“What’s upstairs?” Diamond asked.
“Function room,” Steve said.
“Has someone booked it?”
“Dunno.”
“Yes, you do. Is that where Larry is?”
Steve didn’t answer. Voices were already coming from the room above.
Diamond moved at speed towards the stairs and mounted them. Two men were inside. The one who had just arrived had removed his leather jacket and revealed forearms so tattooed that they looked like sleeves. He had opened his case and taken a polished wooden shaft from it. The other was bending over a snooker table, practising shots.
Diamond said, “Larry?”
Without straightening up, the man at the table said, “If you need to ask, you shouldn’t be here. This is a private room.”
“Turn round, Larry. You’re helping the police.”
“Fuck that,” Larry said, but he did make a slow turn to face Diamond and scrutinise him through eyes that had less expression than the cue ball. “I know your face. CID, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“You got nothing on me. I’m clean.”
“It’s not about you,” Diamond said.
Larry turned to the tattooed man. “Why don’t you get yourself a sandwich, Jules? We won’t be long.”
Jules left the room to do as he was told.
Diamond said, “I’m interested in an elderly man called Cyril Hardstaff.”
“What of him?”
“He got into difficulties. Owed a lot of money.”
“Familiar story,” Larry said.
“I’m sure it is, to you. Cyril had a gambling habit. Couldn’t stop. Each bet was going to get him the big win that solved his problem and of course it didn’t happen. He ended up with the loan sharks.”
“My heart bleeds.” He went back to practising his shots.
“Did he borrow anything from you?”
“Do I look like a man who lends money?”
“He seemed to think he had to pay you back.”
“That’s another matter,” Larry said. “Some people need reminding. I’ve been known to knock on doors on behalf of my friends.”
“As an enforcer.”
He struck the ball with such force that it hit the far cushion and ricocheted around the table. “That’s not a word I recognise.”
“What do you call yourself, then?”
“I don’t like labels. I’m more of a financial adviser than anything else.”
“Advising them to pay up or else?”
“Helping slow payers face up to their obligations, that’s all. You wouldn’t believe how disorganised some of them are.”
Larry Lincoln’s black humour wasn’t lost on Diamond, but it would have been unwise to show any amusement. “Did you visit Cyril?”
“Who is this Cyril?”
“I just gave you his name—Hardstaff. An old guy living in Little Langford.”
“He died,” Larry said, and added after a pause, “of old age.”
“So you know who he was. We’re getting somewhere.”
“All I know is I wrote off the debt. That’s the risk you take with old people.”
“His housekeeper seemed to think you would turn up any time, so you must have had dealings.”
“I may have held a paper on him, that’s all.”
“You don’t lend money, but you collect?”
The red missed the pocket.
Larry said, “You’re putting me off my game.”
“I want an answer.”
“Hardstaff was small fry, just a name to me.”
Diamond wasn’t letting him off so easily. “You can do better than that, Larry. Financial advisers keep tabs on everything or they soon go out of business.”
“So I’ll have to consult my records, won’t I?”
“I can do that for you,” Diamond said, trading some sarcasm of his own. “I can send a vanload of coppers to your nice house on Lansdown tomorrow morning and batter your door down.”
Larry appeared to be untroubled. “You’ll need a warrant,” he said, straightening up and chalking the tip of his cue. “This was legal, so you can’t touch me. The business came my way after a mate of mine dropped off the perch. I took on his paperwork as collateral for some favours he owed me. It brought nothing but death and disappointment, and I’m glad to be shot of it.”
“Which mate was that?”
“Bob Sabin. Lovely guy.” He leaned over the table again and lined up his next shot. “Lend you his last penny, he would—and demand it back with interest.”
Delighted to have got the name so easily, Diamond said, “I remember Bob Sabin. Didn’t he have a grand funeral at the Abbey three or four years back, with a horse-drawn hearse? Black plumes on the horses’ heads?”
“Of course you bloody remember. You were there. Every copper in Bath was there, catching it all on video. The biggest gathering of the firm I can remember. They came from all over to pay their respects. Some of those wreaths were bigger than I am. ‘Bob’s Your Uncle’ one of them said and another was ‘Bob a Job.’ He would have liked that. He did a few jobs in his time.”
“Bank jobs?”
“Contract jobs, bucket jobs, container jobs, you name it.”
“What’s a container job?”
“Illegals.”
“Got you. Trafficking.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t touch it. Big returns, but when things go wrong it can be messy, real messy.”
He didn’t need to say more. Diamond knew of two men and a woman believed to be illegal immigrants found dead in the canal over the last year. For all the ironies, some significant truths were emerging in this conversation.
“Did you inherit Bob Sabin’s empire, then?”
Lincoln laughed enough to shake the bottles downstairs. “No chance. All I got was a small list of names. The plums went to his nearest and dearest and I don’t mean his wife, Dilly. There’s no sentiment in our business. She ended up with the Rottweilers and not much else.”
