‘Hold on,’ Leaman said. ‘Who are we dealing with here? Not you or me. Anyone in this room would think it a dumb idea, but this is a guy who just killed someone and is stuck with a body. He’s in deep trouble. He’s not trained in forensics. He’s not thinking straight. All he wants is to get rid of that body without being found out. Rigging up a suicide could have seemed like a brilliant plan.’
‘You’re saying he did this in the heat of the moment?’
‘Well, if killing someone isn’t a hot moment, I don’t know what is.’
More amusement all round.
Leaman didn’t smile, however. He was the most serious-minded member of the team.
Diamond said, ‘Fair point, John. You’re trying to see it from the killer’s point of view and so am I. If he could pass it off as a suicide, all his problems would disappear. The fake suicide theory stays on the table.’
Three days into the investigation, he was willing to consider anything. Now that the story had broken in the papers, he’d hoped for a better response, sightings of Delia Williamson with her killer. Of the twenty-two calls they’d taken, more than half could be dismissed straight away and the others were no help. Nobody had seen her on the night of the murder. A few women of her description had been seen in various towns up and down the country the day before she was killed and there were three callers who thought they’d spotted her in Bath. No one had seen her with anyone else.
‘What about the former boyfriend, Danny Geaves?’ he said. ‘He must have read the papers. Why hasn’t he surfaced?’
Ingeborg took this as criticism. ‘I’ve run every kind of check I can think of, guv. He hasn’t drawn his benefit for over a week.’
‘He’s got something to hide,’ Halliwell said.
‘Or he’s dead,’ Leaman said.
Diamond struck a more positive note. ‘We’ve got three named suspects, apart from Geaves. That’s a start.’
There was a pause. He looked round the room. This time he seemed to be inviting contributions.
Paul Gilbert flushed all over his young face and asked, ‘Would DNA help?’
The focus shifted to Diamond. ‘What did you say?’
‘DNA, sir.’
‘It would if we had some.’
Ingeborg almost cut Diamond off in her eagerness to help her new colleague. ‘Up to now forensics haven’t found any, or they would have told us. This wasn’t a sex crime. And if Delia fought her attacker she didn’t scratch him. There was no skin under her fingernails.’
Paul Gilbert should have stopped there, but after waiting so long he wanted some credit for contributing. ‘It doesn’t have to be a skin sample,’ he said. ‘Just a touch can leave a contact.’
‘Are you lecturing me on DNA?’ Diamond said, and everyone waited for the explosion. Instead he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll tell you something in confidence, constable. Upstairs on the top floor’ – his eyes turned upwards, as if he was speaking of something religious – ‘up there they have our personal records, yours and mine and everyone else’s. We’re all on computer. The high-ups like Georgina spend a lot of time looking at those records. And there’s a special file labelled “professional training”. It goes without saying that any of us with ambition should keep up to date by going on those courses they run at Peel Centre and Bramshill. Anyone notice last month’s on forensic science? I was asked to go. The ACC thought it would do me good. My name is now on that all-important file, and beside it you’ll see the letters DNA.’ He gave young Gilbert a penetrating stare, and then a slow smile. ‘Did Not Attend.’
The rest of the team enjoyed it. Given time, Paul Gilbert would appreciate it, too. Working for Peter Diamond was no picnic, but every so often you got a helping of sauce.
The trip to Wimbledon was a day out for someone, definitely a perk. Diamond bagged it for himself, with John Leaman in support as his driver, note-taker and sympathetic ear. They reached the M25 when the traffic was building.
‘What’s all this for?’ Diamond asked.
‘Football,’ Leaman said. ‘It’s Saturday remember?’
‘All right for some.’
Secretly he was relieved to go slowly. Fast driving was no pleasure for him. His stomach was behaving like a sack of frogs. He produced some extra strong mints and insisted Leaman had one. ‘Reward for the driver.’
Leaman wondered if Diamond was telling him he had bad breath, but decided the boss wasn’t so subtle as that.
