Diamond Dust

'There was one time when she hurt her leg and couldn't come here, so I went to the house to give her the shampoo and blow-dry and I was really surprised to find how feminine everything was, beautifully clean and tidy, and all pink and white with swathed curtains and ballerina pictures on the walls. Dolls and soft toys. A little figure in a crinoline covering the spare toilet roll in the bathroom. There was nothing of him anywhere to be seen.'

'Except in the motor home outside?'

'I didn't go in there. I suppose her feminine side had been cramped by the police job. When she got the opportunity, she went a bit overboard.'

This made sense to him, and he was glad of the insight into Stormy's marriage. It compensated a little for his disappointment at learning nothing of Trish's feelings towards Steph.

'One more favour, and I'll let you get back to your client. Could I see your appointments book for February and March - or are you computerised?'

'No. We're far too busy to learn. Stay here and I'll send in the junior with it.'

With the book in his hands, he flicked back the pages to the months he was interested in. There was obviously a system. Regular bookings were entered by someone in a clear, neat script. The others, arranged a short time ahead, or on the day, bore the signs of being hastily inserted in a variety of styles. He soon located Mrs P. Weather in the tidy hand, each Friday at eleven-thirty. She'd booked for the whole of February and March.

There was something else about the system. As clients arrived for their appointments, a tick was placed beside their names. There were ticks for Trish Weather up to Friday, February the twelfth. For the nineteenth and subsequent Fridays her name was crossed through and other names had been squeezed in above.

He took the book out to the manager and showed her. 'Does this mean she didn't come in after February the twelfth?'

'That's right.'

'Did she cancel?'

'She must have done - or we wouldn't have slotted another client in.'

'In person?'

'I really can't remember that far back.'

'You must have thought about it when you heard she was murdered.'

'They didn't find her for six months. No, I didn't think it mattered. Is it important, then?'

Is it important? he thought. For crying out loud, is it important?

'If she cancelled, would she have called you personally?'

'Any of the staff could have taken the message. It's a matter of who's free to pick up the phone.'

Clearly, she had no memory of speaking to Trish.

'If someone cancels, don't they normally make another appointment?'

'Unless they say they'll get in touch later. If they're ill, somebody might cancel for them.'

'The husband?'

'Anyone.'

'And if you don't hear from the client after that?'

'We don't chase them up, if that's what you mean. If they don't get in touch again, that's the end of it.'

And it was, for Trish Weather, he thought.

He left the salon to walk to the Forester, the local he'd visited before. There was a fair chance that by this time, eleven-thirty, Stormy would be installed there.

The downpour was so heavy by now that everyone else was sheltering in shopfronts and under awnings. Peter Diamond strode through the rain without caring, his thoughts ten months in the past and a hundred miles away, picturing Steph's meeting with the person who was armed and ready to execute her.

From that day to this the question uppermost in Diamond's mind had been 'Why?' Elusive, maddening, paining, it had always been the key. He'd been certain he would find Steph's killer when he understood. He'd not wavered, tortuous as the route had been.

Finally, he knew.

The motive wasn't rage or passion or revenge or greed. It wasn't malice. It was more appalling than any of those: a decision made in cold blood and carried out impassively. Steph had died for no better reason than that she had made a phone call that - unknown to her - undermined a killer's alibi.

He understood enough about the tunnel vision of the murdering mind to know that her life, her individuality, the precious, warm, vital person she was, had not come into the reckoning. She was a risk, so she was eliminated.

Sheer, bloody-minded persistence had got him to the truth. No inspiration, no shaft of light, just his refusal to give in.

The saloon bar of the Forester was almost empty. Stormy was in there, seated at a table with his back to the door. Inconveniently, someone else was with him, a woman. Dark-haired, well made-up, probably around forty, she was in a backless peacock blue dress you wouldn't have expected to see outside a nightclub.

Diamond marched up to the table and said, 'Can we have words?'

Stormy turned in his seat. 'Peter?' He tried to make it sound like a greeting, and didn't convince. 'What brings