‘I dare say you’ve used the firing range at some time. We were looking at it earlier. Impressive.’
‘I’ve had a go, yeah. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Any good, are you?’
‘Average.’
‘Got your own gun?’
‘I know what you’re on about,’ Royston said. ‘Just because my old man has a firing range, it doesn’t mean I shot the copper. No, I’m not interested in shooting. I wouldn’t want one of my own.’
‘There are plenty on the premises here.’
‘So?’ He stayed nonchalant.
‘So it’s important for you to convince us you didn’t borrow one of those guns on the night of the shooting. Were you in Bath on Saturday night?’
‘It doesn’t mean shit if I was.’
‘Were you?’
‘Sure — and so were hundreds of other kids.’
‘In the Walcot area?’
‘Some of the time. I was on the move. I don’t stay in one place long. I’m doing business, in case you forgot.’
‘Where were you at four on Sunday morning?’
‘Back here. It’s all gone quiet by then.’
‘Is there any way you can prove that? How did you travel — taxi?’
A shake of the head. ‘Used my bike. I leave it in Beehive Yard.’
‘Off Walcot Street? So that’s where you ended up, close to where the shooting happened?’
He was unmoved. ‘There was no shooting when I was there.’
‘When you got home, was your father still up?’
‘No.’
‘Did you make any phone calls, use the computer? Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to help you prove what you’re saying.’
‘I crashed out.’
‘Until when?’
Now his voice rose. The pressure was getting to him. ‘Jesus, I don’t know. Late.’
‘Next day — Sunday — what did you do?’
‘It’s a blur, man. Sundays always are.’
‘Think carefully, Royston. This is important. Did you go out at any time on Sunday?’
He squeezed his eyes as if trying to see through that morning-after blur. ‘I might’ve.’
‘Not good enough,’ Diamond said. ‘Did you use your motorbike?’
‘I always use the bike to get about.’
‘Try and remember. Did you drive out to Bradford on Avon?’
‘Why would I go there?’
‘You tell me. There was a sighting of a motorcyclist in Becky Addy Wood, near Bradford, on Sunday. Could that have been you?’
‘No chance,’ he said at once and with finality.
‘It’s well known to motorcyclists. They do motorcross there. Scrambling. Do you do that?’ It was a trick question from Diamond, the offer of an explanation for being there.
Royston wasn’t buying. ‘With my machine? You’re crazy.’
‘Recently cleaned, by the look of it,’ Diamond said.
‘That’s no crime. If you had a bike like that, you’d take a pride in it.’
This had not been as productive as Diamond would have liked. The boy had flinched a few times, when told (untruthfully) that Harry Tasker kept a written record of his beat patrols, when asked where he acquired his items for trading, and whether he’d ever dealt in firearms, but he’d put up an able defence.
They left the official way. The front gate opened for them.
‘What did you make of him?’ Diamond asked Ingeborg when they were on the road again.
‘Royston? Smart for seventeen. Cool, but scared underneath. There’s definitely something he doesn’t want us to find out, but I’m not sure if it’s as serious as murder.’
‘How about the father?’
‘He’s capable of killing. I’m sure of that.’
‘He’s got the firepower, as we now know,’ Diamond said. ‘The underground armoury has got to be reported. I’m afraid it’s going to look as if the boy blew the whistle on his father.’
‘Won’t Nuttall get arrested and put away before he can do anything about it?’
‘You can put someone like him away, but you can’t stop ugly things from happening. He has plenty of followers.’
Ingeborg took in a long breath. ‘Would he put out a contract on his own son?’
‘It’s not impossible. I didn’t detect much love between them.’
They were driving down Widcombe Hill where the road narrows before it joins the A36 south of the railway station.
‘So will you report what you found?’ Ingeborg asked.
‘All those guns? Of course.’
‘Now?’
‘Soon as we get back.’
26
Jack Gull was in the incident room with DI Polehampton peering at mugshots on a computer screen.
‘Family history?’ Diamond said as he walked in.
‘Piss off, Peter,’ Gull said without looking up.
‘What’s this about, then?’
It was Polehampton who answered. ‘Looking for a match with our friend in the cells.’
