Bellman’s eyes flicked rapidly from side to side as if he knew he’d been led into a trap. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”
Keen, it would appear, to move on to things of more importance, Diamond said, “It’s simple enough and it doesn’t really amount to anything. We know you were attracted to Emma. You had a relationship with her. You’ve just handed us the proof that you couldn’t have killed her. All I’m asking is if you kept tabs on her ever since university.”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then I’ll ask you again: did you get your job in Bath just to be nearer to Emma?”
After a pause worthy of a Pinter play, Bellman said, “Yes.”
Diamond beamed, and sounded amiable. “Even an IT consultant is allowed to be a romantic. Thanks for coming in, Ken. I’ll show you out.”
Bellman was quickly out of his chair and through the door. Diamond got up to follow and had a sudden afterthought. He wheeled around and saw Ingeborg’s hand reach helpfully towards the cup and saucer on Bellman’s side of the table. Just in time, he made a sweeping gesture with his arms. Ingeborg, startled, drew back from the fingerprinted cup.
Diamond caught up with Bellman. “You’ll probably be interested,” he told him. “We finally found her car.”
Bellman turned to look at him, nodded, and said nothing.
There was no denying the disappointment. It wasn’t in Diamond’s nature to make light of a setback so serious. They’d devoted many hours to Bellman that could have been put to better use.
Ingeborg tried to console him by pointing out that it wouldn’t be all that difficult to forge a petrol receipt. “He’s a computer geek. He’d have no trouble reproducing the right font and printing it on the sort of paper they use. No way is this the alibi he claims it is.”
“It looks like the real thing to me.”
“Well, it would, guv. I could make another one just like it, no problem.”
“They ought to have a copy at the garage, didn’t they?” he said, starting to function as a detective again.
“What’s more,” Ingeborg chimed in, “many garages have security videos running. If we tell them the date and the time, it shouldn’t be any problem to check. We even know it was pump five.”
“Do it, then,” he told her. “Get on to them now. Go out to Beckington and collect any video evidence the garage have for the time he claims to have been there. Let’s call his bluff-if we can.”
“And the fingerprints?”
“I’ll see to them.”
Hen Mallin had already sent through the fingerprints lifted from Emma Tysoe’s car, an incomplete set, but enough, certainly, to make a comparison if the cup and saucer yielded good results. Diamond went in search of a SOCO.
Prints left on a china or porcelain surface and leaving no visible marks are known as “latents”. They require dusting with a chemical. Any marks revealed in this way have to be sealed by exposure to SuperGlue vapour for several hours.
Frustrating.
In truth, he wasn’t optimistic. Ken Bellman had been on the defensive for sure, yet this didn’t automatically indicate guilt. The man knew he was under suspicion. These days anyone picked up by the police was entitled to be apprehensive. There were too many stories, too many proven cases, of wrongful arrest and stitch-ups. He had been caught out in a lie about the circumstances of the reunion with Emma, but that could be put down to self-preservation. He was a weirdo and a stalker, but not necessarily a killer. They seldom are.
A call to John Leaman brought reassurance. Anna Walpurgis was still in the house in Bennett Street and had ordered the same lunch as yesterday and a long list of CDs and videos that Leaman had promised from the MVC shop in Seven Dials. “So it sounds as if she’s resigned to staying indoors, guv.”
“Make sure she does. Who’s buying these things?”
“Uniform. I can’t spare anyone.”
“I hope they don’t know who they’re for.”
“They think it’s all for me. My street cred is sky high.”
“And what’s happening in the street? All quiet?”
“So quiet I can see parking spaces.”
“Is there any way he could gain access from the back of the house?”
“I can’t see how. The back gardens are enclosed. Sealed off.”
“Make quite sure, John. Have someone check.”
“Do you think he knows she’s here, guv?”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
Time that hung heavily for Diamond.
He called Hen and told her that Bellman seemed to be in the clear.
She said, “In your shoes, darling, I’d have my suspicions about a bloke who produced his alibi as late as this. Where did he say the damned thing was hidden? Somewhere under the handbrake?”
He explained about the gap between the brushes.
“And it happened to be the one receipt he needed? Sounds dodgy to me.”
“We’re checking. If it’s a try-on, we’ll know shortly.”
“You sound as if you’re not expecting a good result.”
“He’s laughing up his sleeve, Hen. I’m sure he was stringing me along. Probably had the sodding receipt all the time and just wanted to hit us with this at the last minute. That’s the impression I get.”
“Dickhead. Do him for wasting police time.”
“Not worth it.”
“Don’t the fingerprints match?”
“Don’t know yet. They could be my last throw.”
“With this guy, perhaps,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had something up her sleeve. “You haven’t heard my latest. Remember the lifeguards, those two who called themselves Emerson and Laver? Stella Gregson has spent the past week trying to track them down. Finally, she found an ex-girlfriend, someone they each had a fling with, apparently, and now we know their real names, as well as their mobile numbers. They were travelling west, towards Dorset. Stella is confident of finding them today or tomorrow.”
“What are the names, then-Rosewall and Hoad?”
