One rainy afternoon he phoned Louis Voss at Fulham. This wasn’t in any way inspired, or clever. He just felt the need to talk to someone he trusted.
After they’d got through the small talk he said, ‘You saw the stuff in the papers about Dixon-Bligh, I’m sure.’
‘Poor sod, yes,’ Louis said. ‘He wasn’t your man after all, then?’
‘Someone else’s. It gives fresh meaning to that old phrase about guarding your tongue.’
‘Ho-ho. So where are you now on this investigation?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘I can’t believe that, Peter.’
‘None of the suspects measured up.’
‘Square one, then?’
‘Square one – which has to be Fulham nick when you and I and Stormy and Patsy were keeping crime off the streets of West London, or trying to.’
‘Patsy?’
‘Mary Poppins if you prefer – though I thought we’d all moved on since then.’
‘You’re speaking of Stormy’s wife?’ Louis said.
‘Or wife-to-be, in those days. I’m still wondering why those two got hitched.’
‘She was a good-looking woman, a knockout when she was young.’
‘That’s what I mean. He’s a likeable guy, but let’s be frank, his looks are against him.’
Louis laughed. ‘Who told you that? Stormy pulled the girls like a tug-of-war team.’
Unlikely, he thought. He’d heard Stormy admit to playing away, but hadn’t pictured him as quite so active. ‘I can’t say I noticed at the time.’
‘You were a boss man. The guys at the workface knew the score, and Stormy scored more than most. Don’t ask me his secret.’
Louis had no reason to exaggerate, Diamond reflected. He heard himself say something rather profound. ‘Maybe women feel more confident with an ugly man. Or more confident of keeping him.’
Profound, yet hard to prove. Still, he’d watched a trained protection officer, Gina, mellowing under Stormy’s charm offensive, even though it had all the subdety of a Sherman tank. ‘So did he change his ways after she married him?’
‘Did he hell!’
‘She put up with it?’
‘At a price, no doubt.’ Now it was Louis who ventured an opinion on the ways of women. ‘A smart wife has her terms. Read the tabloids. There are plenty of examples.’
‘Of big divorce settlements?’
‘No, of wives who stay married and appear to put up with all the philandering – at a price. They come out the winners.’
‘So you think she had Stormy’s number?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Louis said. ‘I watched it happen over the years. He had flings, but none of them lasted. She always reined him in.’
‘Did she play around herself?’
‘You’re joking. She was more interested in nannying than nooky. She put her energies into chivvying us into being nice to each other – which isn’t easy in our job. Well, you know what she was like. A cheery word for everyone.’
‘I remember.’
‘No one was better at organising a leaving party. She put on a terrific do for me when I retired. It was such a send-off I felt embarrassed coming back to the civilian job a couple of years later.’
‘Yes,’ Diamond said. ‘She laid on a good party when I left Fulham.’
‘I remember. And even after her retirement she was always coming back reminding us to organise some do or other that couldn’t be ignored. We thought the world of Trish – which made it all the harder to understand why she was murdered.’
‘Did you just call her Trish?’ Diamond asked.
‘For Patricia.’
‘Is that what she was known as?’
‘After the Mary Poppins joke was played out, yes.’
‘Stormy calls her Patsy.’
‘His privilege. She was Trish to the rest of us. Is this important?’
‘I don’t know,’ Diamond said, but he could hear blood pumping through his head like a swan in flight. ‘I’d better go, Louis. I’ll talk to you again.’
He put down the phone.
The monstrous thought bombarded his brain. Could T’ have been Trish – a woman? In the weeks immediately after the shooting he’d done his utmost to keep an open mind about the sex of Steph’s murderer. But as the main suspects had lined up, all of them male, he’d drifted into thinking only a man could be the killer.
It needed a huge leap of the imagination to cast Patricia Weather as a killer. Nobody ever spoke badly of her. He remembered her as a warm, outgoing personality. She and Steph had probably met once or twice at social events, but they were never close friends. He could think of no reason for them to fix a meeting so many years after he and Steph had left Fulham and gone to live in Bath. And he knew of nothing that could have driven her to murder.
Besides, someone had murdered her, for God’s sake.
Out of the question, then?
Not when he came at it from another direction. All along, he’d been at a loss to explain why Steph had gone to the park that morning to meet her killer. But if ‘T’ were Trish, sweet, caring Trish, the woman everyone regarded as Mary Poppins, and she suddenly made contact and suggested a meeting, it was possible Steph would have gone along.
Trish, being so efficient, would almost certainly have done the weapons training course in the underground range at Holborn nick. It was on offer in the eighties, and she would have wanted to prove herself as good as the men.
But that was a world away from murdering Steph.
For the millionth time, he came up against this barrier. Why should anyone have wanted to kill his gende, trusting, unthreatening wife?
He reached for a pen and paper and forced himself to jot down her possible motives.
1. She had a grudge against me.
2. She had a grudge against Steph.
3. She feared Steph knew some secret about her.
4. She was out of her mind.
None of them stood out. Number 1 seemed unlikely; she was one of the few colleagues he’d never had a spat with. 2 and 3 were doubtful, considering Steph had never actually worked with the woman and scarcely knew her. And he’d heard nothing about a mental illness.
