Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  The tone changed. “I don’t want policemen at my party, for Christ’s sake. It’s a friendly get-together.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Diamond said. “I’m not a party animal. We can do this well away from your guests. Where does he go when he’s off duty? Servants’ quarters?”

  “Lives in the gatehouse with his wife and kiddie.”

  “Ideal. We can speak to him there. This party—is it a special occasion?”

  “Not really. Just a few of the Beau Nash mob. You was there the other night when I told them I’m stepping down. My wife had the good idea of putting on a bun-fight for the young lady taking over from me, to welcome her, like.”

  “Estella.”

  “D’you know her?”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Well, there you go. Any excuse for a rave-up, eh? Shall I tip Jim off that you’re coming?”

  “Don’t,” Diamond said at once. “He might get the wrong idea.”

  “And do a runner? Is he in trouble?”

  “I said before, it’s a routine enquiry, Sir Edward. But people do sometimes get the wrong idea when the police come calling. If he does a runner, as you put it, that’s no use to you or me.”

  “Too bloody true,” Ed said. “I’ll be up shit creek if he walks out now.”

  Diamond wiped some imaginary sweat from his brow. For a moment his whole operation had been at risk. “As soon as we get to Charlcombe I’ll let you know by phone and you can tell him he’s got visitors and send him to the lodge. Understood?”

  “You won’t keep him long? He’s my barman for the afternoon.”

  “You’ll get him back, Sir Edward.”

  He ended the call and tapped a finger drumroll on the edge of the desk. Alarming possibilities battered his brain. Over the past days he’d been diligently working towards completion of this crossword of a mystery. It hadn’t been simple. Starting as the single challenge of the skeleton in the loft, one puzzle had become two after Perry was shot. Two sets of clues, two grids and two solutions. Then the strong suspicion that Harry had been both the Twerton tenant and Perry’s father had changed the game. Evidently it was one grid after all, one diabolically difficult cryptic challenge, with the difference that the clues weren’t conveniently listed and numbered. He had to find them first. If and when he got as far as that, he knew that in a cryptic crossword the obvious answer was likely to be a distraction. You had to spot the real meaning behind the words. He thought he’d been doing quite well, filling the gaps down and across with increasing confidence. The solution seemed to be achievable—until now. The demon who delights in tormenting detectives had struck a match and held the flame to the whole damned puzzle.

  “Did you hear all that?”

  Both colleagues nodded, cautious of saying anything. The surge in their boss’s blood pressure was all too visible.

  He was chuntering. “Ten years . . . ten years was what he said . . . ten years easily. But that isn’t twenty. What was Spearman doing for the other ten?” A direct question to Halliwell—as if he ought to know.

  “We’d better ask him.” A safe response, you would think.

  “Feeble.”

  “Only a suggestion.”

  “I’d rather know in advance. I’ve got my suspicions, haven’t you? An estate steward ends up doing shopping and cleaning windows? We check the PNC and see if he’s got a record.”

  “When you say ‘we’ . . . ?”

  “Do it now.”

  Halliwell took out his phone.

  Diamond closed his eyes and shook his head like a poker player who has overcalled and lost a fortune.

  Gilbert stared at his feet and wished he was anywhere else but here.

  “Well?” Diamond’s eyes opened.

  Halliwell looked up from his screen. “James Walter Spearman was convicted at Bristol of theft and assault in February 2001, and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment. You’re right, guv.”

  Being right brought no satisfaction for Diamond at this stage. “He’s got form, then. Anything else?”

  “That’s all.”

  “I don’t have any memory of this. I want the details.”

  “There’s only so much data they store, guv.”

  “If it got tried at Bristol it was local and must have been handled by uniform.” He turned to DC Gilbert. “Run a check on our own records. The incident will have been sometime in 1997. These things take a while to come to trial. And ask John Leaman to look at the Chronicle archive. It will have made the papers for sure.”

  Halliwell said, “Do we have time for this?”

  “Gilbert does. You and I don’t. We’re off to Charlcombe on the double.”

  27

  When Georgina had boasted about hobnobbing with her titled friends in Charlcombe she’d said the house was ultra-modern. Did ultra-modern houses have lodges? The substantial brick building just inside the gate, with mullioned windows, a crop of moss on the gabled roof and two ornate chimneys, couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called modern, let alone ultra-modern. The likely explanation was that Sir Edward Paris had bought the estate and left the original lodge untouched when he demolished the main house to build his own modern mansion.

  Diamond sat in the passenger seat of Halliwell’s Ford Fiesta parked on the turf just off the drive. He’d phoned Ed Paris to say they’d arrived and were ready to speak to Jim Spearman. They’d watched two expensive cars come through the main entrance and disappear in the direction of the main house.

  “Partygoers, I suppose,” he said, wanting to ease the tension that gripped him.

  “All right for some,” Halliwell said.

  “You’re not jealous, are you? Knowing you, Keith, if you had an invitation you wouldn’t go.”

  “That’s beside the point, guv. If I was one of the idle rich, I’d find better ways of filling my time.”

