“So-getting back to your conversation over dinner- did you talk about her work?”
“Hardly at all. Mostly we discussed Swedish cooking and various cars I’ve owned.”
Heady stuff! Diamond thought. “You’re a keen driver?”
“Used to be.”
“Was she?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted to keep the man talking.
“She seemed to understand what I was on about, only I don’t think she owned a car. She said you could manage easily in Bath without one, what with the minibuses and the trains.”
“And friends with cars. You drove her back to Larkhall after the meal in the Beaujolais?”
“Yes.” Mountjoy was becoming twitchy again, rubbing the gun against his sleeve.
“Did you get the impression that the house was empty?”
“It was. It was in darkness. We had it to ourselves. I thought I had it made until she started on about the Iraqi students I was enrolling. Then I knew she’d set me up. I was pretty sure she had a tape recorder running somewhere.”
“Of course,” Diamond said aloud, and it sounded as if he’d expected nothing less, whereas in reality he spoke the words self-critically. Of course she would have used a tape recorder, a top journalist. “Did you look for it?”
“There was no need. She went on about evidence and pictures and documentation, but I admitted nothing. Didn’t even finish the coffee. I got up and left. I was pretty upset, but I saw no point in giving her abuse.”
“She saw you to the door?”
“If you mean she followed me downstairs saying she’d got all the evidence she wanted and I deserved everything that was coming to me, yes. She slammed the door after me. I walked to where I’d parked my car in St. Saviours Road and drove home.”
“Did you see anybody along the street?”
For some reason this inflamed Mountjoy. “I was too bloody angry to notice. Look, I’ve told you all this at least a dozen times before, you fat slob. You’re just trying to fob me off with this horseshit about the crusty. Britt Strand was a class act. She wouldn’t mix with rubbish.”
“She didn’t normally. She was using him, the same as she used you.”
“What for?”
“A story about a squat in Bath.”
“That’s no story. That wouldn’t even make an inside page in the local paper. I’m not satisfied, Diamond. We had an arrangement. I trusted you. When are you going to deliver?”
“Soon.”
“Tomorrow.”
Diamond thought fleetingly of the man lying unconscious in the RUH. “That’s too soon.”
“Tomorrow-or never.” He tugged open the door and was gone.
All Diamond had to do was pick up the phone and tip off Warrilow. Instead, he went to the kettle and switched it on, picked a sachet of coffee from the bowl and emptied it into a cup. He spilled some of the Nescafe, not because he was in a state of shock, but because he was cack-handed. Always had been. Couldn’t help it. He could handle an interview.
Well, considering his interview wasn’t planned, he hadn’t done too badly. True, he hadn’t confirmed whether Samantha Tott was still alive, but he had just teased out the clue that would transform the investigation.
If there was time.
His elation was short-lived. There was a strange sound in the room, a whine, rising to a fast crescendo, followed by a click. Acrid fumes invaded his nose. There was no water in the kettle and he’d burnt out the element.
Chapter Eighteen
Regardless of Peter Diamond’s warning that the day ahead promised to be a demanding one, his assistant Julie turned down the offer of the Heritage Platter. She breakfasted on muesli and tea, refusing to be tempted by the appetizing smell of crisp bacon and fried eggs wafting across the table. Diamond had once heard muesli likened to the sweepings from a hamster’s cage and had never touched the stuff since. He decently refrained from saying so.
They had a window table overlooking the lawn of Queen Square with its mighty plane trees. A table with starched linen cloth, silver tea service, silver cutlery and fresh flowers. Never mind the gray sky outside; the big, bald ex-detective, chatting affably to his attractive escort, was oblivious of the weather. He was basking in the interested glances of the Germans and Americans he had met in the bar the previous evening, for none of them had seen Julie arrive at the hotel entrance at 8:30.
“Brought my wife here for a meal once,” he reminisced with her. “Bit of a scene I caused. We must have had something to celebrate. Maybe it was when I got promoted to superintendent. Well, we ate a good meal and I asked Steph if she wanted a liqueur with her coffee. We’re not liqueur-drinking people normally. She likes to surprise me, though. She said she’d like a glass of that Italian stuff they set alight and serve with a coffee bean floating in it. We’d seen it once and she’d been keen to try.”
“Sambuca.”
“That’s right. Sambuca. It smells of aniseed. I wouldn’t touch it myself, but I was feeling chuffed that night and willing to order whatever the love of my life requested. It duly arrived at the table flaming merrily. We watched it for a bit and then Steph asked how long it would go on burning, because she wanted a taste. I said I thought you had to put the flame out. There wasn’t anything to hand except an empty wine glass, so, having told her the scientific principle that a flame needs air to keep it alight, I put the bottom of the wine glass over the liqueur glass. Result: the flame disappeared. I lifted up the wine glass. What I’d forgotten is that liqueurs are sticky. The rim of the glass stuck to the wine glass and it came up with it-”
“Oh God!” said Julie, beginning to laugh.
“-and then dropped on the table and tipped over.”
“No!”
“Unfortunately the flame hadn’t gone out completely. Next thing we had a fire going. Flames leaping up in front of me. I had to grab a soda syphon to put it out. The tablecloth was scorched and we had to be moved to another table to finish our coffee.”
Tears of amusement ran down Julie’s face. “I heard you were accident prone.”
“Who told you that?”
She wiped her eyes. “We’ve all got our weak points. My trouble is, I can never remember who told me things.”
True to his promise, he said nothing about the investigation until they had finished eating. Then he gave her a near-verbatim account of his latest brush with Mountjoy. “And now I’ve got a real problem,” he confided. “A jumbo-sized dilemma. Do I report all this to the top brass at Manvers Street? You’ll say I’m duty bound.”
“I think you are,” said she.
“But I’ve got nothing of substance to pass on except the fact that he is armed.”
“That’s more than enough.”
He continued as if Julie hadn’t spoken, “I learned sweet FA about Samantha, or where they are holed up. If I tell Warrilow that Mountjoy is carrying a handgun, he’ll issue weapons and some idiot will shoot him on sight.”
“You can’t not tell them,” she argued. “He could shoot an officer and you’d have to live with that knowledge.”
He sighed heavily. “He’s an idiot. He’s supposed to be trying to prove his innocence. Why does he need a bloody gun? I wasn’t going to jump him.”
“I suppose he wanted to give you a fright. He wants quick results.”
“In his shoes, so would I. But he’s getting good value from me. We’re in there pitching, Julie.” He spotted an uneaten slice of toast on the next table and reached for it. “I don’t need a gun at my head.”
She nudged the conversation forward. “You spoke of something Mountjoy said that throws the whole inquiry into uncertainty again.”
