Another One Goes Tonight

by Peter Lovesey

  The football talk had worked a miracle. “What do you want to know?” Rex said, as if the topic had only just been raised. “He was a good tipper. Gave me twenty extra at the end of the evening. I told him I do cards, but he paid cash.”

  “You charged for the waiting time?”

  “Yeah, it was on the meter. He was under the half-hour, if that. He said he wouldn’t be long and he wasn’t.”

  “Where did you wait? In the lane?”

  “There was this yard, so I parked there.”

  “No sign of any other car at the cottage?”

  “Not when we drove up. There was just me. I got out and had a smoke. It wasn’t raining or anything.”

  Halliwell was doing the job, so Diamond let him carry on.

  “About what time was this?”

  “Nine-thirty, I’d say. No, I tell a lie. It was ten. When I got back in the cab, I turned on the radio and caught the news. I was listening for the Chelsea result. They were playing an evening match. Spurs. Three one.”

  The football talk had paid another dividend. They could fix the date from this.

  “I just about caught the result when there’s someone knocking on my window.”

  “He was back?”

  “No, it was the lady of the house.”

  “Who?”

  “Jessie the housekeeper,” Diamond put in for Halliwell’s benefit.

  “She’d driven up in a Fiat, one of them two-seater jobs, and I hadn’t even noticed. I put my window down, thinking I must be blocking her, but it was okay. She only wanted to know who my fare was.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I couldn’t, could I? He never told me his name. She goes, is he from Bath, and I’m like, yes, and she goes, is he alone? Then she wants to know if I’ve heard of Larry Lincoln. Jesus Christ, she only thinks I had Larry bloody Lincoln in my cab, one of the hardest men in Bath.”

  Hearing this, Diamond slopped some coffee on the table. “She was expecting Larry Lincoln?”

  “You know the evil bastard. You must,” Rex said.

  Any police officer who said he didn’t know Lincoln would be a liar. “One of the hardest men in Bath” was no exaggeration. This thug had done long stretches for various forms of assault. He was a walking affront to the effectiveness of the prison system. If Cyril had been expecting a visit from Lincoln that night, he was really in deep.

  “Do I know what Lincoln looks like, she asks me, and she’s dead worried, just about wetting herself. Lady, I goes, the geezer I brought is old enough to be Larry’s dad.”

  “Did that calm her down?”

  “A bit. She goes into the cottage then. Not long after, my old fellow comes out and tells me he’s ready to roll again.”

  “How did he seem? Keen to be off?”

  “He didn’t say much. He wasn’t sitting beside me. He rode in the back, which I take to mean they don’t want to chat. I just checked he wanted to go straight back to Bath, and he did.”

  “Nothing more was said?”

  “Not for some time. About twenty miles down the road he asks me if the woman spoke to me and I said she wanted to know who my passenger was and I wasn’t able to tell her. I didn’t say she thought he might be Larry Lincoln. Some people might think that was a laugh, but you never know how anyone’s going to take stuff like that. Personally I wouldn’t be happy with it. So I kept it to myself.”

  “Probably a good decision. Have you met Lincoln?”

  “I seen him a few times, mostly in pubs. I stay well clear.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “No problem.”

  “Was that all that was said in the cab?”

  “Just about. When we was near Bath I asked if he wanted me to drive him to his house and he said I could put him down at the rank and that’s what I did. Like I said, he paid cash and give me a good tip. I still can’t tell you his name.”

  The two detectives made their way through the Ashmead Road industrial estate towards the glazed monolith that was their temporary (they hoped) place of work.

  Halliwell was using his iPhone as they walked, much to Diamond’s irritation.

  “What’s so important? Can’t it wait till we get there?”

  “It’s a football app. It shows all the fixtures. I’m checking the date of that Chelsea–Spurs game. An evening match, he said. We can find out when it was Pellegrini called on Cyril. February, should be.”

  Diamond stopped complaining and presently had it confirmed that the date of the taxi journey must have been Monday, February the sixteenth. “Spot on,” Halliwell told him. “The night before Cyril was found dead.”

  “Was that Bristol City football club you and he were talking about?”

  “The Robins, yep.”

  “I should have guessed from the badge.”

  “I saw a lot of them at one time when I had the flat near Ashton Gate.”

  “You did well, loosening him up. By the end, he was almost volunteering things, but I wouldn’t risk him in the witness box.”

  “What is it with the Larry Lincoln stuff?” Halliwell said. “Do you really think a sad old gambler like Cyril was expecting a visit from the likes of Lincoln?”

  “My guess is that it was scare tactics.”

  “From whoever he was owing money to?”

  “Right, Lincoln’s reputation as an enforcer is enough to make anyone stump up.”

  “He must have told Jessie. She swallowed it.”

  “We need to trace her,” Diamond said. “I wonder if she came from an agency. Is that how housekeepers find jobs?”

  “They call them carers these days, guv.”

  “Housekeeper is how it was put to me,” he said with irritation. “If you want to call her a carer, fine.”

