'You've got to remember Fulham was fifteen years ago, Dave. Hello, we've got action.'
A dark green Range Rover had pulled up outside the house and a man in combat trousers and a khaki vest got out. He had the look of a body-builder, with heavily tattooed arms.
'That isn't Beach, is it?' Stormy said.
'Not the way I remember him,' Diamond said. 'I remember a puny guy.'
The muscleman pressed the doorbell.
'Just a caller, then.'
'Or a customer.'
'What - come to buy a gun?'
'Keep your eyes on the door, Dave. Let's see who opens it.'
Unfortunately, nobody did. The caller tried the bell twice more, looked at his watch, stood back and looked up to the balcony, and then gave up, returned to his car and drove off.
'We've wasted our time again,' Stormy said.
'No, look. Coming round the corner.'
The woman in the floppy hat and red leather had started up the hill towards the terrace, this time carrying a folded magazine.
Diamond watched, and something made him sure he'd seen her before. He couldn't tell the colour of her hair under the hat, but the face was one he knew. She wasn't Janie Forsyth, the she-cat who had attacked him, and she wasn't Danny Carpenter's wife, Celia. He needed a closer look.
Without a word to Stormy, he opened the door of the car and stepped across the street and stood outside the house.
Ten yards from him, the woman hesitated. Diamond stared, frowned and stared harder. It required a great leap of the imagination to tell that this lady in red leather was not, after all, a lady.
'Wayne?'
Wayne, if it was he, turned and started running back down the hill. Diamond pursued. His overweight, lumbering movement was about as ineffectual as his quarry's, hampered by high heels. But he kept running and managed to reach out and get a hand on a leather sleeve at the street corner and bring the chase to a skidding halt. He swung the person around and when they were face to face it was obvious he was right. This was not, after all, a woman. This was a skilfully made-up, smartly groomed, cross-dressed Wayne Beach. Prison life generally leaves its mark on an ex-con, but the result, in this case, had been unusual.
'How long have you been out, Wayne?'
The face tautened, making a mockery of the lipstick and foundation. 'What do you want? Who are you? I know you, don't I?' The voice also was at odds with the get-up, all too guttural.
Diamond showed his warrant card and reminded Beach who he was and how they'd met.
'You look different. You've changed,' Beach said.
'That's rich. What's all this nonsense, flouncing about in skirts?'
'It's a free country. I can dress how I want.'
'Is it a disguise, or what?'
'These are the clothes I choose to wear now. I don't need to justify them to you or anyone else.'
'Have you had the operation?'
'No, but I might.'
'What are you doing here in Bristol?'
'Visiting.'
'Come off it, Wayne. You live here. The house with the yellow door. Are you going to invite us in?'
'Us?' Beach looked across the street and saw Stormy Weather close the car door and step towards them. 'Beetroot face, as well? I know him. Once seen, never forgotten. What's going on?'
'Questions, that's all, if you play it right.'
'I did my time. You've got no right to persecute me.'
Stormy came over and took stock with a hyperthyroid stare. He shook his head and said, 'Well, I'll be buggered.'
'I wouldn't bank on it,' Diamond said. 'However, Wayne is going to invite us into his house for a coffee and answer our questions.'
'I don't have to,' Wayne said.
'I don't have to go to a magistrate for a warrant, but I will if I'm pressed.'
The bluff worked. Wayne felt in his shoulder-bag for a key and in so doing gave Diamond enough of a glimpse of the magazine he was holding to show it was the
'Nice pad.'
