Peter Diamond - 09 - The Secret Hangman

by Peter Lovesey

  And Jim looked the part, managing a nifty lockstep as he steered a substantial lady past Diamond without a flicker of recognition. The dance was claiming all Jim’s concentration. In a dove-grey suit, white shirt and red bow with matching socks he was another creature altogether from the gum-booted, anoraked figure familiar at crime scenes. His movement was quick and inventive. When it seemed he and his partner would be trapped in one corner by other dancers he executed a double reverse spin and nipped through a small space.

  The music reached its final bars. The dancers smiled and thanked each other. Observing the old-fashioned gallantry of the ballroom, Jim began to escort his partner to one of the tables on the far side. Diamond pursued them round the edge of the floor. He’d not got more than halfway when the MC announced that the next dance would be a ladies’ invitation waltz. The words didn’t register with Diamond. The first he knew of it was when his path was blocked by a little silver-haired woman in a purple dress and granny glasses who said, ‘My dance, please.’

  He started to say he wasn’t there to dance and she said, ‘Ladies’ invitation.’ Then the music started up again. The little lady said, ‘Can’t hear you, mister. I’m eighty per cent deaf. But the rest of me is in perfect order.’ With that, she gripped his left hand, put her right on his upper arm, and reversed, tugging him into action. He’d never mastered dancing, but it didn’t matter because his partner knew the steps and was so close that her sinewy thighs made sure he moved the right legs. She said, ‘Relax. You’ll be all right with me. I’m Annie, by the way, and I’m eighty-two. I end up with all the handsome men and the other girls can’t understand how I manage it.’

  Those ingrained good manners of his took over. ‘I’m Peter.’

  ‘Walter?’ she said. ‘Old-fashioned name. Walt suits you better.’

  He would be Walt for the rest of the dance.

  ‘I’ll give you a tip, Walt,’ she said when he was trying to pivot like the other dancers. ‘Rubbers don’t work too well.’

  He didn’t like to think what she was talking about.

  She said, ‘Leather soles next time.’

  This had happened so fast that he had some sympathy with the ladies who couldn’t understand how Annie got her man each time. He’d barely set foot in the place and here he was doing the one-two-three as if it was his chief joy in life. Jim Middleton glided by so close that their shoulders almost touched. This wasn’t the moment to talk.

  He lost the tempo.

  ‘Don’t look down, Walt,’ Annie said. ‘That’s a sure way to go wrong. Just follow me. Walk. Side and Close. Better.’

  Here he was, the hard man of Manvers Street nick, getting a dancing lesson from an eighty-two-year-old. What a good thing Halliwell, Ingeborg and the rest of them couldn’t see this. He wouldn’t be telling them about it.

  ‘We call it floorcraft,’ Annie said after he’d backed into another couple and almost caused an accident. ‘You have to be aware of other dancers, you know. Feet together and start again.’

  He had to keep starting again. It seemed to him that the waltz lasted twice as long as the quickstep he’d watched, and it was one of those tunes that repeated, giving no clue as to when it would end. No use asking Annie if she’d had enough. She was humming the tune.

  The last bars were a mercy, like the bell at the end of a one-sided boxing match. Annie finished with a flourish, a twirl worthy of old Vienna, followed by a dip and a curtsy with a saucy lift of the skirt. Diamond nodded, smiled, thanked her and went after Jim again, who this time was heading for a table at the far end.

  He caught up with him and said, ‘Dr Middleton, I presume.’

  Jim turned and squinted at him. ‘We know each other, don’t we? Can’t place you right now.’

  Diamond introduced himself.

  ‘Stone the crows,’ Jim said. ‘It’s two years since I retired and I’ve wiped most of that from my memory. You’re the fellow whose wife was shot. A tragic case.’

  ‘That sums me up nicely.’

  ‘I don’t mean it personally. And you’re still in the police?’

  ‘Keeps me occupied.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Well, it’s good to see you here. Welcome to the tea dance. Bit of a change from chasing villains, but you need to be speedy here to get the best partners.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here for the dancing.’

