Cop to Corpse

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Where do I put you down?’

  ‘What?’ he uncovered his eyes. They’d done the descent and were approaching the Frome Road, the southern route into Bradford on Avon.

  The driver didn’t repeat the question. It was plain enough.

  Diamond unfolded the map and took a rapid decision. ‘There’s a place called Victory Field. Over the bridge and sharp left.’

  Before they disembarked, he conferred with the senior man. Protocol mattered now. The armed response team expected to run their own show, but the strategy, such as it was, was being decided at a higher level.

  It was agreed Diamond should issue instructions to everyone. ‘We can’t say which side of the canal the suspect is, so we’re covering both. As you get out we’ll send you in pairs to various points. By the look of it, we have some open spaces here. Tough for you, but a lot tougher for him. Find whatever cover you can. Keep in radio contact and listen up. It’s not impossible there are people out walking, even at this hour, so for God’s sake don’t shoot the first thing that moves. The suspect is wearing a baseball cap and probably armed with a sniper rifle and will be coming from the Avoncliff direction. I’ll try and let you know when we have a sighting. Let’s get this job finished tonight.’

  He stood outside with the sergeant in charge and dispatched them as they stepped down. They looked incredibly young, some of them plainly scared. The majority fanned out across Victory Field to find points of cover. Some huge trees and the famous fourteenth century tithe barn and a two-storey granary building offered possibilities. Other pairs looked for positions above and beneath the road bridge over the canal.

  He and the sergeant moved to the second bus and repeated the instructions before everyone disembarked. He stressed what he’d said earlier to the first lot, about the need to be responsible, not vengeful.

  Both buses were driven off to park in front of the railway station.

  This had the making of an effective stake-out, but would it work? He was about to find out.

  He used the radio again. ‘Oscar One, report your position. Over.’

  Oscar One remained silent.

  On the bridge over the canal Diamond watched the shadows of clouds crossing the moonlit Victory Field. His mood was uneasy. He wasn’t trained for this role, making life or death decisions on the hoof. He preferred the more measured detective work.

  To make sure his radio was working he called John Leaman. The response was immediate. The Avon and Somerset men were still in place in the village.

  ‘You’ve been following what’s happening, I expect.’

  ‘All the way. No joy yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Jack Gull came on air from his chosen position at the aqueduct. No one had been sighted there. ‘Looks like he headed your way.’

  ‘We can hope.’

  ‘If it’s a no show, you owe me, Diamond.’ Still negative and still quick to blame.

  Three minutes went by.

  The static alerted him again. ‘Sierra Three at Barton Bridge, repeat, Barton Bridge. We have a sighting.’

  Barton Bridge, another of Bradford’s ancient structures, seven hundred years old, spanned the Avon only a few hundred yards from where Diamond was.

  Pulses raced.

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Average height and build, baseball cap, holding something, could be the gun, moving at a fast step southeast towards the barn.’

  He pressed the radio close to his mouth and spoke softly. ‘Stand by, everyone. Hold your fire and let him come. We’ll challenge him near the barn. I repeat: hold your fire.’ He’d posted enough armed men in the area to handle this. As the suspect approached the building he’d find it acted as a barrier closing off one of his escape routes and the police would surround him.

  With cruel timing, a large cloud scudded across the moon and drastically reduced the light. The marksmen had night-vision glasses, Diamond told himself. This shouldn’t hamper them too much. Personally he was finding it difficult to make anything out. But if his sight was impaired, then so was the suspect’s. Use the dark to your advantage, he told himself. Maximise your opportunity. You have the chance to get closer in reasonable safety.

  He started limping across the turf towards the barn. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, not with the exercise, but the stress. Could he rely on those young firearms officers to act responsibly?

  A series of sharp sounds close at hand pulled him up sharply.

  ‘Oscar One to Bravo. Over.’

  Oscar One. Finally.

  He tucked the crutch under his arm and grabbed the radio. ‘I hear you. Where are you?’