  “I’m only saying the agency would be a care agency.”

  “As you’re so well informed, get on to it, would you? All the local care agencies. She could be our key witness.”

  “Do we know her surname?”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “No problem.”

  “Don’t mess with me,” Diamond said, at the limit of his patience. “I’ve had it up to here with no problems.”

  “I’m telling you I’ll go at it the other way, like I did with the taxi companies—give them Cyril Hardstaff’s name and ask if he was their client.”

  “Fine.” He felt a twinge of conscience for snapping at his deputy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d call you a genius.”

  Back in his office Diamond’s mood improved on finding that Miss Hill had sent through the valuation photos he’d requested of the missing jewellery. He spread the sheets across the floor.

  Twenty grand’s worth of bling. Had Cyril swiped the lot or had Pellegrini taken some, along with the gowns?

  He unlocked his desk drawer and took out the serpent necklace and compared it with one of the pictures.

  No argument. It matched.

  Any uncertainty over motive stopped here. Olga’s collection of jewellery and antiques had been there for the taking after she died. Dozy old Max wasn’t capable of managing it. The vultures had swooped—or at least one vulture had.

  For Diamond, this should have been decision time. He had enough information to go public and order a full-scale investigation into the theft. The question whether murders had also been committed would follow on as part of the operation. He’d be able to use the full resources of CID and forensics.

  But there was a catch.

  He was sure to be asked about the source of his intelligence. Entering and searching a building without a warrant and seizing property was a no-no. He’d gone in twice and taken Ingeborg with him the second time to obtain the computer data, all based on suspicion he couldn’t yet substantiate.

  Imagine what Dragham and Stretch would make of his c
onduct.

  Then there was the added pressure of Pellegrini being comatose and on the brink of death. Anyone with compassion was going to be sympathetic. Labelling a helpless man a killer was high risk.

  Even Halliwell had doubts. “Are we clinging to the idea of murder on not much evidence?”

  The only strategy open to Diamond was to prove beyond doubt that his suspicion was right and murder had been committed.

  But how?

  It was just that: suspicion.

  For the first time he feared that the murder case was unravelling.

  16

  One thing Diamond had learned in life was not to feel sorry for himself. Rage against the gods by all means, but don’t have anything to do with self-pity. It’s toxic. His back was sore, he hated the new office, the IPCC people were on the prowl and his own deputy was losing confidence in him, but would he let it drag him down?

  He was too busy for that.

  The funeral bash—as he thought of it—in Cavendish Crescent in May 2014 had become a pivotal event in this case. Max’s cleaner, Mrs. Stratford, had talked of mayhem and insanity when the mourners were given the green light to help themselves to the railway items. Some exaggeration, there. Coffee had been spilt, Jessie’s skirt stained. But it had created a distraction. Maybe an opportunity for Cyril—who wasn’t interested in railways—to go looking for more valuable items.

  Miss Hill, the solicitor, had presided over the funeral.

  He called her on her direct line.

  “Thanks for the valuation photos. You’ve been a splendid help already.”

  “What do you mean—already?” she said. “I do have other matters to attend to.”

  “And I won’t delay you long. You made the arrangements for Massimo Filiput’s funeral, you told me.”

  “He had no family. We have a duty of care for our clients, even after death.”

  “Admirable—and I understand you attended in person, not just the funeral but the reception afterwards.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I spoke to someone who was there, his home help, Mrs. Stratford.”

  The name worked like a bunch of flowers. “A bright young woman. She gave me considerable assistance before and after the funeral. She knew where things were in the house.”

  “Did she help you contact people?”

  “She found his address book. I sent the details to just about everyone in it, but only a handful turned up, mostly elderly men.”

  “The railway enthusiasts. This is what I was coming to. I’d like to meet them, those who are still alive.”

  “You might be disappointed. They don’t have much conversation apart from steam trains.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  “This may be unkind, but I believe the only reason most of them came was to find out what would happen to his collection. I said I needed to dispose of a stack of worthless posters and magazines and they cleared the lot like locusts.”

  “One of the mourners—Cyril Hardstaff—wasn’t part of that lot.”

  “Yes, an old teaching colleague from Wiltshire College. Much more balanced. He spoke so warmly on the phone of Mr. Filiput that I invited him to give the eulogy and I’m glad I did. He was excellent. You should meet him.”

  “Too late,” Diamond said. “He died suddenly six weeks ago.”

  “Oh my word. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I wanted to check with you whether Mr. Filiput made any provision in his will for Cyril.”

  “No. Everything was put up for sale and the entire proceeds went to the railway museum. I thought I told you this.”

  “I needed to be certain. Between ourselves, Miss Hill, I was at Cyril’s cottage yesterday and I gave some assistance to his niece, who was clearing the place. We found a gold necklace that formerly belonged to Olga Filiput, the serpent necklace from those probate pictures I requested from you.”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “That’s difficult to believe.”