The address they had was a turning off Worple Road. The CID at Wimbledon had checked Dalton Monnington’s routine and he was due home at lunchtime.
‘What his line of work?’ Leaman asked.
‘Hot tubs.’
‘What – jacuzzis?’
‘He’s the West Country sales rep for a company called Give it a Whirl. Ho ho ho. Probably seemed a good idea at the time.’
‘I wonder if he’ll offer us a cut price.’
‘Dream on.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having my own jacuzzi.’
Diamond turned to see if Leaman was serious. ‘Have you ever sat in one? Give me a six-foot bath I can lie in. And I like my water still.’
‘It’s not the same as having a bath, guv. You take your girlfriend with you and drink champagne.’
‘Is that what you get up to of an evening?’
‘I haven’t got one yet, guv.’
‘Girlfriend or hot tub?’
Leaman didn’t have to answer. They’d found the street. Monnington’s house was a suburban semi like all the others, with a Honda on the drive in front of the garage. They cruised past two more and found a space to park.
A woman in an apron opened the front door. Before they could wave an ID she said, ‘Hold on a mo. I’ve got a stir-fry and two boys on the go.’ She left them standing there and dashed back to the kitchen at the rear.
‘Sounds like cannibalism,’ Diamond said.
‘How long is a mo?’ Leaman said.
Diamond spread his hands as if boasting about the one that got away.
‘Do we go in?’
‘Better not.’
She was soon back, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
Diamond showed his warrant card. ‘We picked the wrong time, obviously, but we came to see someone else. Dalton Monnington lives here, doesn’t he?’
‘What’s he been up to now?’ she asked.
‘It’s just questions. He may have witnessed something.’
‘Well, you’d better come in. He’s due any minute.’ She showed them into a front room with toys spread across the carpet. ‘Kids,’ she said, picking up bits of a plastic train set and throwing them into a cardboard carton. ‘There’s nowhere you can bring a visitor.’
‘Are you Mrs Monnington?’
‘Mrs? Some chance. Angie Collier, Dalt’s partner. Look, I’ve got to go up to the boys. They’re supposed to be tidying their room, but it sounds like a water fight. You don’t mind if I leave you to it?’
Left alone, they tossed a few more toys in the box and looked at the photos on the cupboard behind the sofa. Angie with a baby in her arms and a young man, presumably Dalton Monnington, with his arm round her shoulders. Another in a gilt frame, one of those studio shots against a blue background, the two adults with the boys in front. Monnington had the black hair and brown eyes they’d heard about from Jenny at the hotel. Diamond decided he looked the part of the proud father, then asked himself how much you can really tell from a photo.
‘I wasn’t expecting him to be a family man,’ Leaman said. ‘Doesn’t chime in with what happened in Bath.’
‘We don’t know what happened in Bath,’ Diamond said on his way across the room to the window. ‘We may find out shortly.’
A Ford Mondeo had drawn up behind the Honda on the driveway. Out of it stepped the man in the photo, wearing a striped shirt. He pressed his hands against the back of his neck and stretched and yawned as if to remove the tensions of work. He was home and his stir-fry would be waitin
g. He wasn’t to know two detectives were standing in his front room.
He entered the house and shouted, ‘Hi, guys.’
‘Hi, Daddy,’ came in unison from above. Angie was heard running downstairs. It wasn’t possible to pick up her hurried exchange of words with her partner.
Then he opened the front room door, well in control, the sales manner keeping any anxiety well hidden. ‘Dalton Monnington. You wanted to speak to me?’
Diamond did the introductions and said, ‘It’s in connection with the death of a woman in Bath a few days ago. Delia Williamson.’
Monnington’s first reaction was to turn and close the door behind him. Then he said, ‘The death of . . . ?’
‘A waitress from Tosi’s restaurant. You were in Bath on Tuesday, right?’
‘Er, Tuesday. I think so.’
‘Can’t you remember?’