  ‘I lost him, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How? What do you mean?’

  ‘He gave me the slip near the swing-bridge. I reckon he legged it over the fields. I followed the trail into some kind of park, thinking he must have gone that way.’

  Some kind of park? ‘It’s okay, Oscar One, you did all right. We have a sighting of him.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. It’s gone dark. I must be quite close to the river, I think. I can hear it on my left.’

  ‘If you’re that close, you’re not far from where we are.’

  ‘I can just see some buildings up ahead.’

  A chill crept over Diamond’s flesh. ‘Are you wearing a baseball cap?’

  ‘My police issue cap.’

  ‘Are you carrying anything?’

  ‘Only my PR24, sir, for protection.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My baton.’

  He pictured the standard side-handle baton: two feet long, black, metal, easily mistaken for a firearm in this poor light.

  ‘Stop where you are, Oscar One. Don’t take another step. Drop the baton and stand still.’

  ‘Sir, I think he’s away out of it.’

  ‘Do as I say.’

  If he was right, Oscar One was the man at Barton Bridge, seconds away from being ambushed by armed police.

  Fumbling with the radio controls, Diamond managed to get out a general message that the sighting at Barton Bridge was now believed to be of a police officer. On no account was anyone to fire a shot. He insisted on getting responses from each of the firearms teams.

  In addition he got one from Jack Gull. ‘Fuck you, Diamond, what are you playing at? Has the killer got clean away again?’

  12

  Oscar One was not the rookie constable Diamond had pictured. With hair turning silver at the sides, he was one of the unsung majority who see out their time without moving up the ranks. No discredit in that. In Diamond’s experience the promotion system was designed to reward conformity rather than imagination and risk-taking. You found more likeable blokes, more kindred spirits, among beat officers than in senior positions.

  His name was Henry Shilling and he wasn’t used to finding himself in conversation with someone of superintendent rank.

  ‘Not your fault, but we almost gunned you down.’ Diamond told him. ‘You could have been front page news. The papers like a friendly fire story.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Saving my life.’

  ‘Self-interest. Sensitive ears. I can’t stand gunfire.’

  PC Shilling frowned and blinked. He wasn’t on the Diamond wave-length yet.

  The big man was thinking the sensitive ears quip wasn’t bad for four-thirty in the morning. He went on more straightforwardly, ‘But I’m glad you finally used your radio. That’s what saved you. Saved my career, come to that, so I owe you. Tell me something.’ He paused, not wanting to make this sound like a rebuke. ‘Why didn’t you get in touch before?’

  ‘Two reasons, sir.’

  Diamond raised his palms. ‘No one “sirs” me. “Guv,” if you must. What are your two reasons?’

  ‘At the start I didn’t want him to overhear me.’

  ‘You got as close as that?�
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  ‘You told me to go in pursuit and I did. Reason two: towards the end I lost him, so I couldn’t report his position. I was hoping I’d catch up again.’

  ‘And be able to report something positive?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Understandable.’ It was easy to grasp what had run through PC Shilling’s mind while he was legging it along the towpath in pursuit. Diamond would have felt the same, torn between confessing to failure and trying to reverse it. ‘But you’re still the main player.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The only sighting of this killer. If you don’t hold the ace of trumps I don’t know who does. What can you tell me about him?’

  A troubled look surfaced on PC Shilling’s features. ‘I didn’t see much.’

  ‘Even when you were so close it wasn’t safe to use the radio?’

  ‘The light wasn’t good.’

  ‘Think back. Get him in your mind’s eye again. What’s he wearing?’ There was a touch of the hypnotist in Diamond’s manner, but it was only a surface effect. He couldn’t get anyone to relax if he tried.

  ‘Like I told you. Baseball cap and dark clothes.’

  ‘Jacket or shirt?’

  ‘Tight-fitting jacket. He’s slim. Moves like a fit man. I think he was in jeans and trainers. And he carried the gun.’

