The scientists proved by DNA analysis that they came from my wife.'
To say that it couldn't be worse was no exaggeration. The case was buttoned up now.
Out of charity for the man's state of mind, Diamond softened his conclusion. 'I understand your concern, Professor. These days you can't buck the scientists. There was a time when forensic evidence gave rise to different interpretations. Each side had its own set of experts. But with genetic fingerprinting, it's cut and dried. Faced with evidence like that, I'd have charged Mrs Didrikson with murder myself.' Bloody ironic, he thought as he said it. Peter Diamond conceding infallibility to the men in white coats.
'Surely there's room for doubt,' said Jackman. 'What if someone else used the car?'
'You mean she lent it to the murderer? You'd have to ask her. She said nothing about it when I interviewed her.'
'But would she? At that stage you didn't know the car had been used to move Gerry's body.'
'Her lawyers will have to ask her, then. I wouldn't place too much hope on it.'
Silence dropped between them as divisively as if the grille over the bar had been lowered.
Jackman hesitated, locked in thoughts of his own, staring down into the brandy glass and rotating the dregs of his drink. Finally, he said, 'That inspector who took over from you.'
'John Wigfull? Chief Inspector now.'
'Yes. Don't get me wrong, Mr Diamond, but one hears a lot in the press about wrongful convictions. From my observations of the man, he's highly ambitious. He seemed almost fanatically -'
Diamond cut in sharply, 'Don't say it, Professor. I'm not stabbing former colleagues in the back.'
'I'm trying to account for the inexplicable.'
'Obviously. Drink up, will you? I have some tables to clear.'
An hour after getting to bed dog-tired, he was still actively engrossed with what he had heard from Jackman. Stupid. He had no desire to get involved again. Any assistance he gave the defence would be taken as sour grapes, an embittered attempt to get back at John Wigfull.
From all he had heard, the case against Dana Didrikson was unassailable now that the forensic team had linked her car to the crime. Jackman's doting support would only strengthen the prosecution's hand. The motive couldn't be spelt out more clearly if Jackman had chartered a plane and flown over the city trailing a banner with the words 'Dana loves Greg'.
Yet he'd always felt that there was another dimension to the murder. Loose ends dangled tantalizingly. That strange business of the fire, and the question whether Geraldine Jackman had really meant to kill her husband. Was she paranoid, as Jackman had asserted more than once?
Then there was the extraordinary scene Dana Didrikson and Matthew had witnessed in the drive of John Brydon House, when Geraldine had fought with the man she called Andy, apparently to stop him from leaving. Was Andy her lover, wanting out?
And why hadn't the Jane Austen letters turned up?
He must have fallen into a shallow sleep for a time, because when he woke, it was still only 1.55 by the clock, and he was repeating question and response in the kind of maddening litany that troubled sleep induces: 'Who have I overlooked? Louis Junker, Stanley Buckle, Roger Plato, Andy somebody, Molly Abershaw…'
He sat up and thought, why am I bothering?
Nobody else does, except Jackman.
Wigfull is sleeping the contented sleep of a man who has wrapped up a case.
Maybe I'll sit up a little longer and think.
Chapter Six
HE PHONED JACKMAN AT THE university the next morning – disregarding his own judgement that it was unwise to get involved. The slender possibility that Dana Didrikson was innocent of murder impelled him to pass on an idea that had come to him in the small hours. 'Look, I've remembered something that could possibly have a bearing on the case. I'm passing it on to you because I believe it might bring out the truth, but I don't want you mentioning my name to the lawyers, or anyone else, do you understand?'
'What is it?'
Jackman was too eager for Diamond's peace of mind.
'You guarantee to keep me out of it?'
'Absolutely.'
'It concerns Mrs Didrikson's car.'
'Go on.'
'You said the forensic tests established that your wife's body had been placed in the boot of the Mercedes, right? The assumption is that Mrs Didrikson drove with it to the lake. When I interviewed her some days ago, she told me she had to keep a log of every journey.'
'A log?' Jackman picked out the word and repeated it without yet understanding its significance.
'It was a company car. The mileage showing on the gauge had to be written in the book each time, even for private trips. Get hold of that log, and you can find out what use she made of the car on Monday, 11 September and the days immediately after. If someone else used the car to transport the body from Widcombe to Chew Valley Lake, that's a round trip of thirty miles. It must show up in the figures.'
'Jesus Christ, you're right!' Jackman paused and then, sensing a catch, said with less buoyancy, 'But what if it doesn't show?'
'It has to. The only way a journey of that length could be wiped from the record is by falsifying the log… either inventing a trip to some other place, or making it appear part of a longer run. The point is, she would have noticed if there was a bogus entry.'
'True.'
'And if she falsified the log herself, it should be simple to check. One way or the other, you'll know.'
'Yes.' The enthusiasm was ebbing from his voice.
'Do you follow me, Professor?'
'Thank you, yes. I'll be in touch.'
'There's really no need.' Some people are afraid of the truth, Diamond thought. He put down the phone and looked for something else to do. It was a problem having so much time to fill.
Almost a week passed before Jackman phoned the bar one evening at a moment when it was under siege from the disco clientele.
'Who is this?'
'Greg Jackman. I've blown it.'
'What? I can't hear you.'
'The mileage log. I've really screwed things up for Dana.'
'Listen, this isn't a good time. People are lining up in front of me here.'
'Shall I come over?' Jackman asked, his agitated state obvious in his tone.
'No, it's too damned busy.' Diamond put his hand over the mouthpiece and promised two tattooed customers with punk haircuts that he would serve them directly. Then he told Jackman, 'I'll be on the go until closing.'
'Come to the house, then.'
'When do you mean – tonight?'
'Thanks. I'll be waiting.'
He'd meant to protest, not acquiesce. With so many people crowding the bar, he hadn't time to make himself better understood.
After the last customers had been persuaded to leave, and the doors were bolted, he thought of phoning Jackman again, then dismissed the thought. It wouldn't put the man off. The desperation behind the voice wasn't going to recognize that people were entitled to their sleep.
It was after midnight when he drove up to John Brydon House. Jackman came to the steps and put a hand on his upper arm like a despairing relative receiving the doctor on a visit.
'I really appreciate this.'
