discovered.”

  By the end of the afternoon the sum of their finds was a horseshoe, a triangle of chalk, some crushed beer cans, half a rubber ball and nine inches of tape measure. The rain hadn’t stopped and the conditions had become impossible. The diggers were hip-deep in a trench that was fast filling with water.

  In the minivan, the shallow grave man said, “Here’s the story so far. The people who lived in that house kept a horse, but there wasn’t much grass for it to eat, so it survived on chalk, beer and rubber balls. In the winter it needed to keep warm so they measured it up for a coat, but it was hungry and ate most of the tape measure.”

  “You’re nuts,” one of the others said.

  “Tomorrow we’ll try and get the real story,” Diamond said. “Why the long faces? The ground should be softer after the rain.”

  16

  Parking was a problem. Every space in the nearby roads had been taken and Charlotte Street car park was teeming. In the end Paloma had to leave the car at Green Park.

  “Worse than a football match,” Diamond said.

  “These last few evenings of fireworks were all publicity,” Paloma said. “It’s going to be crowded. I thought all that rain might have put people off, but it stopped before dark, like they said in the forecast.”

  “Shame.
I was banking on staying indoors and watching from your bedroom.”

  “Less of that, please.”

  It was dark by the time they reached Royal Victoria Park and got a sense of the size of the crowd, surely the biggest since the Three Tenors attracted more than thirty thousand in 2003. The difference was that this time no seating was provided. Those who wanted to be close to the action had arrived early and stood shoulder to shoulder below the ha-ha, the sunken six-foot barrier between the performance area and the crowd. A few yards back some brave souls had spread blankets for picnics at the risk of getting trampled. Vendors of drinks and snacks were doing good business where they could weave their way in.

  As was the custom for big events, every light in the Royal Crescent was switched on—notably in the squatters’ house as well as all the others—making a memorable spectacle in itself. The residents’ lawn above the ha-ha was reserved for the fireworks teams and scaffolding was in place.

  “Should be starting soon,” Diamond said when he and Paloma had chosen a place to stand in front of the trees in Royal Avenue. “The finalists are France and China, and Bath is putting on some kind of extra display at the end.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll last that long,” Paloma said. “I should have brought ear plugs. I’ve got some at home.”

  The public-address system was already pumping out high-decibel canned music. Presently it stopped and after some painful audio feedback a human voice was heard imploring the crowd to take some steps backwards for the safety of people at the front. The appeal seemed to be heeded.

  “Seen any police yet?” Diamond asked Paloma. “Most of Bath Central is here.”

  “On duty?”

  “They’ll be in high-vis jackets.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t want their job.”

  A new voice welcomed everyone to the World Fireworks Championships and explained about the rules for competition and the earlier rounds at the Rec.

  “This’ll be Perry the Pyro,” Diamond said. “Can you spot him? White hat, long dark hair.”

  “No chance from this distance. I wish they’d stop talking and get on with it.”

  The national anthems of France and China blared from the amplifiers but no one at the back took much notice. A man to Diamond’s left offered him the use of binoculars. He was able to pick out Perry with a hand-held microphone strutting along the edge of the ha-ha like Mick Jagger. “And now, dudes,” he was saying, “it’s over to the teams. First up is France. As you know, the French do three things better than anyone else: wine, cheese and sex. Now let’s see if they can make it four. Put your hands together for our cousins from across the Channel.”