Ingeborg was a sharp mover. He had not anticipated this. Stiffly he commented, 'The information may have seemed useful at the time, ma'am, but events have moved on.'
'I see.'
'This was before we eliminated that old skull from our inquiry. Miss Smith had a theory about a missing woman.'
'She seems anxious to be of use.'
And how, thought Diamond. 'Did she tell you she wants to join the police?'
'Really? No, she didn't say so.'
'I expect she's saving it up. Better not say I tipped you off, ma'am.'
'Right you are.'
'She'd be an asset by the sound of it.'
'Do you think so?'
'To the police choir, anyway.' Diamond took a half-step in the direction of the door. 'If that's all, ma'am?'
'There is one other thing,' said the ACC, as if she had just thought of it. 'You made a strong impression last night at the PCCG, I was informed.'
'PCC…? Ah, yes.'
'You put the crime statistics into perspective very neatly.'
'Did I?'
'But if I were you, I should soft-pedal with Councillor Sturr at future meetings. He's a powerful man in the community.'
'Did you say 'future meetings'?' Diamond felt a pulse throb in his forehead: the old hypertension. Surely that meeting had been a one-off. The way he'd been dragooned into going, simply because he'd happened to walk up a corridor at the wrong moment, had not suggested it was a permanent arrangement.
'Absolutely. From all I hear, you represented us admirably. I can't think of anyone better equipped to do the job.'
He reeled out of that office in no doubt who had lumbered him. John Wigfull. Who else could have taken back tales of the meeting? Between Ingeborg Smith and Wigfull, he would have to watch his back in future.
IN A shop at the lower end of Milsom Street, Donna was trying on pink high-heeled shoes with the dinkiest little bows you ever saw. They were adorable, only they pinched. The assistant went off to look for something similar in a wider fitting and while Donna massaged her toes and wondered if she could put up with the discomfort, Joe suggested meeting later for coffee in a French place they had discovered the morning before. Donna didn't reply. For just such a situation as this, Joe had collected an address card from the cafe. He wrote 11.30 across the top, placed it beside Donna's bag and left unobtrusively.
He found Union Passage without difficulty. It was one of those narrow walkways that add so much interest to the older English towns. Too bad that O. Heath no longer had a bookstore there.
He made enquiries in a couple of shops and they said they had no recollection of a secondhand bookshop in Union Passage, unless he meant a charity shop.
'No, no, this was a regular bookstore dealing in rare antiquarian books,' Joe said for the second time.
And now he was in luck, because one of the customers, a tall, white-bearded man, said, 'Excuse me, but if you're speaking of Mr Heath, he retired a long time ago. It must be ten years, at least. The business closed down altogether, which was a pity, because it was a smashing little shop, an absolute treasure house for book- lovers.'
'Do you know what happened to him?'
'Mr Heath? He's still about. I see him in the library sometimes, elderly now, but very upright still. I can't tell you where he lives.'
'Maybe the library can. Where is it?' Persistence was one of Joe's virtues, though some would argue that it was the other thing. He looked at his watch. Donna would still be testing the endurance of the shoeshop staff.
The library assistant he spoke with said they weren't allowed to pass on addresses, but it was quite possible that the information he wanted was on the shelves. Her eyes slid sideways, towards the section where the phone directories were. Why the British never said what they meant in simple words, Joe had never fathomed. But the information was helpful. The only O. Heath listed in Bath lived in Queen Square. He didn't need to ask for directions. He had his pictorial map. It would just be a short walk.
THE VOICE came loud and clear over the answerphone: 'Do I know you, Professor?'
'I'm afraid you don't, sir. I'm from Columbus, Ohio, and I recently bought a book that-'
'A book? Come up straight away. First floor, first left,' the voice cut in.
A tall, silver-haired gentleman in brown corduroys and a black polo-neck was standing at his open door. He extended a hand. 'Oliver Heath. I'd better say at once that I've given up dealing, but I do enjoy meeting another book man.'
Joe was shown into an apartment that might easily have passed for a bookshop. A couple of the floor-to- ceiling shelves had ornaments and family photographs, but otherwise only the spines of books were showing. Good books, too, many in fine bindings.
'Do you specialise?' Oliver Heath asked. 'As you see, I go in for criminology and the theatre. You'd be surprised how much overlap there is.'
Joe had the precious copy of Milton's poems under his arm. He took it from its paper bag. 'Then I begin to understand how you were able to part with this one, sir. It falls outside your main interests.'
'May I see?' The old man took a pair of half-glasses from his pocket. Handling the book with the care of a specialist, he glanced at the cover, opened it, found his sticker inside, examined the title page and leafed through the rest. 'The one-volume Dr Johnson edition. I do remember this one. I suppose I remember most of the books I acquired over the years. I can't tell you what I paid for it, but it was on my shelf for a good long time. Not in the best of condition. I expect I disposed of it when I gave up the business in Union Passage. Where did you find it?'
'At Hay-on-Wye.'
This was cause for a smile. 'Sooner or later everything of no special distinction seems to end up there.' He handed back the book.
Joe felt insulted. He had not intended to point out to Oliver Heath that the find of all finds had slipped through his hands. He had no wish to inflict unnecessary pain. But that condescending phrase 'of no special distinction' caught him off guard. He reacted instinctively. 'Sir, I wouldn't have thought Mary Shelley's personal copy of Milton was without distinction.'
The smile faded. Oliver Heath gave a prim tug at his spectacles. 'May I see it again?'
'Certainly.'
A longer inspection. He took the book closer to a desk-lamp. 'I take it that the hand-writing on the cover leads you to assume it belonged to Mary Shelley?'
Joe nodded. 'Those were her initials before she married and that was her address.'
'She lived in Bath?'
'She wrote Frankenstein in Bath, or most of it.'
Oliver Heath became conciliatory. 'Strange. I didn't know that. Here I am purporting to be a bookseller and I didn't know that.'
'You're in good company,' said Joe. 'It's a piece of information you have to go looking for. People with a special interest in the Shelleys know about it, but for some reason it's ignored in this city.'
'Intellectual snobbery, no doubt.'
'I wasn't going to say that.'
'But I can. I know my own city. They're happy with stories about silly young women in poke bonnets, but the greatest of all monster novels is about as welcome here as a cowpat on the cobbles. Well, congratulations, Professor. You evidently found a bargain in Hay. Would it be indiscreet to ask how much it cost you?'
'Twenty pounds. I, em, rubbed out the price.'
'Sensible, in the circumstances. Twenty is about right, going by the state of it. You can probably add several
