Diamond Dust

'If it's the killer, you can bet you won't find the name in your address book.'

'Right. The odds are on a new contact.'

'Does McGarvie have any leads?'

'I told you. McGarvie has convinced himself I forged the diary entries as some kind of red herring. Working out who 'T' might be is not high priority.'

'Are you certain it's Steph's writing?'

'No question. It's printing, actually, but she often wrote things like that.'

'You made a copy?'

'Yes.'

'Then I think you should put all your efforts into cracking this one.'

'Tell me about it!'

'Maybe the people in the charity shop heard her mention something.'

'I'll give it a go. I drew a blank at the hairdressers'.'

'You'll crack it, I'm confident of that. Could 'T' stand for a surname?'

'If you ask me, Julie, it's invented. The killer isn't going to give his real name, is he?'

'Depends. If it was someone she knew already, they wouldn't use a false name.'

'Good point. Actually, I can't see it being a surname. Steph liked to be on first-name terms with everyone. I reckon if she met the Queen, she'd be calling her Liz in a matter of minutes. I tried going through all the Christian names from Tabitha to Tyrone, but I'm convinced this is someone I haven't heard of.'

'Nicknames? Taffy? Tich? Tubby?'

'Those, too. I won't give up. I just have to cast the net wider.'

She asked how he was coping with living alone and he told her everything was under control, at the same time eyeing the curtain the search team had tugged off the rail. Why burden Julie with his problems? She didn't want to know that he hadn't slept properly since it happened, that he still reached across the bed for Steph, expecting the warmth of her smooth skin, and still ached for her wise advice, her marvellous gift of defusing the troubles he faced.

'Raffles has taken it harder than I have.'

'Poor old Raffles.'

'Cats aren't so forgiving as humans. He didn't like his litter box being searched.'

'That's a liberty.'

'Hasn't used it all day.'

'Where does he go?'

'Outside when I open the door - at the double.'

She laughed. 'At least they dug a hole for him.'

'You haven't seen the size of the hole. For a cat it would be like squatting over Beachy Head.'

'And you still can't think how the gun got from the loft to the garden?'

'No idea. That's something else I need to find out.'

'You ought to get the locks changed.'

'I should. There's plenty to keep me busy.'

'You're going to need some domestic help. A cleaner.'

'I'll cope, thanks. Life is complicated enough.'

'A cleaner would simplify it.'

'I can manage without.'

'You were always too stubborn for your own good.'

'Thanks, Julie. I'll have that on my tombstone.'

'No, there's a better epitaph than that,' she said. ''Stuff 'em all' Good luck to you, guv.'

He was starting to speak his thoughts aloud. A bad sign, so he'd always heard. Worse, he was speaking to Steph as if she were there in the room.

'You've got some explaining to do, my love. Either you buried that shooter yourself, or you know who did. I don't see a sign of anyone breaking in. It happened while you were here, didn't it? But why, Steph?'

He'd never told her he'd kept the revolver all those years. She didn't know the threats he was under when he left the Met. That was why he'd hidden it in the loft where she hardly ever went because of her fear of spiders.

'Well, now,' he continued, as if she were standing in the room. 'Just suppose you did go up there for some reason and found the damned thing. You must have been deeply shocked. You hated guns and weapons of all kinds. It would get to you, having a handgun in the house. So I guess you may have decided you couldn't live with it. I can understand that. I can even understand you thinking of burying it. What I just can't fathom, Steph, is why you didn't mention it to me. I was secretive, yes, and I'm sorry for that, more sorry than