Diamond Dust

by Peter Lovesey

  Those ex-Brownies would see on the TV news that she’d been murdered. For Steph’s sake, he thought suddenly, he ought to warn them all. They were family to her. Her kids – and his. Somewhere she kept her own address book. He got up and started opening drawers. She had always kept her things organised, and he soon found it with the stationery. What a task, though. The ‘A’s alone ran to three pages.

  This was what she would have wanted, so he made a start. Even if he didn’t get through, he’d give it his best shot.

  It was hard, hearing the shock in their voices, and harder listening to the loving things they said about her. Some were former Brownies, some friends she’d made through her work in the charity shops, others she’d kept up with since long before he knew her. So many – and so much love. After some time, he poured himself a brandy, then started another page.

  Almost hidden among the ‘D’s he found the number for Steph’s first husband, Edward Dixon-Bligh. Was it worth calling that tosspot? he wondered. He doubted if Dixon-Bligh and Steph had spoken since the divorce. The man had been an officer in the RAF Catering Branch (Diamond had dubbed him the Frying Officer) who had let her down badly at the time when she’d most needed help, after three miscarriages. The last they’d heard, he had swapped his commission for a Michelin star and was managing a restaurant in Guildford, Surrey, with a partner almost half his age. Still, he had a right to be told.

  Waiting with the phone pressed to his ear, he recalled something Steph had once told him about her ex-husband that seemed to sum the man up. They had once rented a beach hut on the south coast and after the rental expired he’d kept a key. He’d go down to the beach for years after and if no one was using the hut he’d open it and brew some tea and sit there all afternoon, an overgrown cuckoo in the nest.

  It turned out that he was no longer at the private number they had in the book. He’d moved into central London. That seemed a good enough excuse to forget him, but out of loyalty to Steph he tried directory enquiries. He was glad of the chance to leave an answerphone message.

  He abandoned this phone marathon when the people he called started telling him they’d heard already on the evening news. Outside, it was dark and he was only up to the ‘G’s. He drew the curtains.

  What would Steph have wanted next? It was weird, but he almost heard her say in her calm voice, ‘Tidy my things, Pete.’ She would hate to leave disorder. Against all logic he went upstairs and emptied the basket where she put her clothes for washing. Picked her nightdress off the pillow and for a moment held it against his face and got a faint smell of her and said, ‘Oh, Steph.’ Brought the clothes down and loaded the machine. Went back upstairs and stripped the bed. Tightened the lid on a pot of foundation cream she’d left on her dressing table.

  He said in a whisper, ‘Is that better?’ and then shook his head at his own stupidity.

  He heard a car draw up outside and someone coming to the door, so he went downstairs and opened it.

  A camera flashed.

  The press.

  He said to the woman on his doorstep, ‘Shove off, will you. Leave me alone. There’s no comment. There won’t be any comment.’ And slammed the door.

  The phone rang.

  He snatched it up, ready to give them a blasting.

  ‘Curtis McGarvie here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘First, I want to tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And any number of people asked me to pass on their sympathy and support. Everyone is gutted. You can be sure we won’t rest until we’ve caught this jerk. Do you mind if I talk about it?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘The bullets are with forensics. They’ll check them against their database and tell us the class of weapon. I’ve asked them to give it top priority. Some kind of handgun was used, obviously, and I’m assuming it was a revolver.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’d have been cartridges lying around if a self-loading pistol was used.’

  ‘Not if the killer was careful.’

  ‘Picked up the cartridges, you mean?’ McGarvie was silent, absorbing the point. ‘Well, there weren’t any, I promise you.’

  ‘The striker pin marks the cartridge differently with each gun,’ Diamond said with the confidence of the weapons training he did in his time with the Met. ‘Important to ballistics. A professional would know that. He might well decide not to leave them there to be found. I think we should keep an open mind about the weapon.’

  ‘I intend to,’ McGarvie said, stressing the first word. ‘Otherwise not much came up in the search. Do you know if your wife normally carried a bag of some kind?’

  A bag? He meant a handbag. Of course she carried a handbag. ‘Black leather, quite large, with a shoulder strap and zip. Didn’t you find it?’

  ‘Nothing so far. Maybe you could look around the house and see if it’s gone for certain.’

  ‘I’ll do it now.’

  ‘No rush.’

  ‘I said I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Okay. And I’d like to come to your place tomorrow and talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll come to the nick.’

  ‘No, I’d prefer to visit your home, if you don’t mind. That way, I’ll get a better sense of your wife.’

  He would have done the same. ‘All right.’

  ‘Is nine too early? If you can find a recent photo, we’ll need to appeal for witnesses. Have you been bothered by the press at all?’

  ‘Told them to bugger off.’

  ‘If it happens again, tell them we’re calling a press conference for midday tomorrow. Should get them off your back.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you want me there?’

  ‘No need at this stage. Is anyone with you? Friends or family?’

  ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Would you like-?’

  ‘It’s my choice.’

