The House Sitter

by Peter Lovesey

  “Tell me about it!”

  “Right. And you may be sure he anticipated that you’d give these people the best protection possible. The classic safe house set-up. By some means or other-let’s set that aside for the moment-he knew in advance that he could get inside the safe house and snatch Matthew Porter. Which he did. So isn’t it a surefire bet that he has a plan drawn up for Miss Walpurgis?”

  The worry-lines on Jimmy Barneston’s forehead said it all.

  Diamond warmed to his theme. “Do you see what I’m driving at? Up to now, he’s remained ahead of us because he knows we’re an institution that works along predictable lines, as easy to see as a mail train coming up the line. Now, I haven’t met Anna Walpurgis. I haven’t had that pleasure.”

  “Plenty have,” murmured Hen.

  “OK, she’s a lively lady, not the sort to sit at home every night with her knitting. That could work in her favour. She’ll be safer from the Mariner in the arms of some admirer than she will being guarded by Special Branch in a safe house.”

  “Happier, too,” Hen said.

  Barneston was still under the cosh. “It’s too big a risk. Huge.”

  “Not so huge as leaving her in a safe house,” Diamond said.

  “Even if I believed you, it’s not my decision. She’s in the care of SO12. They call the shots.”

  “Come off it, Jimmy. They’re in disarray now. After this cock-up, you can seize the initiative. Tell them you’ve lost all confidence in their security-which is true.”

  “I’m not sure if I want her on my plate.”

  “She is already. When this is over, do you think SO12 are going to put up their hands and say it was their fault?”

  Barneston looked away and let out a long, troubled breath. He knew Diamond was right; this was obvious in his expression. He’d carry the can if things went wrong. He’d be the plodding idiot who tried to remove these hapless people from the scene and played right into the Mariner’s hands. He hunched his shoulders and looked down at his vomit-stained shoes. For a while he was silent, brooding over what had been said. Finally he came out with a kind of confession. “I thought I could take this on and win. After what’s happened today I’m not so sure. Listening to you, I think you’ve got a better handle on this case than I have. Your way of thinking is different.”

  It was a huge admission. Hen said, to assist him, “It’s easier when you’re not in close. We can see things you can’t.”

  He nodded. “I was too close in every sense.”

  “Honey, you couldn’t avoid it,” Hen said. “The Mariner named names, so you can’t help meeting the people he targets. You got to know them. You feel responsible in a way we can’t.”

  “I like them,” he said. “They have their downside, both of them, but they’re real people, very different from each other, but brave, trying to deal with a death threat the best way they can. I won’t say they’re friends with me, but it’s personal, and that’s totally new to me as a detective.”

  He didn’t mention the killing of Emma Tysoe. He didn’t need to; it was on all their minds. Emma had been his friend, more than just a friend, and she was dead. Maybe he blamed himself for turning down her invitation to spend the day on the beach with him.

  Axel Summers was dead. No reason to feel any personal involvement there. But now he faced the strong possibility that Matthew Porter, the man he’d promised to keep under police protection, was dead. Anna Walpurgis remained alive. The responsibility was too much.

  “Would you do me a favour?” he asked Diamond. “Would you meet Anna Walpurgis and tell me if you still think I should give her a free rein?”

  He couldn’t say more clearly that he was floundering.

  “Sure,” Diamond said, “but not in a safe house, right? Get her out of there fast.”

  “Where to?”

  “Send her to me in Bath with an overnight bag. I’ll see she comes to no harm.”

  Hen’s eyebrows pricked up sharply, but she said nothing.

  “You really mean that?” Barneston said on a note at least an octave higher.

  “Then you can get down to what you’re good at-detective work.”

  After Barneston had gone off to see if the SOCOs had yet found a distinctive set of tyre marks, Hen asked Diamond, “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “In what way wise?” he said. “In terms of my career, definitely not. I’ll have Special Branch as well as Bramshill wanting my head on a plate. In terms of my reputation, well, I’ve never had much of a reputation. But as a way of wrong-footing the Mariner, it’s the best I can think of, and that’s the priority now.”

