Another One Goes Tonight

by Peter Lovesey

  “We’re not trying to catch anything.”

  Ingeborg pulled over at the top of the next rise, switched off the engine and got out. She told Diamond, “You don’t have to move yet, guv. I’m checking how close we are, that’s all.”

  After midnight not much else was on the road. There were intervals between the sets of headlights. The light rain hadn’t gone away.

  Still in the car, Diamond asked Halliwell, seated in the back. “Can you see anything?”

  “I don’t know what we’re looking for any more.”

  Ingeborg had walked a short distance from the car and was standing with arms folded, apparently alert to something.

  “She can’t see a bloody thing,” Halliwell said. “She’s having us on.”

  “I’ll have her guts for garters if she is.”

  She returned. “We’re in luck,” she said as she got in. “They’re not far off.”

  “Did you hear them digging their holes?” Halliwell said with sarcasm.

  “Actually, I did, but you can’t see them from here.”

  The silence from the back seat said it all.

  They started up and turned right at a side road a short way on. Ingeborg explained that they would get a better view this way. Neither of her passengers commented.

  “I’m stopping again,” she said presently. “A lot of this is guesswork now.”

  Halliwell couldn’t resist saying, “Can’t you pick them up on your satnav?”

  She opened her door and stepped out. “Listen. Open your window and listen.”

  Diamond opened his door.

  No argument: there was definitely a rhythmic sound coming from not far off, but it was more mechanical than natural.

  “Is that them?”

  “We can get closer,” she said. And they were off again.

  After two more turns they had a view across the fields to the railway and an extraordinary floodlit spectacle, a stationary train made up of at least a dozen units in bright yellow.

  A train?

  Diamond was so confused that he got out of the car unaided and felt no pain. He stood with hands on hips taking it all in.

  The sound they had heard was coming from a carriage that was, in effect, a piling rig driving a huge tubular pile into the ground attended by a team of workmen in hard hats and high-visibility jackets. Other rolling stock was made up of excavators, flat-bed wagons loaded with more of the piles, tanks that presumably held cement and water and a concrete mixer.

  “It’s a bloody factory on wheels,” Halliwell said.

  “Officially known as the High Output Plant System,” Ingeborg said, and waited a moment to deliver her punchline. “HOPS.”

  A pause followed.

  “HOPS, right,” Halliwell eventually said, grinning sheepishly. “Digging their holes. Pellegrini isn’t such a dumbo as we thought.”

  Diamond was shaking his head. “Speaking of dumbos, I should have thought of this. The electrification of the Great Western main line. The booking clerk at the station talked to me about this and I didn’t cotton on that it was the thing Pellegrini was on about.”

  “He’s got several long pieces about it on his computer,” Ingeborg said. “When I put in the word ‘hops’ I had scores of hits. They’re working six nights a week, sinking 16,000 piles between Maidenhead and Swansea. That’s 235 miles and they can do between 1,200 and 1,500 metres in a night.”

  “You’re really into this,” Halliwell said.

  “They follow up with the masts and portal booms and string the overhead cables as they go. Do you want to know about the HOOB?”

  “The what?” Diamond said.

  “The High Output Operations Base. It’s a place near Swindon where the HOPS can lie up by day ready to roll into action the next night. Then there’s the Hobbit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A little guy with pointy ears.”

  Another pause for thought before Halliwell said, “Ha bloody ha.”

  “Sergeant Smith,” Diamond said, “you’re in serious danger of losing all the credit you just built up.”

  They stood watching the pile-driving for ten minutes more, until the rain forced them back to the car.

  Fatigue set in as they drove back to Bath, but Diamond still found the energy to say, “We seriously underestimated this guy, calling him a nutter. He may be helpless in hospital but he’s having a bloody good laugh at us.”

  14

  Was the case against Pellegrini in any way undermined?

  Diamond was in a defiant frame of mind. For days suspicion had mounted inexorably to the point where it was no longer tenable to believe the man was anything else but a serial killer. It had been hell to admit. The sense of loyalty, kinship, almost brotherly love, engendered by the lifesaving episode had set up a conflict that seemed irreconcilable. But he’d passed the tipping point. His responsibility as a detective overrode everything else.

  He’d made up his mind, hardened his heart, and then what? The death certificates showed three of the presumed victims died naturally.

  Would he go into reverse?

  Not now.

  There was evidence of theft, of a demonstrable interest in murder methods and there were other suspicious deaths—to which Cyril Hardstaff’s might now be added.

  He gave serious thought to the matter over a later-than-usual breakfast next morning. He felt better than expected after not much sleep, so he treated himself to bacon and eggs and a generous assortment of extras. Dr. Mukherjee’s concerns about his health weren’t going to stop him. He needed nourishing. His brain worked better when he ate well.

  On the face of it, Cyril had died naturally, in his own bed. No doubts had been raised at the time.

  A pathetic old man up to his ears in debt. Who’d want to kill him?

  And why?

