‘Did she leave?’
‘Left Bath, yes.’
‘Is she still serving?’
Ingeborg nodded. ‘She did very well career-wise, ending up at headquarters. She’s a DCI now. She was one of the interviewers when I applied for the job here. I remember her telling me it wouldn’t be a bed of roses and by God she was right. But she also said I was lucky to be joining this team because it was the best-led in the county.’
‘She meant him?’
Ingeborg nodded. ‘And she was right about that, too. Watch him with Jack Gull, who’s supposed to be the class act. There’s no comparison.’
Gilbert yawned. ‘I guess we’d better drink up and move on. Is it worth talking to any of this lot?’
‘Didn’t you ask the barman about Anderson?’
He blushed. ‘Sorry. I was deciding which ale I wanted. Took all my concentration.’
‘You could return the glasses and see if he’s heard of him.’
He drained his and wiped his lips. ‘That was something else. Okay, I’ll give it a shot.’
Outside in Walcot Street a few minutes later, he was buoyant. ‘Anderson has a regular steak dinner in the Hudson Bar and Grill up the street. This way.’
‘I know the Hudson,’ Ingeborg said, standing her ground. ‘It’s not cheap. A steak there sets you back twenty to thirty pounds.’
‘So?’
‘Anderson obviously eats well.’
‘He’s not the only one, by the sound of it.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t pay for steak dinners. I was taken there a couple of times. I knew it better as the Hat before it went upmarket. The Hat and Feather. A great pub with a DJ called Dave who was a local legend, the oldest in the biz. The trouble was that the brewers kept putting up the rent, so the pub was always changing hands. And it was a listed building even older than the Bell. At one stage there was a danger of the floor upstairs collapsing. Seeing as the stage was up there and that was where the dancing went on, it was a real headache for the publican.’
Ingeborg’s memories of wilder times weren’t going to help their quest. She seemed to want to linger outside the Bell. ‘Let’s go find him, then,’ Gilbert said.
‘Where?’
‘The Hudson.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she said. ‘It’ll be closed. It’s after 1 A.M.’
He swore. He almost stamped his foot. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I think I do. Did you say you were police?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘You were being sent on a wild goose chase.’
‘Bloody hell. So where do we go now?’ Gilbert asked.
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Wait and see.’ She took a step back into the shadow of the building next door and tugged at Gilbert’s arm for him to do the same.
They didn’t have long to wait. A tall black man in a suit stepped out of the Bell and into the street speaking into a mobile phone, looked to right and left and waited at the kerb.
‘I didn’t see him in there,’ Gilbert said, in awe of Ingeborg’s foresight.
Immediately the sound of a car with speakers on full volume filled Walcot Street. A white Lexus came from nowhere and halted in the centre of the road. The speed of all this was worthy of a bank robbery except that robbers don’t usually have Black Eyed Peas going at full belt. The nearside door was open and the man was in the act of getting in.
‘Stop him,’ Ingeborg said.
Gilbert didn’t need telling. He had already sprinted forward. Just before the door slammed shut, he dove for the man’s arm and got a grip. The stitching on the sleeve gave way and a wedge of white was revealed at the shoulder. Gilbert’s hand came within a microsecond of being crushed in the door.
The boom of the music stopped and the car window slid down. Gilbert was on his knees in the road.
The man said from inside the car, ‘That will cost you. That was a Savile Row suit.’
Ingeborg caught up with Gilbert. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No problem,’ he said.
‘Is he okay?’ the man said. ‘He just destroyed my jacket.’
‘Are you Anderson Jakes?’ she said.
‘Sure. And you’re the fuzz. It will still cost you.’
‘DCs Smith and Gilbert. We’d like a few words. Do you mind stepping out of the car?’
Anderson took time to think about his options. Meanwhile, Gilbert had got upright and was now standing directly in front of the car to prevent it from moving on — brave, but not necessarily wise.
‘Turn off the engine,’ Ingeborg told the driver. She couldn’t see his face, just his black hands resting on the wheel.
It didn’t happen.
‘Tell him,’ she said to Anderson with more insistence.
Anderson gave a nod and the driver obeyed.
‘I was on my way home,’ Anderson said as he emerged from the car. ‘Can we keep this brief?’ He was at least a foot taller than either of them and he moved as if he spent time in the gym.
Ingeborg had the initiative now and she intended to keep it. ‘What were you doing in there? Not your kind of music.’
‘Bar billiards. The only decent table in my neighbourhood.’
‘I didn’t see you playing.’
He shrugged and the wedge of white increased in size. ‘Changed my mind, didn’t I? There was an unpleasant smell in there … of pigs.’
She ignored the taunt. She wanted cooperation. She was trying to think where best to take him. ‘You say you want to keep it short. Tell your driver to pull in to the side of the street and wait for you.’
This relaxed Anderson a little. He nodded to the driver. Gilbert stepped around the car and joined the other two.
‘We’ll take a short walk up the street,’ Ingeborg said, still reassuring. ‘This isn’t about you. It’s about the officer who was shot on Saturday night. Harry Tasker. You knew him, didn’t you?’
They started a slow stroll in the direction of the city centre.