  “Entertaining Anna Walpurgis?”

  “One thing could lead to another, Hen.”

  “You’re telling me! What about the trifling matter of the murder you and I are supposed to be investigating?”

  “Remind me, would you?”

  “Plonker.” She folded her arms. “I hope you know what you’re taking on, squire, because I’m completely foxed.”

  It was time to stop being playful. “We’re about to pull in Ken, the boyfriend Emma Tysoe dumped just before she was murdered. My team are working on it. He’s a local man, we believe, and it shouldn’t be long. When we collar him, you’ll be in on the questioning, I hope.”

  “It’s my case-remember? But what does this have to do with Anna Walpurgis?”

  “Walpurgis is the bait.”

  “For the Mariner?”

  “Yes. He’s going to have to adjust his master plan now. He expected her to be under Special Branch protection, probably moved from one safe house to another in the hope of confusing him. Instead, she’s coming to Bath.”

  Hen said, “He’ll find out, as sure as snakes crawl.”

  “And follow her.”

  “You don’t have to look so happy at the prospect.”

  He raised his forefinger. “Right. But Bath is my patch. I know it better than he does. The odds have changed a bit. That’s how we’ll pinch him, Hen.”

  She pondered that for a moment. “It’s bloody dangerous.”

  “For Walpurgis, you mean? So what’s new? She’s under threat of death already.”

  “But you’re right about one thing,” she conceded. “You’re forcing the Mariner’s hand. I’ve no idea how you’ll cope with this crazy bimbo, but the show definitely moves to Bath, leaving Jimmy Barneston here in Sussex looking at tyre marks.”

  17

  Bath was travel-brochure bright as Diamond drove in from Weston the next morning. Innocent, even. Who would be so coarse as to think about crime in surroundings such as these? You couldn’t imagine a mugger on the streets, let alone a serial killer. The tall trees in Queen Square were thick with gently stirring foliage at this time of year, softening the views across the green towards the corner house, number thirteen, where much of Northanger Abbey was written. “My mother hankers after the Square dreadfully,” Jane Austen wrote in 1801. While Diamond was unlikely ever to hanker after Queen Square or any other, he did feel a flutter of unease about his plan to lure the Mariner to the city.

  “Back to reality,” he called across to Keith Halliwell when they both happened to park at the same time behind the ugliest building in Bath, the Manvers Street police station. “What’s been happening?”

  “Progress, guv.”

  They went through the code-operated door and started upstairs towards the incident room.

  “Come on, then,” Diamond said after giving Halliwell ample time to say more.

  “I think Ingeborg would like to tell you herself. She worked her little butt off yesterday.”

  “Keep me in suspense, then.”

  Most of the team were already in there clustered around John Leaman, who was telling a joke. At the sight of their burly superior, people sidled back to their desks.

  “Did you want to give them the punchline, John?” Diamond offered.

  “They can wait, guv.”

  He looked to his right. “Well, Ingeborg?”
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  The new face in CID glanced up and batted the long lashes. “Hi, guv.”

  Halliwell said quickly, “Don’t make a meal of it, Inge. I told him to expect something.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I finally nailed Ken.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “His name is Bellman-Kenneth Bellman. He works for an IT firm based in Batheaston.”

  “A nightie firm? Our suspect? What are we talking here-black lace, see-through, baby doll or plain old winceyette?”

  “IT,” Halliwell said through the laughter. “He’s in information technology.”

  “Pity. Not much glamour in that. As what?”

  “A consultant,” Ingeborg said.

  “I’ve met a few of them in my time, borrowing your watch to tell you what the time is.”

  Ingeborg smiled. “In the IT business it means anyone who isn’t actually employed by the company, but does a job for them. An outside expert.” She stopped and gave him a wary look. “You’re going to say a window-cleaner, aren’t you, guv? I know it.”

