Jimmy showed up dead on time in a gorgeous light grey suit I hadn’t seen before. Purple shirt and matching tie with flecks of yellow. Cool. He kissed me on the cheek and steered me to the taxi rank. It was like being in a movie. I’ve never been at the sharp end of a crime investigation. In the cab, I sat close to Jimmy and slipped my hand under his arm and squeezed it. He smirked a little, but of course we were on a serious mission, so things didn’t get any more intimate than that.
He told me we were going to a safe house. Special Branch have a number of addresses in London where they protect VIPs under threat of terrorism, or informers changing their identities. Jimmy phoned the house from the taxi to say our ETA. The cab stayed south of the river, through Kennington and Brixton, and ended up at the war memorial in Streatham High Road, where Jimmy tapped the glass and told the driver to put us down. Nobody takes a taxi to the front door of a safe house. We walked for ten minutes or so through the backstreets, me beginning to think I should have worn something less conspicuous, but no complaint from Jimmy.
The house is in as quiet a road as you’re likely to find in London, old Victorian buildings with high chimneys and sash windows and tiny front gardens. I noticed a video camera quietly rotating under the eaves.
We didn’t need to knock. The front door was opened by an unsmiling honcho in a tracksuit and we stepped inside without being frisked (disappointing) and were shown straight into a back room where Matthew Porter, a young man in a green polo shirt and white jeans, was sitting in an armchair watching the racing on TV. On the floor beside him was a heap of unopened letters. He turned his head briefly to give us a glance, but didn’t get up or shift his feet from the coffee table in front of him, just pointed at the screen with the can of lager he had in his left hand. Never mind who we were, he was going to watch the finish of the race. A young man with attitude, I thought. So we stood tamely watching the horses race it out. The minder rolled his eyes as if to say he’d had plenty of this already, and then left the room.
The race result, when it came, didn’t cause much excitement. Only a yawn-and even then Porter ignored us until Jimmy gave my name and explained my reason for wanting to meet him. This achieved some eye contact, no more.
Case-hardened by all those seminars with grouchy students, I wasn’t going to take any of this personally, was I? I launched straight into my questions. Obviously, he’d been told about the murder and the note found at the scene, so I began by asking him if he’d ever met Axel Summers. He shrugged and continued to look bored, and I thought at first he was going to play dumb until I stopped and went away, but then he muttered something about always meeting people and not remembering them unless they were players. Trying another approach, I asked if he watched DVDs or videos and when he said he said there wasn’t much else to do in hotels I told him he might well have watched one of Summers’ films. This didn’t excite him one bit. I wasn’t doing too well.
I probed gently into his background, school, family and so on, and by degrees he loosened up. He was more comfortable talking about his start in golf. He must have done this many times in press interviews. His father, an amateur with a low handicap, had taught him to play when he was eleven. Their house backed onto a golf course in Broadstairs and he would practise shots at the nearest hole, the eleventh, early in the morning before anyone else was about. The club professional gave him lessons. At fourteen he was allowed to play a round with his father and made such an impression that the club rules were changed for him to become a member. A year later, he won the club championship. His progress since was phenomenal. He’d left school and turned professional at eighteen and started winning minor tournaments right away. Agents were keen to acquire him as a client and he soon had his own manager and sponsors and a regular caddie. His win in the British Open at the age of nineteen was what made him famous overnight. He told me all this in a deadpan delivery without conceit.
I asked if his parents still had a say in his career and he shook his head. They’d separated four years ago. His mother was now living in France with another man. His father was an ‘alky’. He said he didn’t want to talk about them. So who were the main people in his present life? His manager, Sid Macaulay, who looked after everything-his travel around the world, his interviews, his endorsements, even paid his tax. Girlfriends? He hadn’t time, he said, adding-with a smirk-apart from one-night stands. He was travelling most of the year-normally.