‘OK. Tuesday. I was there on business, visiting clients.’
‘People wanting to install hot tubs?’
‘Correct.’ He hesitated, as if to ask himself how much more these policemen knew. ‘I had three appointments in the area.’
‘And you stayed overnight. Why was that?’
‘They tend to be evening appointments, after my clients have finished work. I go to their homes, you see. It can finish quite late. The last appointment was at eight. I wasn’t away until gone nine. I don’t enjoy night driving, so I put up at a local hotel.’
‘And went out for a meal at Tosi’s?’
‘Off-hand, I couldn’t tell you the name.’
‘George Street.’
‘If that’s what you’re telling me, then it must be true.’ He was being deliberately vague, making time to get his thoughts in order.
‘Delia served you.’
‘Did she? I wouldn’t know the name of the waitress.’
‘She was the only one in the place.’
‘Then you must be right. She’s dead, you say? That’s awful.’ He shook his head.
‘It’s in the papers,’ Diamond said. ‘Haven’t you looked at them?’
‘Now that you mention it I heard something on the car radio. I didn’t make the connection.’
‘Then you know she was strangled and left hanging on a swing in a park.’
‘Er, yes.’
‘What time did you leave Tosi’s, Mr Monnington?’
‘Don’t know. Not too late. Around eleven, I think.’
‘And then?’
‘Back to the hotel. I was staying at—’
‘The Hilton. Room 317.’
Concern creased his face. They had too much detail for his comfort.
Diamond said, ‘After you left the restaurant, did you see Delia Williamson again?’
‘See her? Why should I? I’m in a relationship already.’ As if to underline the point his small sons upstairs started chanting, ‘Daddy, where are you?’
‘Did you make an arrangement to meet her?’
‘No.’
The denial was just too quick.
‘I’ll give you a chance to answer that question again,’ Diamond said. ‘She had in her possession a book of matches from the Hilton with your room number written inside it.’
‘That?’ He swallowed hard. ‘It’s not what it seems.’
‘What is it, then?’
He glanced towards the door as if he feared his partner was behind it. He lowered his voice. ‘You know how it is, being alone in a strange town?’
‘Speak up.’
‘I’m saying it’s no fun being stuck in a hotel when you’re used to company. The waitress was friendly, looking after me well in the restaurant, just doing her job, I suppose.’ His glance flicked from Diamond to Leaman and back again, seeking some clue that he was getting his point across. ‘I’m a bit of an optimist. I thought she fancied me. I wasn’t seriously trying to pull her, like you said. I just played a long shot, so to speak. I’m a smoker, and I happened to have the matches in my pocket. At the end of the evening I scribbled my room number on the inside and left the matches with the tip.’
‘Thinking she might look you up later?’
He looked sheepish. ‘Not really. I was being playful. In real terms there was no chance at all that she’d follow it up, but I guess it might have amused her.’
‘A spot of harmless fun?’
He seized on that. ‘That’s it. Harmless fun.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that, Mr Monnington. We found the matches in her locker.’
‘Maybe she was a smoker.’
‘Don’t push me. This is a murder inquiry. Someone met her after she finished work and later strangled her.’
He blinked. ‘You don’t think I’m responsible?’
‘What did you do after leaving the restaurant?’
‘Made my way back to the hotel.’
‘Directly?’
‘I called at a pub for some cigarettes, but that didn’t take five minutes. I went straight to the Hilton after that.’
‘Getting there at what time?’
He shrugged. ‘Between eleven and eleven thirty.’
‘Did you speak to any of the staff?’
‘No. I went straight to my room.’
‘Then what?’
He gave a half laugh. He was trying to make light of it and not succeeding. ‘I got ready for bed.’
‘Did you go out again that night?’
‘Of course not. Look, I don’t like what’s behind these questions.’
‘Did anyone visit you in your room?’
‘No.’
‘She didn’t phone?’
‘The waitress? No.’