“I don’t remember Dilly. Was she a token wife?”
“You mean some airhead model? No, she was the real deal. They were together a few years. No kids. She liked her holidays and her parties and the indoor pool. She should have looked out for number one. She was given the double-shuffle.”
“Who were his nearest and dearest, as you put it?”
“His trusties. I’m not naming anyone. You work it out.”
“You made sure you got your share.”
“Like I said, he owed me.”
“You took on the debts of Cyril Hardstaff and some others who were in hock to Sabin. How much did Hardstaff owe?”
“Peanuts.”
“Five figures?”
“Not much over.”
“He came up with some of it before he died, didn’t he?”
“Dribs and drabs. Nothing to speak of.”
“How was it paid? In cash, but not in person, I take it?” Enforcers like Larry had risk-free arrangements.
“Yep.”
“Did you know where it was coming from?”
“Not my problem.”
“But there was still plenty owing when he died—plenty by his standards, I mean?”
“Like I said, I took a hit. Shit happens.”
In the business of police interrogation, you soon spot the deception and obfuscation. All in all, Larry had been more candid than Diamond expected. This was because he was confident he was untouchable.
“Just to be clear. You didn’t ever visit Cyril?”
A shake of the head.
“Bob Sabin would have met him?”
“Before my time.”
“Remind me, Larry. What did Sabin die of?”
“I’m not his fuc
king doctor. All I know is he went peacefully.”
19
There was a voicemail on Diamond’s phone.
Unusual.
He never encouraged the team to call him and Paloma was the only other person who had his number—or so he believed.
This was Georgina. “Peter, it would help if you kept me informed where you are when you’re out of the building. Contact me as a matter of urgency.”
Every summons from the ACC was a matter of urgency. One day she would ask him to call her in his own good time and he would be so shocked he’d be on the line at once. He deleted the message and then noticed there was another.
Georgina again, but speaking through clenched teeth by the sound of it. “Didn’t you get my earlier message? It’s vital that you get in touch immediately.”
It had been a demanding day so far. He’d diverted to Kingsmead Square and treated himself to coffee and lemon drizzle cake in the Boston Tea Party. Immediately? Immediately after he’d finished his cappuccino.
“Where have you been?” she demanded when he finally got through. “I almost sent out a search party.”
“The Techie Brekkie.”
“The what?”
He repeated it and added archly, “Networking with some of my IT contacts. How can I help?”
She was muttering inaudible things. When she became coherent she said, “We heard from the hospital early this morning. Mr. Pellegrini, the accident victim, opened his eyes.”
“Get away!”
A real matter of urgency.
“One of the night nurses reported it. They’re thrilled. It’s the first sign of life that hasn’t been induced. He closed the eyes again almost at once, but there are now grounds for hope that he’ll emerge from the coma.”
“Great.” His mind was racing.
“It is and it isn’t,” Georgina said. “Marvellous that he seems to have survived, but what will he have to say to the IPCC people? I’m worried that he may be critical of our driver.”
“He may not remember much. Do Drawham and Quarter know about this?”
“Who?”
“The IPCC.”
She clicked her tongue. “Really. Mr. Dragham and Miss Stretch. No, they weren’t in this morning when the hospital got in touch, but they could arrive any time. Peter, stop whatever you’re doing and get to the RUH as soon as possible. I’m not suggesting you bring any influence to bear on Mr. Pellegrini if he’s able to talk.”
But you are, Diamond thought. That’s exactly what you’re suggesting. “I’m on my way.”
In the car he reminded himself how little Georgina knew about Pellegrini. There was so much else to be clarified than the minor matter of whether Aaron Green had been driving without due care and attention.
His ally, the Critical Care sister, was in her office entering something on the computer.
“I would have put money on them sending you,” she said. “Couldn’t you have got here earlier?”
“I was only just informed. Do you have a kit for me?”
“Kit?”
“The sterile clothing.”
“There’s a stack outside the door. I thought for a moment you were speaking of kitties.” No prize for guessing her next question. “How is he getting on?”
Until he’d met this woman he’d believed himself to be the world’s least convincing liar. He was getting a conscience about Hornby, but owning up wasn’t an option.
“The last I heard was good.” He moved to the more realistic matter. “What’s happening here? It sounds promising.”
“We’re encouraged, but don’t expect him to sit up and talk. They don’t snap out of a coma just like that.”
“Any more signs of improvement?”
“He opened his eyes again briefly twenty minutes ago. There’s also some flexing of the limbs. He’s still in a vegetative state and it’s quite usual for the eyes to open. He may soon begin responding to sounds. Try talking to him when you go in, simple, undemanding stuff. Hold his hand and see if he responds, but don’t distress him.”
In the private room where Pellegrini was, a nurse was changing one of the bags of fluid hanging from a drip stand. “Are you family?”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t have any left.”
