“Did you hear any more about the accident?” Julie asked.
“She never mentioned anything to me.”
Diamond said, “Didn’t you bring it up? I mean, you had her car sitting in your shed long after you split up with her.”
Pinkerton gave a shrug. “You’re going to find this hard to believe, but it’s true. I forgot all about the thing. My business was expanding. I was being given new bands almost every month, creating sensational new sounds. Bloody snowed under.”
“You’re quite sure she didn’t discuss the accident again?”
“Not with me. It was a sensitive area. I mean, she cut out the booze completely, and we both knew why. And as far as I know, she stopped driving.”
“The way you described it when I interviewed you last time was different. You led me to believe that you hadn’t the foggiest idea why she gave up.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Give me a break, man. I didn’t want to get involved.”
“We’re investigating a murder, and you ask me to give you a break?” Diamond piped. “You’ve withheld evidence, put me in risk of my life, and you ask me to give you a break? You’re joking. And I’m not satisfied with your answers. I don’t believe you forgot about the car’s existence.”
“It’s gospel truth,” insisted Pinkerton.
“It’s bullshit. When she was murdered, and there was all the stuff in the papers, you must have thought of the car.”
He rubbed his face.
“Out with it,” said Diamond.
He sighed. “Okay-I kept quiet about the motor. I’m bloody well-known in the biz, Mr. Diamond, much bigger than you realize. As it was, I had the press on to me asking questions about my relationship with Britt. I said it was over, history, and that was the truth. If they’d known I still had her car, they’d have put the knife in, and so would you. No one would have believed we broke up.”
“You told me when we spoke before that you kept in touch with her. Was that correct?”
“Sure. We stayed friends.”
“And she never mentioned the accident or the car?”
“I told you it was a sensitive area.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About three weeks before she died. In Milsom Street, by chance. She was alone, shopping.”
“What was said?”
“Nothing much. We got up to date. I gave her the dope on the bands I was working with and she talked about the magazines she was in. That’s all. Just a few minutes in the street.”
“Did you speak on the phone after that?”
“No. It was definitely the last time. I’ve told you everything now, honest to God.”
“What was the point of all that?” Farr-Jones demanded in an irritated tone. “I was led to believe you were about to extract a confession of murder.”
“Murder? No. Vital information, yes,” said Diamond.
“Hearsay, most of it.”
“True,” he conceded.
“He did admit to keeping the car hidden,” said Julie. “He conspired with her to withhold evidence.”
“You’re not seriously proposing to charge him with that?” said Farr-Jones. “I’ve had a very long day, you know, and it’s late. Personally, I’m adjourning until tomorrow.”
“Right, sir,” said Diamond mildly. “What time would you care to see us?”
“Is there any more to discuss?”
“Some clearing up.”
“Eleven o’clock, then.” The thought of another day made Farr-Jones yawn.
“Fine,” said Diamond. “Outside the church?”
“Which church? It isn’t Sunday, is it?”
“Steeple Ashton.”
“Whatever for?”
When Farr-Jones had left, Diamond shook his head slowly. “He’s had a very long day. Doesn’t it bring tears to your eyes, Julie?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
By one of those contradictions that enhance the charm of the English countryside, the parish church at Steeple Ashton has no steeple. A storm removed it in 1670. The tower survived and dominated the village and the landscape north of Westbury Hill, for even in its truncated form St. Mary’s is a tall church. Knobbly pinnacles in profusion compensate for the lack of a steeple, and, if anything, the building looks over-ostentatious rather than incomplete. The lavishness of the decoration is a testimony to the profits of the wool trade in medieval Wiltshire and curiously most of the gargoyles carved on its hood molds and battlements have the chunky character of knitted toys.
All this was lost on the group of senior policemen stamping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands while they stood under the south porch like mourners waiting to line up behind a coffin. A hard frost had whitened the churchyard and a sharp east wind was blowing.
Precisely as the hour of eleven showed on the blue and gold dial of the church clock, Peter Diamond and Julie Hargreaves came around the side of the building.
“Good day to you, gentlemen. Is everyone here?”
It was a gratifying turnout. As well as Farr-Jones and Tott, there were John Wigfull, Keith Halliwell and a pair of uniformed inspectors who had earlier been assigned to Commander Warrilow. The latter, to everyone’s relief, had returned in triumph to the Isle of Wight the same morning with his patched-up prisoner.
Diamond and Julie had arrived more than an hour before and made use of every minute; their comings and goings in the frost showed as gray tracks between the graves in the section of churchyard to the west of the church.
“Would you care to follow me, then? This won’t take long.” Diamond picked a fresh track over the crisp turf, leading the others in single file toward a layout of graves as regular as an actor’s teeth. Eventually he stopped beside a plot with a short stone cross as headstone. On it was a simple inscription:
GEORGINA MAY HIGGINSON
13/9/1981 – 17/10/1988
“Barely seven,” remarked Tott.
“Dreadfully sad,” murmured Halliwell, the most sensitive of the group. Something else had needed to be said, even though words were inadequate.
“You’ll have noticed the date, sir,” Diamond said for the benefit of Farr-Jones.
“October,‘88. You’re assuming this little girl was the victim of the hit-and-run accident?”
“We’re certain of it. This is the only child’s grave we could find for 1988.”
Farr-Jones blew out a plume of white breath. “Did this child actually die in a road accident? Have you checked with records?”
“DI Hargreaves just has, on her personal.”
Julie reported, “A child of this name was knocked down and killed by a car, here in Steeple Ashton, opposite the village stores, at 4:45 P.M. on this date. The driver was never traced.”
Diamond added, “The next of kin are John Higginson, father, resident in Belfast, and Prue Shorter, mother, who still lives here. She is the photographer who worked with Britt Strand.”
Up to now, each statement had made sense to Farr-Jones. The last one did not, and his face showed it.
Diamond explained, “Miss Shorter offered to work for Britt some time in the summer of 1990, almost two years after the child was killed. She had a strong suspicion by then that Britt had been the driver of that car, but she