  “It’s not all fun and games. If you’re a high-flyer, you go to parties and make sure you meet the right people. Georgina does it sometimes. She sees networking as an important part of her job.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Networking, I said.”

  “Playtime.”

  “Networking,” Diamond said for the third time. He was still on edge. His head turned as another car drove past. “I wonder if Georgina’s invited. She claims to be friends with Lady Sally.”

  “Do they know she’s a senior police officer?”

  “It must have been discussed.”

  “Sir Edward said he didn’t want police at his party.”

  “They might make an exception for assistant chief constables. Here’s someone arriving by taxi. I doubt if it’s her.”

  They both looked at the back window of the London-style black cab, in case. Definitely not Georgina. They had a glimpse of fluffy blond hair.

  “Crumpet,” Halliwell said.

  “Not so. That was a bloke and I know him,” Diamond said—and his usual unflappable front fell down like a fence in a hurricane. “Newburn, the drug-dealer. What’s he doing here?”

  “Is he one of the Beau Nash lot?”

  “No, no. I can’t believe that.”

  “Must be there to pep up the party, then.”

  The joke fell flat. “He’s a bloody menace. Should be locked up. I took a gun off him.”

  Another vehicle was approaching.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Diamond swung round in his seat. “That was Paloma’s car, the Aston Martin. I’m sure of it. Did you see who was in it?”

  The sleek yellow sports car had already zoomed past and up the drive.

  “Two women, I thought,” Halliwell said, “one of them black.”

  “That’ll be Estella. Was Paloma at the wheel?”

  “It did look rather like her.”

  �
�What the fuck is she up to?”

  “Estella’s got to be at the party, guv. She’s the star guest. I expect she was told to bring a friend.”

  Diamond’s hand went to his throat. “She didn’t tell me. I’m not happy with this, not happy at all. In fact I’m bloody alarmed. There are dangerous people here. Why in Christ didn’t she say?”

  “I don’t suppose she thought anything of it, a summer party with the Beau Nash set. There’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”

  The answer was obvious in what Diamond said next. “Get Ingeborg on your phone. I want her here fast. And Leaman and Gilbert. Tell them to park off the road nearby and await further instructions. We also need back-up. Same instruction. Do it now.”

  Halliwell did as instructed. A full-scale emergency was easier for him to handle than a playful dialogue about partying. He’d worked too long with the boss to doubt that he was dead serious now. And he knew better than to bombard him with questions. After a terse conversation with someone at Concorde House he said, “They’re on the way.”

  “And so is Spearman, blast him.”

  The chauffeur was strolling along the drive towards them, confident, unhurried, staring ahead, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones accentuated by the midday sun. He was in a black waistcoat over a pale striped shirt that made Diamond the film buff think of the sinister gunslinger Wilson, played by Jack Palance in Shane.

  Halliwell’s thoughts must have run along similar lines because he asked, “Will he be armed?”

  Anyone who had seen the film would be unlikely to forget Palance making a performance of fitting a black glove to his shooting hand prior to drawing his gun and killing a man, one of the most spine-chilling sequences in all westerns.

  “Could be.”

  “Want me to frisk him?”

  “No. Keep it civilised, but be alert.”

  They got out of the car and stood waiting. Spearman’s step didn’t quicken.

  To fill the silence, Halliwell started talking. “He’s been around from the start. Remember sending me over to speak to him at Twerton the day the skeleton was lifted out of the loft?”

  “I do.”

  “And we had it confirmed that he worked for Lord Deganwy.”

  “Yes.”

  “He must have sussed what was going on, Sidney Harrod conning the old man and stealing his property. It would make anyone see red.”

  “You don’t need to go over this,” Diamond muttered.

  Nothing was said by Spearman until he stopped almost toe to toe with Diamond and said, “You wanted to see me.”

  “Can we go indoors?”

  “My house?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “My wife and son are in there.”

  “It’ll be less public than here, with people driving past.”

  Spearman appeared to decide this wasn’t where he would make his stand. Without another word he led them towards the red front door of the lodge and took out a key.

  A blond boy of about five was in the hallway. Superman sweatshirt and joggers. He turned and shouted, “Dad’s home,” and ran out of sight. They heard him speak to someone in another room, the shrill voice no longer understandable.

  Spearman pushed open a door, stood back and tilted his head. “You can go in.” From the way he spoke, it was clear he wouldn’t be joining them yet. Presumably he felt he should say something to his wife.

  The way the interior was furnished didn’t tell them much. Two fabric-covered armchairs and a sofa. A foxhunting print over a stone fireplace. A few nondescript vases. No dust, but the place still had an unused look, suggesting the Spearmans observed the outmoded British tradition that front rooms are kept for formal occasions.

  Uneasy seconds passed.

  Diamond looked at his watch. His thoughts were divided. He was mystified and deeply worried about Paloma being at the party.

  Halliwell became suspicious that they’d been duped. “He hasn’t done a bunk, has he?”

  “Unlikely,” Diamond said. “He needn’t have come to meet us.”

  There was a movement at the door. It wasn’t Spearman. The child walked in, hands in pockets, and his wide blue eyes assessed them.

  This might be an opportunity. Diamond said, “Hi, Superman.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  After hesitation: “Rufus.”