Maybe I’m wrong, he thought. Maybe they did know each other, and I didn’t get to hear of it because Steph didn’t think it important.
He picked up the phone and pressed redial.
‘Louis? Me again. This is a long shot, but do you know anything about Trish Weather’s life before she arrived at Fulham?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Could you find out?’
‘That’s personal data, Peter.’
‘Yes, family, education, previous employment, all that stuff. Should be on her application to join the police, if that’s still on file.’
‘You’re not listening,’ Louis said. ‘I can’t access people’s personal files.’
‘But she’s dead, Louis.’
The line went silent for a time.
Then Louis said, ‘Couldn’t you get this from Stormy?’
‘I’d rather leave him out of it at this stage.’
Louis sighed.
He heard nothing back the next day. No bad thing to mark time, he told himself. He’d leapt at the possibility that Trish might be the “I” in Steph’s diary. Now he needed to ponder it calmly.
And the more he pondered, the more he feared it was another blind alley.
He’d almost abandoned the idea when Louis phoned back.
‘There isn’t much, Peter. She applied for the police straight after leaving school. Did her basic at Peel Centre – Hendon, to you and me – and spent a year at West End Central before she started at Fulham. It’s a clean record.’
‘Any fireams experience?’
‘She was an AFO from nineteen eighty-seven.’
‘Was she, indeed!’
‘Also did courses on juveniles, driving, race relations and drugs.’
‘Is there anything on her early life?’
‘Not a lot, but this might interest you. She was born and brought up in Bath. She did her schooling at the Royal High School. The family lived in Brock Street.’
Brock Street led to the Royal Crescent and Royal Victoria Park. He gave a whistle that must have been painful to hear down a phone-line. ‘Spot on, Louis.’
‘Does that help?’
‘It’s not what I was rooting for, exactly, but it may answer one question I’ve sweated blood over – why they met where they did. You see, the park where Steph was murdered wasn’t a place she would have chosen. She had her favourite parks, but the Victoria wasn’t one of them. I’ve always believed her murderer suggested meeting there.’
After a pause, Louis said, ‘Peter, you’re not seriously putting Irish in the frame for your wife’s murder?’
‘Things are falling into place.’
‘But she’s dead. She was the second victim.’
Diamond didn’t answer. His thoughts were galloping ahead.
Louis waited. ‘Peter?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can see problems here. You want to be careful.’
‘Why?’
‘You know what McGarvie and Billy Bowers will think if they get wind of this theory? They’ll think you went out and shot Trish Weather yourself.’ After another long pause he said, ‘God, I hope you didn’t.’
34
A Mr and Mrs Gordon Jessel still lived in Brock Street, Bath, according to the phone directory. A check of the birth registers confirmed that they were the parents of Patricia.
Seized by the need to share the news with someone else, Diamond called Julie Hargreaves that evening and told her he had a new theory that “F was Patricia – or Trish -Weather. At first she refused to entertain it. But so had he, at first. Julie caught her breath when he mentioned that Trish had been an Authorised Firearms Officer.
‘So what do you have here?’ she said, assessing the information with the precision he valued so much. ‘The name beginning with “T”. The link with Fulham and the police. Experience with guns. The fact that she was brought up in Bath, so she knew where to set up the meeting with Steph. Anything else?’
‘Something pretty important. Steph wouldn’t have thought of Trish as threatening. She had this friendly personality everyone warmed to.’
‘Then why?’ Julie asked. ‘What had this charming woman got against Steph?’
‘Before I come to that, there’s a different “why”.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did Steph go to the park at all?’
‘It was fixed. It was in her diary.’
‘Yes, but what was their reason for meeting? It’s not as if they were the best of friends. They met a couple of times when I was serving at Fulham in the eighties, but they didn’t know each other well.’
‘You’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’
‘It’s preyed on my mind all these months, Julie, and the explanation is so bloody obvious I’m ashamed of myself. Steph gave it to me the night before she was killed and I didn’t see it until today.’
‘Share it, then. I want to hear it, guv.’
‘You have to know the kind of person Trish Weather was. We called her Mary Poppins in the old days. She was forever chivvying us into behaving properly, doing the right thing, giving presents to anyone who left. She was the mother hen of the place.’
‘There’s usually one.’
‘Right. I’ve been told that even after she quit the police to set up her temping agency, she kept dropping in at Fulham nick to look up old friends. It was as if she couldn’t bear to leave.’
‘It happens.’
‘Now listen, Julie. On the last evening I spent with Steph she reminded me my fiftieth birthday was coming up. What’s more she told me some friends had seen an article in the paper that mentioned my age and they were talking about giving me a surprise party. She wouldn’t say who. You don’t, do you, if it’s meant to be a surprise? She was just sounding me out, confirming what she’d guessed already-‘
‘That you couldn’t think of anything worse?’
‘You know me and parties, Julie.’
‘You think Trish was behind the surprise party?’