  ‘Ah, the gun. What type?’

  ‘Short-barrelled, chunky, like our own lads use, and with extra bits.’

  ‘Extra bits such as?’

  ‘I don’t know much about firearms, guv.’

  ‘I gathered that. You know what a telescopic sight is?’

  ‘There was one of them, yes. Some kind of folding stand under the barrel. And a holder for the bullets.’

  ‘A box magazine. How did he carry the gun?’

  ‘In his right hand, the barrel towards the ground. But he stopped once and drew it to his chest and gripped it with both hands. He turned round. I think he heard me kick a stone.’

  ‘Scary.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You took evasive action?’

  A grin. ‘Flat on my stomach in the long grass. He didn’t see me, I think.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be telling the tale if he had. Where did this happen?’

  ‘About a hundred yards after we crossed the swing bridge.’

  ‘We’ll take a look in daylight. We should be able to find where you were lying. Let’s get back to him. What height would you say?’

  ‘About the same as me. I’m five nine.’

  ‘Anything memorable about the way he moves?’

  ‘A bit of a stoop, but that could be the weight of the weapon. It looked heavy to me.’

  ‘Six pounds or more, probably. You wouldn’t want to carry it for a mile or two, as he did. Did you see his face at any stage?’

  ‘Not enough to tell you anything about it.’

  ‘Clean-shaven?’

  ‘Hard to tell. If he had a beard it wasn’t bushy.’

  ‘And he kept the baseball cap on all the time?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Where did he give you the slip?’

  ‘If I knew that, I’d have called in when it happened. I went on for quite some way, thinking he was still ahead of me. What with the poor light and the bends in the path I was losing sight of him every now and then. Thinking back, it must have happened about halfway between the swing bridge and here. Maybe he did spot me following him.’

  Diamond shook his head. ‘You’d be dead meat if he had. It’s possible he heard you and decided to go back. He knows this area, that’s for sure. He was taking a calculated risk approaching the town by way of the park. For about half a mile he was on a narrow strip with the river to his left and the canal to his right. We could have trapped him there. I think he came that way thinking we hadn’t had time to prepare an ambush, then lost his nerve or more likely changed his mind and doubled back. He could still be lying up somewhere.’

  ‘Is it worth making a search?’

  ‘Until daybreak our chance of locating him is nil. We’ll organise what we can at first light, but I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘Should I rejoin my unit in Becky Addy Wood, guv?’

  ‘No. Take off your shoes.’

  PC Shilling gave Diamond a long look. He’d gleaned that he couldn’t take everything at face value from the man from Bath. ‘My shoes?’

  ‘I want forensics to look at them. Unfortunately I can’t offer you a replacement pair. You’ll just have to tiptoe to one of the minibuses in your socks and curl up on a seat and get some shuteye. I’m going to need you later.’

  The hour before dawn — not the time you want to be awake — was when it fully sank in with Diamond that a unique opportunity was lost. The best that could now be hoped was that forensics would pick up some traces. Helpful as Shilling had tried to be, his description of the suspect was of negligible value. People’s estimates of heights were unreliable and a change of clothing would negate all the rest.

  Was this the moment to hand the whole sorry case back to Jack Gull, who was still officially running the show? The Serial Crimes Unit had the firepower, all the expertise, and was better equipped for action than a middle-aged detective with a beer belly and a limp.

  I don’t think so, he told himself.

  The latest killing was on his patch. Harry Tasker was Manvers Street family and the family cared. No one — least of all Diamond — was going to back off. And if Gull or any other jobsworth wanted to argue they would come up against the fact that the sniper had demonstrated local knowledge, set up camp in Becky Addy and dominated the terrain like a territorial jackal.

  ‘I’ll need more of your foot-soldiers than we had overnight,’ he told the inspector in charge of the Wiltshire contingent. ‘This lot did all I could have asked and deserve their sleep, but replacements must be here before they go off duty. There’s a search to get under way. And in case you’re about to ask, I’m bussing in more from Avon and Somerset.’