  “OK, let’s call an amnesty,” he said. “How did you get onto him-through the credit card slips I suggested?”

  “No. It turns out he paid cash. They had his name wrong in the reservations book. I spent ages trying to trace somebody with the name of Cableman. On the phone he must have told them K. Bellman.”

  “Easy mistake.” He smiled. “I can overlook it. Cableman wouldn’t be a bad name for a computer nerd, now I think about it. What else do we know?”

  “He works for a city firm called Knowhow & Fix. Lives in digs in a house on Bathwick Hill, about halfway up on the left-hand side.”

  “Bit of a climb. Does he have wheels?”

  “I expect so. I couldn’t tell you for sure.”

  “But you know why I asked?”

  “Yes, guv. The drive to Wightview Sands.”

  He nodded. “So have you spoken to him?”

  Halliwell said, “We thought you’d want first crack at him.”

  “You thought right.” He showed an upturned thumb to Ingeborg. “Nice work.”

  She asked, “Can I bring him in, guv?”-and couldn’t conceal her eagerness.

  She’d led with her chin, never a wise tactic with Diamond, but he restrained himself and shook his head. “Not yet. I promised DCI Mallin, our colleague from Bognor, that I’d give her the chance to come in on this. More important than that, I want the SP on this guy before we see him. Keith, see what you can get without alerting him or his employers. Do it discreetly. I don’t want him to know we’re onto him.”

  “Now, guv?”

  “No time like the present.”

  He called Hen and told her the news. She offered to come right away, so he explained about getting some background first, and she agreed it was right to do the job properly. Until this morning, Ken had been just a name, his only known achievement the bedding of Emma Tysoe.

  “Probably tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I wish I could report some success at this end,” Hen went on to say. “I was hoping my lot would have found Mr Laver by now, but he’s vanished into thin air.”

  “That figures. They called him Rocket, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “The tennis player.”

  “Give over, Peter. And to make matters worse, Emerson has not been seen on the beach for a couple of days as well. I’ve got visions of chasing Aussies in camper vans all over Europe. Let’s hope your Ken puts his hand up to the murder and saves me the trouble.”

  If only it were so simple, Diamond thought. After he’d put the phone down, he said to Ingeborg, “Do you know much about IT?”

  “Not a lot, guv.”

  “What did they say it stands for?”

  “Information technology.”

  “It was on the tip of my tongue. Supposed to be the answer to everything, isn’t it? Taking over our lives?”

  She said, “Look around you, guv. We depend on it.”

  Keeping his eyes resolutely off the hardware on every side, he said, “ I can’t agree with that. They’re tools, nothing more. We always had office machinery. Typewriters. Dictaphones.”

  A voice behind him murmured, “The abacus.”

  “Did you say something, John?”

  “Adding machines, guv.”

  “Right. Just because they’re all contained in one machine it doesn’t mean we’re slaves to it.”

  “I said we depend on it,” Ingeborg stressed, returning him to the point she’d made. “If this lot crashed, we’d be in trouble.”

  “You’re right about that,” he conceded, and added jovially, “We might have to ask the Cableman to fix it. I wouldn’t want his job. It must be tedious, staring at screens all day. Then they go home and watch TV.”

  “Sometimes they don’t leave home,” she said. “They work from their own PC.”

  “I’m not surprised Emma Tysoe found this fellow boring. What can he know about the real world, sitting in front of his screen? How does he make friends, meet women?”

  “There are chatlines.”

  “That’s not meeting them.”

  “I expect he makes an effort to get out. You’d have to.”

  “We don’t know, do we?” he said.

  “I could chat up his colleagues if you like,” she offered. “Face to face.”

  “Not at this stage. We don’t want him finding out we’re interested. Let’s keep the chatting up in reserve.” He didn’t doubt Ingeborg’s ability there. “Why don’t you check him on the PNC? See if he’s got form.”

