Diamond, too, started to move on, but the ACC asked him to wait.
'That last remark was uncalled for,' she rebuked him.
'I'm sure he's heard worse than that, ma'am. He's a politician.'
'But we're not in the business of baiting people, least of all the people who make decisions about resources.' She raised her hand in salute as the councillor drove past them in his silver Mercedes, out of the car park.
'He was having a swipe at me, going on about the murdered woman. Right, I was out of order,' he said quickly, noting the muscles tighten at the edge of Georgina's mouth. 'Pressure of work, I expect.'
'I'm glad you mentioned that,' she said. 'I was going to raise it with you anyway. This is too much, the murder of the antiques dealer, coming on top of all the brouhaha about the hand in the vault. It's obvious that you can't run two inquiries yourself. You must delegate.'
The word was not in Diamond's vocabulary. 'I've got Chief Inspector Wigfull on the antiques case,' he said at once.
'In theory, yes, but you're breathing down his neck. I understand you've been with him almost all day, at the Royal Crescent, at Walcot Street.'
'It's my job,' he pointed out. 'I'm the murder man here.'
'Yes, and Mr Wigfull ran the show when you were otherwise employed.' Georgina was revealing a grasp of events that happened long before her arrival in Bath. 'This new case is well within his capacity. Let him run it his way. Keep an overview, by all means. But concentrate your efforts on the Frankenstein business. That's the number one investigation. Do you understand?'
'Has Wigfull complained?'
She said, 'Just do it, Mr Diamond. You're too easily provoked for a man of your rank. You won't go any higher in the police until you learn about priorities.'
AT ABOUT six the same evening in the Royal Crescent Hotel, someone was at the door of Joe Dougan's suite, disturbing his deep, delayed sleep. Joe's tired brain registered dimly that the knocking had been going on for some time. Groaning, he rolled off the bed and groped his way forward, practically falling over the little white balustrade that acted as a room divider. Still dressed only in boxer shorts, he opened the door to find one of the detectives who had called earlier, the one with the large moustache. This time Chief Inspector Wigfull was accompanied by two younger men in plain clothes.
'Have you found her?' Joe asked, eyes dilating like oil slicks.
'Not yet,' said Wigfull. 'With your permission, we'd like to search these rooms, sir.'
He kept a firm hold on the door. 'What for?'
Mary Shelley's writing box was the true answer to that one, but Wigfull didn't give it. He answered obliquely, 'You want us to spare no efforts in finding your wife?'
'For the love of Mike, she isn't here,' said Joe, still barring the way. There was no mistaking this detective's hostility.
'We know that.'
'You already made a search.'
'The officers who were here before weren't trained in CID work.'
'What's that in plain English?'
'Criminal investigation.' The stress Wigfull put on the first word made it into a personal slur. 'There may be other clues to her disappearance, and you wouldn't want to get in the way of the search, would you?'
Joe couldn't argue with that. He took a half-step backwards. 'Do what you want.'
CID-trained the officers may have been, but the search did not take long. The possible hiding places for an object as large as the writing box were few. Once they had looked behind furniture and curtains, above and beneath the four-poster bed and in the bathroom, the job was virtually done. With no success.
'Where are your suitcases?' Wigfull asked.
Joe's eyes bulged. 'You don't think she's in a
'I don't see them here, sir.'
'The hotel people put them in storage for us, to give us more room.'
'We'd like to see them.'
'They're empty.'
'The keys?'
Joe picked his trousers off the back of a chair, took out the keys and handed them across.
Wigfull tossed them to one of his men, who left the room.
'You said you left Noble and Nude when?'
'Around eleven.'
'Without the writing box?'
'I left that on the desk.'
'Well, it isn't there any more.'
'You're wrong,' said Joe. 'It's there.'
'I promise you it isn't.'
The little American passed a hand distractedly through his dark hair. 'It's got to be,' he said as if beginning to doubt himself.
'Who-besides you-knew that the box may have belonged to Mary Shelley?'
'No one.'
'Except Peg Redbird herself?'
Joe shook his head emphatically. 'She's the last person I would have told. I wanted to buy at a fair price.'
'Fair?'
'Used goods are worth as much as people are willing to pay, no more.'
'She seemed reluctant to part with it if you had to go back a second time.'
'I thought about that,' said Joe. 'I guess she could see I badly wanted that box. She thought there was something inside, a hidden drawer maybe, and she wasn't going to sell until she'd seen inside.'
'So Peg Redbird didn't know what she was selling. Did you tell anyone else? Those other people you mentioned? The old bookseller? The Welshman, Uncle Evan?'
'Wise up, will you? How could I have told them? I didn't know the writing box existed when I spoke to them. I only found out when I got to the shop.'
'Your wife?'
Joe drew in a quick, shallow breath.
Wigfull said with an air of triumph, 'Over dinner you told your wife you had found Mary Shelley's writing box?'
'Yep, I told her,' Joe admitted. 'She's the woman I share my life with, for God's sake. She was entitled to know why I kept her waiting so long.'
'In a public restaurant.'
'Give me a break. It was quiet there. Nobody was listening.'
'How do you know?' said Wigfull.
'We had a seat in the window. No one else was near.'
'Except the waiter.'
'Get away!' said Joe, becoming annoyed. 'What are you trying to prove?'
'See it from the waiter's point of view. A couple come into the restaurant,' said Wigfull, and as he laid out his scenario he found it increasingly persuasive. 'The man is obviously excited. He starts to speak to his wife about something sensational that happened to him. The waiter is intrigued. He overhears a phrase or two that get repeated several times. 'Noble and Nude' and 'Mary Shelley' and 'writing box'. That's enough. This waiter sees a chance to get rich quick. At the end of the evening, when the restaurant closes, he decides to take a look at Noble and Nude. He makes his way down to Walcot Street, by car, motorbike-I don't know. This is after midnight. He finds Noble and Nude and it's open and nobody is about. He can't believe his luck. The writing box is on the desk in the office. He picks it up and walks out with it.'
'Is that it?' said Joe. 'Have you finished?'
'It was either your wife or the waiter. Who else knew the box was worth taking?'
'Now you think Donna took it?' Joe fairly squeaked in disbelief.