‘Hasn’t he told you who he is?’
‘He’s still playing dumb, unfortunately.’
Still with his gaze on the screen, Gull said, ‘So here we are checking every sad fuck arrested for possession of firearms over the past five years.’
‘You’ve got his prints. You must have checked the PNC.’
‘Nothing matches. He’s not in the system.’
‘So why bother with this lot?’
‘No system is infallible, that’s why, not even the Police National Computer.’
‘You must be desperate.’
‘Did he say anything to you when you were lying on top of him?’
‘Not a word,’ Diamond said. ‘Maybe he is mute.’
‘Maybe he was enjoying it.’
Polehampton laughed. Diamond did not.
‘Seriously, Jack, he could be handicapped.’
‘No chance. He can make sounds all right. He’s a fucking teddy bear. Jump on him and he squeaks.’
‘Is that what you tried — jumping on him?’
‘Would I do that?’ Gull said, turning to look at Diamond. He did a double take at what he saw and then grinned broadly. ‘Jesus Christ, are you auditioning for Midsomer Murders dressed like that?’
‘Both my suits are at the cleaner’s. I hope you haven’t used violence on this man.’
‘He’s got a voice for sure. Squeaks, but won’t squeal — yet.’
‘Some teddy bears talk if you treat them right.’
‘Okay, Mr. Nice, you try.’
Diamond shook his head. ‘He’s yours.’
‘But you nicked him.’
‘Only when he made a run for it. I wasn’t sure if he was the guy we were looking for. I’m still not certain.’
‘You can be now.’ With relish, Gull told him about the finds in the river at Avoncliff. ‘He’s your demon motorcyclist, Peter. When the search closed in he dumped the bike and helmet in the river. He kept the gun for longer. Decided to get rid of it when he spotted the stake-out around his bolt-hole. That must have been the splash you heard.’
This all made sense. Difficult to see it any other way. The confidence was draining from Diamond. ‘Where is it now?’
‘The G36? Already gone for ballistic testing. They’ll dry it out and get it firing again, no problem. These are army guns built for battlefield conditions.’
‘You’re not serious about wanting me to see him?’
Gull’s tone changed abruptly. ‘He’s the Somerset Sniper, for Christ’s sake. He shot your man in Walcot Street. He ran you down and put you in hospital. You should be on your fucking knees begging for a session with him.’
‘Do the forensics match up?’
‘You bet they do. His prints were taken last night when he was brought in and we got an eighteen-point match.’ In fingerprint scoring, this was an inner ring. Sixteen points of similarity would be enough for the courts.
‘A
match with what?’
‘The beer can in the pillbox. Every fucking thing he’s handled. And the shoeprints match up too. The trainers he was wearing last night were definitely the same ones the sniper wore in that garden at Wells. It’s not just the tread pattern on the soles. The wear marks make a shoe impression unique, all the cuts and scratches in the rubber.’
Diamond said in a spat of annoyance all his own, ‘You don’t have to lecture me on shoe evidence, Jack. I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘It means we’ve got the bastard bang to rights.’
There was no denying the boast if the forensics were that good. Up to now, there had been doubt whether the man Diamond had caught at Avoncliff was the same individual who had slept in the pillbox. But you can’t argue with quality fingerprint and shoe evidence. Diamond had obviously got his thinking wrong, hopelessly wrong. Instead of treating the case as an out-and-out manhunt, as Gull had, he’d tried to be clever, divining motives that didn’t exist and looking for suspects close to home. In the process he’d misread the signs and alienated his team. Self-reproach bore down on him like a tsunami.
Bullheaded in defeat, unwilling to cede Gull the triumph, he said, ‘But you don’t know who he is.’
‘We’ll find out.’
‘Or why he did it.’
‘Obvious. He’s down on cops. You want to see the look in his eyes.’
‘Have you told the press?’
‘Put out the usual short statement last night — “a man arrested and helping us with our enquiries”. You can’t keep a news story like this under wraps.’ Gull flexed his arms. ‘I’ll have to face the hacks again in the next hour. Then of course they’ll be screaming for a name.’
‘Didn’t he have anything on him?’