‘I had no dealings with Harry,’ Anderson said.
‘We were told you might know about some of the people he spoke to on his beat.’
‘Small fry. Kids, mostly,’ he said. ‘They’re the ones need keeping in order, right?’
‘Students, you mean?’
‘Younger than that, sixteen, seventeen. Should be at home, doing their school work instead of making trouble, graffiti and that.’
‘There’s not a lot of graffiti here.’
‘Like I say, Constable Harry kept them in line.’
‘Are there any he didn’t keep in line, the over-twenties maybe? You know why I’m asking, Anderson? Some crazy person was way out of order taking a shot at him.’
He went silent again. His heels had metal tips that clipped on the paving stones. Club XL was on the left, probably the last place Harry Tasker had visited before he was shot. Like most of Bath’s nightclubs, it occupied an old building. In this case a carved stone over the entrance said ESTD 1798. Established as a nightclub? The security man on the door gave Anderson a nod that was more respect than just recognition.
‘This is your manor, isn’t it?’ Ingeborg pressed him. ‘What’s going on? Walcot is swarming with cops and pressmen. You don’t want that kind of attention.’
‘If I knew who shot the cop, I’d tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked around. Nobody knows.’
‘We’re not suggesting you know,’ Gilbert said, picking up on Ingeborg’s approach. ‘We’re looking for help. Was there anyone who could have felt threatened by Harry?’
‘I’m not a mind reader.’
‘Try.’
‘I told you, man. He was looking out for small fry, juveniles. He had the sense not to mess with grown-ups like me.’
‘Any juveniles in particular?’
‘I keep my distance.’
‘Sensible,’ Ingeborg chimed in. ‘As a grown-up it can’t be any pleasure being questioned about their misdemea
nours.’
‘You said it, lady.’
‘At the same time, being a man of some influence in the community, you must have taken an interest. Were there any juveniles giving Harry a hard time?’
Anderson shook his head.
‘Looking at it another way,’ she said. ‘Was Harry giving any of the kids a hard time?’
He clearly enjoyed that. His gold teeth glinted in the street lighting.
‘What exactly was going on?’ Ingeborg pressed him. This was all against her resolve to stay loyal to a brother officer, but there was something in Anderson’s smile. The truth had to come out if it was buried. ‘Some kind of scam?’
‘Your word, lady, not mine,’ Anderson said.
‘Was Harry threatening the teenagers?’
‘Whatever he did, it worked.’
‘Until Saturday, when he was shot. I need to know more, Anderson. We’re investigating murder, not some dodgy arrangement with tearaway kids.’
‘I can’t tell you who topped him, or why.’
‘You’d better tell me about the scam.’
‘It was small beer. Harry knew what the kids were up to, who was dealing, who was stealing. He turned a blind eye mostly and they paid him when he chose to look and caught them off-base.’
‘Paid him cash?’
‘Cash and kind. Not many kids have cash in hand.’
She felt an uprush of revulsion. ‘What are you hinting at, Anderson? Give it to me straight.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, sister. I mean a stash of the stuff they were dealing in. His way of dealing with juveniles was confiscation.’ He intoned every syllable of the last word like a line of rap. ‘No harm in that.’ He laughed. ‘Confiscation.’
Ingeborg said in Harry’s defence, ‘You couldn’t be more right. There’s nothing wrong in that. His duty was to take possession.’
‘Sure, and they wouldn’t hear any more until the next time they were caught.’
That, certainly, was all against the rules. ‘Are we talking drugs?’
‘And any junk they lifted from the tourists. Bath is one big sweetshop and the sweets are mostly mobiles, cameras and nice designer bags.’
‘He would confiscate these things — is that what you’re saying?’
‘Haven’t I made that clear already?’
‘It doesn’t sound enough to justify murder.’
‘Probably not.’
She had a strong sense that Anderson knew more and might be persuaded to reveal something in a different league from stolen phones. ‘Is it possible Harry got into something major, something that put his life at risk?’
Anderson walked on for some seconds as if pondering the question. More likely, Ingeborg suspected, he was weighing the risk of opening up to the police. In the circles he moved in, there were definite no-nos and informing was high on the scale. Yet he seemed to be tempted.
‘There is one kid, a rich kid,’ he said finally. ‘Likes to think he should have respect. What is it they say? — a rich man’s joke is always funny. Wears all the latest gear, rides a five grand Japanese bike. What he’s got is folding stuff, any amount. He trades in larger items. Don’t know if you’d call them major.’
‘What items?’
He laughed. ‘How would I know? He doesn’t want money my black hands have touched.’
‘Is he a racist, then?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You say he wants respect,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Doesn’t he get it?’
‘A good name is better than wealth. Isn’t that the truth?’
Ingeborg was getting impatient with the axioms. ‘What’s the link with Harry Tasker?’
‘I heard that Harry would make a point of speaking to this youth. If the kid wasn’t around, Harry would ask where to find him.’
‘It sounds as if Harry had something on him.’
‘Could be. If so, he was playing with fire.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the kid’s daddy is Soldier Nuttall.’