  Jim smiled at that and leaned forward for a confidential word. ‘Good man, honest like me. It’s a great place to meet birds. They’re well in the majority.’ He put a hand on Diamond’s shoulder and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘By the way, I don’t talk about my old job here. They think I was something in the secret service. Do me a favour and play along if anyone asks.’

  With that, the music started again and Jim was on his feet. ‘Foxtrot. My speciality. They queue up to foxtrot with me. Why don’t you give one of them a treat? See you later – if one of us doesn’t get lucky.’

  The pattern was set for the next half-hour. Such were the demands that Jim couldn’t have stopped for a serious conversation if he’d wanted. He didn’t miss a dance.

  Diamond became a wallflower, retreating to the dark area under the balcony trying to think what excuse to make if they had another ladies’ invitation. He was in two minds whether to stay. He couldn’t see how he’d get another chance with Jim Middleton.

  Then he heard the clatter of crockery from an inner room and it dawned on him that a tea dance must involve tea at some stage. There would be an interval and he might after all get a few more words with Jim. Some spare tables were pushed together and loaded with cups and saucers. Cakes and scones began to appear. The people who weren’t dancing started moving towards the tables, taking positions. They weren’t so obvious about it as to form a queue, but they were making sure that when one did form they wouldn’t be at the end.

  Jim was doing something called a square tango that seemed to require a tighter clinch than any of the dances up to now. He’d found the lady with the deepest cleavage and was holding her as if it was his mission to hide the display from everyone else.

  The teapots were brought from the kitchen and a queue formed quicker than a Boston two-step. The music continued with only Jim and his partner on the floor, swaying in a kind of trance.

  Diamond felt his arm gripped. Deaf Annie was telling him to get in line because all the best cakes would be gone.

  He thanked her and pointed his free hand towards the toilets.

  She relaxed her hold. ‘You go, and I’ll keep your place.’

  He headed across the room and with nice timing the music stopped and Jim started walking in the same direction. They met at the door of the gents. ‘You look as if your need is greater than mine,’ Jim said, holding it open.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Diamond said as he stepped inside. ‘Just need some advice.’

  ‘Have you pulled already?’ Jim said. ‘Go for it, matey.’

  ‘Professional advice. Would you mind reading through a postmortem report and telling me what you think?’

  The chumminess drained away. ‘No chance. I’ve put all that behind me.’

  ‘Off the record, of course.’

  Jim Middleton leaned back and for a moment Diamond thought the dancing had been all too much and he was about to fall over, but he was checking that the cubicles were not in use.

  Diamond said, ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  Jim said, ‘If they find out I did dissections for a living I’ll never get another partner.’

  ‘Your cover blown. The James Bond of the ballroom unmasked.’

  ‘Is that a threat? You wouldn’t . . . would you?’

  ‘Play along, Jim, and it won’t come to that.’

  Jim used his second line of defence. ‘You want a second opinion? This is a dodgy area, my friend. If I throw doubt on someone else’s findings I could end up in the courts. My profession has taken a lot of flak lately. Forensic pathology is getting a bad name. There have been some juicy
cases, as you’re well aware.’

  ‘This is a Dr Sealy.’

  ‘I remember Bertram Sealy,’ Jim said. ‘He’s good at his job.’ His rising tone on the last word suggested this was not the whole story.

  ‘You may have seen the case in the paper. Woman found hanging in Sydney Gardens. It turned out she was strangled first.’

  ‘I don’t bother with the papers.’

  ‘Three days later the woman’s ex-lover hanged himself from the railway viaduct.’

  ‘That’s two deaths.’

  ‘Yes, and Sealy dealt with both. He’s good, you say?’

  ‘Never heard anything adverse. What’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s some circumstantial stuff I won’t go into now. There were other suspects. Then this suicide happened and everyone jumps to the conclusion that the man killed the woman and took his own life.’

  ‘Familiar pattern,’ Jim said. ‘I had a couple of cases like it. You think it’s too obvious, do you, the killer who can’t live with what he’s done?’