‘Some loose change, that’s all.’
‘You’ll have taken his DNA?’
‘Nothing like it in the database.’
‘Any scarring, tattoos, vaccination marks?’
‘Bit of a birthmark on the right hip. Fat lot of use that is if no one ever sees it. No other marks.’
‘Teeth?’
‘I’m not going down that route. Tracing dental records is bloody impossible unless you know which dentist to ask. One day we’ll all be computerised and then it’ll be child’s play. That’s a long way off.’
‘It’s down to old-fashioned persuasion, then?’
‘Down to you, mate, and your winning ways. Give me a shout when he’s ready to talk.’ Gull returned to the images on the computer.
Diamond started walking towards his office. ‘I can give it a go. First I’d better get through to Portishead.’
‘Headquarters?’ Gull was all ears again, staring over the screen at Diamond. ‘What for? I’m your Headquarters man. You’ve got me.’
‘It’s too big for you.’
‘Bollocks to that. Your Uncle Jack’s in charge.’
‘Not this time.’
He told them both about Soldier Nuttall’s underground gunroom. His account of it grew a bit in the telling and impressed them mightily, but didn’t have any bearing on the sniper investigation. Having something positive to show for the man-hours spent pursuing the wrong villains was scant consolation for the mistakes Diamond had made.
‘Fair enough, you’d better pass the info on to someone who can act on it,’ Gull had to concede finally, and then recouped some self-importance by stressing his inside knowledge of Headquarters. ‘Ask for the Head of Operations. My good friend Danny can organise a raid. Doesn’t mean you have to be part of it. Tell them I need you here. They can find the fucking guns without your help.’
In ten minutes the chastened Peter Diamond was in the interview room with the Somerset Sniper facing him across the table. Keith Halliwell had joined him and the tape was running. This was being done strictly to the code of practice of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act even though the official caution had to start with the unhelpful directive, ‘You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so.’ How many hundreds of occasions had Diamond spoken those words without expecting them to be taken literally? Suspects always had something to say, even if it was only, ‘No comment.’
This one had already sat silent through several hours of interview time. For his fortitude he had a cut lip and some swelling above and below his bloodshot right eye. No doubt Jack Gull would say he must have tripped on his way to the cells. As the prisoner wasn’t talking, he couldn’t give his own version.
He was handcuffed and dressed in the white overall provided for suspects whose clothes have been taken away for examination. Of course the stupid-looking outfit can also puncture the self-esteem of a cocky criminal. Pale, thin-faced and unshaven, with deep-set, staring brown eyes, this one didn’t appear to care. He looked about twenty-five, but days on the run can put years on a man. He could have been as young as eighteen. Red-raw hands, the lines ingrained with dirt, presumably from living rough. Fingernails chewed to the quick.
‘Staying silent isn’t going to help you,’ Diamond told him in a reasonable tone. ‘The evidence we have is overwhelming. Your shoeprints match those found at the scene at Wells where PC Hart was killed. We’ve recovered the murder weapon from the river. There’s no chance you’ll walk out of here.’
He got no reaction except the steady, contemptuous stare.
‘So I’ll tell you what happens next. After twenty-four hours we get an extension from a senior officer. That’s a mere formality. I could issue it myself. After thirty-six, we apply to a magistrate for a warrant of further detention. Another thirty-six. Unless we charge you before that.’
The prisoner seemed indifferent to what was being said. All Diamond was getting from him was hostility. Understandable.
‘In case you don’t recognize me,’ Diamond went on, ‘I’m the one who caught up with you last night. You may think it was rough, being pressed like a piece of ironing under a man my size for twenty minutes or whatever it was. What you may not realise is that I’m also the unfortunate who was standing in your way when you revved up your motorbike and rode out of Becky Addy Wood. Knocked me sideways, put me in casualty. That’s why I was forced to use a walking stick, the same stick I felled you with last night. So there was a little bit of justice in the end.’
Not a glimmer of comprehension. For appreciation, Diamond had to turn to Halliwell. This was all depressingly one-sided.
‘The bike and the helmet were hooked out of the river today. I’m assuming he stole them from somewhere.’