  Pellegrini was a man with a proven interest in killing. He appeared to have found a clever way to take the life of his so-called friend, Massimo Filiput.

  Clever and calculated.

  He hadn’t done it under pressure, in a hurry or a panic. First he’d committed theft. The three Fortuny gowns had been stolen some time before Filiput died.

  Then murder.

  And then Filiput’s friend Cyril had died.

  Similar situation: at home, in bed, apparently of natural causes.

  Both were old men whose wives had died. Both had once worked together. Both met regularly for a game of Scrabble. But their personal fortunes couldn’t have been more different. Filiput had died a millionaire whereas Cyril had gambled away all the money he could lay his hands on.

  Puzzling.

  Diamond poured himself another coffee.

  Think of it in terms of the old trinity every prosecution has to address: motive, means and opportunity.

  Finding a motive that fitted both victims would not be easy.

  If it wasn’t financial gain, what else could it be? This hadn’t been spur-of-the-moment violence. It was coolly planned and cleverly carried out.

  Had it been done to settle old scores? These were elderly men, all three. Had there been issues at some earlier stage of their lives? If so, the truth would take some unravelling, with two dead and the other insensible.

  The motive he’d thought up already while watching the boules-players in Queen Square still appealed to him—that the killing had been done out of conceit, just for the ego trip of carrying out a perfect murder. Or a series of perfect murders. He wasn’t ready yet to share this startling theory with Keith and Ingeborg, but the possibility remained.

  Motive, means and opportunity.

  Means.

  You name it, Diamond told himself as he recalled the pages from the online forum. Ingenious poisons, icicles, air in the bloodstream. Umpteen suggestions to work with. Detecting them would be the prob
lem. Both men had been cremated.

  “And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said to no other audience than his cat, Raffles, who didn’t even look up from the food dish, “we come to the third element—opportunity.”

  Filiput had died at home in Cavendish Crescent, apparently alone. His body had been discovered in the morning by his cleaner. It wasn’t a locked-room mystery because he kept a spare key behind the drainpipe outside the front door. Mrs. Stratford knew about the key and so, in all probability, did others.

  Simple.

  Cyril, too, had died at home, but his situation was more problematical. He lived an hour’s drive from Bath. Getting there might be difficult. Did Pellegrini drive, or did he only get about on his tricycle? And how would he gain access to the cottage? They weren’t insurmountable questions, but they needed to be asked.

  Cyril Hardstaff’s death warranted urgent investigation. His life, too.

  At work, he walked straight into an ambush. The IPCC duo were standing beside Keith Halliwell’s desk. What were they called—Grabham and Slice? Keith looked as if he’d already been dragged and stretched, and that aided the memory.

  “There you are, Mr. Diamond,” Dragham called across the room. “Was the traffic extra heavy this morning? I thought by now the Bath rush-hour would be over.”

  He let the sarcasm roll off. He wouldn’t be telling them about the night excursion and he hoped Keith hadn’t.

  Miss Stretch said, “We’re following up on our visit yesterday to Mr. Bellerby, the gentleman who made the emergency call. We weren’t aware that you took two colleagues with you until he informed us.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It was for Mr. Bellerby. He complained about police, in his words, ‘crawling all over’ his bungalow.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “DI Halliwell admits to handling a pair of binoculars without the permission of the owner.”

  “Is that crawling all over the bungalow? As I recall, he was testing what you could see through them. Isn’t that so, Keith?”

  Halliwell nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Miss Stretch switched from Keith’s failings to Diamond’s. “Mr. Bellerby didn’t like the tone of your questioning. He called it a Gestapo-style interrogation.”

  “For crying out loud, he’s the little Hitler, not me.”

  “He hasn’t registered an official complaint yet, but I’d better warn you. If he does, we’ll need to investigate.”

  This was becoming farcical. “Couldn’t you see for yourselves what he’s like? The man’s got an agenda. He objects to the restoration of the lido he can see from the back of his bungalow.”

  “He didn’t say anything about a lido to us.”

  “Did you go into the back bedroom where he keeps his spying equipment?”

  They looked blank.

  “I thought not. We have the advantage of local knowledge.”

  “You’d better tell us,” Miss Stretch said.

  He took on a confiding, almost sympathetic role. “The lido is well known, a site of historic interest. Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian lido in Great Britain. It was used from 1815 until the 1980s and then went into disrepair. The people who run the trust have done well. They’ve got lottery funding and they’re putting on events to raise more money. Bellerby doesn’t approve.”

  “Why?” Miss Stretch asked. “What’s his objection?”

  “He thinks he’s going to be kept awake by late-night revellers walking up the footpath and he’s looking for any opportunity to dish the dirt. He spotted some health freak having a skinny-dip at dawn, so he called 999. That’s the kind of tosser he is. If he hadn’t made the call, Aaron Green would still be alive and the others wouldn’t have ended up in intensive care.”

  “You’re getting rather worked up yourself, Mr. Diamond. We can’t turn back the clock. As it happens, Mr. Bellerby is rather important to us. He has provided the only eye-witness account of Mr. Pellegrini on his tricycle a few minutes before the collision.”

