The Summons

by Peter Lovesey

  After that little onslaught Diamond realized that he was ring-rusty. He was glad no one from CID was there to hear it. “Did you go to the funeral?” he threw in finally, knowing the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Why, if you didn’t cate that much about her?”

  “I’d have looked a right flake if I hadn’t. It was in all the papers that I was an ex-boyfriend. There were some ugly hints in the tabloids. I went for purely selfish reasons, if you want to know.”

  Diamond accepted this with a nod.

  Then Pinkerton threw in an extra. “And I wasn’t the nerd who sent a bunch of red roses to the funeral.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was obvious that something dramatic was happening when Diamond looked in at Manvers Street Police Station around nine-thirty the same evening. In the room where the hunt for Mountjoy was being coordinated, the three sergeants and their team of civilian clerks had stopped work. They were supposed to be taking information from uniformed officers reporting the results of an evening hoofing around the city checking potential hideouts. Everyone—including the small queue waiting to report— watched Commander Warrilow, who was speaking urgently into a phone. He beckoned across the room to Diamond.

  Self-congratulation spread across Warrilow’s features when he had finished the call. “You’re just in time for the action,” he told Diamond. “We’re about to take Mountjoy. He’s holed up at a caravan park on a farm out at Atworth. I’ve got a response car there already and two more on the way and we’re sending in a team of marksmen.”

  “When was this?”

  “The sighting? Barely twenty minutes ago. Want to be in at the kill?”

  Diamond let the insensitive choice of expression pass. “All right.”

  “Better move, then,” said Warrilow. “I’ll give you the state of play as we go.”

  They stepped sharply along the corridor with Warrilow broadcasting his news loudly enough for the entire second floor to hear: “The first intimation of something was earlier this evening, about six-thirty. A farm worker saw a moving light in one of the caravans, as if someone was using a torch. He crept up close and heard voices inside. Reported it to the farmer, who did damn all about it. He was too busy with the cows, or something. Later the farmer was back in his house having supper when he heard a motorcycle being driven up the lane and went out to investigate. No one has any business going up there. It’s a farm track. None of the caravans are in use. They’re locked and parked in his field for the winter, over a hundred of them. Farmer goes to have a look, finds the lock of this van has been forced and starts to go in, but Mountjoy appears at the door, shoves him in the chest and knocks him down.”

  “Are we sure it was Mountjoy?”

  “Positive. The farmer has just been shown the mugshot. Anyway, he didn’t mix it, just hared back to the house and dialed 999.”

  “Mountjoy will have scarpered by now.”

  “We’ll have him,” Warrilow said with confidence. “It’s way out in the country. Open fields and very little cover. We’re sealing the area with roadblocks.”

  “Any news of Samantha?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want anyone approaching that van before we’ve checked it.”

  A line of cars waited with their beacons flashing. They got into the first and it sped off northward through the city center. Diamond had a vague idea that Atworth was a village west of Melksham. A mercifully short ride; he hated traveling at speed, particularly when someone else was at the wheel. And there was no prospect of being distracted by conversation because Warrilow was totally absorbed issuing orders over the radio. It sounded as if the combined forces of Avon, Somerset and Wiltshire were converging on the caravan park.

  They took the London Road as far as Bathford and peeled off under the railway viaduct, where a police barrier was already in operation. The roads became more narrow and from the backseat it looked impossible to pass oncoming cars. There’s no law of science that says that a speeding police car is less likely to crash than any other; rather, statistics show the reverse to be true. More than once as they swung around a blind corner he braced himself and shut his eyes.

  “Coming up on the left, I think,” said Warrilow.

  Another blue flashing police beacon greeted them at the farm entrance. The officer standing by the response car directed theirs up the track to the farmhouse.

  Warrilow was first out, keen to make his impression as the man of the hour. Diamond stayed put. He had no official role to play and if guns had been issued he would be marginally safer in the car. He didn’t share Warrilow’s relish for this situation. He simply wanted to know the outcome. If successful, the police operation would bring a premature end to his reexamination of the Britt Strand murder. Farr-Jones and Tott would be more than happy to give him his marching orders.

  Frustrating. Just when he was starting to function again as a detective. Not much progress, of course, but things could have begun to happen. No one had satisfactorily accounted for the roses in the victim’s mouth. Or the dozen red roses sent without a message to the funeral. He would have liked another crack at the case, if only to remove all doubt.

  A private car drew up beside them. John Wigfull. He must have been off duty, probably relaxing at home with his train set, Diamond thought uncharitably. He watched Wigfull stride away toward the fields where the caravans were parked.

  “Not my sort of holiday, dragging one of those things down to Devon being cursed by everyone else,” he said conversationally to the driver. “I bet you hate them. The point of going away is staying somewhere nice, seeing some decent views, eating some good food, isn’t it? Buy one of those and you’re stuck in a field looking out at more of the ugly things and eating pot noodles. I’d rather rent a cottage or go to a good hotel when I can afford it.”

  The driver wouldn’t comment. Perhaps he belonged to the Caravan Club.

