“The young woman who died shortly after of meningitis?”
“That’s correct. Had she lived-”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation, sir. You’d have a cast-iron alibi.” Diamond was at his combative best. The danger, he knew, was that he could dominate too much and shock his adversary into quiescence. “Your statement of four years ago had you in the flat in Walcot Street on the crucial evening with this young woman. What was her name?”
“Kelly McClure.”
“Could anyone else vouch for this?”
“I told you at the time. No.”
“Pity. I’m doing my best for you. You gave me some indispensable information that proved to be correct and the least I can do is help you out.”
“What information was that?” Martin asked, suspicious of this change of tactics.
“Things Britt confided, about her landlord pestering her, giving her presents and so forth. It was true. I verified it. You must have been a good listener for Britt to have talked so frankly.”
Martin didn’t accept the compliment. “It was only her way of telling me to keep off. She was being uncomplimentary about men in general when she said it.”
“You also put us on to another man in her life: G.B., the crusty.”
“He wasn’t a serious boyfriend,” said Martin. “She was using him.”
“She told you that?”
“Couldn’t have made it plainer.” He was more willing to talk now the spotlight had moved elsewhere. “She was a bloody good journalist doing the professional thing, buttering up a contact. She was writing this article about the crusties in Bath.”
“I know. You’re sure she wasn’t playing the same game with you?”
He frowned. “What game?”
Diamond unfolded a theory that he had not discussed with Julie, or anyone, for the very good reason that it had only just occurred to him. “You just said it: buttering up a contact.”
“What could I tell her?”
“You tell me, Mr. Martin. Show jumping is an upper-crust sport that I’m sure has a place in the glossy magazines she wrote for. She was a good rider herself, so she probably followed the careers of international riders like yourself. No professional sport is without its scandals and you’re well placed to tell all.”
Martin sounded skeptical. “Oh, yes?”
Dredging deep-because he was ignorant about the horse world-Diamond said, “The doping of horses, for instance. What’s that painkilling drug they give them-bute, is it called?”
“You’re way behind the times.” Martin scathingly dismissed the suggestion.
Unperturbed, Diamond said, “But what sells magazines- the sort she wrote for-is human interest, never mind our four-legged friends. People-trading. Present company excepted, the things people are willing to do to make it big in show jumping or eventing. I bet you can tell some tales.”
“If I did,” said he, “I’d be out. Do you think I’d chuck in my career?”
“If you did, you’d have a motive for murder.”
“What?”
“You give her the dirt, regret it later, go back and silence her.”
“No.” Martin hammered the seat in front with his fist. “I’ve told you the truth. Britt wasn’t interested in me or my career. She simply came to my place to ride. I fancied her, drove her home a few times, but she left me in no doubt that she wanted to be left alone. Is that too difficult for you to grasp?”
Outside, the daylight had gone. Dusk is a nonevent on some October evenings. All the other cars had left except a Range Rover that must have belonged to Martin. And still nothing of substance had emerged from this interview. Stubbornly Diamond began casting the net for one more trawl.
“All right, Mr. Martin. I’m accepting what you’ve told me. You didn’t make love to her. You didn’t give her material for a story. You didn’t kill her.” He let that sink in before saying, “You’re still a witness, and you could be a crucial one. You spoke to her several times in the last month of her life. You’ve told me about other men she mentioned-Billington and G.B. Was there anyone else?”
Martin thought a moment said, “No.”
Diamond continued to probe. “I asked you once before if she ever mentioned John Mountjoy.”
“I didn’t know of his existence until I heard he was arrested.”
“Right. Did she speak of anyone else indirectly, without speaking his name, any other man she was seeing?”
“No.”
“Someone, perhaps, who was watching her, someone she didn’t even know? Did you get the impression that she knew she was under threat?”
“No. Quite the contrary. She had this air of confidence.”
“As if she was in control of her life?”
“Yes. Well…” He stopped.
At Martin’s side in the darkness, Peter Diamond waited.
“She did once confide that she-how did she express it?-that she didn’t want to be under an obligation to anyone. I think I offered to forget the fee she owed me for the riding. She insisted on paying. She said once a friend had helped her out at a difficult time. She said something about acts of kindness putting the recipient under an obligation.”
“Did she tell you the name?”
“No.”
“A man?”
“Yes, I got that impression.”
“And he was troubling her?”
Martin shook his head. “She didn’t put it like that. I’m trying to remember what she did say. The sense I got was that she’d been through some major crisis a couple of years back.”
“Here-in this country?”
“I think so. It must have been here, because she talked about him as if he was still about, somewhere close. Anyway, he helped her through the crisis, and this involved some kind of risk on his part. She felt obligated and she wasn’t comfortable with that.”
“She was worried that he’d call in the debt, so to speak?”
“I don’t know.”
“And that was all?”
“It may be that I’ve got it out of proportion. It was only said to-”
Diamond closed him down abruptly. “You can leave now.” He leaned across and pushed open the car door.
When it was shut again, Diamond told Julie, “Conkwell. We’re going to Conkwell.”
She asked if he wished to move into the front seat.
“No,” he said. “We’ve got to be quick. We don’t have as much time as I thought.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Approaching the pub called the Weston, they saw brake lights coming on and remembered the tailback caused every evening along that section of the Upper Bristol Road. Diamond was fretting. He asked if there wasn’t some shortcut.
“The best I can do is cross the river at Windsor Bridge,” Julie offered. “I was going that way anyway. Why Conkwell?”
“Mm?”
“You did say you wanted to be driven to Conkwell. I was asking why, that’s all.”
