'I'll get back to you shortly.'
He snatched up the Yellow Pages and looked under Funeral Directors. The process took over. The same afternoon, clean-shaven and showered, wearing a suit, he went into Bath, from the undertaker's to the Abbey to the Francis Hotel, making decisions about black Daimlers and brass handles and orders of service and bridge rolls and chicken wings. He was functioning again.
8
Awkward and totally out of his element he followed the coffin into Bath Abbey and up the main aisle. An early plan to use one of the apsidal chapels had been abandoned when it became clear how many wished to attend the service. Three to four hundred were seated in the main Abbey Church. The story of the shooting had featured for days in the national press and on television and people who had known Steph from years back had made the journey. The police alone numbered over sixty, among them the Chief Constable and three of ACC rank, as well as most of Bath CID and about twenty old colleagues from his years in the Met. The biggest contingent was of friends Steph had made through her work in the charity shops, customers as well as staff. There was her 'family' of Brownies grown into adult women. Then there were former neighbours from the series of places he and Steph had occupied in London and Bath.
The small family group of Steph's sister Angela with her husband Mervyn and Peter Diamond's own sister Jean and her eccentric partner Reggie looked and felt humbled by the scale of the affection represented here. None of them had known of Steph's gift for making lasting friends of almost everyone she met. Diamond knew of it, but even he hadn't expected them to come in such numbers.
One of the few who hadn't bothered to respond was Edward Dixon-Bligh, Steph's first husband. If he
Julie's advice to make a fitting occasion of this had been spot on, though in his heart of hearts Diamond wanted it over. He'd taken leave of Steph already, in those wrenching minutes kneeling beside her damaged body in the park. The service in the Abbey was for her, because she had been a believer, and for everyone else who loved her and had faith that she was going to a better place.
At odds with his agnostic leanings, he joined in the hymns as well as he could and heard the address, the readings and the prayers and wished peace and rest for her. And then followed the coffin out again and was driven to the crematorium at Haycombe for what the undertakers had termed the committal.
There, not for the first time in recent days, he had the strange sensation that he was detached from what was going on, with the power to switch off as if it were a TV programme. Some roguish part of his brain was telling him it was all a nightmare and he would go home and find her there. He had to make an effort to concentrate.
All the illusions came to a stop when the curtains slid across.
Back to the Francis for the 'light refreshments'. The pitying looks and well-meant words of consolation from her friends - and his - rammed home the certainty that she had gone and his life had altered immeasurably.
A few went so far as to ask what was happening about catching the person responsible. He answered that he didn't know. The case was out of his hands.
In truth, he did know. Things were happening, for sure. There was an incident room. Appeals to the public. Over a hundred officers at work. They knew what time the murder had taken place and where, what calibre of gun had been used, what bullets. McGarvie's first reaction had been correct. The murder weapon was a revolver, a .38. But as for the killer, they were still at a loss.
'Are you back to work yet?'
'Tomorrow.'
'Best thing, old man.'
Next morning everyone at the nick went out of their way to be sympathetic. He had to run the gaundet of goodwill before he could close his office door. He didn't count the number of times he was told it was nice to have him back. On his desk were bundles of letters that could only be messages of condolence. He shoved them to one side and leafed through the internal memos instead.
About ten-thirty came a call from McGarvie, who had the sense to treat him like a fellow professional. 'If you can spare a few minutes, I need your help.'
'On the case?' He couldn't disguise his eagerness.
'Yes - but don't get me wrong. This doesn't put you on the team. I want your services as a witness, to take a look at a suspect.'
'A line-up?'
'No. We've brought in a woman we think may be the one who scratched your face outside the law courts. You can look at her on camera, tell us if we're right.'
'You think she could be the killer?'
'Did I say that?'
'You said she was a suspect'
'For the assault on you.'
'That? I don't want anyone done for that,' Diamond said at once. 'I haven't laid a complaint.'
'Hold on, hold on. It gave me a reason to pull her in,' McGarvie explained. 'I've no plan to press a charge.'
'Ah.' His brain wasn't sharp at all.
'We'll see what else comes out. If she's so passionate about the Carpenter verdict, she might say something helpful.'
'I'm with you now.'
'Say twenty minutes?'
His confidence in McGarvie was growing, in spite of the lack of any obvious progress. He fetched a coffee from