“I’m being serious, ducky. These two are my most wanted. Trevor Donald and Jim Leighton, both from Perth, Western Australia. Dorset police are on the case. Do you want to join in when we catch up with them?”
“I’d love to,” he said, “but-”
“But you’re hoping to catch an even bigger fish. Say no more.”
“You’ll keep me informed?”
“Depend on it.”
As always, he felt buoyed up after speaking to Hen. Her hearty self-confidence didn’t even contemplate failure. She deserved a result, and he wouldn’t begrudge it in the least if one of those Australians turned out to be the beach murderer.
* * *
Ingeborg returned from the Star service station late in the afternoon with the news that the cashier had found the duplicate receipt for the one Bellman had produced.
“Genuine, then,” Diamond said with disappointment he couldn’t disguise. “We can forget the clever forgery theory.”
Ingeborg said, “But there’s still no proof it was Bellman who bought the petrol. He may have come to the garage later and picked up a receipt someone else had thrown away. Easy to do.”
“Difficult to prove.”
“Not impossible,” Ingeborg said. “They gave me the video for pump five.” She patted her shoulderbag.
They slotted the cassette into the machine in Georgina’s office and sat on the leather sofa to watch the rather tedious images of cars moving up to the pump and drivers getting out to fill up. Fortunately a digital record of the time was displayed in the bottom left corner.
“What was the time on the receipt?”
“Three forty-seven.”
“He’ll have filled up around three forty-five. Can you fast forward it?”
Ingeborg worked the remote control and the visuals became more entertaining as figures darted out of cars like Keystone Cops in an old movie.
“We must be getting close. Slow up.”
The pictures reverted to normal speed. The time was showing three forty-one. A grey Toyota was at the pump. The elderly driver filled up, went to pay, returned, and picked up a cloth to clean his windscreen.
“Get off, you old git,” Diamond said to the screen.
The man got in and drove away his Toyota and a blue BMW glided into its place.
“Oh, fuck a duck!” Diamond said-by his moderate standards, a cry of desperation, if not despair.
There could be no argument. The man who got out to use the pump was in a black T-shirt and jeans. He had dark, curly hair. There was no mistaking Ken Bellman.
Further proof followed at the end of the afternoon. When the fingerprints were compared, it was obvious that the last person to drive Emma Tysoe’s stolen car was not Ken Bellman. They could forget him.
23
That same evening, Hen drove along the coast to Swanage. She’d had a call from Stella to say that the two Australian lifeguards, Trevor Donald and Jim Leighton, had been traced to a campsite a mile outside the town. She would meet Stella at Swanage police station at around seven thirty. It was that blissful time of year when daylight lasts until late and the low evening sun gives cut grass the lush look of velvet. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere.
This time she felt the odds were in her favour. Other suspects had been eliminated, and the nature of the crime on Wightview Sands beach had undergone a reassessment. More and more it was becoming likely that the motive had no connection to Emma’s work as a profiler and instead was casual and callous. The typical seaside crime is like that. Any detective working in a holiday resort knows there is something in the carefree attitude of visitors that gives the green light to criminals. At its most serious, the result is murder. The victims, usually women and usually alone, are unknown to the killers. Generally they are strangers to the town. They may be backpackers, campers, drifters, foreigners. But a minority of those attacked are affluent and invite trouble by flaunting their possessions: jewellery, handbags or sports cars.
It was likely Emma had been killed for no better reason than that she owned a flash sports car. The killer had seen her park the gleaming Lotus Esprit, watched as she chose her spot on the beach, picked his moment and strangled her. Then he’d taken her bag with the car keys and stolen the car. The fact that it had been found on a caravan site-also used by campers-underlined the casual nature of the crime.
Hen’s reliable assistant was waiting for her as she drove up. Stella had a glow about her, and it was more elation than sunburn. “They’re in a pub only five minutes away, guv. The local CID have had them under observation. How would you like to play this?”
Hen made some rapid decisions. “I’m not interviewing them in a pub and certainly not together. Invite them here for questioning about the stolen car. We’ll split them up. If they don’t cooperate, we book them.”
“Both?”
“Which is the guy we haven’t seen at all?”
“That’s Jim Leighton.”
“We’ll take him first. Yes, bring them both in and nick them if they won’t play ball. See to it, Stella. I need a smoke first.”
She went in to make sure an interview room was available.
Jim Leighton certainly looked the part in a yellow singlet and faded denim shorts that set off the seaside tan. He was a handsome hunk of maleness, too, Hen didn’t fail to notice: blue-eyed, with a swimmer’s meaty shoulders and a thick blond ponytail. He had a single gold earring and around his neck was a chunky gold chain.
“For the record, this will be a voluntary statement,” Hen started to say for the tape.
“I said nothing about a statement, lady,” he said with the Aussie twang.
He turned his head away, and she got a sight of the profile. Why do most Australians have big noses, she wondered, and it made her wonder something else, indelicate and not easy to verify in the circumstances.
“You’re here of your own free will?”
“You’re joking. My own free will is to be in the pub. I came because I was asked, to let you know I didn’t swipe anyone’s car. I can smell cigars. Is someone smoking here?”