‘Is there any way you can prove you were in the hotel? Did you make any calls yourself?’
‘It was after midnight. You don’t start phoning people in the small hours.’
‘You didn’t ask for room service?’
‘I took a shower and got into bed.’
‘Next morning did you have breakfast in the hotel?’
‘I don’t bother with breakfast. I left early.’
‘After checking out?’
An impatient sigh. ‘They had a voucher from my firm’s travel agent. If I have any extras they have my card details, so I didn’t need to.’
‘You got in your car and drove away without speaking to a soul?’
‘You’re making me sound like a guilty man.’
‘Agreed, Mr Monnington. It’s a pity, because we’ve only got your word for it that you spent the night in the Hilton. May we look inside your car?’
‘What’s that going to tell you?’
‘We believe the victim was driven to the park where she was found.’
‘Fuck off, will you?’ His salesman’s facade had crashed.
Diamond reached for the door. ‘We’ll take a look at your car.’
Outside, Angie was waiting. She may have heard it all. If so, she wasn’t giving much away. ‘Are you finished? Your meal’s ready, Dalt.’
‘Shove it in the oven.’
‘Charming. You’re not going out, are you?’
He ignored her and led the detectives out to the black Mondeo. Diamond asked him to unlock it. ‘Nice condition. When was it cleaned?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘So recently?’
‘I’m meeting clients all the time. Appearances matter.’
Leaman had the door open. ‘Valeted inside as well as out.’
Diamond unfastened the boot and looked inside. ‘The full works, by the look of it.’ He leaned over for a closer inspection. A vacuuming doesn’t always remove everything. That young DC Gilbert was right. A single hair, a piece of fingernail, an eyelash even, could prove that Delia Williamson’s body had been lying here. But he couldn’t see anything obvious. He said to Leaman, ‘Got your phone? I’d like a crime scene expert to go over this.’
From the doorway, Angie called out, ‘Don’t they need a warrant, or something?’
‘Yes, where’s your warrant?’ Monnington asked D
iamond while Leaman was using the mobile.
‘Why? Aren’t you going to cooperate?’
‘This car is my livelihood.’
‘Because if you get awkward, we can look at the tread on your tyres and check your emissions. Why don’t you leave this to us? Go and eat.’
This salesman wasn’t equal to Diamond’s hard sell. With a shrug and a shake of the head he left them to it.
Wimbledon CID said they would arrange for a crime scene investigator to come out within the hour. She was faster than that, under twenty minutes. She looked about seventeen, but had the confidence of someone twice that age. She put on her white zipper overall – causing some curtains to twitch across the street – and went over the interior of the car and the boot minutely, using adhesive strips to lift fibres and particles and then a hand vacuum for anything she might have missed.
‘Would you still buy one of his hot tubs?’ Diamond asked Leaman on the drive home.
‘Possibly not, guv, but we didn’t see him at his best.’
‘At his best! He was bricking it from start to finish.’
‘He didn’t want Angie finding out too much.’
‘Angie – or you and me?’
‘Any of us, I guess.’
Diamond said nothing while they made a turn at a roundabout. London drivers took no prisoners. He took it up again with: ‘Would you say it was one big lie, about returning to the hotel and spending the night there?’
‘He went back to the hotel without a doubt.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’d left his room number, hadn’t he? He’d have been waiting to see if she called.’
‘Good point.’ There was logic in what Leaman was saying. He could be a pain, but he was one of the brightest on the squad. ‘Did she visit his room or did he go out to meet her? That’s the question. Did you notice any CCTV at the Hilton?’
‘They must have it.’
‘Get it checked, John.’
‘I’m not a betting man,’ Leaman said when they reached the motorway, ‘but there’s something odd about that guy. I’ve got a gut feeling.’
‘You’ve got a gut feeling? I’ve had a gut feeling ever since you started the car,’ Diamond said. ‘Do me a favour and drive a little slower, will you?’
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Peter Diamond - 09 - The Secret Hangman Page 5