“Poor old Ivor. Good thing he’s got friends.”
Friends?
He didn’t go into why he was really there. It was obvious from the mask, tabard and gloves that he was an approved visitor. “Was it you who first saw him open his eyes?”
“That was the night nurse some hours ago. It’s in his notes. I was here when it happened the second time. He didn’t move his head or focus or anything, but it shows there’s life in him.”
Anyone could be forgiven for thinking the opposite. The patient looked ready for the undertaker.
Diamond found the chair he’d used before and moved it closer to the bed. He could see how much the facial hair had grown since his last visit, already more like the start of a beard than five o’clock shadow.
“Talk to him if you want,” the nurse said. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be out of here in a minute.”
His previous one-sided conversation with Pellegrini hadn’t made much difference. “I’ll have to think what to say.”
“The first thing that comes into your head. We do.” She laughed. “It’s funny. You can find yourself saying really personal, intimate things to patients in comas because you know they won’t answer back, and then when they recover you feel really embarrassed and wonder if any of it sank in.”
“I’m shy. I won’t be telling my secrets.”
She laughed. “Who are you kidding?”
“Not to him, anyway, and not you.”
“Shame. Hold his hand and talk to him about old times, then, things you have in common, and be sure to keep on using his name. That’s the main buzzword: Ivor.” She picked up a bag she’d been filling with discarded items. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the button if you need me.”
Tentatively he reached for Pellegrini’s left hand, palm down on the bed, and slipped his own underneath.
Clammy. Limp. Swollen joints. Not easy to touch.
“Me again, Ivor,” he said. “The same bloke who found you. Hope you understand some of this, even if you can’t say so. You’re showing definite signs of improvement, and we’re hoping for more. There’s a lot I’d like to ask you, but let’s just try the word game. How about locomotive?”
No reaction.
“Squeeze my hand if I’m getting through to you. I know the things that interest you. Like steam engines.”
The hand remained inert.
“Great Western Railway.”
Above the bed, the delta waves patterned the screen in the same regular formation.
“You wouldn’t believe how much of this I’ve had to mug up on. Your personal name-plate, County of Somerset.”
Personal it may have been, but it made no impact on Pellegrini’s brain or heart rate. A monitor on Diamond’s own would have shown big fluctuations. He’d never been a patient man. How did I come to this, he asked himself, pandering to a serial killer?
“A place you visited recently: Hampton Row Halt.”
The hand resting on his could have been an uncooked fillet of cod.
“Did you get that, Ivor? I hope you’re listening. The one-time railway station. Hampton Row Halt.”
Pause for inspiration. There’s only so much you can say that’s simple and undemanding. After some time he tried a fresh approach, letting the words flow more, as the nurse had suggested.
“I was there myself, standing on the iron bridge looking along the track where the HOPS are coming. Yes, it took some working out, but I know all about the HOPS now. Saw them for myself only the other night.” He’d scarcely begun before he ground to another halt. Aimless
chat didn’t come naturally to him.
He looked up at the screens and stands and tubes, all functioning efficiently while he was failing lamentably to make any difference.
“You know what they should do?” he told Ivor when he started up again. “Fix you up with earphones, put on a tape of steam railway sounds and see what that does for you. I’m sure there are plenty of recordings. Then you wouldn’t need idiots like me talking about it. They play music to coma patients. I’ve heard of miracle cures with Beethoven and Brahms, so why not the Flying Scotsman? Oops, that would never do. Got to go GWR, not north. The Cornish Riviera Express, London to Penzance. About six hours’ worth of clackety-clack. Cure anyone, that would.”
The only good thing about the lack of any response was that Dragham and Stretch were going to have to wait just as long as he was for the victim’s account of the collision. There would be no sudden breakthrough. They don’t snap out of a coma, the sister had said.
“Okay. The railway stuff leaves you cold. I’m going to try some names, like your cleaning lady, Mrs. Halliday.”
He waited.
“She doesn’t do anything for you? There’s a woman from the church who brings you meals on wheels and I’m trying to recall her name. She arrived with a quiche when I was at your house asking about you and I thought I’d got lucky, but she insisted on saving it for someone more needy than I was. Blake. Elspeth Blake.”
He might as well have named William Blake, or Blake’s 7.
He knew of other names more likely to trigger brain activity, but that would be crossing a line. The sister had said not to distress the patient.
Bugger that, he told himself. The sister doesn’t know she has a killer in her care.
Go for broke.
“Max Filiput? Your friend Max?”
Friend or foe, it made no difference.
“Cyril Hardstaff?”
He might as well have said Joe Bloggs.
“Your late wife, Trixie?”
One of Pellegrini’s fingertips tensed and pressed against Diamond’s palm. Unmistakably. Trixie’s name had worked.
A miracle.
The touch was soft, but to Peter Diamond it felt like a thousand volts.
Another One Goes Tonight Page 26