  He searched for that handbag without any confidence that it would turn up. Steph always took it with her if she went out. Just as he expected, it wasn’t in the house -which raised a question. If the killer had picked it up, what was his reason?

  Would a hitman walk off with his victim’s handbag after firing the fatal shot? Unlikely.

  It raised the possibility that the hitman theory was wrong, and that Steph had been shot by a thief.

  He stood in the living room with head bowed, hands pressed to his face, pondering that one. Had she been killed for a few pounds and some credit cards? That would be even more cruel.

  He called the nick and left a message for McGarvie that the bag was not in the house.

  During the evening he answered the door twice more to reporters, and told them about McGarvie’s press conference. And the phone rang intermittently. The word ‘condolences’ kept coming up. And ‘tragic’. And ‘bereavement’. Death has its own jargon.

  But he was pleased to get a call from Julie Hargreaves, his former deputy in the Bath murder team – the best he’d ever had. Julie always knew exactly what was going through his mind.

  When she’d expressed her sympathy Julie said, ‘Let Curtis McGarvie take this on, whatever your heart tells you. He’s well up to the job.’

  ‘Have you worked with him?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s good without making a big deal out of it’

  ‘Better than me?’

  ‘For this case – yes. You want a result. If you handled it yourself, you’d get one, I’m sure – only for the CPS to throw it out because you’re too involved.’

  ‘I’ve been told that already.’

  ‘But your heart won’t accept what your head tells you. You can still play an active part by telling Curtis everything you know.’

  ‘It isn’t the same, Julie. I want to roll up my sleeves, make decisions.’

  ‘Why don’t you put your energy into giving Steph the kind of send-off she deserves? A lot of people will expect it, you know. She had so many friends.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’ He paused, letting her comment sink
in. “What exactly are you suggesting?’

  ‘Would she have wanted a church funeral?’

  ‘She was a believer.’

  ‘Then I really think you should arrange it at the Abbey.’

  ‘The Abbey?’

  ‘Do your public servant number on the Dean, or whoever decides these things. But insist on having the service the way Steph would have wished.’

  ‘Which is…?’

  She caught her breath, as if surprised she had to spell it out. ‘The music she liked. Whoever takes the service should be someone who knew her personally. One or two of her family or closest friends should do readings. You, if you can face it.’

  ‘I’d feel a hypocrite. I’m an agnostic if I’m anything, Julie.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be out of the Bible. Well, to be honest, I wasn’t thinking of you. But you could speak about her if you felt up to it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re confident in front of people.’

  ‘Barking out orders to a bunch of coppers, maybe, but not this.’

  ‘Okay, if you want, you could write something about her life and include it with the Order of Service. Then when it’s over, you invite people to lunch, or tea, or whatever, at some local hostelry.’

  He took all this in before saying, ‘You’re right, Julie. This is what I should be doing. I’ll see to it as soon as the coroner releases…’ He didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘One more thing, if I can be really personal,‘Julie said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can only say this because we worked together so long. You’re tougher with people than anyone I know, but not so tough as you are on yourself. It wouldn’t be the end of civilisation as we know it if, when you’re alone, you shed a few tears – for Steph, and for yourself.’

  At the low point of the night, before dawn, he remembered, and wept for the first time in over forty years.

  6

  He nicked one of the scratches shaving and it bled on his shirt: too little concentration after too little sleep. He’d finally flopped onto the sofa and drifted off for about two hours – only to be roused by the Guardian being shoved through the door. Then he was forced to accept the unthinkable over again.

  ‘You look rough,’ McGarvie told him unnecessarily.

  ‘So do you.’

  Actually McGarvie was one of those people who always look rough – no bad thing in CID work. Still in his early forties, he was marked by too many late nights and too many whiskies. Under-nourished, pock-marked, with bags under his eyes, he had a voice like the third day of a God-awful cold.

  He’d brought Mike James with him, a newish, far-from-comfortable DC who Diamond himself had plucked from the uniformed ranks.

  Diamond offered coffee and admitted, when asked, that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He chose not to reveal that he hadn’t been able to face food since yesterday.

  ‘So where are we on this?’ he asked while they stood in the kitchen watching the kettle. ‘What have we got?’

  McGarvie hesitated. That ‘we’ obviously troubled him. ‘I’ve got a hundred and twenty officers on this. Fingertip search. Door-to-door in all the streets nearby. Incident room up and running.’

  ‘What I meant is what have we learned?’

  ‘Forensics take their time. You appreciate that.’

  ‘But you do know certain things – what time she was shot. Ten-twenty.’

  ‘If we’re to believe the guy who found her.’

  ‘She was at home in Lower Weston when I left at eight-fifteen.’

  ‘That was one thing I was going to ask.’

  ‘And the Carpenters?’ Diamond pressed him.

  ‘Des and Danny appear to be watertight for yesterday morning.’

  He shook his head. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Des was motoring back from Essex and has a credit card voucher for fuel placing him on the M4 at Reading Services at ten-thirty.’

  ‘I’d check the forecourt video if I were you.’

  ‘It’s in hand.’

