The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  Now Halliwell grinned. “No I’m not. It’s the striations.”

  Diamond was impressed. He knew the basics, but he had never bothered much with the terminology.

  “The grooves on the side of the bullet,” Halliwell went on. “All the makes have their own pattern so that when the bullet passes through the barrel it gets marked. You’ll find six grooves when it was fired from a Colt and seven with a Webley. A Colt has a left-hand twist and a Webley a right. Now, a Browning—”

  “Enough said,” Diamond interrupted the lecture. “It was a Webley. If ballistics are convinced, so am I. My point was that this is an out-of-date weapon.”

  Halliwell nodded. “But it doesn’t have to be the latest model. If it works, it can kill. Obviously this one did. In a way it’s fitting that an obsolete firearm was used at an antiques auction. At least it wasn’t a duelling pistol.”

  “Does it tell us anything about the hitmen?”

  “Only that they didn’t have state-of-the-art guns.”

  “Cut-price hitmen.”

  “They messed up badly, that’s true.”

  “The email goes on about making a check of the records. It’s not going to be a licensed gun, is it?”

  “Definitely not,” Halliwell said. “But there are still plenty of old Webleys knocking around. Thousands of servicemen never handed them in. I expect what they mean is that they’re comparing the, em’—pause for a smile—’striations with ammunition recovered from other firearms incidents. We may discover the gun was fired in some other raid.”

  “We could use some help like that. But let’s not get our hopes up. It may have been sitting in someone’s sock drawer since 1963.”

  7

  One of the items they had brought back in Halliwell’s car was John Gildersleeve’s book, Chaucer: The Bawdy Tales. Diamond took it home to read. A spot of bawdiness would go down well, and he might get a clue as to why the Wife of Bath was worth at least twenty-four grand to the professor. His chance to impress the academic world? Or was the man obsessed, in thrall to one of Chaucer’s best known creations? As a policeman who had seen a lot in his time, Diamond couldn’t accept that the weather-beaten piece of stone had anything remarkable about it. He wasn’t impressed. The experience of being evicted from his own office had left him only with negative thoughts, a suspicion that this thing was trouble. If nothing else, the book ought to act as a corrective.

  In his small house in Weston, with Raffles perched on the arm of the chair—and purring—he turned to the chapter entitled “As Help Me God, I Was a Lusty Oon: The Much-Married Wife of Bath.” It was not the hot stuff he expected. It opened with a statement that this would be a “deconstructive study of certain assumptions, avoiding the twin snares of reductivity and indeterminacy.” Even Raffles turned his head away in disappointment. Two pages in, Raffles was yawning. Diamond dropped the book on the floor and reached for the modern English version of The Canterbury Tales Paloma had given him.

  Generations of schoolchildren had reason to be grateful to Nevill Coghill and now so was Peter Diamond. Here was the Wife in language he could understand and enjoy, with some mild bawdiness thrown in regarding her “chamber of Venus,” the pleasures of love-making and the demands she made in bed. Fair enough, he thought, this isn’t roll-in-the-aisles stuff, but it does the job with style and zip, written in rhyming verse that apparently uses the same metre as the original.

  The General Prologue gave him some background. Alison was a bold-faced, healthy-looking character who queened it over all the other women in her parish, insisting on being first to make the offering in church and furious if anyone challenged her right.

  This he found easy to believe.

  She spun her own clothes and dressed on Sundays in a flowing cloak, red, tight-gartered stockings and tightly laced shoes, and a hat as large as a shield and weighing as much as ten pounds. He could understand Paloma’s delight in dressing an actress like that. Upon her amblere—which he discovered was an ambling horse—the wife was a much-travelled pilgrim. Impressively for a fourteenth century woman, she’d been to Jerusalem three times and other religious sites in France and Italy. She was chatty and quick to laugh, displaying a gap in her teeth which was said to be a sure sign of a lustful nature.

  Cue the five husbands.

  He turned to the Wife of Bath’s Prologue for her own account—and what an extraordinary piece of self-justification it was, running to thousands of words. After wading through all the Biblical arguments for serial marriage (King Solomon’s thousand wives among them), he learned that three of the husbands had been good, the others bad. The first three—the good ones—were rich and old, but were given a hard time once they married her, required to be energetic lovers and regularly scolded and put in the wrong, accused of being drunk and unfaithful, ‘innocent as they were’. Presumably they died of exhaustion.

  Husband number four, a younger man, made the mistake of having a mistress. The wife got her own back by ‘frying him in his own grease’ and flirting with others, making him jealous. When she returned from her pilgrimage to Jerusalem, he died and she was glad to see him buried.

  She was still a lively forty when she married for the fifth time—to a handsome twenty-year-old called John, whom she had been ‘toying and dallying’ with while husband four was in London during Lent. ‘I think I loved him best, I’ll tell no lie.’ She’d been turned on by the sight of his sturdy legs at her latest husband’s funeral. They married inside a month and she handed over all the land and property she’d inherited from the earlier marriages. But there was an early crisis. With lamentable want of tact for a newlywed, Johnny made it his habit to read to her about the misdeeds of all the wicked women of history from Eve onwards. One evening Alison was so enraged by this that she grabbed the book and ripped three pages from it and hit him in the face, causing him to fall back into the fire. He got up and struck her so hard that she became permanently deaf. But she made him pay dearly. At first she alarmed him by pretending she was at the point of death. He begged her to forgive him and promised never to hit her again. For good measure she smacked his face a second time and said they were now even. But she’d won the prize of sovereignty. She made him burn the book. In future she ruled the roost in the marriage. She became kindness personified, faithful and loving, and so, she insisted, was Johnny.

