“Mine will be all over the keys. It shouldn’t happen . . . should it?”
She was efficient and quicker than he could have hoped. He’d barely finished replacing the magazines in date order when she said, “Done.”
“Mission accomplished?”
She unplugged the cable. “Let’s get out before we celebrate. This is the point in the movie when the baddies arrive.”
“Our baddy is still on life support.”
“Don’t count on it.”
They locked up and were shortly on the road again.
“What’s next?” Ingeborg asked when they were clear of Henrietta Road and into Argyle Street. “Checking all this creepy material, I suppose?”
“Please.”
“It won’t prove he’s a killer, will it?”
“It will be strong corroborative evidence.”
“Evidence that he was interested in murder methods, but not that he put any of them into practice.”
“Fair point,” he said.
“He could be a fantasist.”
“There’s more to it than that, Inge. A significant number of people in his circle have died in the last two years.”
“Old people,” she said.
“Which makes it easier for a murderer to get away with it.”
“Why would he do it? There’s nothing to suggest he’s deranged.”
“I’m hoping the computer will give us a lead on that.”
She offered to take the hard drive home that evening and make a start. The least he could do after that was drop her off at her flat. Clearly she was sceptical that Pellegrini was a killer, but she’d miss nothing.
He had one more visit to make before getting home. Fortunately the Royal United Hospital was at Combe Park, close to where he lived in Weston. That remark of Ingeborg’s—“Don’t count on it”—when he’d mentioned Pellegrini was still on life support had made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he expected the man to walk in suddenly, but the reverse. He might already be dead.
“You can’t stay away, can you?” the caustic sister in charge said when he looked through the open door of her office. He guarded his tongue. He didn’t want another verbal punch-up.
“How is he?”
“No change,” she said, and then her face softened. “What’s the news of Hornby?”
Thank God for Hornby. The virtual cat was the sure way to open a civilised conversation here. “Settling in well, I believe.”
“He’s not with you, then?”
“People I know and can trust. I’m not at home much. It wouldn’t be kind.”
“His new owners should keep him indoors for a few days, so that he gets to know who feeds him.”
“I expect they’ve thought of that, but I can pass it on. May I go in?”
“You won’t learn anything new.” She handed him the pack of sterile protective wear.
“Is it any use talking to him?” he said as he slipped the disposable plastic apron over his head.
“Of course. He’d appreciate that,” she said.
“Really? Do you mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s a one-way conversation, obviously.”
“Not at all. They rub against your legs and purr. That’s their way of answering back.”
“Actually I meant your patient, not the cat.”
“Him?” She raised a smile. “You’re welcome to give it a go. We do, quite often. There’s a certain amount of evidence from people who emerged from vegetative states that they heard what was being said, even though they couldn’t respond in any way. It can’t do any harm, as long as you don’t say anything upsetting.”
“Trust me,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can. Don’t tell him you’re from the police. That would upset anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Keep it friendly.”
“I will. I want to see him recover.”
Kitted in the mask, hood and apron that he was starting to wear like a seasoned medic, he went in. At least they hadn’t switched off the machinery. Technically there was a chance they’d save the patient. Pellegrini’s eyes were closed but his chest was moving perceptibly with the action of the ventilator.
Instead of a mask he now had a tube inserted into his nostril and clipped in place, so more of his face was visible.
The face of a killer?
Gaunt, pale, slack-muscled, with a silver beard starting to sprout, a reminder that not everything here was artificially induced.
Diamond stood watching, reflecting on the irony of all the equipment surrounding the bed, the various monitoring devices, the screens, drips, lines and pumps, the catheter, the feeding tube, sustaining life in an individual who may well have systematically deprived others of their existence.
In a long career, the much-tested Peter Diamond had never faced a situation like this where the main suspect was in custody, so to speak, yet couldn’t be interviewed. Even the “no comment” every petty crook learned from crime dramas would be better than silence. You found ways of getting past that. Here there was no serious prospect of communication.
No one could know for sure whether a brain was dormant or active.
Better give it a try.
Self-consciously, he took a step closer. His voice was muffled by the mask. “Can you hear me, Ivor? I’m Peter Diamond, the guy who found you after the accident. There’s a lot I’d like to ask you about what happened that night.”
And other things, too, he might have added.
Not a flicker of comprehension. Even the screens didn’t register anything different.
“I live in Weston, not far from here. You’ll know it because of Horstman’s at Newbridge, where you worked as an engineer.”
Horstman’s should have been a strong memory but it didn’t seem so.
“Everyone is hoping you’ll snap out of this, Ivor. Your railway friends in particular. Great Western Railway—does that ring any bells?”
Plainly it didn’t.
