“So you have the birth certificate, do you? Who were his parents?”
“Henry Morgan, taxi driver, and Fiona Glynn, unemployed.”
“Unmarried by the sound of it. Aren’t they still around?”
“Both dead,” Gilbert said. “I got the certificates. She went first, of cancer, in 2002, and he was killed in a car crash five years later. He was only forty-three.”
“Perry would have been eleven or twelve when his mother died. Bloody hard for a kid that age.”
“Really tough. I found the notice of her death in the Chronicle and he’s mentioned as her much-loved son.”
“You’ve been busy. Was an address included?”
“Not in the paper. On her death certificate. Oldfield Road.”
“Anything in the report about her partner the taxi driver?”
“They seem to have separated at an early stage. Not even sure if they ever lived together. His fatal accident gets a write-up in 2007 with a photo of his wrecked taxi. He broke down at night on the M4 coming back from Heathrow and was stationary on the hard shoulder when a transporter ploughed into the back. Pure bad luck.”
“Not all that uncommon, sadly. Does Perry get a mention?”
“In the paper? Briefly, as a son, living with him at Larkhall. But he’s named on his father’s death certificate as the informant.”
“Same address as his father?”
“Doesn’t tell you. It just says Perry Morgan, son.”
“I’m getting the picture,” Diamond said, more for his own benefit than Gilbert’s. “Brought up by mum until her death, when he goes to live with dad in Larkhall. After the crash he’s alone in the world at sixteen or seventeen. I wonder what he did next. The shock of being orphaned must have taken a while to get over. Can’t see him running the sixth-form disco. Yet in a few short years he becomes the local impresario staging everything from wrestling to the world fireworks competition.”
“Where would he get the confidence?”
“Cocaine helped.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I know. There has to be some kind of grounding in event management. He didn’t leave Bath, it seems. These are the years we need to concentrate on. Make a list of all the shows he organised and start contacting the people he would have dealt with. How did they hear about him and what do they know? Find out who he mixed with.”
“Miss Divine said he didn’t get visitors.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t make contacts outside. He knew how the world works, so he must have rubbed shoulders with all sorts. He was capable of thinking big and persuading people he was the real deal. They call it chutzpah, but where did Perry get it from at such an early age? My first thought is some kind of training in art.”
“Art? Why?”
“Artists carry conviction. Tell you a row of bricks is a masterpiece and you look at it and believe them.”
“Sometimes you do,” Gilbert said in a tone suggesting he, for one, would take some convincing.
“It’s all about persuasion. Where would he go to study art?”
“The university?”
“Why not? The art courses are all based at Newton Park these days, aren’t they? At one time it was the Academy of Art at Corsham Court and then it was Sion Hill and then it was all taken over by the university. See if there’s any record of him on their courses. He could have been a dropout.”
“How about the cocaine angle?” Gilbert asked, not wholly sold on the art college theory. “Does he have form?”
“Nothing was known to the drugs unit until I mentioned it, but he seems to have bought his wraps from a supplier called Newburn.” Diamond snapped his fingers. “And Newburn is a gallery owner. Must be why the art popped into my head.”
“Want me to visit him, guv?”
“I’d better go myself. DI Tate in drugs is pissing his pants about us interfering. You’ve done a useful job already. Now fill in the missing years.”
Paul Gilbert was proving to be a vital member of the team, growing in self-confidence. The best detectives have an inner fire. Motivation. A sense of justice. Commitment to the cause. Whatever it was that made a good cop, the young man had it in large measure.
Ingeborg had her hand raised to get Diamond’s attention. She, too, had proved her worth many times over. He crossed to her desk, tidy as always. A see-and-store book of 8 x 10 photos of the crime scene. Phone, notepad, pen neatly positioned.
“The first ballistics report is in, guv.”
“Quicker than usual.”
“I’ve been giving them a hard time. I mean, when they’ve got bullets that impacted with soft turf, as they have, it shouldn’t be difficult getting the striation pattern.”
He was eager to hear this. The markings on the bullets—as individual as fingerprints—would have been compared with a huge bank of gunshot data to see if there was a match with any other crime. A positive result would very likely confirm that they were dealing with a contract killing. “So what are they telling us?”
“There were no casings recovered, meaning almost certainly that the shots were fired from a revolver rather than an automatic. The shell casing stays in the chambers until it’s manually removed. They’re 9mm, which is nothing unusual. They checked the pattern with the national database and got a nil return.”
He frowned. “This isn’t helpful, Inge. You’re telling me the gun hasn’t been used before in any recorded crime.”
“I’m just reporting what they told me.”
“So what are we to make of it? Either the killer isn’t a professional gunman or he is—because he’s smart enough to arm himself with a new weapon.”
“That’s devious thinking. You’re ahead of me.”
“Doesn’t help us, though.”
“I wonder if we’re dealing with an amateur,” she said.