  “I’m sorry. I promise you it’s true. It was in a velvet bag, hidden in a mattress. I suspect he stole it. I’m telling you this in confidence because I know I can rely on you.”

  “I took him for a gentleman, an absolute gentleman.”

  “Also a compulsive gambler under pressure to repay large debts. You wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Oh my word.” An expression that in Miss Hill’s scale of shocks wasn’t far short of a major earthquake.

  “If he saw something as valuable as the necklace, the temptation would be too much.”

  “This is so unexpected.”

  “Yes. Do you know where the jewel collection was kept?”

  “Upstairs in the bedroom that was originally Olga’s.”

  “In a safe?”

  “In an antique tallboy.”

  “With locking drawers?”

  “No.”

  “Could Cyril have gone up there while the reception was in full swing?”

  “There was nothing to stop him or anyone else. I didn’t think security was necessary at a post-funeral gathering.”

  “He may have sneaked out while the railway people were scrambling for the posters.”

  “Mr. Diamond, this is so unlikely. He was the most charming man you could wish to meet.”

  “I heard exactly those words from two other ladies.”

  “Is it possible Max made him a present of the necklace while he was still alive?”

  “A generous thought,” he said, “but why should he? I wouldn’t give away items that belonged to my late wife. Handing them to another man you play Scrabble with? It’s unlikely.”

  She was still grappling with what he’d told her. “Are you suggesting he stole the other pieces of jewellery as well?”

  “Very likely. He may not have taken everything at once. Remember he was a regular visitor, and even Max had a vague idea that things were missing.”

  “But how could anyone give such a wonderful eulogy in the knowledge that he’d behaved as badly as that?”

  “There’s an old saying: debtors are liars.”

  “Oh dear, you make it sound all too possible. We’ll need to inform the sole legatee, the railway museum.”

  “Not yet,” he said quickly. “Not while we’re still investigating. We’ll see what else we can recover.”

  “There are legal issues, now I think about it.”

  “Take your time over the fine points of law, Miss Hill. The museum can afford to wait. And there is another favour I must ask.”

  “What’s that?” Her voice was an octave higher.

  “Just a formality. I need the names and contact details of everyone who attended the funeral.”

  “I can see to that. But you will be discreet?”

  “Never more so. This is strictly sub judice as far as I’m concerned. It’s all conjecture, isn’t it?”

  The official work of CID demanded his attention for the rest of the morning. John Leaman had been interviewing the church-roof robbers and now wanted to extend the enquiry by pulling in the scrap-metal merchant they did business with. Paul Gilbert was dealing with a poison-pen case, local councillors complaining about obscene letters. Both Leaman and Gilbert made clear in their different ways that they were feeling sidelined. He’d never been one for nurse-maiding his team, but they had a point. His priorities were elsewhere and it was all too obvious. He sat down with them both and forced himself to show more interest.

  By lunchtime, Halliwell had the glazed expression of an election teller after an all-night count.

  “No success with the care agencies?” Diamond said.

  “Do you know how many there are, because I don’t and I’m only up to the letter C. Comfort Care, Candlelight, Calm and Caring, Care Matters, Call Us, Clearway, Coming to You, Co
me What May, Cat’s Whiskers—”

  “Is that a care home? Sounds more like a cattery.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m in need of care myself.”

  “Let’s get lunch.”

  Ingeborg had phoned in and made her peace with Diamond. She was working from home.

  “Unlike her,” Halliwell said. “She likes the buzz of the office.”

  “She’s still hoping to find something from Pellegrini’s computer,” Diamond told him. “She can concentrate better.”

  “I would have given up by now.”

  “You’re not a quitter, Keith. I have every confidence you’ll reach D for Day Care before you draw your pension.”

  They were in the Lock Keeper, one of the two Keynsham pubs they’d decided was worth the short drive. In the summer, the beer garden overlooking the Avon would be good, but today in a north wind and with sleet pinging against the windows, everyone was inside except a couple of desperate smokers.

  Diamond picked up the previous conversation while waiting for his burger and chips. “The good thing about modern technology is that you can do more than one thing at a time.”

  “Such as?” Halliwell asked, frowning. He’d known his boss long enough to suspect something lay behind the statement.

  “Your research into care agencies. You can do it on a laptop anywhere you like.”

  “If you have wifi.”

  “This afternoon you’ll be joining me on a mission to Frome. Nothing to stop you using the laptop in idle moments.”

  “Frome? What for?”

  “Miss Hill sent me the guest list for Max’s funeral. There are two members of the GWR group we haven’t caught up with—the only two who aren’t dead or brain dead. Jake and Simon Pool.”

  “Brothers?”

  “No. They’re married and they live in a signal box.”

  The driving rain and sleet kept the wipers working at double speed most of the way down the A30 and Diamond was repeatedly telling Halliwell to slow down.

  “Do you know where this signal box is?”

  “Beside the railway.”

  “I can work that out for myself,” Halliwell said, under stress. “Which side of the town?”

  “I phoned ahead to find out.”