‘Do I get expenses?’
‘You can claim for your travel. You’ll drive, I expect?’
‘Will it also go to a round of drinks?’
‘You’re a girl,’ he said, frowning. ‘You get drinks put in front of you.’
There was a pause while Ingeborg composed herself. ‘Not necessarily, guv.’
‘If all else fails, then.’
‘And what am I meant to find out?’
‘All you can on Ossy Hart. His friends, contacts, the things he talked about, particularly his life outside the police. Family, sports. Was he one of these hearty types who make themselves unpopular? Why was he known as Ossy when his name was Martin? You’re going to seem nosy and they may resent it from a stranger, but if anyone can charm it out of them, you will, and we’re doing this for professional reasons. Let them know you’re CID and from Bath. They’ll know all about the shooting.’
‘And you want me to do the same in Radstock?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Stanley Richmond.’
‘Even if you catch the sniper tonight?’
‘If we catch him, we’ll want to know why he did it.’
‘Wasn’t it random?’
She didn’t get an answer.
9
Diamond was never sure whether sleeping in the day helped. Generally he would wake feeling worse than when he closed his eyes. Today he had no choice. He was dog tired and the painkillers acted as sedatives. After getting home at five, he made short work of a stack of cheese and pickle sandwiches, opened a pouch of tuna for the cat and fell into bed. Good thing he had enough of his wits about him to set the alarm for eleven — P.M., not A.M., as he felt he deserved.
The sleep must have helped, but it didn’t feel like that when the beep-beep broke into his dream of cruising the shallows of a slow-moving river in a flat-bottomed boat with Steph miraculously alive again, lightly holding his arm. When he flexed he found he’d been stroking his right bicep with his left hand. With an anguished groan, he reached out to stop the alarm repeating. Darkness had set in. He heaved himself off the pillow, groped for the light switch and stared at the clock. Stark reality replaced the dream: three brother officers murdered and their killer out there somewhere. Under an hour to get to Westwood.
He put his feet to the floor and was sharply reminded to reach for the crutch.
Curled up at the end of the bed on the softest part of the duvet, Raffles must have heard the yelp of pain. The ears pricked, but that was the only move.
The temptation to prod that cat was strong. Instead Diamond phoned John Leaman to check what had happened in the last few hours.
Nothing of note. The search for the weapon in Becky Addy Wood had been abandoned at dusk. Ken Lockton remained comatose in the Royal United. No significant finds were reported from the Walcot Street murder scene.
The route took Diamond through the city, so quiet on a Sunday night you could have heard the wheeze of sleeping pigeons. He went over Claverton Down and linked up with the Warminster Road, the A36, where the only other vehicle he saw was a huge articulated truck parked in a lay-by, the driver dozing in his cab. Was everyone asleep? The people of Westwood would be. In all the outlying villages they kept country hours.
He opened a window to let in some reviving air.
He could be certain John Leaman was awake. The call to his mobile had found the reliable DI already in Westwood. If their estimate of the sniper’s intention was right, there wouldn’t be anything happening for some hours yet, but the men had to be strategically posted and the village streets checked for parked vehicles, especially motorcycles. Leaman was seeing to this. There could be no better choice for the job. He was a biker himself and bored everyone rigid with his talk of Suzuki Bandits.
A winding minor road brought Diamond on a steep descent through the village of Freshford, a place he regarded with some respect, and not only for its well-stocked inn. In 1974 when North Somerset was redesignated as Avon, the defiant inhabitants held a mock funeral in protest.
Passing through that hotbed of insurrection, he crossed the sixteenth century bridge over the Frome and his headlights picked out a rare stretch of level road, the floor of the Limpley Stoke valley. This didn’t last long. He was soon climbing Staples Hill and entering another county. Wiltshire was outside his jurisdiction.
But he hadn’t been expecting a border control.
Lights. Cones. A figure in a reflective jacket waved him down.
He lowered the window. ‘What’s up?’
The young police officer had to be a Wiltshire man. Not a glimmer of recognition. ‘Do you mind telling me where you’re going, sir?’
‘No, but I’ll tell you who I am.’ Diamond brandished his warrant card. ‘Is there a lion on the loose?’
There was no answer.
‘Why are you stopping the traffic?’
A sharp change of tone. ‘Sorry, sir. Orders, sir.’
‘Who from?’
‘DI Polehampton, sir, Serial Crimes Unit.’
Polehampton. The blood pressure rocketed. What was the point of a stakeout if everyone coming into the area was alerted?
‘You can stop this nonsense right now, clear the road and get out of sight, do you understand? Those are my orders. Do it.’
Chuntering, gripping the wheel, Diamond almost missed the narrow lane leading to the village.
Westwood is large enough to be divided into Upper and Lower. The part he had reached, on the edge of the ridge above the Avon valley, was the Upper. He drove past a mix of cottages and modern houses to a clearing where upwards of thirty uniformed police had gathered. These were Avon and Somerset men he recognised. John Leaman was among them.
How ridiculous.
At boiling point by now, Diamond flung open the door, put his crutch to the ground and emerged with a limp almost as menacing as Anthony Sher playing Richard III.
He had their complete attention.
‘This is supposed to be an undercover operation,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Leaman cleared his throat. ‘Guv, this is me, John Leaman.’
‘I can see who you are. In fact, I can see all of you. I could see the checkered caps from two hundred yards off in the moonlight.’ To be truthful he’d seen them in his headlamps, but the point was the same. ‘We’re supposed to be staging an ambush, not a passing-out parade. I suggest you remove them now.’
They did so.
Leaman said, ‘I’m responsible, guv. I picked this as the quietest place to meet.’
They had to assemble somewhere to get orders, even Diamond had to concede, and this was away from most of the houses, with only a farmyard across the street. He asked Leaman for a progress report. All the streets in Upper and Lower Westwood had been checked for parked vehicles. Registration numbers had been noted. Four motorcycles had been located, three in the lower part of the village. Leaman reeled off the makes and details. All were registered to local residents and were now under surveillance.
‘Was this done without waking half the village?’ he asked. ‘We don’t want an audience tonight.’
‘Those were their orders, guv.’
‘Get them dispersed, then, and out of sight. Do they know what to do? No heroics. Leave that to the armed officers. Simply observe and report. I don’t want to see another bobby until the sniper is dead or disarmed.’
‘They’ve all been told.’