He told me his main home was a manor house in Surrey and he owned another near St Andrews in Scotland. He would be getting his own Lear jet later in the year. He’d pay a pilot to fly it because he didn’t have time to learn. His ‘hobby’ was watching television, especially scary films.
By now I was getting wiser about Matthew Porter. This looked like a case of arrested development. Golf had taken over his life before he had a chance to mature. All the decisions had been taken away from him. He did as he was told by the manager, lived in cocooned comfort and performed on the golf course when required. Sadly, it was stunting his personality. He couldn’t relate to other people unless they talked to him about golf. He had no opinions, no conversation and no ambition now he’d got to the top in the one sphere he inhabited.
I asked if his manager knew where he was, and he said it was the manager who’d ordered him to come to this place for his own safety and given him the pile of fanmail to answer. (Jimmy told me later that Special Branch had told Macaulay there was a death threat that had to be taken seriously, but they hadn’t given away any other details) He didn’t like it much, he confided, and he ought to be practising instead of sitting indoors.
Jimmy interrupted to say a move was planned to another safe house, away from London, with better facilities and maybe even the chance to get out and strike a ball from time to time.
It wasn’t what Porter wanted to hear. He’d been told the security measures were temporary because the killer would be arrested in a matter of days. He swore, not at Jimmy or me, but his predicament. He said he’d rather go abroad and play some golf tournament in the Far East. He’d be safe there. Jimmy pointed out that these days you’re not safe anywhere in the world from a determined assassin. Porter swore again and asked to speak to his manager. His phone had been taken away from him by the guards.
Jimmy stood firm, stressing that his team was following several promising leads and making progress. He told Porter in language he understood that this was a serial killer who had named him as the next victim, who almost certainly knew every detail of his daily routine, and definitely meant to carry out the threat.
At this, the protest melted. The interview got back on track, but not for long. I asked if he could think of any link with Anna Walpurgis. He’d heard of her, it was obvious. He pulled a face and said her music was crap. He liked Chill, ‘stuff that takes away the stress,’ and she was the opposite of Chill, all hype and frenzy. I asked if he was talking about her singing or if he’d met her-which brought the strongest response so far. He thought I was suggesting he might have dated her. Just for the record, young Matthew Porter thinks of the celebrated Anna as ‘that old boiler’. Let’s hope no one has the bright idea of putting those two in a safe house together.
I switched back to golf. With so much money at stake, I said, was there any pressure to fix results? He gave me a filthy look and said he always played his best. What about when you played different tournaments from week to week with the same players, I pressed him? You’re an outstanding player who will probably win most weeks. Isn’t there any arrangement to make sure others get a look-in sometimes?
If nothing else, it animated him. He went purple protesting that he always played to win. He said he wasn’t a cheat and I’d better shut my face (his verbal skills really coming into their own). To restore calm, I tried Jimmy’s tactic and reminded him that somebody meant to kill him if they could. I said my job was to find out if the threat came from a complete stranger or somebody he’d upset. Only then could I begin to form a profile.
Unexpecte
dly, the last word made an impression. He stared at me open-mouthed and asked if I was a profiler and I confirmed it. I don’t think Jimmy had used the term when he introduced me. Now it worked like a charm. He took his feet off the table and looked me up and down with real interest. I guessed what was coming next, and usually my heart sinks, but this time it was a plus. He pressed an unopened can of lager into my hand and asked if I did the same job as Fitz, in Cracker. All those hours of watching television in hotel rooms had turned him into a fan.
I didn’t give my standard answer (terrific television, but a million miles from my experience of the job). I swallowed and said that basically, yes, we both did the same thing. There were differences in approach, but like Fitz I helped the police by giving them pointers towards the likely suspect. He grinned and said I was better-looking than Robbie Coltrane, but what was I like in a fight? A joke! I smiled back and said I could look after myself, but the job shouldn’t really entail fighting. It wasn’t even about being tough and shouting at people. The scriptwriters had to make it look like that to keep up the interest. I was sure Fitz did a lot of quiet thinking that wasn’t shown because it wasn’t visual.