  “Good name. I like it.”

  “My dad says you’re policemen.”

  “We are.”

  “You’re not dressed like policemen.”

  “We’re plainclothes policemen.”

  “Like on the telly?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Why have you come to our house?”

  “To see your dad.”

  “Did he kill someone?”

  Straight to it. Small kids don’t mince their words.

  Diamond couldn’t allow himself to be so direct. “I haven’t heard that he did. What makes you say that?”

  “It’s what policemen do, catch people who do killing.”

  “You think so?”

  “Seen it on the telly.”

  “You don’t want to believe everything you see on the telly, Rufus. It’s mostly stories, made-up stuff.”

  “I saw a dead man. He wasn’t a story. He was real.”

  “Where was this?” Diamond asked in the same even tone, trying to conceal his rocketing interest.

  “Through the window in the fence. My dad held me up so I could see.”

  “See a dead man?”

  “No, silly. See the houses being knocked down.” He removed his right hand from his pocket, raised it high and swung it down so hard that he took a step forward. “Crrrrrrrash!”

  “Got you.” Diamond was on to it.

  “The big ball crashed into the roof and made a hole. It’s called a reh . . . reh . . .”

  “Wrecking ball?”

  “Yes, and there was dust and I saw the dead man in a chair.”

  “You were actually there watching?”

  “I knew he was dead because he was a skeleton.” The word came out as “skelington” but there was no doubt what the boy meant. “It was dressed in funny clothes. When my dad saw it, he said we’d got to go.”

  “Good thing, too.”

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  “I believe you, Rufus.”

  The boards in the hallway creaked.

  “That sounds like your dad now.”

  Spearman came in, saw the boy and saw red. “What the hell . . . ? Get out of here, Rufus. Go to your mother.”

  Rufus didn’t stop to argue.

  The full force of the father’s anger was turned on Diamond. “Is that legal, questioning a kid? You have no right.”

  “He walked in and started chatting. As a matter of fact, Mr. Spearman, Rufus was asking the questions, not us. And why shouldn’t he, two strange men in his home? He got us to admit we were policemen and wanted to know why we were here. They get ideas from the TV about what detectives do. These days it’s part of growing up. But we’re here to talk to you, not your boy. Sit down and let’s make a start. We can’t keep you too long from the party.”

  Diamond at his most urbane. He seemed to have persuaded Spearman that the issue wasn’t worth pursuing. Shaking his head, the chauffeur did as he was asked, taking the sofa and leaving them to shift the armchairs to face him.

  “Sir Edward told us you once had a high-powered job up at Widcombe Hall with Lord David Deganwy.”

  The dark eyes glinted some kind of assent.

  “You were a younger man then, on the brink of a good career.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Spearman said. “We all know what happened to me. I’d be a fool to think I paid my debt to society and the s
late was wiped clean. It never is, as far as you lot are concerned.”

  “Do you want to tell us about it?”

  “Why bother, when you obviously know already?”

  “You’re wrong, as it happens,” Diamond said. “We didn’t know you had a record until an hour or two ago, but we’re catching up.” He turned to Halliwell. “Anything yet from the oracle?”

  Halliwell had his phone out and was studying Leaman’s information from the newspaper files. “Assault on a security guard in the course of theft.”

  “A break-in?” Diamond said with interest. “Where?”

  “It was never a break-in,” Spearman said. “I had my own set of keys.”

  Halliwell said, “Widcombe Hall.”

  “Where you worked?” Diamond’s eyebrows peaked.

  “Where I used to work,” Spearman corrected him.

  “I get it now. The estate was sold after Lord Deganwy died and the new owners didn’t change the locks and you didn’t hand over your keys. Naughty.”

  “I was going through a bad time.”

  “But you came into money. I’d call that a good time. I’ve seen the will. The old man left you ten grand.”

  Spearman made a sound deep in his throat, a laugh like curdled milk going down a drain. “That’s what the damned prosecutor said in court. He didn’t tell them I was jobless and kicked out of my home.”

  “Your home?”

  “The converted coach house at Widcombe Hall. Okay, I could afford to rent in Twerton, but it was a rubbish place.”

  “Not the house where the skeleton was found?”

  “For Christ’s sake, no. Give me a break, will you? That’s South Twerton. I was the other side of the Lower Bristol Road. Moving from the Coach House at Widcombe Hall to that poky two-room flat was a shock.”

  “And you were unemployed?”

  “Estate steward jobs are few and far between. I tried. Oh yes, I tried looking for work, calling in favours from people I’d known. All they could offer was sympathy. I went to the job centre. Nothing. It wasn’t a downward spiral, it was a free fall.”

  “So you decided to make use of those keys?”

  “When I reached desperation point. I knew Widcombe Hall was going to be converted into a conference centre. The sale had gone through. You say you’ve seen the will. Everything except a few legacies went to the Electoral Reform Society, the entire estate and the contents worth millions. They wanted the money so they sold it straight away and when I thought about making my visit no one was living there, or so I believed, but the place was still stuffed with antiques. I reckoned if I let myself in and picked up some items of value nobody would notice.”