‘Where?’
‘The same place – the racecourse car park – but on a different day.’
‘Did she say anything to him?’
‘No. She watched him through field-glasses and he went off in the direction of the racecourse.’
‘This was…?’
‘On the Wednesday before.’
‘He was acting suspiciously and she didn’t report him?’
‘Oh, but she did. Both women did. And there was a quick response from us.’
‘Us?’
‘Uniform. They seem to have used the softly, softly approach, but that’s what they’re encouraged to do. These were misdemeanours.’
‘They spoke to the guy?’
‘At the boot sale, they did, for sure. The pie woman didn’t think much of the way they dealt with him. She wanted him clapped in irons and sent to Australia, I think.’
‘They must have got his name.’
‘Erm… ’ Wigfull looked shamefaced again. ‘He said it was Noddy.’
Diamond didn’t speak. With a throb of concern, he recalled the evening he’d been at the races with Paloma and seen the drunk almost knocked down by horses cantering to the start.
‘I’m only passing on what I was told,’ Wigfull said, misinterpreting the silence.
‘Who were they, these cops?’
‘I didn’t enquire. That didn’t seem important at the time.’
‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘No.’
Diamond put it to him straight. ‘Basically, John, you were out of order. You goofed. You had no business talking to witnesses. You told me just now you’re the PR guy.’
‘Media Relations Manager.’
‘Call it what you like, you’re here to deal with the press. These people are under the impression they reported incidents and we, the police, are dealing with them.’
‘It was just a missing person enquiry. I thought CID wouldn’t want to be bothered with that.’
‘It’s murder now.’
‘I’ll give you their names and addresses.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
The post mortem on the body found in Lansdown cemetery had been under way for twenty minutes and already
Keith Halliwell was yawning. He’d worked late last evening on the skeleton case, sifting through missing persons data. Diamond wanted it known by everyone at Bath police station that the murder team were actively investigating, even though the crime must have happened years earlier. And now it had been overtaken by this new discovery.
‘Wishing you were elsewhere, Mr Halliwell?’ Dr Sealy, the pathologist, asked.
‘I’m okay.’
‘I know you’re okay. You’re not going to faint like some first-timer. I’m asking if you’re bored.’
‘No.’
‘Because I can promise something of particular interest when we get to it.’
‘Really?’
Up to now all that had happened was a slow disrobing of the dead man. As each garment was removed the police photog rapher stepped in and took a picture.
‘Where exactly are we on identification?’ Dr Sealy asked, sipping coffee during another photo interval. ‘Do you need any pointers from me, birthmarks, scars, tattoos?’
‘My guvnor, Mr Diamond, says he knows the name.’
‘Your Mr Diamond is a smart cookie. Isn’t he the one who demonstrated that the bloodstaining on the gravestone was put there deliberately?’
‘True.’
‘He didn’t endear himself to Mr Duckett, the CSI man.’
That wasn’t the point, Halliwell felt like saying, but he settled for a shrug.
Dr Sealy added, ‘Duckett would have found the blade of grass eventually, I’m certain. Quite properly he gave his first attention to the body. Who is the victim, then? You’d better introduce us before I take liberties with him.’
Stripping a man to his boxer shorts was a liberty in Halliwell’s book, but he guessed the pathologist meant more. ‘The name is Rupert Hope and he lectured on history at Bristol University.’
‘He’s history himself now.’
‘True.’
Halliwell had never been much of a conversationalist. He was here for a purpose and so was the pathologist and he didn’t see the need to be sociable. If something of particular interest was about to be revealed he wanted to know what it was. There was nothing obvious.
Dr Sealy peeled off the boxer shorts and dropped them into a plastic evidence bag. ‘If I were one of his students I wouldn’t sit in the front row. He hasn’t changed his underwear for some time.’
‘He was living rough.’
‘A lecturer living rough? And why was that, do you think? Some sort of field trip experience, seeing how the great unwashed lived in times past?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’re the detective, not me. Let’s see if this gives you an idea.’
Halliwell’s eyes were on the body part just revealed. Nothing about it looked remarkable, let alone capable of inspiration.
But Dr Sealy had taken a step sideways and was standing at the end of the dissection table. ‘The interesting bit, the head wound. There’s no other external injury, so it deserves our attention. Step closer, Mr Halliwell, and take a proper look.’
The dead man’s head was propped on a block, allowing a view of the back of the skull.
Halliwell wasn’t squeamish. He eyed the split flesh and blood-matted hair in a dispassionate way. ‘So?’
‘You’re not really looking, are you? What do you see?’
‘A deep wound, deep enough to kill him.’
‘Agreed, but there’s something else.’
‘You’ve got me there.’
‘I think I have.’ Sealy pointed with his gloved finger. ‘Here, to the right of the laceration, some healing has taken place.’
‘After death?’ Halliwell bent closer and saw for himself the remnants of a scab with pink new skin forming a line more than two inches long. ‘How can that be?’
‘You’re looking at a wound that was made when Rupert Hope was still alive. A separate wound, just to the right of the fatal blow inflicted later. What we have, Mr Halliwell, is evidence that this unfortunate man was struck on the back of the skull twice within a few weeks. The first time wasn’t fatal. The second plainly was.’
A fresh corpse, the unfortunate Rupert Hope, had to be a new priority for Peter Diamond. Another press conference, irksome, but necessary. He’d already asked John Wigfull to set it up for 2.30 p.m., in time to make the evening news and morning papers. The story that Rupert was the missing cavalier was a gift to headline writers. With luck, some witnesses would get in touch by tomorrow. Then they’d need interviewing. This new case was going to stretch his resources. Not an insurmountable problem, he thought. He’d ask Georgina to add some