Jimmy, thank God, kept quiet. He could easily have said Fitz wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in any murder inquiry he’d led.
How I wished we could start over again. This pig of an interview would have been so much easier. In fact, we talked genially for twenty minutes more about his chances of meeting Robbie Coltrane and perhaps teaming up with him in a celebrity tournament. I promised to put in a word if I ever met the man. I’ve no idea if he’s a golfer, but he’s a Scot, so he could be.
When we left, Porter picked up a photo of himself from a stack on the table and signed it for me, first asking me my name and writing ‘To Emma the female Cracker, love Matt Porter.’ As he was handing it to me he hung onto my wrist and leaned towards me for a kiss. Poor kid’s feeling lonely, I thought, and turned my face to him and got my bottom groped at the same time. He lost my sympathy then.
All in all, the visit wasn’t the success I’d hoped for. At least I’d met target number two and satisfied myself there was no obvious link with Axel Summers or Anna Walpurgis. One thing I do believe: he won’t survive without police protection. I asked Jimmy how much longer they could expect to keep him in the safe house against his will. He said it was up to the manager. He thought Porter would do what he was told. He said they were losing money already. If he was released, it could give a whole new meaning to the sudden-death playoff. He’d been storing that one up, I reckon.
We walked back to Streatham High Road and Jimmy waved down a taxi. Much to my surprise, he asked the driver to take us to Crystal Palace. ‘Something I’ve laid on,’ he said mysteriously. ‘It’s a short drive from here.’
My imagination went into overdrive. Love in the afternoon? A luxurious hotel suite, with caviar and chilled champagne?
Dream on. He’d arranged for someone from the British Police Archers to demonstrate the crossbow. Once I was over the disappointment, it was truly amazing. The guy waiting for us near the dry ski-slope had brought two Swiss target bows for us to try. What I hadn’t appreciated is that they are very like a rifle in appearance, with a wooden stock shaped to fit against your shoulder. You have a trigger and telescopic sight, and of course a groove along the centre of the stock to guide the bolt when it’s released. The ‘cross’ part, making the shape of the bow, is the prod. I giggled a bit, always amused by funny words. He said it should never have been called a prod, but a rod. Someone made an inventory of King Henry VIII’s armour, and when it was copied by some scribe who knew nothing about crossbows, he wrote ‘Crossbowes, called prodds,’ and it got into all the standard works before anyone noticed the mistake. So they’re stuck with it.
The power of these things was a revelation. The bowstring is made of steel cable, but the force of the pull, at least two hundred pounds, is in the prod. We were each given a padded glove to wear on our left hand, the one that supports the bow, because if that cable snapped you could sever your fingers. But first he simply demonstrated what happens when the bowstring is cocked and the bolt is in place and the trigger pulled. The snap of the cable was awesome. The bolt thudded into a target thirty metres away.
I felt goosebumps on the backs of my arms and legs. I was glad I hadn’t seen Axel Summers’ body.
We were each given a bow and shown how to zero the sights (i.e. adjust them to the target) and cock the string. Our instructor told us he preferred a kneeling position with the left elbow supported on the knee. So my assumption that the Mariner was belly-down may have been wrong. We tried the position, yours truly showing slightly more thigh than your average archer does.
I’ve fired a rifle before, and I’m certain the trigger was easier to pull than this one, even though the catch and trigger were well greased. Provided you hold the bow steady and squeeze the trigger evenly without shifting your aim, you should succeed. My bolt hit the target, though not the bull. Jimmy’s was about the same. We had two more shots, and definitely improved. But I still think the Mariner must have put in plenty of practice.