  ‘I’m under pressure to write the report and put the whole thing to bed.’

  ‘And you want me to second-guess Bertram Sealy’s opinion?’ He vibrated his lips. ‘This is dynamite, Peter. Even the sniff of an error can finish a man’s career.’

  ‘We’re not talking about a miscarriage of justice,’ Diamond said. ‘It hasn’t gone to court. This is just me wanting to find out what happened.’

  ‘But he’s a professional colleague. There’s a national shortage of pathologists, did you know that? Hundreds of autopsies and not enough of us to cope. There isn’t much glamour in the job.’

  ‘I’m not trying to undermine Dr Sealy.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t invite him round for a drink.’

  ‘It’s mutual. I’m just one of the plod to him.’

  Jim managed a smile. ‘I’ve heard it said that he turned to pathology because he doesn’t have to talk to his patients.’

  Diamond smiled too. ‘Maybe I should act dead.’

  ‘Not when there’s a pathologist about.’

  ‘But he’d enjoy stitching me up. Look, I’m not trying to get the man struck off. I just want the kinds of pointers I used to get from you. I wouldn’t say where I got my information. I guarantee I wouldn’t bring you into it.’

  ‘You really believe there’s something iffy in his reports?’

  ‘I’m in no position to say. Let’s put it the other way. If I could have his findings verified by someone I respect, then I’d go along with my boss and close the case.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I’m a man of my word.’

  ‘And I’m missing my tea and cake,’ Jim said. He sighed. ‘You’re a pain in the arse, Peter Diamond. Have you got these reports with you?’

  ‘In the car.’

  ‘Let’s transfer them to mine, then. I’ll look at them tonight.’

  A sudden gleam brightened his eyes. ‘If anyone sees us they’ll think you’re one of my MI5 contacts.’

  That night when he was trying to sleep his brain kept replaying the episode at Paloma’s house. He’d been doing his best to wipe the memory, but here it was almost as vivid as the real thing, sharp and painful. There was no denying how ineptly he’d behaved. The stupid speech saying he wasn’t ready for sex when it wasn’t even being offered. The collision of a kiss that he could still feel on his mouth. His rapid exit.

  Mortifying.

  He’d give two weeks of his annual leave to run the scene again, with changes. No chance. Paloma would have decided he was a witless, gutless oaf.

  And it had all started so well, her telling him he knew how to treat a woman. What a let-down.

  The pity of it was that she was like no one he’d met since Steph. The way she looked, spoke and moved appealed to him. She was bright and enthusiastic, successful, enterprising, a sympathetic listener, yet didn’t take herself too seriously. She was willing to admit to things other women might try to conceal, like the husband who traded her in for the new model. And she’d given out signals that she quite liked being with him – or so he imagined. Women who felt comfortable with him were not plentiful. Most seemed to treat him as a ‘man’s man’, a polite way of saying he was an ogre or a bore.

  ‘Or a sad old fart,’ he said aloud.

  Self-pity wasn’t the way to go. He reached for the light-switch and rolled out of bed. From the other end of the quilt Raffles raised his head briefly and lowered it again. The man was behaving erratically again. The time was all wrong for a feed.

  Downstairs in the kitchen Diamond filled the kettle and tried to put his mind on other things. He looked at the Guardian crossword and decided this wasn’t the time to make a start. Crosswords were Steph’s thing, anyway. He’d thought of cancelling the paper. He didn’t often open it these days.

  He wondered if Paloma was a Guardian reader. The Independent was more her style, he decided. Bugger it, he thought. I’m down here because I want to stop thinking about the woman.

  He poured the tea and stood looking out of the window at the moonlight on his small patch of lawn. Put your mind on something else, Diamond. Something simple and natural, like the wildlife out there.

  Hedgehogs. From this window on one sleepless night he’d seen a family of them crawling among last year’s leaves looking for slugs. He’d gone out with a torch and they hadn’t run off.