  If she noted the irony of this suggestion, she had the good sense not to take it up with him.

  Later in the morning he took a call from Jimmy Barneston. The shell-shocked Jimmy of yesterday sounded more in control. More deferential, too.

  “I thought you’d like to know I slept on your advice and decided it made sense. I’ve called a press conference for this afternoon.”

  “Good move. Take the initiative away from the killer.”

  “I’m going to tell them just about everything except the third name on the Mariner’s list. You know who I mean?” Clearly he didn’t trust the phone, and he was probably right.

  “I’m a detective. I can work it out,” Diamond said. “Speaking of that person, have you told her about Porter-I mean a well-known sports personality-being snatched?”

  “Not yet. Oh, fuck, I’ll have to now, won’t I? Don’t want her hearing it first on the telly.”

  “Have you moved her?”

  “Er… yes. She’s in another-em-place.”

  “A safe place?” Diamond spoke the words in a tone of dread.

  “I, em…” The voice trailed off.

  Diamond waited, and then said, “That’s not a good idea, Jimmy. Have you told her about my offer?”

  “Not yet. She doesn’t know anything yet.”

  “When you break the bad news about Porter being snatched you can tell her my offer is the good news.”

  “All right.”

  “You will mention it?”

  “I’m still thinking it over.”

  “Don’t spend too long thinking. You could regret it. I guess there’s nothing new on the Mariner? Did the house-to-house achieve anything?”

  “No. And the treadmarks aren’t sharp enough to help. Forensics are looking at them, but they told me not to expect much. They tested the steering wheel for DNA and they reckon he wore gloves. He’s ultra-careful. We haven’t even found what type of gas he used.”

  “Are both of the guards recovering?”

  “They were sent home last night. I’ve spoken to them. They added nothing to what we know already.”

  “You may get some help from the public after the media get to work on it.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.” He asked how the search for Emma Tysoe’s killer was going and Diamond gave him the news about Ken Bellman. They agreed to keep in touch.

  After putting the phone down,
Diamond was fidgety. He sat back in his chair and fiddled with a stapler, shooting at least a dozen across the desk. Certain things were starting to go his way, but plenty could still go wrong, and probably would. His team was up to the challenge of Ken Bellman. If the man was guilty they’d have him, the mug who lost in love and kicked back. But the Mariner was in a different bracket. No passion there. He was a class act, a cerebral killer, calculating every move. If he came to Bath, he wouldn’t come blindly. He’d estimate the risks and minimise them. How would the likes of Keith and Ingeborg cope with a professional assassin?

  Soon they had to be told. He had no hesitation pitting himself against a serial killer, but it was asking a lot of Ingeborg, little more than a rookie, and Keith, dependable as the days of the week, but not the brightest star in the firmament. John Leaman was quicker, but still inexperienced for a sergeant.

  For a few indulgent moments he daydreamed about having Julie Hargreaves back on the team, Julie, the sidekick who’d taken one kick too many and asked for a transfer. She was an original thinker, as well as a check on his own lapses and excesses. He was still in touch, and she’d been a tower of strength after Steph was murdered. Still, she’d made her position clear about working with him ever again, and it was no use wanting the impossible. You play the cards you’re dealt with.

  Towards midday Ingeborg reported her findings on the PNC: no findings at all. Kenneth Bellman had led a blameless life apparently.

  “Bellman, Bellman-why does the name seem familiar?” he said.

  “The Hunting of the Snark?” she suggested.

  “The what?”

  “It’s a poem by Lewis Carroll. A nonsense poem. The Bellman was the main character.”

  He gave her a bemused look. “No, it can’t be that. You read poetry, do you, Ingeborg?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you happen to know The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”

  “Bits, guv.”

  “I don’t mean know it by heart. Have you read it?” With pride in the performance he recited those first two lines: “‘It is an ancient Mariner / And he stoppeth one of three.’”

  Innocent of the tightrope she was walking, Ingeborg completed the verse. “‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye / Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?’”