My adrenalin level was pretty high after that. As we walked back across the park, I linked my arm through Jimmy’s and asked what other surprises he had in store, and he knew exactly what was on my mind. But he said he had to get back to Horsham, and hadn’t I heard him promise Matthew Porter quick progress? I said something really naff about how he could make even faster progress with me behind a bush, and I meant it at the time. Those hormones were in overdrive. I would have screwed him silly regardless of my posh clothes. But it wasn’t to be. We hailed a taxi and he dropped me at Waterloo, saying he was looking forward to my report. He gave me a peck on the cheek.
Bloody men.
The second file ended there. Diamond closed it and switched off. He sat for a moment, taking it in, reflecting on what he’d learned, and not just about Emma Tysoe, but Matthew Porter and Jimmy Barneston as well. He’d taken to Emma with her Prada shoes and her overactive hormones. Reading the journal, it was difficult to accept that she was dead. It saddened him.
The glimpse of Porter, too, was valuable. Diamond wasn’t a golfer and didn’t follow the sport with any real interest, but everyone had heard of Magic Matt, the kid who rolled them in from anywhere on the green and made it look simple. The clip of him winning the Open with a twenty-five foot putt at the eighteenth was shown over and over on television. Everything about the young man’s demeanour on the golf course suggested he was mature beyond his years, possessed of an extraordinary physical and mental harmony. It was revealing to find that this didn’t extend to his life outside the game. The routine of the safe house was going to be increasingly irksome to him.
As for that dark horse-stallion-Jimmy Barneston, mixing business with pleasure, Diamond thought he wouldn’t care to be in his shoes when the Big White Chief at Bramshill decrypted the files and read them. But he’d modified his own opinion of Barneston. He could understand the man trying to keep his one night stand with Emma off the agenda (maybe more than one night, if file number three was as frank as the first two). But since it was no longer a secret, he’d have to face some questions. It was important to know if Emma had communicated anything that might touch on her murder.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Finished, Mr D?” It was Clive.
“You?” he said, swinging his chair around.
“Something the matter, boss?”
“I’m not best pleased with you any more. There was I, relying on you, thinking you were watertight, and you leaked like a hanging basket.”
“But Ingeborg is on your team, isn’t she?”
Ingeborg. That young woman would go far.
“Doesn’t mean I tell her everything. Haven’t you ever heard of the need-to-know principle? Someone else might be put in a very embarrassing position by these files.”
“That DCI who got his leg over?”
“Heads could roll, Cl
ive, and not just his.”
“You mean…? Jesus, I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.”
“Believe me, if there’s anything I can do…”
Diamond let him squirm a moment longer. “There could be something, as a matter of fact. Is it possible for me to press a couple of keys and send a copy of these red hot files to someone I know?”
Clive’s eyes widened. “What-in this place?”
“No-another officer, in another county. A DCI Mallin, at Bognor Regis.”
Keith Halliwell had tracked down the registration details of Emma Tysoe’s car. It was a 2000 Lotus Esprit.
“Not a bad motor,” Diamond said. “And lecturers are always grouching about being underpaid.”
“We also found the garage she rents in Pulteney Mews, just like Ingeborg suggested.”
“Surprise me, Keith. Was there anything in there?”
“Not even a bike, guv.”
“What colour was this motor? Dark green, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Put out an all units call on this. London and everywhere south and west. The thing must be somewhere. Where’s Ingeborg?”
“She’s up at Popjoy’s, looking at their reservations book, trying to work out the name of the ex-boyfriend.”
“She’ll be lucky. Restaurants usually make bookings with surnames alone.”
“Yes, but we know which evening it was, so we’ll have the names of everyone who made a reservation. How many would you say-twenty maximum?”
Diamond raised a thumb in tribute. “Good thinking, Keith. I must be blinkered.”
Halliwell smiled wryly.
“Couldn’t think past the name of Ken,” Diamond explained. “Pity she didn’t once call him by his surname in the journal.”
“She wouldn’t, would she?”
“She used full names for everyone else.”
The House Sitter Page 18
