Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  “This is her?” Leaman opened the hand containing the bit of bone.

  “A piece of her, possibly. You may get more clues as other bones are recovered. But your main line of enquiry has to be naming and tracing the main suspect.”

  “Her partner? What else do we know about him?”

  “Jerzy was vague. He said he’d been told the guy was a Brit and he suggested he was called Harry. Don’t place too much reliance on that. I couldn’t be sure if he was guessing.”

  “Probably was, then.”

  “The thing about these two is that they were firmly in the time frame when the skeleton was killed and hidden in the loft. Like I said, Jerzy was here eleven years and the squatters for over two after the place was condemned—two and a bit, they said. That’s thirteen since our mysterious couple were here, which checks neatly with our other point in time, the period when that particular pattern of Y-fronts was still in use.”

  “So how do you see it? Harry murders the man in the frock coat and the woman finds out and gets murdered herself?” Leaman’s confidence was growing by the minute. He was sounding more like Diamond’s partner in the case.

  “I can think of a dozen scenarios. She was asking too many awkward questions. Or he was afraid she’d talk. Or he caught her trying to get into the loft. Or she was a good Christian soul with a conscience who wanted to go to the police. Or they did the killing together and fell out and he couldn’t risk a break-up. Or she demanded money in return for her silence. But it’s too soon to speculate. We’re at the stage of collecting information.”

  “How long was Harry living here alone?”

  “After the woman vanished? I got the impression it was a few years. Shall we move? I can feel the damp coming through my socks.”

  “I warned you, my friend,” Leaman said. “You should have brought wellies.”

  Diamond quietly noted “my friend” and was amused. The two senior investigators wound their way through the heaps of earth and back to the cars.

  “The SOCOs aren’t going to be too pleased that we dug the site over already,” Leaman said.

  “You did the heavy work for them. They’ve got the beauty part now, disinterring the bones.”

  Paloma hadn’t wasted any time. She wanted Diamond for a fitting that evening at her house in Lyncombe.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she said when she took the rented outfit from its cover and showed it to him.

  “It’s pink,” he said in alarm.

  “Pinkish-mauve. A soft shade like this shows off the embroidery.”

  “Flowers.”

  “Leaves and flowers. That was the style. You need to look authentic.”

  “Like the sugar-plum fairy. I can’t believe this is happening,” he said. “Have you ever had that dream when you arrive at some posh event like a wedding and discover you’re naked? That’s how I’m going to feel.”

  “You’d feel far more embarrassed if you turned up in your day clothes. Try the breeches first. I got the largest size they had, but there’s room for adjustment. I can reposition the buttons if need be.”

  “I’m not that enormous. What’s in this packet?”

  “White stockings. I had to buy those. They don’t come with the costume.”

  Grumbling to himself, he went behind a Chinese screen she had thoughtfully provided. The fit was pretty good. The breeches fastened over the stockings. He put on the linen shirt and tucked the flaps under the waistband. Apart from some tightness on the shoulders when he tried the frock coat, the costume would pass muster.

  “Better than I hoped,” Paloma said when he emerged.

  “The jacket may be a size too small. I don’t want to burst a seam.”

  She told him the armholes were cut high to achieve an erect posture. “Actually it’s a very nice fit. Be glad you’re not a woman and wearing stays.”

  “Have you got a mirror?”

  “Hey ho.” She smiled. “I think someone rather fancies himself as an eighteenth-century gent.”

  “I need it for the wig.”

  She held up an oval hand mirror. “Line it up with your forehead and pull it backwards over your head. Had to be white, I’m afraid. Only the Beau is allowed to wear black.”

  “Like this? Is it straight?”

  “Perfect. There’s a full-length mirror on the far wall.”

  He went over and stared at his reflection. Pink or pink-mauve, the colour was still hard to accept. “I was thinking the coat would be dark grey or black.”

  “That wouldn’t be right. You’d look like an extra out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Take my word for it, Peter, this is what the others will be wearing.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “Actors do it and think nothing of it.” She reached for her phone. “Can I get a picture?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m getting out of this now.”

  “But you must practise the walk. You’re wearing something special and you need to flaunt it.”

  “I think you’re enjoying this.”

  “Someone has to. You made it very clear you aren’t. A prop might help. I’ve got a silver-handled cane somewhere. Try the walk while I’m out of the room.”

  In truth, Paloma was right. He knew he must be convincing. Her advice chimed in with what Ingeborg had said earlier. This was about an attitude of mind. He’d need to banish the embarrassment.

  He took a couple of hesitant steps and then lengthened his stride, puffed out his chest and walked the walk. I can do it when no one is watching, he told himself. Now I must have the guts to do it in public.

  “You don’t have to overdo it,” came Paloma’s voice from behind. She’d returned unnoticed and was watching from the doorway. “That’s a little too much swagger. They’ll be comfortable in their costumes. They’re used to it. All you have to do is feel comfortable in yours. Now try with the stick.”