  Discomfort in the back of the car eventually persuaded Diamond to get out. He strolled along the lane and joined the group who seemed to think they had a safe vantage point. Among them, he presently gleaned from the conversation, was the farmer. It seemed he was worried about possible damage to the caravans in his care. He didn’t want the owners coming back next spring and finding bullet holes in the sides of their vans.

  “This man in the caravan—are you sure he’s the one we’re looking for?” Diamond asked.

  “Hundred percent, sir.”

  “You had a good look at his face?”

  “I were as close to him as I am to thee.”

  “Yes, but it was dark.”

  “I can see in the dark.”

  “What’s your secret—carrots?”

  “Are you being sarky, mister? You’re speaking to the man who were knocked over by the bugger.”

  “And did that assist identification?”

  Diamond had the last word because a searchlight was switched on in the field ahead and everyone’s attention focused on a white caravan standing in a row of about twenty. Curtains were drawn across the two small windows in view.

  Warrilow’s voice came over a loud-hailer: “Mountjoy, I want you to listen carefully. This is the police. You are surrounded and we are armed. Do exactly as I say and no one will get hurt. First, you are to release Miss Tott. Then you will come out yourself with your hands on your head. Is that clear? First, Miss Tott. Allow her to come out now.”

  Another light beam swung across the space in front of the caravans and stopped at the door. The forced lock was clearly visible. Everyone watched for a movement, but none came.

  “Mountjoy, it’s all over,” said Warrilow. “Release the young lady now.”

  A short time after, he added, “You’re being very unwise. You have another twenty seconds.”

  Privately, Diamond thought it was Warrilow who was being unwise. Time limits are unhelpful in siege situations unless they are agreed by both sides.

  At least a minute went by. Then someone in Diamond’s group spotted two masked fi
gures in black approaching the caravan from the unlit side, creeping swiftly around it, right up to the door. One rammed it open with his hand and the other lobbed something inside.

  “Tear gas,” murmured a voice.

  Still no one came out.

  “What happens if they aren’t in there after all?” someone asked.

  “There are ninety-nine other caravans to search,” said Diamond with a yawn.

  “He were definitely in there,” the farmer insisted.

  Nobody disputed it, but the tension had eased.

  A man wearing a gas mask and armed with a gun entered the caravan, spent a few seconds inside and then came out and spread his arms to gesture that no one was there. The search would have to widen in scope. Warrilow began issuing fresh orders.

  Diamond stayed well in the background, preferring to prowl around the farm buildings. Not that he expected to find anyone. He was sure Mountjoy would have quit the area immediately after the fracas with the farmer—if, indeed, the man inside the caravan had been Mountjoy.

  The impression he got of this farm was that it barely deserved being described as such. He guessed that the farmer— who must have been over sixty—relied on the caravan parking fees as a main source of income. There were no animals apart from a few chickens. The farm machinery consisted of a tractor with mold growing on the wheels from disuse. Maybe the policy known as “set aside” had something to do with it. Diamond vaguely understood the economics that paid farmers to limit their production, but found it depressing to observe.

  Emerging in the lane again, having completed his tour, he spotted the man who had checked the interior of the caravan. The gas mask was off now.

  “What was in there?” Diamond asked.

  “The caravan? Definite signs of an intruder, sir. A half-eaten loaf, some apple cores, a milk carton, a piece of rope. He can’t have got far.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We found the motorbike behind a hedge, so he doesn’t have wheels anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “What did you say, Mr. Diamond?” It was Warrilow himself, butting in on the conversation.

  “I said I wouldn’t count on Mountjoy being without wheels. There’s a garage behind the farmhouse with an up-and-over door which is open. Empty. If I were you, I’d ask the farmer what make of vehicle he drives.”

  “Gordon Bennett!”

  “Really? I’d have thought an old Cortina was more his style.”

  Chapter Ten

  Emerging from a satisfying sleep, he lay faceup, registered after some time that there weren’t any cracks in the ceiling, so it couldn’t be Addison Road, which led him after some more time to recall that he was in Bath, staying at the Francis. With their Traditional Breakfast in prospect—the “Heritage Platter” being the Trusthouse Forte term for bacon and eggs with all the trimmings—he had no difficulty rising from bed. The events of the evening before surfaced in his memory and prompted quiet satisfaction at Warrilow’s comeuppance. It was disloyal, but Peter Diamond grinned—a rare way for him to start the day. A stretch, a scratch and a yawn and he padded across the carpet to the window, reached for the curtain—and instantly regretted it when a needle-sharp pain drove into his thumb. In his muzzy state the shock made his skin prickle all the way down his right arm.

  First he reckoned he must have touched the point of a needle or pin left in the curtain by some negligent seamstress. But the pain didn’t ease. If anything, it got worse. With the curtains still closed, he couldn’t see much. Flapping the hand, he hurried to the bathroom and ran cold water over it. In the better light, he examined the thumb. Around the point that hurt most it was turning white. No blood was visible.

  He’d been stung.

  Hotel rooms were always too warm for his liking and the previous evening he had opened the window a little. A wasp must have flown in. At this end of the year there were still a few about.

  It could still be lurking in the room, waiting to strike a second time.