Halliwell gave a nod. Even he was stuck for a comment.
Back to the suspect. ‘What shall we call you?’ Diamond tried. ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name, if you’re coy about that. John? Bill? Andy? Fancy any of those? We’re Keith and Peter, so it had better not be one of our names. I see you as a Bill. William. Wasn’t there someone called William the Silent?’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Halliwell said, to show support.
‘And there was William Tell,’ Diamond added. ‘Definitely not the name for you. Tell — geddit?’
Some eye contact would have helped. The man had stopped staring and was cultivating indifference, looking at a spot on the table midway between them. He’d had time to practise this act.
Diamond made yet another start, low-key this time, touching on matters that might get through and elicit a response as basic as the flicker of an eye or a twitch of the lips. Find a telling point and work on it. ‘There’s a lot you can tell us when you decide to speak, as you will, sooner or later. What is it about the police that you hate? Some bad experience in the past? You don’t seem to have form. Your fingerprints are new to the system. They’re checking the faces in criminal records, just in case, but it would appear you’re a first offender. So what possessed you? These officers you shot couldn’t have been known to you. They died because they happened to walk by when you were lying in wait with your G36 rifle. Don’t you think their people — their loved ones — are entitled to know why?’
Evide
ntly not.
‘Where the policemen fell, members of the public leave flowers, notes, soft toys even. One word gets written in large letters again and again, in Wells, in Radstock and here in Bath. “WHY?”.’ He paused, allowing it to sink in. ‘The shootings happened. That’s fact. Can’t alter it now. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation? I don’t get the impression you’re mad. You thought this through stage by stage, choosing your position, your timing, your escape. If the killings were meant to be some kind of gesture, a protest against the way this country is policed, or whatever, it’s futile unless you explain the thinking behind it.’
The prisoner swayed back a fraction, barely enough to be noticed, and then resumed the hunched position. For Diamond, the movement was encouragement. ‘Am I making myself clear? The thing is, you haven’t made yourself clear at all.’ He waited again, watching for a response and getting none. He was forced to resume. ‘Your actions are going to be misinterpreted. Did you know that? I bet it’s happening on the internet as I speak, extremist groups claiming you as one of their own, every bunch of nutters intent on undermining the system. You did the shooting and they take the credit. That’s how it works these days.’ He stopped, sensing how strident he was sounding.
He glanced at Keith Halliwell. He, too, was starting to look as if he’d stopped listening.
This wasn’t working.
‘Things get out of proportion if you don’t make yourself clear. I’ll give you an example from my own experience. When PC Tasker was shot in Walcot Street in the small hours of Sunday morning my first reaction like everyone else’s was that this was your work. The Somerset Sniper claims another victim. It was just like the shootings in Wells and Radstock, well planned, but random. The victim had to be a cop, yes, but which cop didn’t matter. Easy to pick one off at night walking his beat. Everyone said the identity of the victim was immaterial to you as long as he was a bobby in uniform.’
He waited, still hopeful of a nod or a shake of the head. Getting nothing, he resumed. ‘Being an obstinate sod as I am, I wanted to test this theory. Was it really as simple as that? I made enquiries about the officers killed in Wells and Radstock. Went down to Wells and talked to PC Hart’s widow and one of my team did some research in Radstock. A strange connection emerged. Ossy Hart came originally from Minehead and used to take the leading role in a street event they have there each midsummer. Centuries old, it is. He’d be dressed as a hobby horse and parade the streets collecting for charity. He was the best horse anyone could remember. Not a pantomime horse. More of a token horse decked out with ostrich feathers and ribbons. Of course it had to stop when he joined the police and got posted to Wells. But there was talk of the event being filmed for some kind of action scene in a Hollywood movie. Some film man came to see him shortly before he was killed offering big bucks if he would reprise the role. Now here’s the link. The officer you shot in Radstock, PC Richmond, had an interest in old customs and was one of the leading experts. He wrote an internet article about the Minehead hobby horse, and it’s not impossible he was seen and hired by the same film company who were offering to make Ossy Hart a rich man. Now can you see why I started to get interested? There was a common interest and the chance of money, silly money.’ He paused again.
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