“Who keeps a revolver in his sock drawer? This isn’t America.”
“It happens. There are guns in private hands. A one-off shooting by someone driven to desperation.”
“By drugs, you mean?”
“Possibly. Or some personal issue.”
“People with personal issues mostly make a poor job of murder and it’s often spur-of-the-moment. There was definitely premeditation here. The killer chose the time and the place. The gunfire was masked by the fireworks and everyone except him was staring up at the sky.”
“He wasn’t all that accurate.”
“Two hits out of five? That isn’t bad. Anyone who has used a handgun knows it’s a crude weapon compared to a rifle. Didn’t we learn anything else from ballistics?”
“That’s it in a nutshell. We’ll get some detail later.”
Ingeborg never showed much in her expression, but he thought he saw some disbelief.
“I heard what you said, Inge, about an amateur. They aren’t all hotheads, I have to say. I may be influenced by the drug element. Perry was pretty successful at what he did and that can lead to all sorts of jealousies by less talented people. Let’s keep an open mind about motives. We don’t know enough about his contacts yet.”
“Are you going to make a call on his supplier?”
“Newburn? He’s next.”
21
For all Diamond knew, Upmarket may have been in business as an art gallery for months, if not years. He wouldn’t have noticed. His idea of art was the framed film posters from the 1940s that adorned the hallway and stairs of his house in Weston. Build My Gallows High, with Robert Mitchum, old sleepy-eyes, cigarette drooping from his lips; Casablanca, showing Bergman and Bogart cheek to cheek; and a favourite that never failed to raise a smile, Payment on Demand, with a vengeful Bette Davis in a red strapless gown standing over a kissing couple and the plot summary, “The one sin no woman ever forgives. He strayed and he paid! She saw to that!”
Images as obvious
as his treasured posters would not be offered for sale at any gallery in Bath. Typically an overpriced item that was more eyesore than art (in Diamond’s estimation) would be displayed in the window against a black background that blocked the view of the gallery interior.
The current offering in Upmarket—when he got there—was a large carriage clock without hands or numbers. The face was a human face with a large Salvador Dali moustache that might have been meant to stand in for the hands of the clock. But then a peculiar thing happened. Diamond moved his head a fraction and was surprised to see the moustache jerk to a new position. Instead of 9:15, it showed 10:20. He moved again and it was 11:25 and he realised he was looking at some kind of hologram. Novel, but grotesque. He wouldn’t have given it house room if it was offered as a gift. He turned his back on it. Of much more interest was the fourth-floor window of the building across the street, the obvious place for a police CCTV camera to have been secreted to film everyone who entered Upmarket. He could imagine Don Tate going through the footage later and saying, “I knew that Sassenach fucker would compromise our investigation.”
Before going in, the Sassenach fucker glanced up at that window and touched the brim of his trilby.
The interior of the gallery was narrow but extended further back than he appreciated from the street. He pretended to take an interest in the works on display, all evidently created by the same hand. A theme was apparent. More hologram faces stared out at him from household objects: a birdcage, a fan heater, a saucepan and a food processor. They opened and closed their eyes, grinned and scowled. Personally he found them creepy. They might appeal to someone’s sense of humour, he supposed. Not his.
At the far end he caught sight of a living face, a young woman at a desk behind a computer, so he touched the hat again and said, “Just taking a look, if I may.”
“Please do,” she said in a voice that would have got her the best table in the Pump Room. “Are you interested in surrealism?”
“Not specially.”
“Don’t hesitate to ask if anything interests you.”
Ask the price was what she meant, because nothing was tagged.
“I was hoping to see Mr. Newburn,” he said.
For this he was rewarded with a sigh, a knowing look and the abandonment of all charm. She reached for a phone. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Peter.” Buyers of cocaine—and at the beginning he meant to pass himself off as one—wouldn’t give much away, least of all their surnames.
She spoke something into the phone that wasn’t meant for Diamond’s ears and then looked up. “He’ll be down shortly.”
“Good.”
If it hadn’t been so transparent that the head of CID wasn’t a man of culture, he might have asked politely who the featured artist was. Equally, if the gallery assistant had thought Diamond was a potential buyer he might have been offered a glass of wine.
Neither occurred.
Presently she got up and reached behind for her coat and Diamond guessed what was going on. Newburn’s arrival would be the cue for his assistant to leave the shop for a time. The drug dealing was conducted in private.
Now he’d made clear he wasn’t there for the art, Diamond stood by the window looking out at the traffic until a voice behind him said, “Have we met?”
He turned and faced five-foot-nothing of cultivated innocence in a pink velvet jacket, striped shirt and lavender-coloured trousers. Tinted blond hair fluffed to candyfloss consistency over a boyish complexion. Small soft hands that had clearly never gripped anything rougher than an emery board. Tiny feet in crocodile-skin shoes.
Have we met? If we had, I’d remember you, matey, Diamond thought. “This is the first time.” He didn’t offer his hand. He wasn’t taken in by the fragile appearance. Dealers in drugs were hard men.