“County of Somerset was your GWR identity, wasn’t it? The name-plate over the door of your workshop. I was there this week. Met your cleaner, Mrs. Halliday. And a lady from the church called Elspeth Blake, who turned up with a nice quiche for you. Your domestic life is better sorted than mine. I wouldn’t mind a home care package in the shape of Elspeth Blake. But I was asking about your GWR contacts. I spoke to a Captain Jarrow today and he was telling me how a bunch of you broke away from the Bath Railway Society to form your own special interest group. Do you remember Captain Jarrow?”
If he did, he wasn’t going to show it.
“Not all your old chums know you’re here. We’re working on it, all your contacts.”
He waited a minute or so in case anything had penetrated the brain.
“If you don’t remember people, let’s talk about some things you got up to. The night jaunts on your tricycle. That disused station. What was it called? Now I’m in need of some prompting myself. Got it: Hampton Row Halt. The only reason I’m banging on about all this is to try and trigger a memory.”
He was scraping the barrel of his own memories now. What else could he mention that wouldn’t bring on a cardiac arrest?
“There are the rabbits digging their holes and covering big distances. We’re still a bit mystified about the rabbits. Some sort of joke, were they?”
None of this seemed to have registered. It was difficult avoiding the conclusion that Ivor Pellegrini was brain dead.
Diamond turned his head, just to be certain the sister wasn’t behind him. Out of devilment he said in a low voice, “And three gowns in your workshop, made by Fortuny.”
Was it wishful thinking, or did one of the delta waves on the nearest screen give the tiniest twitch?
“The Fortuny gowns belonging to Olga Filiput.”
As soon as he got home, he called Ingeborg.
“Have you started?”
“Barely,” she said. “It’s not a quick job, guv.”
“Nothing to report, then? I thought you said his computer had loads of memory that hasn’t been used.”
“I did. He’s used about seven gigabytes out of a hundred.”
“Is that all?”
“Do you have any idea how many pages of text that represents? Around six million. So don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
12
On arrival at Keynsham next morning, Diamond was asked by the desk sergeant to report to the assistant chief constable as a matter of urgency. He sighed and walked across to the coffee machine. He wasn’t going to miss his first caffeine boost of the day.
In the CID room, one of the civilian staff looked up and said, as if she was doing him a favour, “Message for you, Mr. Diamond. The ACC wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”
How he yearned for the solid, concealing walls of Manvers Street nick instead of this open-plan layout. He nodded and carried his coffee into the room he called his goldfish bowl. Everyone could watch him through the glass.
Ten minutes later, revived and ready to go, he emerged and was told by Keith Halliwell, “Message from Georgina, guv.”
“I got it,” he said.
On the stairs, he passed John Wigfull, the PR man who raised a hand. “Thanks,” he said before a word was spoken. “I’m on my way.”
Georgina had two people in black suits with her—a man and a woman. They didn’t get up from their chairs, a sure sign that they outranked him.
“This is Detective Superintendent Diamond, who has been handling the Professional Standards aspect,” Georgina said to the suits. And to Diamond she said in a voice almost choking with awe, “Mr. Dragham and Miss Stretch are from the Independent Police Complaints Commission.”
Dragham and Stretch. Like a medieval torture.
Georgina had been dreading this for days.
“We were sent a copy of your report,” Dragham said. “Nice diagrams but not a lot of beef in the findings.”
The diagrams had been Dessie’s, the findings Diamond’s. He felt an instant antipathy to these people. This wasn’t likely to go well.
“I’m a police officer, not a butcher.”
Georgina swayed as if avoiding a punch.
“‘Beef’ is a term we use,” Miss Stretch said. “We need more substance to justify the conclusion you reached.”
“Hard to come by when the driver is dead and the accident victim in a coma,” Diamond said. “The sergeant in the passenger seat was the only material witness and his statement is there verbatim.”
“I saw that, including the ripe language.”
“It’s what you get from a man in pain.”
“We’re going to visit him and get a fresh statement ourselves.”
“I hope it’s more fragrant.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The language. He’s improving every day.”
Dragham took over from his colleague. “But are there any signs of improvement in the victim?”
“They’re all victims,” Diamond said, in a stroppy mode he couldn’t stop. “If you mean the tricyclist, Mr. Pellegrini, he’s still on life support.”
“Have you spoken to the hospital staff?”
“Several times. I was there last night. There’s been no change since he was brought in.”
“We understand he has no family.”
“That’s my understanding, too. His wife died six months ago.”
“So we’re not acting on a complaint as such,” Dragham said. “A case of a police car injuring or killing a member of the public is referred to us as a matter of course and we decide whether it’s appropriate for the local police to conduct their own investigation. If so, it will need to be more thoroughgoing than the one you submitted.”
“I was asked to report on professional standards,” Diamond said. “There’s only so much you can say.”