Cyril ‘Soldier’ Nuttall was notorious in Bath. Three years ago, dissatisfied with right wing politics, even its extreme forms, he had started a group known as Fight for Britain. Ostensibly a young men’s fitness association linked with patriotism, it had militaristic overtones that appealed to thuggish elements up and down the country and alarmed people who saw it as a burgeoning fascist movement. Boot camps, drill, martial arts, target practice and the shooting of game were compulsory elements and so were cropped heads, tattoos and combat gear. But the FFB was cleverly led. Whenever its innate purpose was challenged, Nuttall pointed out that Britain was a free country and all the activities were legal and practised by some of the most respected people in the land. The fact that the membership was almost exclusively made up of young white males was said to be down to the indigenous thirst for adventure, fitness and companionship. Soldier Nuttall insisted that his nickname went back many years before the FFB was formed and in no way was he leading a private army. He wore the combat clothes and the boots and the tattoos with pride in Britain and its long tradition of self-improvement and ‘get up and go’.
All of this was founded on his personal fortune. He was no fool financially. His millions and his mansion on Claverton Down had been acquired from astute property development. Cut-throat dealings had bought him a luxurious lifestyle and allowed him to promote his organisation and hire the best lawyers. Plenty of complaints had been levelled against him, but no charge had ever stuck.
Ingeborg didn’t need to ask why Anderson was willing to stretch a point and inform on Soldier Nuttall’s son. ‘What’s the boy’s name?’
‘Royston.’
‘From what you’re saying, Royston is a wheeler-dealer like his father.’
‘Except he was born into money,’ Anderson said. ‘He never had to earn it.’
‘And you say he rides a motorcycle?’ She was thinking of the incident in Becky Addy Wood that had left Diamond limping.
‘Sure.’
‘Has he been around Walcot lately?’
‘On and off.’
‘You can be more precise than that. Have you seen him tonight?’
‘Not tonight. Yesterday.’
They’d walked as far as the point where Harry had been shot. It was unmarked now, every trace of blood removed. As if by mutual consent, they stopped under the street light, but short of the place where the body had lain. Ingeborg glanced up at the garden where the shooting had come from, above the wall on the opposite side, as if staring at it might reveal the killer’s identity.
‘Does Royston live at home?’
‘That’s my understanding.’
‘Is his father ever seen in Walcot?’
He vibrated his lips. ‘Not the Soldier. Not his scene.’
They parted there. Anderson turned and started the walk back to his chauffeur-driven car and the two police officers moved on, towards the police station. Ingeborg had mixed feelings. The information on Royston Nuttall could be the breakthrough and she looked forward to telling Diamond their mission had brought a result. But she wished to God it didn’t muddy Harry Tasker’s reputation.
21
‘I’m moving.’
An executive statement. The mound of gravel had become increasingly uncomfortable. In fact it was just about insufferable for a man dressed normally as Diamond was, without padding. He had just reminded himself that in Gull’s absence he was nominally the supremo here, in charge of the stakeout at the pillbox, even though the tactical decisions would be taken by the young man of inspector rank leading the firearms team.
‘I’m moving,’ he repeated to Sergeant Gillibrand beside him. ‘Need to check some of the other positions.’
There was no objection from Gillibrand. The sergeant said nothing at all. The two men hadn’t exactly bonded.
‘Use your radio to tell the other units I’m doing the rounds. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m the sniper.’
The relief of getting upright was marvellous.
Parts of him that had gone numb were restored. He almost forgot to pick up his stick, the sensations were so good. He could probably have walked all the way to Avoncliff station unaided, but decided it was wise to have it with him. Heels sinking into the cascading shingle, he slid down the gravel mound the back way, making no more sound than Gillibrand had on his trip to the bushes.
Now that he was mobile he wondered why he’d endured the prone position for so long. The thinking had been that he’d presented less of a target. But if you’re face down on stone chippings there comes a time when safety considerations dwindle to nothing.
He could have borrowed those night-vision glasses, but they weren’t of much use on the move. The moonlight came and went, and his eyes adjusted well. He could see enough of the ground at this minute to step out with confidence. Equally, he had to remember he would be visible to the sniper.
Was the killer of three police officers really holed up somewhere in this remote spot? He had his doubts. Even so, he stayed close to the river bank, as far from the footpath as possible. The firearms lads were posted at least fifty yards to his left with their guns pointing away from him.
The going was easy here, fairly flat, with nothing more difficult than a few waist-high clumps of meadowsweet to negotiate. The Avon had a tendency to flood in this section of the valley after heavy rain and it was squelchy in parts. But the ripple of the water close at hand meant he was safely south of the area targeted by the police marksmen. Closer to Avoncliff he would pick up the roar of the weir.
Despite what he’d said to Gillibrand he didn’t really plan to check the firing positions. It would be folly to creep up behind an armed man. Polehampton might, but then Polehampton was Polehampton and even he might have learned something from the handcuffing episode.
No, the object of this move was purely to get his blood flowing again. He’d reached a stage on that gravel heap when he was incapable of thinking of anything except his own discomfort. This was bliss, inhaling the fresh night air. He patted the injured leg: virtually restored, he decided. He was favouring it a little from caution rather than necessity.
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