The assistant glided past them both and left the gallery.
“I believe I’m in the right place,” Diamond added.
“The right place for what?”
“For the art.”
“Art?” Newburn said with raised eyebrows, as if he sold compost. “Oh, you mean the holograms.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“The origami.”
This was met with a frown.
“The art of paper folding.”
“Ho, ho, ho.” The joke wasn’t appreciated.
“If you know what I mean.”
Newburn plainly knew what he meant, and was not ready to trade. “Peter, you told my assistant. Peter who?”
“Diamond.” Nothing to be gained by keeping up this pretence, so he took out his warrant card. “CID.”
The gallery owner turned a shade pinker than his jacket. For a moment he looked as if he would take flight like a Michelangelo cherub. He glanced left and right and then ahead at the door, probably checking to see how many other burly policemen had come to arrest him. No doubt he’d mentally rehearsed this personal Armageddon many times over.
Diamond was the next to speak. “Making enquiries into the sudden death of Perry Morgan.”
“Who?”
“Don’t mess with me, Newburn. You know about the shooting.”
“Shooting?”
“At the fireworks Saturday night.”
“I can’t help you. I wasn’t there.”
“But you knew the victim.” Having given the sharp shock, Diamond offered some reassurance, the possibility that this might not be a drug bust after all. “We’re speaking to everyone he came into contact with. He was a client of yours.”
“What makes you say that?” The little man was stalling.
“We searched his flat and found some wraps. Your handiwork, I’m reliably informed. Before you say another word, I’m not here to pull you in. I’m investigating murder, not the dealing.”
Newburn swallowed hard, getting over the first shock and deciding how to react. It seemed he was ready to talk. “What do you want to know?”
“Did he come here to buy?”
A nod.
“On a regular basis?”
“It was occasional, after a payday, I suppose. His work wasn’t regular.”
“Did he buy in bulk, then?”
“He preferred it that way and so did I.”
“How did he find you?”
“Through a recommendation, he said. He came in one morning.”
“With a large amount of cash?”
“Of course.”
“A recommendation from another user? Did he say who?”
“No.”
“When would this first visit have been?”
“Towards the middle of last year. I haven’t known him long.”
“Did you get the impression he’d moved on from another seller?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“That’s not good enough. You must have formed an opinion.”
“All right. I suppose he had. Why do you ask?”
“Another supplier may have felt he was justified in killing him.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Not in Bath.”
“It’s all very civilised here, is it? A shake of the hands and a fond goodbye. Was Perry Morgan already an experienced user? Did he know about quality and prices?”
“He wasn’t a beginner.”
“He’s quite well known in Bath. Did you recognise him?”
“Not when he first came in. Later I saw his picture in the press, but I didn’t let on. My better-known clients prefer it that way.”
“Did he ever reveal anything about his situation?”
“You mean his finances? Never. They don’t like you knowing what they can afford.”
“Or you raise the price?”
He was tight-lipped.
“Actually I meant his personal life. He had a flat above a shop in Uni
on Passage and lived alone there.”
“He never spoke of anyone else. I wouldn’t expect him to.”
This wasn’t stonewalling, Diamond decided. If the landlady, Miss Divine, was to be believed, Perry had guarded his privacy. Newburn was scum, but his account so far rang true.
“Is there anyone in the drug community who may have wished him dead?”
“Not to my knowledge. Why should they? It’s the middlemen like me who are most at risk of violence.”
Indisputably true, but if this toerag wanted sympathy from Peter Diamond he wouldn’t get any.
“How do you protect yourself? Do you have a gun?”
Newburn didn’t say anything. The change in his skin colour was the giveaway.
“So you do.”
“I told you I wasn’t there when he was shot. Besides, I had no reason to wish him dead.”
“Where’s it kept?”
“I’ve never used it.” His right hand moved towards the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Don’t.”
“I was about to show you.”
“I’ll see for myself.” Diamond stepped forward, pulled open the front of the pink jacket and removed a small black gun. Going by the weight, it was loaded. “Dinky.”
But it was an automatic and they eject the casings at the scene. This couldn’t have been the weapon used in the murder.
“Self-defence,” Newburn said. “I meet some unpleasant people in the course of my work.”
“Snap,” Diamond said.
“Are you going to charge me?”
“What with—possession of an unlicensed weapon? Not at this minute. I have more important things to do. You’ll hear from us.”
He pocketed the gun and left soon after.
Georgina had warned him that taking on a new case of murder when he was already dealing with the Twerton skeleton would stretch him and she was right. This evening he was due to attend the Beau Nash Society meeting wearing the rented costume—a challenge that required a different mindset from dealing with pond life like Newburn. He needed time to prepare, so instead of returning to Concorde House, he decided to knock off early. First, he phoned Keith Halliwell.
Beau Death Page 25