  After spooning instant coffee into two mugs Diamond moistened the granules with a dash of milk from a bottle that must have been on the table since yesterday. ‘You like it white?’

  McGarvie frowned at the lumpen mess. ‘Sure.’

  Mike James just nodded. He was so ill at ease in the home of his bereaved boss he would have drunk the cat’s water if it were handed to him.

  ‘And the other one? Danny?’

  ‘At the gym in Bristol for an hour until ten, signed in, signed out, and vouched for by the staff there, and afterwards went to his solicitor in Clifton.’

  ‘Who of course recorded precisely when he arrived and left? They really wrapped this up.’

  ‘You think they used a hitman?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  McGarvie left the question hanging. Diamond poured hot water into the mugs and handed them over. Curds and black granules rose to the surface. McGarvie picked up the spoon and stirred his. They carried them through to the living room. The curtains hadn’t been pulled.

  ‘DI Halliwell was telling me about this woman who attacked you after the trial,’ McGarvie said. ‘Had you seen her before?’

  ‘Just a faint memory of her sitting in the public gallery. She must have been one of the crowd who screamed at the judge.’

  ‘But you didn’t come across her when you worked on the case?’

  ‘No. It’s possible some of the team did. I didn’t do all the legwork myself. Do we know who she is?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Blond, shoulder-length hair. Tallish. Five-seven, five-eight. Probably under thirty. Long fingernails.’

  ‘I can see.’

  Diamond put his hand to his face. The scratches were still there, though the incident seemed like a century ago. ‘She was in some kind of trousef suit. Black or dark blue.’

  ‘Did you see who she was with?’

  He shook his head. ‘Some of the Carpenter mob. Heard them shouting. I was avoiding eye contact at the time.’

  ‘I wonder if anyone got it on video. There must have been camera crews around.’

  ‘Didn’t notice any.’

  ‘Let’s get back to your wife.’

  ‘Wish I could.’

  McGarvie glanced at Diamond, who gave a sharp sigh, more angry than self-pitying.

  ‘Sorry. Go on.’

  ‘This has to be asked. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against her?’

  He shook his head. ‘Steph didn’t make enemies. I never knew anyone who disliked her.’

  ‘The opposite, then. Someone who fancied her?’

  The idea caught him off-balance. ‘A stalker?’

  ‘It happens. Had she mentioned anyone giving her the eye in recent weeks?’

  ‘No.’ This line of enquiry was a waste of time in his opinion. ‘I’ve got to face it – she was murdered for no better reason than being married to me.’

  ‘I’m trying to keep an open mind. How did she spend her time?’

  ‘She’s always done charity work, serving in the Oxfam shop, and Save the Children at one time, organising the rota, running the stall at this or that event.’

  ‘Was that where she was going yesterday?’

  ‘What day was it? I have to think. I’ve lost track.’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  He shut his eyes to get his brain working. ‘Tuesday was the morning she kept clear for shopping and so on.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you what she was planning?’

  ‘She would if it was out of the ordinary. I guess it was going to be the same as any other Tuesday.’

  ‘If she’d arranged to meet someone, she’d tell you?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Did she write it down anywhere? A calendar? An appointments book?’

  ‘Diary.’

  McGarvie’s eyebrows arched hopefully.

  ‘In her handbag,’ Diamond added. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘
No.’

  ‘It’s not here. I can tell you that. She always had it with her if she went out. I was thinking last night it’s strange the bag was taken – unless someone else came along after she was…’

  ‘Possible,’ McGarvie agreed.

  They both reflected on that for a moment before Diamond said, ‘I don’t think a hitman would take it.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘And I can’t believe she was mugged.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shot dead – for a handbag?’

  ‘You don’t want to believe it,’ said McGarvie, ‘and I can understand why. But there are yobbos out there who hold life as cheaply as that. We can’t discount it. Why was she in the park? Was it a place where she liked to walk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean not at all?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Never went there?’

  ‘Hardly ever. And she didn’t go for walks on Tuesdays. She was always too busy catching up with herself. It was her day for jobs, shopping, some cooking sometimes, housework.’

  ‘Was there a phone call?’

  ‘Before I left, you mean? No.’

  ‘Could she have made one?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. You’d better check with BT.’

  ‘It’s in hand,’ McGarvie said. He seemed to be doing the right things. ‘Did she carry a mobile?’

  ‘Do we strike you as the sort of couple who carry mobiles?’

  ‘In other words, no.’

  ‘Are you thinking she was lured to the park?’ Diamond said.

  ‘Possibly. Or driven there. Met the killer somewhere else.’ He glanced around the room. ‘He could have come here.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We can’t be sure.’

  ‘She’s not going to invite a stranger in. She knew better than that. And you’re wrong about being driven there. Steph wouldn’t get into a car.’

  ‘Unless she was forced.’

  ‘She’d have put up a fight.’

  ‘There are no signs of it.’

  This was true, he knew. He remembered holding her cold, limp hands. And the pathologists’s remark about the state of them. ‘Is Middleton doing the PM?’