‘I heard that Harry would make a point of speaking to this youth. If the kid wasn’t around, Harry would ask where to find him.’
‘It sounds as if Harry had something on him.’
‘Could be. If so, he was playing with fire.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the kid’s daddy is Soldier Nuttall.’
Cyril ‘Soldier’ Nuttall was notorious in Bath. Three years ago, dissatisfied with right wing politics, even its extreme forms, he had started a group known as Fight for Britain. Ostensibly a young men’s fitness association linked with patriotism, it had militaristic overtones that appealed to thuggish elements up and down the country and alarmed people who saw it as a burgeoning fascist movement. Boot camps, drill, martial arts, target practice and the shooting of game were compulsory elements and so were cropped heads, tattoos and combat gear. But the FFB was cleverly led. Whenever its innate purpose was challenged, Nuttall pointed out that Britain was a free country and all the activities were legal and practised by some of the most respected people in the land. The fact that the membership was almost exclusively made up of young white males was said to be down to the indigenous thirst for adventure, fitness and companionship. Soldier Nuttall insisted that his nickname went back many years before the FFB was formed and in no way was he leading a private army. He wore the combat clothes and the boots and the tattoos with pride in Britain and its long tradition of self-improvement and ‘get up and go’.
All of this was founded on his personal fortune. He was no fool financially. His millions and his mansion on Claverton Down had been acquired from astute property development. Cut-throat dealings had bought him a luxurious lifestyle and allowed him to promote his organisation and hire the best lawyers. Plenty of complaints had been levelled against him, but no charge had ever stuck.
Ingeborg didn’t need to ask why Anderson was willing to stretch a point and inform on Soldier Nuttall’s son. ‘What’s the boy’s name?’
‘Royston.’
‘From what you’re saying, Royston is a wheeler-dealer like his father.’
‘Except he was born into money,’ Anderson said. ‘He never had to earn it.’
‘And you say he rides a motorcycle?’ She was thinking of the incident in Becky Addy Wood that had left Diamond limping.
‘Sure.’
‘Has he been around Walcot lately?’
‘On and off.’
‘You can be more precise than that. Have you seen him tonight?’
‘Not tonight. Yesterday.’
They’d walked as far as the point where Harry had been shot. It was unmarked now, every trace of blood removed. As if by mutual consent, they stopped under the street light, but short of the place where the body had lain. Ingeborg glanced up at the garden where the shooting had come from, above the wall on the opposite side, as if staring at it might reveal the killer’s identity.
‘Does Royston live at home?’
‘That’s my understanding.’
‘Is his father ever seen in Walcot?’
He vibrated his lips. ‘Not the Soldier. Not his scene.’
They parted there. Anderson turned and started the walk back to his chauffeur-driven car and the two police officers moved on, towards the police station. Ingeborg had mixed feelings. The information on Royston Nuttall could be the breakthrough and she looked forward to telling Diamond their mission had brought a result. But she wished to God it didn’t muddy Harry Tasker’s reputation.
21
‘I’m moving.’
An executive statement. The mound of gravel had become increasingly uncomfortable. In fact it was just about insufferable for a man dressed normally as Diamond was, without padding. He had just reminded himself that in Gull’s absence he was nominally the supremo here, in charge of the stakeout at the pillbox, even though the tactical decisions would be taken by the young man of inspector rank leading the firearms team.
‘I’m moving,’ he repeated to Sergeant Gillibrand beside him. ‘Need to check some of the other positions.’
There was no objection from Gillibrand. The sergeant said nothing at all. The two men hadn’t exactly bonded.
‘Use your radio to tell the other units I’m doing the rounds. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m the sniper.’
The relief of getting upright was marvellous. Parts of him that had gone numb were restored. He almost forgot to pick up his stick, the sensations were so good. He could probably have walked all the way to Avoncliff station unaided, but decided it was wise to have it with him. Heels sinking into the cascading shingle, he slid down the gravel mound the back way, making no more sound than Gillibrand had on his trip to the bushes.
Now that he was mobile he wondered why he’d endured the prone position for so long. The thinking had been that he’d presented less of a target. But if you’re face down on stone chippings there comes a time when safety considerations dwindle to nothing.
He could have borrowed those night-vision glasses, but they weren’t of much use on the move. The moonlight came and went, and his eyes adjusted well. He could see enough of the ground at this minute to step out with confidence. Equally, he had to remember he would be visible to the sniper.
Was the killer of three police officers really holed up somewhere in this remote spot? He had his doubts. Even so, he stayed close to the river bank, as far from the footpath as possible. The firearms lads were posted at least fifty yards to his left with their guns pointing away from him.
The going was easy here, fairly flat, with nothing more difficult than a few waist-high clumps of meadowsweet to negotiate. The Avon had a tendency to flood in this section of the valley after heavy rain and it was squelchy in parts. But the ripple of the water close at hand meant he was safely south of the area targeted by the police marksmen. Closer to Avoncliff he would pick up the roar of the weir.
Despite what he’d said to Gillibrand he didn’t really plan to check the firing positions. It would be folly to creep up behind an armed man. Polehampton might, but then Polehampton was Polehampton and even he might have learned something from the handcuffing episode.
No, the object of this move was purely to get his blood flowing again. He’d reached a stage on that gravel heap when he was incapable of thinking of anything except his own discomfort. This was bliss, inhaling the fresh night air. He patted the injured leg: virtually restored, he decided. He was favouring it a little from caution rather than necessity.
A sudden piercing shriek drilled a shock through him. Close, frighteningly close. He halted, tense, alert for danger.
Blood-curdling — but was it human in origin?
Then a skittering in the water told him he must have stepped close to a coot or a moorhen.
Better not stay so close to the bank, he told himself. There are sure to be other waterfowl and the screech must have been audible for some distance around. Advertising his presence wasn’t in the plan. He veered left, around some reeds and found more of a path. He would follow it in confidence that the river ran parallel with the railway. Keep going for ten minutes or so and he should find himself reasonably close to Avoncliff Station without disturbing the firearms teams.
That waterbird had shaken his nerves. All the pleasure of being on the move had gone. He was tense, primed for more disturbances. A mass of cloud had crossed the moon again. He was forced to take shorter steps, even though the path was clear of hazards.
He could definitely hear the faint swish of falling water now. The weir was some distance beyond the station, so he was making good progress. He stopped and listened. He didn’t need to walk too far.
Then he heard a loud splash to his right.