“Was smoking. Do you want one?” Hen offered.
“Christ, no, unless you have something sweeter on offer.”
Hen ignored that. “How long were you in Bognor?”
“Three, maybe four weeks, doing the lifeguard bit with my mate Trevor. Piece of cake, that is, until you get an east wind.”
“Not much saving of lives?”
“None at all. Basically it’s stopping stupid drongos from going out too far on airbeds. You get the occasional lost kid and minor injuries. Wasps and weever fish can be a problem.”
“Were you there on the day the woman was killed?”
“Sure.”
“But you didn’t get interviewed.”
“Trevor did. He lifted her off the beach and into the hut. Look, you don’t think I topped the poor lady? I was told this was about a car, for Christ’s sake.”
“The car belonged to the woman who was killed,” Hen said.
“So where were you at the end of the afternoon when the body was found?”
“What time?”
“Say between four and five.”
“You really think I remember? It’s a beach and I was there every day. Maybe I was chatting up crumpet. Or eating a burger. Or kicking a ball around.”
“You were on duty earlier?”
“Sure.”
“At the lifeguard station? What time did you go off duty?”
“Who can say? We’re not the army. If I felt like a break at the end of the day, I’d take one. The job gets easier with the tide in. Trevor could manage without me.”
“Mid-afternoon?”
“I guess.”
“If you went for a burger, did you go through the car park?”
He grinned. “Trick question. Everyone who goes to the café walks past some cars unless they cross the road where the toilets are. To save you the bother of asking, I didn’t see the Lotus at all.”
“But you know it was a Lotus?”
“Trick question number two. Give me a break, will you? Everyone knows her car went missing and it was a Lotus Esprit.”
“It must have been parked quite close to where you were. She was on the same stretch of beach.”
“I know that,” Leighton said. “I spoke to her.”
“You did?” Hen leaned forward. “When was this?”
“What time? When? Lady, I’m a beach bum. I don’t look at my watch each time I speak to a woman.”
“After you went off duty, which you said was mid-afternoon?”
“If you say so.”
“So what was said?”
“One of my standard pick-up lines, I reckon. Like ‘Excuse me, is that a tattoo on your ass or a love-bite?’ ”
“I’m sure that goes down a treat. Did she have a tattoo?”
He flashed the teeth in a wide smile and shook his head. “But they always check.”
“What was her response?”
“Told me to get lost, if I remember right.”
“And then?”
“I got lost, I guess. It’s all a blur. One day is like another in the lifeguard profession.”
Hen was losing patience. “Get a grip, will you, Mr Leighton? That day wasn’t like any other. A woman was strangled. You were there, or somewhere nearby. What else can you tell me about her?”
“She was stretched out behind a windbreak. Bag. Big blue towel. White bikini. That’s all.”
“We asked for witnesses. You didn’t come forward.”
“Because Trevor told you everything. He’s the bloke who was in on the action.”
“That doesn’t wash,” Hen said. “You knew she was on that beach. You spoke to her. Yet you didn’t tell us until now. I think you know she was murdered. I think you saw an opportunity to take a joyride in a Lotus.”
He nodded. “Now we’re coming to it.”
“I’m givin
g you the chance to come clean over this. Joyriding isn’t a major crime so long as no one gets hurt. Where were you staying in Wightview?”
“A field behind the village.”
“In what-a camper van?”
“Yeah. Pathetic, aren’t we? Typical bloody ockers.”
“You moved out of there pretty fast after the murder. Trevor stayed on for a few days, but you were nowhere to be found.”
“Didn’t he tell you? I was touring the British Isles in a Lotus Esprit.”
Hen stabbed her finger at him. “Don’t come it with me, sonny. I’ll have you in the cells without your feet touching the ground. Where did you clear off to?”
“A sad place called Bournemouth. Trevor and me had a temporary falling out over some sheila.”
“Emma Tysoe?”
“Ease up, lady. This was a fifteen-year-old blonde from Amsterdam. I kicked around with her for a few days until it got boring. End of story.”
“So you deny ever taking the Lotus?”
“How the hell would I do that without the key?”
“Her bag was missing.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“OK,” Hen said. “Prove it. The car thief left his fingerprints behind. With your permission, we can take a set of your prints and compare them.”
He sneered at that. “Oh, sure-and I’m in your records for ever more.”
“No. They’ll be destroyed. You’ll sign a consent form saying it was voluntary and I’ll sign to say they’re destroyed. You get a copy.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“We carry on with the questions until I’m satisfied.”
Leighton went quiet, fingering the earring. Hen could almost track the process of his thoughts. He wanted to get back to the pub before closing time.
Finally he yawned and said, “Looks like it’s the prints, then.”
Hen glanced towards Stella, who nodded and told Leighton to follow her.
Never a man to shirk responsibility, Diamond took his turn that evening keeping watch over Anna Walpurgis. He relieved John Leaman soon after nine, when Bennett Street was as quiet as a turkey farm on Christmas Day. It’s far enough above the hub of the city to escape the pubbers and clubbers. Leaman told him there was nothing untoward to report. The lady had remained inside all day.
The House Sitter Page 31