  “It’s all in my report. He was wandering off course, as if he wasn’t used to riding the thing. Bellerby’s words, not mine.”

  “If those really were his words, he wasn’t so explicit under questioning from us. He said the tricyclist was slightly unsteady.”

  “You can’t be unsteady on a trike unless your steering is off. It’s not like being on two wheels.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Dragham said. “His control or lack of it is, of course, crucial to our enquiry. Do you have an opinion why he should have been unsteady?”

  “Drink, I suppose. That’s the first thing that springs to mind.”

  “Inebriation? How would you account for that?”

  “He could have brought a hip flask with him. It was a cool night.”

  “There was no hip flask found.”

  “A bottle, then. He may have slung it away. I’m guessing here. You asked me for a suggestion. If it wasn’t drink, it could have been drugs. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

  “We may,” Miss Stretch said. “The hospital informed us that they took a blood sample for their own information soon after he was admitted.”

  This was news to Diamond. He’d thought Pellegrini had been too far gone. “Brilliant. It should show up, then. Have they tested for alcohol?”

  “Unfortunately there’s a catch. Firstly, the sample belongs to the hospital. We have no power to take and test blood specimens used in the treatment of hospital patients, and neither do you, the police. Secondly, even if it was offered to you, the patient has to give consent.”

  “But the patient is unconscious.”

  “And therefore the sample must be kept until he is able to decide on consent. That’s the law of the land.”

  “Murphy’s law.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Also known as sod’s law. If anything can go wrong, it will.”

  But in reality, Diamond didn’t think Pellegrini had been drunk or drugged. The man was too smart for that. Either he’d been unwell or exhausted or there was a fault with the tricycle.

  “However, the blood sample taken at the postmortem on the police driver, PC Green, was negative for alcohol,” Miss Stretch said.

  “As we all knew it would be.”

  “Everything must be double-checked. Today we’re visiting the hospital to get Sergeant Morgan’s account of the crash.”

  “That’ll really make his day.”

  Dragham frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Visitors. He hasn’t had many.”

  “And how will you be spending your day, superintendent?”

  A low punch. He backed off fast. “There’s always plenty going on in CID.”

  “Have you traced the first responders yet?”

  “Who?”

  “We spoke about this yesterday. The fire officers and paramedics who must have spoken to Sergeant Morgan at the scene. I thought you were on to this.”

  “Top of my list but no joy so far.”

  After they’d gone, he checked with Halliwell that nothing had been said about the midnight visit to the HOPS.

  “They wouldn’t know about any of that stuff, guv.”

  “They may after they see Lew Morgan. A lot depends on what he chooses to say. If, like me, he takes an immediate dislike, he may not tell them anything.”

  “They’ll question him.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’ll get answers. Lew is one of the old school of police sergeants. But if he chooses to open up with them about the rabbits, they’ll be wondering who’s the more crazy, Pellegrini or Lew himself.”

  “I hope he doesn’t talk himself into trouble.”

  “After losing his leg he won’t care a toss. I wouldn’t. The main thing is that Aaron the driver was negative for alco
hol. They could still say he drove dangerously in some way, but it’s more than likely they’ll decide Pellegrini was responsible.” He looked around the CID room. “Where’s Ingeborg this morning?”

  “She may have gone for a coffee. She sometimes goes there for peace and quiet to work on her laptop.”

  “We seem to have drawn a blank with the hard disk. We have to find another way into Pellegrini’s secret life. There’s something you can do, Keith. It occurred to me as I was coming in this morning. When I first went to the house in Henrietta Road, I asked the woman who was cleaning, Mrs. Halliday, if Pellegrini drove a car as well as getting about on the trike. She said he didn’t. He has an account with a taxi firm.”

  “You want me to phone around?”

  “Would you? They keep a log of their journeys. I’m interested to discover if he ever took a trip to Little Langford.”

  “To Cyril Hardstaff?” Halliwell’s interest quickened and he asked, “Did those two know each other?”

  “They met at Filiput’s funeral.”

  “Only once.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Hardly a reason for murder.”

  “It only wanted one taxi ride.”

  “But why? What had he got against Cyril?”

  “Let’s cross that hurdle when we come to it. For the present I just want to know if it was possible.”

  His next challenge was a phone call to the formidable solicitor, Miss Hill. She was busy, of course. He didn’t expect to get through without an effort. The receptionist said she would ask Miss Hill to call him back.

  “That’s no use to me,” he said. “I need to speak to her now.”

  “She’s in a meeting.”

  “They always are. Remind her I’m from the police and tell her it’s an extreme emergency.”

  Presently he was rewarded with Miss Hill’s stonewalling voice. “Why can’t you make an appointment like anyone else?”

  “Because I’m not anyone else,” he said. “I’m a professional like you, and just as busy.”

  She seemed to take that as a peace offering. “Then you can understand.”

  “However,” he said.

  “However what?”