In the quiet of his office, he scrolled through Ingeborg’s listings, most of them commonplace and trivial. Her mind-numbing task had been done at Keith Halliwell’s suggestion and at the time Diamond had thought it a monumental waste of effort, but had refrained from saying so. What possible relevance could club reunions and cross-country races have to a murder enquiry? Now that the time frame had narrowed to a few days in the summer of 1993 – from Nadia’s arrival late in July to the battle re-enactment on August 7th and 8th – the calendar was worth a look.
She had definitely arrived after Mrs Jarvie’s eightieth on July 23rd. He watched the pages roll like film credits and stopped them at the end of July, 1993.
Disappointing. A few suggestions of summer, but nothing to link to Nadia except the re-enactment – and that was only because she’d been buried close to where the fighting took place As for the rest, rare birds and big cats were staple items for newspapers in the so-called silly season. A traffic jam and a power failure didn’t spark the vague recollection he thought he had of something significant.
He scrolled on a little.
He couldn’t imagine Nadia metal-detecting or hang-gliding or golfing like some leisured Bathonian. She’d be trying to get work. Yet he had a sense that the information on the screen mattered to the case. Elusive thoughts were trying to connect in his brain. He scrolled back and started to study the list again, from the red kite onwards.
His phone beeped.
Wigfull’s voice. ‘Just to let you know that your Ukrainian girl is in tonight’s
His train of thought had derailed. ‘Nice work, John. Do you want to be part of the excitement?’
‘No, thanks. It’s my positive thinking night.’
He didn’t ask.
He took one more look at the screen before stepping into the incident room to see who was willing to do overtime. The practi-calities of managing a team had to be gone through. Paul Gilbert was game and so were a couple of the Bristol team and three civilians. Not Septimus: he’d worked more than his share of late evenings in recent days and wanted a night off.
‘Fair enough. We’ll cope,’ Diamond said.
A high profile appeal to the public always brings in responses. Most are made in good faith, even if a high proportion prove to be mistaken. Wanting to help is a human instinct. Sometimes the offers are driven more by the wish than the reality. It’s easy to convince oneself that certain events took place and fit the facts of the appeal, particularly after a long lapse of time. Additionally there are callers not so altruistic, who see an opportunity of profit. They’ll have heard about payments to informants. Usually their information is worthless. Finally there are the nuisance callers, the equivalent of the idiots who make bogus 999 calls.
Out of all this the police must sift the genuine witnesses. Diamond went over the procedure with his volunteers, stressing the known facts about Nadia: that she was Ukrainian, under twenty, a Roman Catholic, had lived for a time in London as a prostitute and was in lodgings in Lower Swainswick. She spoke good English, had been orphaned, so had no family, and she would have been wearing jeans and a T-shirt. ‘The trick is that you don’t give out any of this. You listen to the information coming in and see if it checks. Be sure to get the contact details of the informant before they tell you their story.’
As if on cue, a call came in, but it was only Ingeborg. ‘I’ve spent the entire afternoon checking on horses, guv.’
‘I was told. Any joy?’
‘Joy? I saw some adorable animals, but none that were old enough. And now it’s got so late I’d better get straight to my evening session with the cavalry, so I won’t come back, if that’s all right.’
‘It’s okay. You don’t want to be late on parade.’
‘God, no.’
‘One thing, Inge.’
‘Guv?’
‘Don’t lose sight of what you’re really there for.’
In the short time Diamond had been speaking to her, the first call had come in about Nadia. Paul Gilbert was taking it. After a few seconds he started shaking his head. He thanked the caller and rang off. ‘Wrong year. They said the Olympics were on in Barcelona. That was 1992.’
‘Good thinking,’ Diamond said. ‘Did you watch it on TV?’
‘I was only two at the time.’
‘There’s a sobering thought. I was working here. Same job, same rank.
More calls started coming in. One was a definite sighting, but only at Mass at St John’s and the caller couldn’t recall which Sunday it was. Nadia had covered her head with a dark scarf, but otherwise she was wearing the T- shirt and jeans.
‘Must have borrowed the scarf from Mrs Jarvie,’ Diamond said.
After six, when the local news was screened on HTV, a flurry of calls came in, but none proved to be of obvious help. It seemed everyone had memories of young foreign girls asking directions in Bath or enrolling for English as a Foreign Language at the Tech. The problem was that enrolment didn’t start until September. By then Nadia was almost certainly dead.
‘I’m starting to lose confidence,’ Diamond said. ‘I wish I’d joined John Wigfull for some positive thinking.’
He helped man the phones for another two hours. The results were disappointing. Three would be worth following up, but they appeared to offer little new information. Someone had spoken to a Ukrainian girl at the station on the day she arrived. Two had seen someone who looked like Nadia walking into town from Lower Swainswick.
The evening shift could be left to take any more calls. He thanked the team. ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Someone may call us tomorrow.’
Before leaving, he made a call of his own, to Paloma, inviting her for a drink and a bite to eat. She said she’d eaten already, but she’d be pleased to join him. He suggested meeting at the Blathwayt. The pub-restaurant was right at the top of the hill, a long-established watering-hole for racegoers, golfers, car-booters and travellers on the South Downs Way.
‘On Lansdown?’ she said. ‘Can’t you leave your work behind?’
‘I’ve heard they have a good chef.’
‘Be honest, Peter,’ she said. ‘You’re not going there for the food.’
‘All right, I’m combining business with pleasure, but the pleasure will be paramount.’
‘Smoothie. I don’t believe a word.’
He’d suggested 9 p.m., and made sure he arrived early enough to walk through the Blathwayt’s several dining areas checking who was there. A chat in this relaxed setting with one of his vigilante friends from the Lansdown Society wouldn’t have come amiss. The bar was doing a brisk trade, but he recognised nobody there or in the restaurant. Outside, under the patio heaters, was a candlelit section he hadn’t seen before – a development pubs everywhere were favouring since the smoking ban came in. Seeing some people leave, he moved smoothly into a seat at the table. He’d ordered his lasagne and the drinks before Paloma drove up.
‘I seem to be losing my aura of mystery,’ she said after they’d kissed. ‘You even know what I want to drink.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘I’ve
‘I don’t know if you’ve been inside lately,’ he said. ‘It’s had a makeover since I was last here. I remember it as dark and seedy.’ ‘In keeping with its past,’ she said.
He smiled. If there was background on any Bath location, Paloma knew it.
