'Yes?' said Wigfull. 'At one time, what?'
'Oh, I had another theory about AJ.'
'You've got to tell me now you've started,' said Wigfull. 'It won't take a minute, will it?'
Diamond sighed and felt into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had several pieces of paper there. He started sorting through them as he talked. 'I asked Polly Wycherley to write down the names of everyone who had ever been a Bloodhound, thinking, you see, that there might be some former member with a grudge against Sid. Here it is.'
'No one called Ambrose Jason Smith, I'll bet,' said Wigfull.
'No, but there was a name-this one-Alan Jellicoe, that made me pause.'
'The initials?'
'Yes,' said Diamond. 'Coincidence, I expect.'
Wigfull was more suspicious. 'I wouldn't count on it. Don't you think this is worth following up? After all, he could have made up the A. J. Smith identity just to con Miss Chilmark.'
Diamond didn't want to push this. Wigfull had a point. It ought to be checked, but if there was anything to it, the truth would come out. There were hours of interviews stretching ahead. Call him Smith or Jellicoe, he was still sitting in an interview room waiting to be charged.
'If I were you,' Wigfull went on, 'I'd ask Mrs. Wycherley to come down here and have a look at him. Has she seen him lately?'
'No, she wasn't invited to the gallery party. She and Jessica don't get on too well.'
'All the more reason to check.'
Diamond yawned. 'You're a persistent bugger, John. All right, I'll arrange it. Alan Jellicoe. It is a little out of the ordinary.' His eye scanned the list again. Something else was stirring in his brain. Tom Parry-Jones, Milo Motion, Polly Wycherley, Annie Allen, Gilbert Jones, Marilyn Slade-Baker…
'There's another coincidence for you.'
'Someone you know?'
'Put it this way,' said Diamond. 'I know someone called Bert Jones.' He handed the list to Wigfull to read.
'This says Gilbert. You don't shorten Gilbert to Bert, do you?'
'Some people might. It's the name of Shirley-Ann Miller's partner.' He looked up at the canteen clock. 'Julie was going in to interview that bastard over two hours ago. I've heard sweet Fanny Adams since.'
He was on his feet and out of the canteen before Wigfull had time to draw breath.
Chapter Thirty-six
The Sports and Leisure Center, built in concrete and reconstituted stone in 1972, is a structure more functional than decorative, a prime example of what has been called the packing-case style. By day, it manages to be unobtrusive, sited on the Recreation Ground away from Bath's grander architecture. At six thirty this October evening it was a garish yellow monolith, caught in the artificial light.
They found Julie's car at 5:25 P.M. at the far end of the car park. Rupert's dog, Marlowe, on the backseat, had set up a fit of barking and yelping that considerably helped the search.
Instantly this was upgraded to an emergency. Every available officer was called in. By 5:45, over forty mustered in the floodlit area in front of the main entrance off North Parade.
Diamond addressed them through a loudhailer. There were two missing persons, he impassively announced. DI Hargreaves, a female officer, was known to many of the search party. She was five foot eight, with short blond hair, and was dressed in a light brown leather jacket over a black sweater and black leggings. She was possibly being detained by Gilbert- better known as Bert-Jones, aged about thirty, five foot nine, with a bodybuilder's physique, dark hair, and brown eyes. He was an employee of the Sports and Leisure Center, probably dressed in a dark blue tracksuit. Jones was not known to be armed, but was under suspicion of violent crimes and should be treated with extreme caution.
Diamond explained that in a few minutes the fire alarm would be sounded to evacuate the building. Users of the Center were to be directed by uniformed officers toward the main doors, where a watch would be kept for the suspect. If he was not found, a full search of the building would then take place, starting with the ground floor and moving up. Senior staff from the Center would give assistance. Particular attention was to be paid to enclosed spaces, changing rooms, saunas, store-rooms, and cupboards.
Assistant Chief Constable Musgrave materialized at Diamond's side and said, 'I hope you've got this right, Peter. We're going to take some stick if not.'
Diamond had the foresight to turn off the loudhailer before saying tersely, 'She hasn't radioed in. The car is still here in the car park. What else do you expect me to do, sir?'
'But can this really be our man?'
The blare of the alarm put a timely stop to the exchange. Diamond stepped toward the main doors to keep a watch on people as they streamed out of the building. The task was fraught with difficulty: He was the only police officer capable of recognizing Bert Jones, and he was having to rely on the help of three of the Center staff who worked with the man.
The response to the alarm was quick, almost too quick. Early evening was a peak time at the Center. The foyer filled quickly, and a bottleneck formed at the one exit Diamond allowed to be used. Reasonably enough, he wanted a sight of everyone leaving the building. Inside, uniformed police were doing their best to control the exodus and calm nerves, but there were still people complaining. It could easily tip over into panic.
And if there wasn't trouble within, there were problems developing outside. The public assembling on the forecourt were dressed in a variety of skimpy sports kits. On a cool October evening, middle-aged women in leotards were not going to stand in the open for long. There were shivering kids from the swimming pool without even a towel to dry themselves; someone on the staff was sent for a stack of towels to hand around.
Upward of two hundred people had passed the checkpoint before the real flow stopped, and only a few more stragglers were seen emerging. The alarm was silenced and the search party went in. A few officers remained to deal with the public. Keith Halliwell suggested letting the people back inside the foyer, but Diamond was totally absorbed in the search, increasingly sure that serious harm had come to Julie.
Halliwell tried again. 'I think we should let them back in, Mr. Diamond, I really do.'
Diamond thrust the loudhailer into his hands. 'Do it, then.'
He kept track of the operation with a personal radio. A few who had believed the alarm to be false were being winkled out, and so were others who had insisted on returning to the changing rooms before leaving. There were protests from some of the women caught half dressed by young policemen; they were unconvinced by the logic that the rooms were supposed to be unoccupied.
The search of the ground floor did not take long. Much of the space is taken up by the main sports hall, a vast place like an aircraft hanger, divided only by netting, where badminton, aerobics, and netball can take place simultaneously. The swimming pool and the indoor bowls hall were equally simple to check.
The searchers moved upstairs, into a warren of corridors and offices, viewing galleries and smaller rooms for table tennis, weight training, and aerobics. This took longer. A party of rebels was located in the bar and restaurant, called the Winning Post, and some angry exchanges were brought to a stop only by an angrier instruction from Diamond over the radio link. He had other priorities than getting involved with a crowd of bolshie drinkers.
Soon after 6:30 P.M., the word came through that every part of the building had been searched.
'She's got to be here somewhere,' Diamond insisted to Mr. Musgrave. 'Her car is still outside. She knew the dog was in there. She wouldn't have left it that long. Either she's hurt, or she's being kept against her will.'
'Was the car park checked?' Mr. Musgrave asked. 'It goes right under the building, you know.'
'Of course.'
'Yes, but is Jones's car still here? Do we know what he drives?'
It was a useful suggestion, and Diamond acted on it at once. One of the Sports Center people said Jones drove an old white Cortina. A check with the Police National Computer confirmed this and supplied a registration