‘I’d put money on it.’ Immediately he was hit by a doubt. ‘Don’t tell me it was you.’
‘I didn’t even realise you had a special birthday this year.’
Relieved, he let his excitement bubble over. ‘Everything points to Irish. In the diary Steph actually notes which evenings I’m out, so she can call her and discuss it. She knew very well what my reaction would be.’
‘You think Steph squashed the idea?’
‘No, that wasn’t her style. Softly, softly. As I say, she spoke to me first, just to be certain of my reaction. The next day – if I’m right – she meant to break the news to Trish that it wasn’t such a good plan. Knowing Steph, she’d want to do it without hurting the woman’s feelings.’
‘She could tell her on the phone.’
‘No, they fixed to meet. She’d prefer to tell her face to face.’
‘Who suggested the meeting, then? Trish?’
‘I think so. She’d have said it would be nice to meet anyway and she came to Bath sometimes to visit her parents. Steph was friendly, as you know. She’d have fallen in with the idea. They picked the park because that was really close to where Trish’s people live. Does that sound plausible?’
Julie sidestepped. ‘But why did Trish bring a gun with her?’
‘She had a different agenda.’
‘Obviously.’
‘The surprise party was just a blind.’
‘Okay,’ she said with a huge note of doubt. ‘So what turned her into a killer?’
‘Julie, that’s the big question only one person can answer now.’
‘Stormy Weather.’
He didn’t need to confirm it.
Julie said without prompting, ‘You think Stormy shot his own wife, don’t you? He found out she’d killed Steph and he put her down like a dangerous dog.’
‘He’s been a strong support to me,’ was all he would answer.
‘I haven’t met the man,’ she said. ‘I’m just looking at it coldly. He’s a Chief Inspector. You and I know what he’d face if his wife was convicted of the murder of another officer’s wife. He’d be finished.’
He said indifferently, ‘I’m not going to shop him.’
Julie latched on immediately. ‘Exactly. What’s done is done. If Stormy shot his wife, leave it to Billy Bowers to work it out.’
He started to say, ‘But I have to know why-‘
Julie cut in, ‘Guv, I know how your mind is working. Stay away from Stormy. Don’t have any more to do with him. You can only panic him.’
Speaking more to himself than Julie, he started the statement a second time, and completed it, ‘I have to know why Steph was murdered and I will.’
A November storm hit the West Country that night, uprooting trees and bringing down fences. Roads right across Somerset and Wiltshire were closed by flooding. Diamond decided not to drive. He took the InterCity to Paddington, crossed London on the Bakerloo Line and completed the journey to Raynes Park by a suburban train. And at intervals, resonating with the rhythm of the wheels, he fancied he heard Julie’s voice urging him to stay away from Stormy.
Fat chance.
Before doing anything else at Raynes Park, he needed to relieve himself. He found the ‘Gentlemen’ sign on the station platform and discovered from a smaller notice on the door that not every man in Raynes Park was gentle. ‘Due to continued vandalism these toilets are locked. If you need to use the facilities please ask a member of staff for the key.’ ‘I should be so lucky,’ he said grimly, looking along the deserted platform. There was a similar notice on the ladies’ door. He went down the steps and into the street.
A sheet of rain and a buffeting wind hit him when he stepped out of the station. In the street, umbrellas were being blown inside out. He never carried one. He
put up the collar of his old fawn trench coat, jammed on his trilby more tightly and set off for Stormy’s local shops. They began almost at once, along one side of Approach Road, and they were about as accommodating as the station facilities. The pharmacy had ceased trading. The fish and chip shop wasn’t frying. There were a couple of others with shutters up, covered in graffiti. There was a public convenience. The sign on the door read: ‘These toilets are permanently closed.’ Driven desperate by the sound and sight of the rain, he stepped around the back.
Feeling better, he applied his mind to other matters. He looked for the hairdressing salon. If you want to find out about a woman without speaking to her husband, try her hairdresser. A shop on the corner called Streakers had an art nouveau design, tastefully done, of running nudes with their hair in curlers. He went in with a gust that blew the showcards off the counter.
One of the stylists put down her scissors and came over. She was the manager, he discovered.
‘I was wondering,’ he began when he’d shown his warrant card, ‘if by any chance you cut the hair of Mrs Weather, the local woman who was shot and found dead by the railway at Woking.’ His voice was calm, but he hoped to God he’d struck lucky. There simply wasn’t time to do the rounds of all the salons in the area.
‘Trish was a client of mine, yes,’ the bright-eyed, thirtyish manager told him – and it didn’t escape him that she used the ‘T’ word unprompted. She took him into the staffroom and sent the junior there to sweep the salon floor. ‘We couldn’t believe it when we heard. She was such a sweet person.’
‘You said she was your client. You personally did her hair?’
‘I did.’
‘For how long?’
‘More than a year, once a week. After she left her job in the police she had a regular Friday morning appointment. Personal grooming was important to Trish.’ She was eyeing his saturated old mac.
‘You got to know the lady well, then? Did she talk about her life?’
Diamond Dust Page 28