  The stick definitely helped.

  “I like the look,” she said. “Does wonders for your figure.”

  “Hides the pot belly, you mean?”

  “Beau Nash would approve. How are the shoes?”

  “They’ll do nicely.” They were black with large silver buckles. In reality they were a size too large and slipped a bit, but he could pad them with paper tissue.

  “I could have got matching pink. Men wore all colours.”

  “Black is good.”

  “Why is this meeting important?” she asked.

  “I’m hoping these people can help me put a name to the skeleton. Some of the older members were around at the time we think the murder was committed.”

  “They may put a name to your killer as well. Wouldn’t that make it all worthwhile?”

  “Just about.”

  His first action next morning was to visit the drugs unit. Neither of the two sergeants was there. He knew he was in for a battle when he saw the man in charge. Inspector Don Tate was notorious for giving little away about the unit’s activities. Tate had left Scotland twenty years before but was as dour as any Aberdeen fish-filleter. Moreover he still had a brogue so broad that it took a while to tune in.

  “You know why I’m here?” Diamond began.

  “The Peruvian marching powder?”

  Diamond didn’t know the expression and not a word of it was understandable to him. “Excuse me?”

  “Cocaine.”

  “Got you. The stuff I brought in yesterday. Has it been analysed yet?”

  Tate nodded and kept his mouth shut. Probably he felt he’d said too much already.

  It was ridiculous to Diamond that the drugs unit couldn’t fully confide in CID, and the reticence wasn’t entirely down to Tate’s personality. He’d come up against this brick wall before. Everyone in the policing of drug offenders would talk of ongoing operations requiring secrecy, as if no other
section worked on the basis of confidence. As Diamond saw it, all sections of the police were on the same side. This would not be simple. “How was the quality?”

  “Better than most.”

  “Pure cocaine?”

  “You don’t get pure cocaine here. It’s twenty to twenty-five percent at best.”

  “Not crack, anyway?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did your guys tell you who it came from?”

  “The laddie who put on the fireworks show, I was told.”

  “Correct.”

  “And now you’re going to ask me who his dealer was. I can’t tell you.”

  “I didn’t expect it from you, Don. But you can point me in the right direction.”

  Tate pulled a face as if someone was trying to throttle him. “Sensitive information.”

  Unmoved, Diamond told him, “I won’t share your precious secrets with anyone outside my team. We’re professionals, same as you.”

  “We have several ongoing enquiries.”

  “Is there ever a time when you don’t? That’s how you work.”

  “Aye, but I can’t have the work of many months compromised by your lot pulling in people under surveillance by my teams.”

  “This was murder, Don. I’ll pull in whoever I believe has information.”

  “You have your job.” Tate glared. “I have mine.”

  “And you’re about to give me the tired old line about a conflict of interests. I’m looking for some cooperation here. Have you ever stopped to look at the name of this building when you come in each day? It’s Concorde House. Not a lot of concord in here this morning.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Tate said.

  Diamond rolled his eyes. “I brought the cocaine straight to your team. Don’t you owe me something in return?”

  “It may seem a big deal to you, Peter, but having a user ID’d is no help to us when he’s already dead. We’re interested in the big boys.”

  “So am I, ultimately. The boys who order the shooting of dopers they want eliminated.” Diamond had known it would be like this but being forewarned hadn’t made him any less irritated. “For now, I’ll settle for the name of his supplier. You don’t want me making wholesale arrests, you say. Better name someone, so I can get the job done with minimal damage to your stings.”

  Tate gave him a level look. “Nice try.”

  “What do you suggest, then—that I get out on the streets and run it my way, putting the fear of God into all the coke-heads we can find so that they cough up the names of these people you’re unwilling to identify?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  “Perry Morgan wasn’t on our radar. I’d tell you if he was. So how could I know who supplied him?”

  “You said it was good quality cocaine.”

  A nod.

  “And you saw the wraps. Plain white paper. Was there any indication from the way it was folded who might have made them?”

  “We had a look.”

  “Got any prints?”

  “From what?”

  “Give me a break, Don. The wraps, folds, bindles or whatever the current term is. You don’t have to be obtuse as well as tight-lipped.”

  “Nothing definite was found.”

  “But you have your suspicions? You’re not going to let a chance like this go begging.”

  Tate sneered. “And you’re not going to stop trying, are you?”

  “Why would I? The signs are that Morgan was addicted and using a large part of his income to keep stocking up. He must have become a nuisance or a threat to his killer. Is there anyone in your sights who would resort to murder?”

  “That would be unusual.”

  “But not unknown?”

  “The barons are into other crimes.” Sensing he was on safer ground, Don Tate expanded a little. “Money-laundering more than anything. That’s how we get on to many of them in the first place. They have cash-flow problems, but not the sort you and I would have. They have to find ways of hiding their dirty money in offshore accounts or in businesses that routinely handle large amounts of cash.”