  ‘What I was about to ask is who is funding this,’ the inspector said. ‘It seems to be your operation with our manpower. I’m seriously overrunning my budget.’

  ‘In the interests of cross-border harmony, I won’t tell you where to stuff your budget. Don’t push me, chum. It’s been a long night.’

  Various duty officers, at forensics, headquarters and Manvers Street, had to be called. There was a certain satisfaction in reminding them that even at this hour he was on the case and requiring back-up and expecting results. Finally he called Supergull and updated him.

  ‘You seem to have a lot of energy,’ the head of the SCU commented.

  ‘I grabbed some shuteye earlier, quality shuteye. How about you?’

  ‘Knackered.’ So utterly knackered that Gull had forgotten to preface it with a strong adjective.

  ‘Better get your head down, Jack. It’s under control.’

  ‘Right, I’ll do just that.’

  Without even a murmur of protest.

  Actually Diamond was feeling chipper. The sleep he’d fitted in before midnight had set him up nicely. He’d probably experience something akin to jet lag later. For the present he was Mr. Motivator.

  Soon after the first flush of daylight, he took a walk with PC Shilling (in borrowed shoes) and a scene-of-crime team through the countryside park to look for the place where Shilling had lain prone in long grass. The dawn chorus was exhilarating and the sudden shafts of light through the trees made a show better than anything Walt Disney had ever put on film. For one fleeting moment he persuaded himself he should rise earlier more often. Then he remembered why he was here.

  Distances can be difficult to judge in stress situations and Shilling’s first estimate of where he’d hit the ground was wrong by almost fifty yards. One of the team walked on and found the place eventually, enough grass still flattened to leave no doubt.

  ‘Do you want this taped off, sir?’

  ‘No need. I’m more interested in where the suspect was.’r />
  Henry Shilling pointed. ‘Twenty to twenty-five yards in that direction, no more.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Diamond’s faith in Shilling’s judgement of distances was draining away. However, the ground conditions gave rise to hope that the search was worthwhile. This stretch was close enough to the Avon to get flooded from time to time. Marsh flowers like the creeping buttercup thrived here and so did riverside trees such as sallow, willow and alder. The ground dried hard in warm weather, but a stretch of the path was still moist from recent high water.

  He started forward.

  ‘Watch how you go, Mr. Diamond.’ This urgent shout came from one of the forensic team and it wasn’t Diamond’s limping gait that concerned him, but the possibility of shoeprints being stepped over and ruined.

  He stopped. ‘One of you lot had better go ahead.’

  The process took fifteen minutes longer than it would have with Diamond leading the way, but it produced a result: a number of clean prints in an area of light mud. The marks showed the sort of intricate patterning typical of rubber-soled running shoes. And yes, they were measured at twenty-three yards from where PC Shilling had hidden in the grass. The direction and positioning suggested that the wearer of the shoes had stood there and half turned before moving on.

  ‘These are stunning. I couldn’t ask for better,’ the forensics team leader said as if he were judging a flower show. ‘Tape off this area and we’ll get some photos first and then do the casts.’

  ‘You’ll be able to identify the make of shoe?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘No question. We keep a database of all the makes. Better still, there’s evidence of wear noticeable even to the naked eye, so we should be able to match them to the actual pair of shoes. You get little cuts, nicks and scratches that can be just as helpful as fingerprint ridge patterns.’

  ‘We still have to find the shoes.’

  ‘True, but you can also look for matching prints elsewhere. Were any found at the crime scenes?’

  ‘I believe they were.’

  ‘A word of warning. I wouldn’t get too excited,’ the man from forensics added, having stoked up a heap of excitement himself. ‘Prints found on a public pathway won’t stand up in court, even with your police witness. A competent defence lawyer will eat you alive on what we have so far.’