“The way the officers behaved is just one part of our remit,” Miss Stretch said.
“So I’ve saved you some time. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“A little less abrasiveness would be all to the good,” Dragham said. “We’re not trying to catch you out, Mr. Diamond. We’re independent of the police. Do you have a problem with authority?”
Georgina stepped in fast and avoided an eruption. “I can answer that. Superintendent Diamond speaks his mind but he makes a huge contribution to the work of CID and I, for one, wouldn’t wish to cramp his style.”
Diamond thought he wouldn’t mind having that in writing.
Dragham turned to him and made a feeble attempt at humour. “After that glowing endorsement perhaps we should recruit you.”
“No thanks.”
“Getting back to the fatal incident, when were you first aware of it?”
“Soon as I got into work. People were talking about a patrol car crashing and one of our guys being killed.”
“What time was this?”
“Nine, or soon after.”
“The collision was at six thirty-one,” Dragham said. “When did you get there?”
“Nine-forty, give or take.”
“More than three hours later.”
“I went when I was asked.”
“My instruction,” Georgina said. “The first response was from uniform, as you would expect. I decided we would need a senior officer to report on the professional standards aspect.”
“A lot must have happened already.”
“Yes,” Diamond said. “They were clearing up when we got there. The police officers had been removed from the wreck and taken to hospital.”
“Which is why your report contains no record of what was said by Sergeant Morgan to the paramedics who attended?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“But you haven’t followed up.”
“I went to see Lew Morgan myself and got his version of events.”
“The next day, when he’d had time to reflect on how much he would tell you.”
“It was the first opportunity.”
“No, Mr. Diamond,” Dragham said, “the first opportunity fell to the paramedics and fire officers who were at the scene shortly after the crash and you haven’t taken a statement from them. Crucial things may have been said.”
He didn’t comment. It was fair criticism. He’d been caught out.
“Which is why a more searching investigation may be necessary.”
“To be fair to Superintendent Diamond,” Georgina said, “the injured civilian wouldn’t have been found were it not for the extra search he made.”
“He would have been found at some stage,” Diamond said.
“Almost certainly dead,” Georgina added.
“We haven’t yet visited the scene,” Miss Stretch said. “From the report I gather he was out of sight at the top of an embankment.”
“With the remains of his tricycle,” Diamond said. “No one suspected anyone else was involved.”
“What was he doing there?” Miss Stretch asked. “You don’t say in the report.”
Tricky. He wasn’t ready to reveal any of the information he’d got from inside the workshop, so he gave an obtuse answer. “The force of the impact must have thrown him into the air.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking. Why was he out on the roads at that hour?”
“Only he can answer that.”
“You must have wondered, surely?”
“My job, ma’am, was to check why the police were there, not Mr. Pellegrini.”
“They were responding to a call about a naked man. Was it a hoax?”
“N
o. It was daft but genuine. I found the waste of space who made it. He was the one who witnessed Pellegrini wandering off course as if he wasn’t used to riding the tricycle.”
“Can he be believed?”
“In my opinion, yes. He’s a pain in the bum, but a good observer. In fact, observing things is his main interest in life.”
“We’ll need to see him.”
“He’ll be only too pleased to talk. His name is Bellerby and it’s the bungalow called Bellerby Lodge with the Union flag in the front garden.”
They were sharp, these two, but with any luck Bellerby would keep them busy for the rest of the day.
He left them to it.
Ingeborg was in the CID room when he returned there. He noticed she already had the hard disk plugged into the computer on her desk.
“Tell me the story so far.”
“You don’t want to know, guv,” she told him. “It’s all about trains—toy trains, real trains, old trains and when it isn’t trains, it’s tracks. There’s masses of stuff here.”
“Emails? I couldn’t find any when I first tried.”
“There aren’t any. He must have another computer for them. He uses this one for the Internet and storing documents he downloads or creates himself. It’s nicely organised, which I’d expect from an engineer, but I’ve found zilch of interest to us.”
“The discussion about murder methods?”
“Not here.”
He almost groaned in frustration. “It must be on his computer. He printed it out.”
“Direct from the website. He didn’t need to keep it on file.”
A painful silence followed while he plumbed the shallow depths of his computer know-how.
“Have you been through everything?”
“I’ve got the overview. I haven’t opened every file yet, if that’s what you’re asking, but I’ve seen plenty.”
“Is there a quick way you can make a search looking for key words?”
“Within a document, I can, and I’ve tried just in case he’s hidden stuff in a long piece about some class of locomotives. I put in Fortuny, for example.”
“And . . . ?”
“No joy. I tried other words like the names of his friends. Up to now, it’s been a waste of time. I really had hopes that we’d nail him this way.”
Another One Goes Tonight Page 17