  You never know what infliction life holds next, he thought, back to his embittered worst, standing in the bathroom with the door closed while he tried to step into his clothes using one hand. You get up in the comfort of a good hotel ready for the Heritage Platter and the morning papers and this happens.

  Downstairs he asked at the desk if they had anything for wasp stings.

  “How did you do that?” the young woman on duty asked.

  “I didn’t do it. It was done to me.”

  “Are you sure it was a wasp, sir?” She seemed to take it as a criticism. Perhaps in a four-star hotel a queen bee would have been more fitting.

  “I know I’ve been stung, right?”

  “Did you actually see the wasp?”

  Now he felt as if he were being treated as an unreliable witness. “Don’t you believe me? What do you want—a description?”

  “We’ve got some antihistamine in the first-aid box. Do you mind if I look first?”

  He held out the thumb. Some people waiting to pay their bills stepped forward to join in the diagnosis.

  “That’s no wasp sting,” a small man in a tracksuit said. “It must have been a bee. Look, the sting is still here.”

  “So it is,” said an American woman. “That’s gotta be a bee. It’s the way their stings are shaped, like little arrows.”

  “Barbed,” said the small man.

  “I can see it now,” said the receptionist.

  “Well I can’t,” said Diamond, thoroughly peeved.

  “That was definitely a bee,” the receptionist said to justify the stand she had made.

  “Perhaps you need glasses,” the little man suggested to Diamond. “The eyes change at your age. Want me to take it out? It ought to come out, you know.”

  “You wanna be careful with a bee sting,” said the American woman.

  “Wait a minute. I’ll get some tweezers,” said the receptionist.

  The operation was performed at 8:10 A.M. and the patient remained conscious throughout. Everyone had a different suggestion for the aftercare: a blue bag, bicarbonate of soda, iodine, cold water and fresh air.

  “Take my advice and get your eyes tested,” the little man said in a parting shot.

  “Thanks.”

  He didn’t fancy the Heritage Platter anymore. All he wanted was strong tea and one slice of toast. The thumb was still sore, even with a coating of antihistamine ointment. Some of this came off on the Daily Mail, leaving a smear beside the report that a major police operation was under way to recapture John Mount joy. The stakeout at the caravan park had happened too late to make the morning papers.

  Where would Mountjoy go? he demanded of himself, trying to ignore the throbbing. The stolen car wouldn’t be of use for long. Every copper in the West Country would have the number by now. Without a doubt Mountjoy would have some new bolt-hole planned. He’d lived in the area long enough to know his way about. Another caravan site would be too risky. So where?

  With a friend? It seemed unlikely that anyone would run the risk of conspiring in a kidnap as well as harboring an escaped prisoner. Friends with that degree of loyalty are rare.

  Mountjoy’s problem was Samantha. A man alone might wander about looking for places, or decide to sleep rough. A man with a young woman hostage wasn’t going to get far without creating suspicion. An empty house was the best bet. There were plenty in and around the city with agents’ boards outside.

  Julie Hargreaves was already in the office when Diamond got there soon after nine. To his already jaded eye she looked depressingly top-of-the-morning.

  She said brightly, “We’re still in business, then?”

  “Naturally,” said he, manfully. “It throbs a bit, but the antihistamine will take it down, no doubt.”

  She said, “I think we’re at cross-purposes. I was talking about Mount joy getting through the net at Atworth last night. What’s wrong?”

  This way, it sounded as if he was touting for sympathy. He
told her about the sting and she made the appropriate remarks.

  “How was your meeting with Jake Pinkerton?” she asked when it was clear that he wished to talk about something else than his thumb.

  He summed up. “He just confirmed what we know: he and Britt dumped each other more than a year before the murder. He reckoned it was mutual. No resentment. And she had no interest in dishing the dirt on him because it had all been done by others when he was younger. The only mildly interesting thing that came up was that he was at the funeral and remembers seeing a bunch of red roses among the floral tributes.”

  “Who from?”

  “No message. Pretty tasteless in the circumstances, don’t you think?”

  “Sick, I think.”

  “So how about you?” he asked. “Did you get to see the photographer lady?”

  “Prue Shorter—yes. She lives out at Steeple Ashton. She was certainly worth the trip. She took the pictures—or pics, as she calls them—for three stories with Britt. Well, only one, actually. The last two were never completed.”

  “One of those being the college expose?”

  “Yes, she took some exteriors of the building and she was going to get some of Mountjoy when the opportunity came, but Britt didn’t want them taken until she’d finished her investigation. She intended to confront him with her evidence on the night she was killed.”

  “That’s what I always assumed, but it’s good to have it confirmed,” said Diamond. The case against Mountjoy wasn’t crumbling. It was being reinforced. “What was the story that did get into print?”

  “She did an exclusive feature on Longleat House and Viscount Weymouth. He’s Lord Bath now, of course. Well, the whole emphasis of the story was the gallery of portraits he has of his lovers, his ‘wifelets,’ as he calls them, all fifty-four of them.”

  Diamond smiled. “I once attended a meeting about security at Longleat and we were shown inside the Kama Sutra room, with its four-poster bed and the murals painted by the Viscount. Allegedly erotic.”