The Vault

He asked for the lighter again and Leaman passed it up. The flame was now burning tall and yellowish. He wasn't sure if this meant that the fuel was running out; he was just grateful for the extra light, treating him to a sight he had not dared to expect in this place.

This storey had been renovated and furnished. There were two modern office desks, a plan-chest, stools and a table. He climbed the last rungs and stepped onto a carpet made of sisal squares. He could now see more equipment, a viewer for looking at slides, a magnifying lamp and a photocopier. On the larger of the desks under an angle-poise lamp was a draughtsman's drawing-board with a sheet of paper fixed to it with masking tape. Ranged along the side were numerous tubes of paint and several jam-jars, some holding brushes, some filled with water. The other desk was covered in books, many of them open. No question: he had found the forger's studio.

He said aloud, 'Where the hell does he get his electricity?'

Leaman called up, 'What's that, sir?'

'Come up and see.'

Then the lights came on, dazzling Diamond, and a voice said, 'Got my own generator, see?'

He swung around. The speaker was behind him, half hidden by the hatch of the trap-door: the thin, long- haired man in glasses he was so curious to meet. Evan Tanner-Jones, alias Uncle Evan, stood with his palms facing forward as if to make clear that he wasn't holding a weapon.

Leaman heard the voice and was up that ladder like a fireman.

Diamond gestured to him with a downward movement of the hand that no threat was being made.

'The rozzers?' said Evan-an expression Diamond had not heard in years.

He lifted his shoulders a fraction in a way that was meant to reassure as well as confirm.

Evan said, 'I thought I'd lost you back in Bath.'

'You did,' Diamond admitted. 'I had to think where you would hide up. This is where you turn them out, then?'

Evan didn't care for the choice of phrase. 'It's my studio, if that's what you mean.'

'Is it safe to move around?'

'Worried about the floor, are you? There's no damp up here. You want to see the size of the timbers.'

'It's your work I want to see.' He walked over to the drawing board. The painting taped to it was in the early stages, outlined, with only a few sections lightly tinted. Unschooled in art as Diamond was, he could still tell it was superbly draughted. The subject was melodramatic: a wild-eyed, long-haired figure loomed over a corpse lying in an open coffin. 'Frankenstein again?'

The eyes behind the glasses opened a little wider.

'I've seen one before,' Diamond explained without a hint of censure. 'You're good at this.'

'This is out of the final chapter. Do you know the book?' Evan responded, his voice becoming animated as he realised he was free to talk about the painting. Years of secrecy must have been hard to endure. 'We're on board the ship here looking at the scene from Captain Walton's point of view. That's Frankenstein lying dead in the coffin. And that's the monster, desolated.' He began to quote from memory, ' 'I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe-gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions.' Have I done it justice, do you think? Soon he'll leap off the ship onto the raft and be 'borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance', and that will be my final painting. God knows when I'll get the chance to do it.'

'You've been working some time on these?'

'Five or six years. A long-term project. 'The energy of my purpose alone sustained me'. Thirty-six paintings, and I'm a slow worker.'

'Unlike William Blake.'

He swung round, reacting sharply. 'Who's talking about Blake? I didn't say a word about Blake.'

So that's your get-out, thought Diamond as he changed emphasis. This was not the moment to pursue the link with Blake. 'You've sold some of them already.'

'Yes.'

'Trying to make it cost-effective?'

Evan gave a nervous smile and brushed some hair from his face.

'But you're not short of a few pence, going by your car and your house.'

'Is that a crime? My grandfather was a colliery owner in Merthyr before the war and my Dad inherited half a million and invested wisely. It all got left to me when he died. I don't need to work, but I don't like being idle either.'

'You're not compelled to sell the paintings.'

'Not compelled, no.'

'Perhaps you wanted to test the market, see what collectors would make of them?'

'That's no crime either.'

'Since you keep mentioning crime,' said Diamond with a smooth transition, 'what about assault on a police officer?'

Evan wrapped his arms across his chest and lowered his head, eyes closed.

Diamond waited.

The man was groping for the right words. 'I'm, I'm… ashamed of what happened Saturday. I got in a panic, you see. He was following me, that cop.'

'You knew he was a cop?'

'He had to be. He came to watch my show in Victoria Park- you know I have this puppet theatre-and I could see him sitting alone in the audience.'

Wigfull at a puppet show? It was so bizarre that it had to be believed. Rapidly Diamond constructed a scenario. There had been a copy of the local paper in Wigfull's car. He must have seen an advert for the fair in the park, spotted Uncle Evan's name there and decided it was a heaven-sent opportunity to take stock of one of the key witnesses.

'He had no kids with him,' Evan was saying. 'Just this man in a suit with the big moustache taking no interest in the show. All he did was watch me. I thought, Evan boyo, he's got your number. You've had a wonderful run, but it's coming to an end. He had this look like a tiger after its prey. I can't describe it.'

No need to try, Diamond found himself thinking. 'Tyger! tyger! burning bright.' I know Wigfull's predatory stare.

Uncle Evan had not paused. 'And after the show ended and I packed everything away, he was still there watching. It was giving me the creeps, I tell you. I got in the van and drove off, meaning to come back here to Stowford. Somewhere along the road I looked in my rearview and he was following. The same bloody great moustache. What could I do? I didn't want to lead him straight here. He'd find this place for sure and put me in deep trouble. My best bet was to abandon the van and take the footpath across the fields. I hoped he might give up.'

'Not Mr Wigfull,' Leaman commented with undisguised admiration for his boss. 'Mr Wigfull wouldn't give up.'

Evan heard that and pressed on. His face was mobile, sensitive to the events he was recalling. 'I managed to put a bit of distance between us, enough for me to get out at Westwood and leg it into the field, where I couldn't be seen if I ducked down with my head below the crop. Like you say, he didn't give up. Stopped his car and came after me. Terrible. I happened to put my head up just as he was facing my direction. There was no question he'd seen me and was coming after me. I bolted like a bloody rabbit, right across that field and over the gate.' He took a couple of shallow breaths, remembering. 'There was a bit of open ground ahead near a pond. You know where I mean. You must have been there. I panicked. I got on my hands and knees and tried to hide in some bushes. My last hope was that he would go by and lose me. I was scrambling out of view of the footpath and my hand happened to touch something solid.'

'An empty bottle?' asked Diamond, with touching faith in his own theory.

'A piece of metal tube. You know what I'm going to say, don't you? He came looking for me in the bushes. I guess it was obvious where I was. When he got level, I sprang up and struck out with the tube. It was an automatic action really. I can't tell you what it's like being hunted down. I cracked him on the head a couple of