  Diamond’s reading was done. He couldn’t say he was enchanted by Alison, but her spirit was undeniable. She had come alive for him, a recognizable human being from seven centuries ago. Anyone reading her life history would warm to the robust humour and her brand of feminism. Whatever you thought about her, she wasn’t repressed. You had to feel sorry for the men in her life.

  Reading about her had helped him by sharpening and enlivening the impression of the character he remembered faintly from his schooldays. Without doubt she was the leading lady in The Canterbury Tales and it was possible to understand how she must have figured strongly in the thoughts of John Gildersleeve, whose entire career was founded on Chaucer’s work. Alison would have been very real to him. The chance to possess the stone carving had obviously excited him. And so Gildersleeve had become one more man to fall under the influence of the Wife of Bath, one more who ultimately perished.

  Job done, his eyelids getting heavier, Diamond became as drowsy as the cat. Images of a stout, gap-toothed woman in an enormous hat drifted into his brain. She was sitting in his chair at Manvers Street leading a case conference, her red-shoed feet on the desk. Her amblere was tethered to the radiator, feeding from a nosebag, and no one seemed bothered by it.

  He was next aware of the cat’s claws pricking his thighs. The doorbell was ringing. Raffles, startled, had just leapt from his lap. Clearly they had both been dozing. How long, he was unsure.

  He heaved himself out of the chair and jammed his feet into the flip-flops he wore around the house. He still ached from the fall in his office the day before. He shuffled to the door, muttering about people who came calling in the eveni
ng. If it was a local politician he’d tell them what they could do with their policies.

  Ingeborg was standing there, hands open in apology. This wasn’t her usual confident manner.

  “I know I should have phoned, guv.”

  “You’d better come in. Something the matter?”

  “No, I just thought this is the best way to see you away from the office.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He showed her into the living room. Raffles had already returned to the warm armchair and was staring at Ingeborg in the way only a cat can, daring her to eject him. She chose another chair.

  And so did Diamond.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Am I right in thinking you’d like me to go undercover?”

  “Someone been talking to you?” he said, thinking Halliwell must already have called her at home.

  She shook her head. “I’m the obvious candidate, aren’t I? You only have to look at the rest of the team.”

  He shifted in the chair, unsure where this was leading.

  “But you haven’t actually asked me.”

  “It’s a dangerous job,” he said. “I’d rather have a volunteer. I’m not ordering anyone to take it on.”

  “You definitely need one of us to get among the hard men.”

  He was fully awake now, alert to what she was saying. “That’s true. They’re hard men, all right. Professionals. Admittedly they made a hash of the robbery, but they were carrying guns. We must find out who put them up to it.”

  “But who are they?” Ingeborg said.

  “Inge, you know as well as I do that there’s only one gang in our manor capable of mounting an armed hold-up. In Bristol there are three or four. If I were planning a crime here I wouldn’t hire the local mob. I’d bring in some of the Bristol boys.”

  “I totally agree,” she said. “And it puts one of my doubts to rest. Anyone from here trying to cosy up to the Bath lot runs the risk of being recognised.”

  “What are your other doubts?”

  She sighed. This was clearly difficult for her. “Whoever takes it on has to face up to what happens if some situation arises.”

  “Situation?”

  “Law-breaking.”

  “I get you. How are you going to deal with it if they commit another crime?”

  “Not just me. Anyone. If it comes to court and the undercover cop is found to have aided and abetted, he or she is as guilty as the perpetrators.”

  The “he or she” meant he couldn’t yet count on her.

  “It’s a grey area, I admit,” he said. “That’s why I want someone who can think on their feet. My own feeling is that the law would take a lenient view.”

  “If the cop doesn’t actually fire a shot?”

  “But it doesn’t have to come to that. We’re interested in a killing already committed. It’s about getting their confidence.”

  “Yes, but that could mean joining in some other heist. They’ll look for the recruit to show loyalty and they’ll be suspicious of anyone who doesn’t.”

  Diamond hesitated, searching for the right words. There was an obvious point here, but how could he say it without offending her? “The gang culture is macho, Inge. They’re unlikely to want a woman at the sharp end of a crime. You may not like it, but that’s the real world.”

  “So?”

  “There are other ways of getting on the inside.”

  The look in her eyes wasn’t promising. “Go on.”

  “Using your natural assets.”

  She held up a warning finger. “I knew it would come to that. I draw the line at shagging the bastards.”

  “For God’s sake, I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re well capable of chatting up a guy without going the whole way.”

  She glanced across the room at the book he’d dropped face up on the floor. “Is that where you’ve been getting your ideas?”

