Skeleton Hill

The police car drew up beside the ancient Land Rover. Major Swithin was the first out. ‘Any sign of the blighter, Agnes?’

The old lady lowered the glasses. ‘He’s gone in. I spotted him heading for the grandstand end. I think he knows we’re onto him.’

‘That is a possibility,’ Sullivan said, exchanging a look with his Beckham-obsessed colleague. She was still tongue-tied. ‘We’ll take over, then.’

‘You’re not proposing to go it alone?’ the major said in a shocked tone. ‘We’ll come with you.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll stop here, the pair of you. I’ll need a witness statement from you.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Not to say ungrateful,’ Agnes added.

Regardless, Sullivan walked away, heading for the open gates to the left of the turnstiles. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be in a job where the clients give no trouble, like grave-digging?’ he said to Denise Beal.

He should have known better than to ask Denise a rhetorical question.

‘Personally,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t enjoy digging graves, but I once had a part-time job doing a survey in Milsom Street, asking people questions about their favourite footballers, and, do you know, four out of every five – girls mostly, I must admit – nomin ated David Beckham, which gave me my opportunity because really I was only there to suggest they tried his new perfume. Isn’t it amazing how easily you can get people to talk? Have you noticed it yourself?’

‘I don’t have to try,’ he said.

And she proved it by going on some more about Beckham.

They faced the two grandstands along the finishing straight, the Premier – for the super-rich and sponsors – and the G & P – the Grandstand and Paddock – for those who prefer paying less. The whole complex had plenty of places where a fugitive from justice might hide. Sullivan’s gaze also took in some low buildings away to the right.

‘We’ll split up,’ he said. ‘You check the stands and I’ll do the stabling area over there.’ The stables were a good two hundred metres away.

‘What if I find him?’

‘Keep him talking till I arrive. That shouldn’t be any problem for you.’

‘Is he dangerous?’

‘Compared to that idiot with the shotgun, no.’

Few places are so bleak as a racecourse enclosure on a day of no racing. Denise Beal felt uneasy, for all Andy Sullivan’s confidence. Typical of him, the senior partner, to send her to the place where the suspect was last seen. She fingered the handle of her baton. This was only her second month in the police. Some of them at the station had said she was lucky getting picked for car patrol duty, hinting heavily that her good looks had worked the magic. Others had said Andy Sullivan was the lucky one. But he’d made very clear that he was indifferent to her. He seemed to resent being partnered by a woman. Up to now, though, he’d done everything by the book. The less experienced officer always gets the rough jobs.

She thought about her obligation to keep the suspect talking, and wondered if she could cope. What do you talk about when you have to do it? The weather? The cars he’s broken into?

A pigeon flew from a ledge so close to her face that she felt the rush of air. She gave a squeak of fright. Good thing macho PC Sullivan wasn’t there to hear it. Moving on, she came to an industrial-sized rubbish bin, easily large enough for a man to hide inside. She debated whether to lift the lid, and thought better of it and walked on. Andy Sullivan need never know. He’d sent her to the danger area so what did he expect? She took a wide berth rounding the corner of the Paddock Bar and was relieved to see no one crouching there.

From here she had a good view of the course.

Not a living soul.

Putting herself through an ordeal like this wasn’t why she’d joined. She’d pictured herself doing crowd control at a Spice Girls’ revival gig, escorting the stars and their spouses to the VIP seats.

All looked deserted in the stand area at the front, so she moved on and down some steps. To her left was a recessed area, probably one of the entrances to the Premier stand where the celebs went. She wondered if Becks had ever been here. Probably not. Bath wasn’t one of the fashionable racecourses.

Then she noticed a movement in the shadows.

A man was there.

Her heart thumped against her ribcage, but not because he looked like Becks.

He fitted the major’s description, rough-looking, unshaven, shabbily dressed. Probably in his mid-forties. Torn jacket with hood, mud-stained cord trousers and sandals. His feet hadn’t seen soap for a long time. He was leaning against the wall with arms folded, showing no reaction to her.

Denise knew where her duty lay. She looked ahead to see if by some miracle Andy was in sight, but he wasn’t. She could summon him by radio, but he’d have to run all the way back from the stables before he could come to her assistance.

She stepped up to the man and said, ‘Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?’

He was silent for some time. Finally, without making eye contact, he said, ‘It’s a free country.’

She said, ‘You’re on private property here.’

‘If you say so.’ The voice was educated.

‘What’s your name?’

‘They call me Noddy.’

He’s sending me up, she thought. How do I handle this? ‘Noddy who?’

‘Just that. Noddy.’ His expression hadn’t altered. He seemed to be serious.

‘Are you local, Noddy?’

‘I must be, mustn’t I? I’ll be on my way, then.’

‘Hold on a second.’ She stared into the far distance. Still no Andy. ‘Were you in the car park just now?’

‘Which car park is that?’

‘Behind me. Not many cars there today, so it may not look like a car park, but someone like you was seen there.’

‘If you say so.’ That phrase again. It didn’t come across as defiance or evasion. This guy was passive to the point of resignation.

‘Have you been drinking, Noddy?’

He shook his head.

She said, ‘I’m trying to work out what you’re doing here.’

He spread his dirty hands. He didn’t appear to have an answer. Denise wondered if he was just some simple- minded guy unable to cope with modern life. And now she was stumped for another question.

She had a strong sense that no one would rush to congratulate her if she handcuffed Noddy and pulled him in. Even if he had been trying car doors it was probably because he was looking for food or drink. So she did what they’d advised at training school: used her initiative. ‘On your way, then. Sharpish. And stay away from cars.’

He nodded three times. Was that how he’d got his name? Then he shuffled off – towards the end Andy Sullivan would come from.

‘Not there,’ Denise said and pointed her thumb behind her, towards the golf course. ‘That’s your best your way out.’ Remembering the major and his wife, she added, ‘Don’t go through the car park.’

She moved on herself and eventually linked up with Andy Sullivan in the Grandstand and Paddock enclosure. He asked if she’d seen anyone and she shook her head. For all her compulsion to make conversation, she respected the old adage that all truths are not to be told.

‘No bad thing,’ Andy said. ‘Saves us some paperwork.’

‘The major won’t like it,’ Denise said.

‘I’m backing you to silence the major. Tell him about Posh and Becks.’

Lofty Peake phoned Diamond later in the week with his findings. ‘Your victim was about five six in height and probably under twenty, but not much under. Leaving some margin for error, I’d say she was seventeen to twenty- one. The epiphyses – those are the bony caps on the ends of the long bones – were not fully united, and that’s a pretty reliable test of age. Pity we don’t have the skull because you can tell a lot more from that.’