  “I understand that. One way of disposing of hot cash is to pay a gunman to take out someone you don’t like.”

  “In which case,” Tate said, looking away, out of the window, “first find your gunman.”

  “There were no witnesses.”

  “Ballistics?”

  “May identify the weapon. Not the man. If I don’t get names from you, Don, I’m serious about taking to the streets.”

  “You’d set us back months of patient work if you do. And you’d get nothing. The guy you want doesn’t do street dealing.”

  This sounded awfully like confirmation that a particular individual was in the frame, teased out of the wily Scot through sheer persistence. Long experience of questioning tight-lipped criminals might be about to pay off. “So you do have someone in mind.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t if you could avoid it, but you just did. He doesn’t do street dealing, so he must be selling at a higher level to better-off celebrities and the like. Am I right?”

  Rattled, Tate pointed a finger and said, “Lay off, Peter.” He rolled the final “r” like a motorbike revving up.

  “Touched a raw nerve, did I?” Diamond said. “If you won’t tell me, there are big-name people in this city who can. I see it in your eyes, Don. And your white knuckles. Where shall I go looking for these snow birds—the racecourse, the Pump Room, the theatre, or can you suggest a top hotel?”

  “You could blow an entire operation.”

  “Sorry,” Diamond said with irony. “You can’t say I didn’t inform you first.” He got up from the chair. “I must get started.”

  Tate gave him a murderous look. “The wraps would appear to have been made by a dealer we already have under surveillance. He folds them in a particular way we recognise. He will have bought the cocaine from someone higher up the chain who imported it, someone outside our authority. We’re working closely with the National Crime Agency.”

  The mention of the all-powerful NCA was supposed to spook Diamond. It didn’t.

  “Name?”

  Tate flapped his hand in derision.

  “I’m asking for the name of the local man.”

  “He’s small time, not likely to possess a firearm or think of hiring a gunman. We don’t regard him as dangerous in that sense.”

  “So you can safely tell me who he is.”

  “I canna.”

  There is an old proverb about using a sprat to catch a mackerel. This was the moment Diamond reversed the process.

  “Someone else will.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Don, we both know who I mean. His distributor.”

  If Tate had been tasered he couldn’t have twitched more. “You don’t . . .”

  “But I do. Albanian and dangerous.”

  A moment of silence before a rare smile dawned. “Albanian? Who are you kidding? Newburn doesn’t buy from an Albanian.”

  Diamond smiled back. He’d caught his sprat.

  “Thanks. And where do I find Newburn?”

  Don Tate sighed heavily. “He’s a gallery owner.”

  “Which gallery?”

  “Upmarket.”

  “I’m sure. But what’s it called?”

  “I told you—Upmarket.”

  “That’s the name of the shop?”

  “The top of Broad Street. If you question him, for Christ’s sake don’t give him any hint that he’s already on our radar.”

  “Relax,” Diamond said. “We’ll make it clear we’re investigating Perry’s death and checking everything on his phone.”

  “You’ll keep me informed what h
appens? Now I’ve told you this, I’m insisting on cooperation.”

  “That’s rich,” Diamond said.

  “You gave your word.”

  “All right. You’re in the loop, don’t worry. We got there in the end. You know, Don, you could take lessons from one of your team.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t believe in faffing about. I’ve seen him in action. He’s straight to it.”

  Tate reddened. “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Marley the sniffer dog.”

  Paul Gilbert had hit a problem with the task Diamond had given him as family liaison officer: there wasn’t any family to liaise with. The dead man Perry Morgan seemed to have been without a living relative. Miss Divine from the toy shop had performed the macabre duty of identifying the corpse before the autopsy and up to now she was the main authority on his life.

  “Have you discovered anything at all from public records?” Diamond asked when he returned to the CID room.

  “He’s a Bathonian, born in Dolemeads in 1990.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “One of the cottages opposite the Baptist church.”

  “Prepare to meet your God.”

  Gilbert blinked and stared back at Diamond, who wasn’t known to quote the Bible or utter death threats.

  A nice moment this, watching the changes in the young man’s face as the penny dropped. “The writing on the roof?”

  “Spooky, eh, in view of what happened to him?”

  “As it turned out, yes.”

  Widcombe Baptist Church, formerly the Ebenezer Chapel, on Pulteney Road, is distinguished by the sobering texts emblazoned in huge white letters on the four sides of its roof (the others being “Christ died for our sins”; “We have redemption through his blood”; and “You must be born again”). When the district known originally as “mud island” changed over the decades from a slum to a new council estate to a gentrified locality where the average price of property rose to over half a million, requests were made by aspiring Widcombe residents to have the texts erased, but they remained and as part of a Grade II listed building their survival passed into the safe hands of English Heritage. For Peter Diamond, they were a feature of the city worth keeping, particularly as he didn’t live within view and see the messages each morning when he pulled back the curtain.