  Chaucer: The Bawdy Tales. The Wife of Bath again, muscling in.

  “Christ, no. It’s unreadable. I gave up after a couple of pages.” He leaned forward. “Listen, Inge. You’ve done journalism. You’ve gone after stories. Basically, that’s what this is.”

  “With one important difference,” she said, unimpressed. “The people I was hounding knew I was press. This is another game altogether.”

  “It’s why we don’t wear uniforms.”

  “That’s one thing. Trying to pass ourselves off as crooks is another.”

  “I’m not doing very well, am I?” he said.

  “Guv, I didn’t come here expecting to be persuaded,” Ingeborg said. “I can make up my own mind and I will, but not right now. I wanted you to front up with me and I suppose you have. I was uncomfortable with nothing being said. At least we know where we stand now. If you ordered me to take this on, I would.”

  “I won’t insist,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  She stood up, preparing to leave. “All the others would find out, of course. It would be no use telling them I was on leave.”

  “We can trust them.”

  “The civilian staff?”

  “We have to.”

  She walked to the door. “I’ll sleep on it and let you know.”

  He got up to show her out, put his foot on Gildersleeve’s book and skidded forward, arms flailing, almost falling over. “Bloody hell, not again.”

  Ingeborg turned. “You all right?”

  “I’m starting to feel jinxed.”

  She smiled. “She’s fiction, you know.”

  “And I was almost history.”

  In the morning plenty seemed to be happening in the incident room. Leaman was running through the CCTV tapes of silver vans, Ingeborg checking statements she’d taken from the antique dealers at the auction, Gilbert searching the files for evidence of armed robberies in Bath and Bristol and Halliwell on the phone to the CSI team chasing results of their findings at the crime scene. Even John Wigfull, the press liaison man, was there, wanting to know when he could issue an update for the media. Interest from the press was growing, he said. The Mirror had asked if they could get a new picture of the Wife of Bath with Detective Superintendent Diamond.

  “Stuff that,” Diamond said. “I’m not posing with her.”

  “She’s the story, she’s your case and she’s in your office already,” Wigfull said, obviously prepared for a skirmish. “It’s a done deal.”

  “It isn’t. We don’t allow the press in here.”

  “We can’t move her out.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So will you make an exception and cooperate for once?”

  “Get lost, John.” They had a history, these two.

  “Be reasonable. The only picture they’ve got is the one from the catalogue. They need something more dramatic.”

  “Like me standing over it with a magnifying glass? You’re out of your tiny mind.”

  “How about Ingeborg, then? Give them some glamour.”

  “Hang about,” Ingeborg called from across the room. “I heard that.”

  “It’s give and take,” Wigfull said. “There are plenty of times when we need their help.”

  Diamond wasn’t having it. Ingeborg in the national press would blow her cover before she started. “Listen up, John. If they need a picture, you can have one taken by a police photographer and the only shot they’re getting is a close-up of the stone. No one will be posing for them. Get that clear.”

  In truth, there wasn’t any progress, for all the show of activity. He wasn’t expecting much. The drama of the killing in the auction room had been a gift to the media, but as a case to investigate, it was a brute. A failed heist and an unintended killing by masked men didn’t give much to work on.

  The only good thing this morning was that he could use his office again. He stepped inside—gingerly.

  She was still in occupation, of course. His cactus had turned an unhealthy colour and was leaning over, but the Wife of Bath had received a mak
eover from the fire service. The result was as good as a stone-cleaning firm could have achieved. She and her amblere were better defined and improved in colour. Fresh from reading the poem, he could see the curve of the jowls, the fleshiness of the face under the substantial hat. She was starting to come alive. She looked well capable of turning her head and giving him the gap-toothed grin.

  Idiot, he thought. What’s getting into you?

  He turned his back on her and stepped the other way round his desk and sat down. She wasn’t in view from here. He could turn his thoughts to other things. They hadn’t yet replaced the computer, but he didn’t feel deprived. Why, he now had space for pens and paper and his picture of Steph, his late wife. Everything must have been stuffed away before they started the decontamination.

  His phone started ringing, but where was it? Fairly close to hand, for sure. He tried two drawers before tracking it to the bottom one. They’d tucked it away when they were clearing the fumes.

  The switchboard said they had a caller for him, a Monica Gildersleeve.

  The professor’s wife.

  “Put her on,” he said, while numerous possibilities jostled in his brain.

  The voice was on a low register and would have sounded sexy in any other situation. “You’re the officer on my husband’s case, I believe. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Thank you for calling, Mrs. Gildersleeve,” he said. “I’ve been out of the office. Please accept my condolences.”

  “It’s so sudden,” she said. “I find it hard to believe.”

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone close. We’re still at the early stages, but we’re doing all we can.”

  “We were married only a few months. So you haven’t yet found the people who shot him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “They gunned him down in full view of everyone at the auction.”

  “Correct, but they were in masks and nobody got the number of their escape vehicle. Are you speaking from Bath?”

  “I’m staying for a day or two with my sister Erica in Camden Crescent. I don’t feel comfortable in the Reading house. I’d like to speak to you about certain things you ought to know, things I can’t say over the phone. I’m worried.”