  His memories of hedgehogs were soon used up. Nature studies had never been a strong enthusiasm. Occasionally on the road at night he’d see foxes, badgers or deer, but he thought of them more as hazards to drivers than native mammals with their own right to existence. What else was there to distract him? His knowledge of nocturnal birds was limited to owls and nightingales and there weren’t many of them in Lower Weston. So much for night creatures, then. He had little else to contemplate except flowers and so – with a sense that the fates would not give him a break – he was round to night-scented stocks.

  Night-scented bloody stocks. There had to be a remedy for this or he wouldn’t get any sleep at all.

  The solution arrived with something of a jolt. He’d twice been treated to a meal by Paloma and not written a word to thank her. In his distracted state he’d neglected a common courtesy.

  A letter now, a full week later, wasn’t the way to go. What then? He really had to do something in the morning.

  Flowers.

  And with that decided, he returned to bed and had his best sleep for a week.

  17

  Orders from an assistant chief constable have to be obeyed. The incident room for the Delia Williamson murder had been stripped of computers and display boards and was restored to its former use as a briefing room. CID were back in their cramped quarters on the first floor. A new inquiry was under way into a ram raid in Combe Down in which two hundred state-ofthe-art mobile phones had been taken. Stock lists were being studied, witness statements filed. Just about everyone was involved.

  Some less than others.

  When Diamond walked past her desk, Ingeborg said, ‘Can you spare a minute, guv?’

  ‘Come into my office then.’

  ‘No. Could you pull up a chair?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ No one except Ingeborg had the face to speak to him like that.

  ‘I’d like to show you something.’

  At the back of the room Keith Halliwell got a laugh by saying, ‘Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Say no more.’

  Ignoring them, Diamond stood with arms folded looking over Ingeborg’s shoulder at the computer screen. He spurned the invitation to sit beside her.

  She pressed some keys. ‘I thought I remembered something from a couple of years back, when I was stringing for the News of the World. So much has happened since then and I couldn’t pinpoint what I wanted, so I started putting words into a search engine and up came this website that collects statistics of suicides. Isn’t it fantastic?’

  He gave it a glance. ‘You can get this stuff from the Stationery Office.�
��

  ‘But this has so much more. Look.’ She highlighted a section of the screen. ‘Name, age, method, location. Every case for every year this century. That’s about twenty-five thousand suicides. I don’t know who collects all this material, or why.’

  ‘Or if it’s accurate.’

  ‘Lighten up, guv. I found what I was looking for, and I’m bloody sure I wouldn’t have got it from the police computer.’

  He didn’t like detective constables telling him to lighten up. ‘I haven’t got all day. What have you found?’

  ‘It may be just coincidence, but two years ago there was a double hanging here in Bath, wife and husband, separated by a couple of days. Their name was Twining, John and Christine Twining.’ She found the names on the screen and highlighted them.

  Diamond’s annoyance evaporated at once. The flickering screen had all his attention.

  Twining, Christine, 28, of Madras Villa, Hinton Charterhouse, Avon, on 26 July 2004, found hanging from a tree in Henrietta Park, Bath.

  Twining, John Merson, 34, of Madras Villa, Hinton Charterhouse, Avon, on 28 July 2004, found hanging at Sham Castle, Claverton Down, Bath.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Ingeborg asked.

  He was making a whole new scenario out of it, yet trying to stay calm. Experience had taught him not to jump in with both feet. ‘Double suicides happen.’

  ‘Yes, but on our patch?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘Twice in two years?’

  ‘Our case isn’t quite the same, is it? Ours were unmarried and separated. Good spotting, even so,’ he said, letting a little of his enthusiasm show. ‘I must have read about this myself at the time. I can’t think why it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Two years ago your mind was on something else, guv.’

  She didn’t need to say what. For at least a year after Steph’s murder he’d focused on that and nothing else: finding and charging the killer and seeing the judicial process through. ‘Like you say, could be coincidence, but the fact that they both seem to have hanged themselves within a couple of days is odd.’