Upon A Dark Night

Treadwell looked up inquiringly.

‘The misere.’

‘He got it,’ said his wife. ‘With a hand like that he could have made misere ouverte.’

‘When the cards are exposed on the table,’ Diamond explained to Julie. ‘Do you tip horses, Mr Treadwell?’

A sour-faced shake of the head.

‘I only wish William were half so lucky,’ said Sally. ‘He’s never found a blessed thing on his country walks. Not so much as a bad penny.’

The attention of the CID shifted to Allardyce. ‘You’re one of those ramblers I see out with their trousers tucked into their socks?’

William Allardyce smiled. ‘Nothing so ambitious as that. Just a Sunday afternoon walk when I can get it. It’s good to get out after a week in the office.’

‘Public relations – what does it come down to?’

‘It doesn’t come down to anything – ever. If PR is doing what it should, it’s rising. We raise the profile of our clients by increasing the goodwill and understanding they achieve with their customers.’

‘Through the media?’

‘Much more than that. We’re concerned with the entire public perception of the client and his product.’

‘The image?’

‘If that’s what you choose to call it, yes.’ Mindful of his own public perception, he raked his fingers through his dark hair, tidying it.

‘You buff up the image?’

‘We begin by examining what they’ve achieved already in public esteem, if anything. Good opinion has to be earned. Then we suggest how it may be enhanced. We don’t distort, if that’s what you mean by polishing.’

‘You’re freelance?’

‘A consultancy, yes.’

Diamond turned to Sally Allardyce. ‘And are you in the firm?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I work in local television.’

‘So you must be a useful PR contact.’

‘Not really. I’m in make-up.’

‘Useful with the grooming of the clients?’

She smiled in a way that told him it was a damn-fool comment. That avenue was closed.

Diamond turned back to the husband. There was still some mileage in this topic. He hadn’t brought it up simply to make conversation. ‘I was wondering what PR could do for me – assuming the police could afford your fees and I was a client. Would you change my image?’

Allardyce smiled uncertainly and looked down at his empty plate. ‘I’d, em, I’d need to know a great deal more about you and the nature of your work. All I know is that you’re a detective superintendent.’

‘I’m head of the murder squad.’

The statement had the impact Diamond expected, some sharp intakes of breath and a general twitching of facial muscles. Across the table, Treadwell tugged at his bow tie as if it was suddenly uncomfortable.

His wife rested a hand on his arm. ‘Surely there’s no suggestion that this woman was murdered?’

‘That’s all we wanted to hear,’ said Treadwell, grinding his teeth.

‘It was an accident,’ said Sally Allardyce. ‘She was playing about on the roof and she fell.’

‘I wish we could be certain of that, ma’am,’ said Diamond. ‘It’s my job to consider all possibilities. To come back to my image, Mr Allardyce…’ He got up from the table and executed a mannequin-like half-turn. ‘…I suppose you’ll tell me I should get a sharp new suit and a striped tie.’

‘I wouldn’t presume to advise you as to clothes,’ said Allardyce, his voice flat, unwilling to continue with this.

Julie told Diamond, ‘But I will. You should definitely leave off the apron.’

The head of the murder squad looked down at the butcher’s vertical stripes and smoothed them over his belly. ‘Ah. Forgot.’

The tension eased a little, but Treadwell continued making sounds suggesting his blood pressure was dangerously high.

Allardyce made an effort to recoup. ‘I suppose a detective needs to blend in easily with his surroundings.’

‘Should I lose weight?’

‘No, I was about to say that there’s a paradox. If there is such a thing as a detective image, you don’t want it, or you give yourself away.’

‘Fair comment, sir – except that I don’t often go in disguise. No need to make a secret of my job. I don’t always announce myself at the outset, but sooner or later people get to know who I am – the murder man.’

That word again. In the short pause that followed, Diamond picked a volume off the bookshelf and flicked through the pages. It was a book of local walks. Whilst pretending to take an interest in the text he studied the contrasting reactions of the two couples. The Allardyces were flustered, but staunchly trying not to show it, whereas the experience of the night before and this day’s infliction of policemen seemed to have reduced the Treadwells to red-faced gloom, certainly the husband. Misere was right.

On balance, the Treadwells’ reaction was easier to understand.

‘I’d like to get a couple of things clear in my mind and then we’ll leave you in peace, Julie and I,’ said Diamond. ‘Which pub was it last night?’

‘The Grapes,’ said Sally Allardyce.

‘Down in Westgate Street? Long walk from here.’

‘It has a TV. Not so many pubs do.’

‘And when your numbers came up…?’

‘There was rejoicing, obviously. People started asking if it was drinks all round. We bought a round, but if we’d remained we’d have been cleaned out.’

‘So you left the Grapes and came back here and got cleaned out at home.’

‘They just assumed it would be open house here.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t invite people?’

‘A few friends – but only a few friends,’ Allardyce admitted. ‘We were misunderstood. These things happen.’

‘Did you walk back?’

‘What?’

‘Mr Allardyce enjoys a walk.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Treadwell in a spasm of anger. ‘Are you trying to catch us out on drunk driving? Look, only one of us has a car, and that’s William, and his bloody car was sitting in Brock Street all evening. We took a taxi. Satisfied?’

‘I’m getting the timing right in my head,’ said Diamond, who wasn’t noted for fine calculations. ‘The lottery is announced about eight. You buy a round. At let’s say eight-fifteen, or eight-twenty, you decide to return here. You go out and look for a taxi – or did you find one?’

‘They line up in Kingsmead Square. We got one there.’

‘And were back here by – what? – eight-thirty?’

‘Later than that. We stopped at the off-license and picked up some booze.’

‘It was planned as a party, then?’

‘Drinks for a few friends,’ said Treadwell with disdain. ‘I don’t call that a party.’

‘The trouble is, the rest of Bath did,’ said his wife.

The daylight was fading when Diamond and Julie emerged from the house.

‘Do you do the lottery?’ she asked.

‘Do I look like a winner?’ he said. ‘We tried a few times. Nothing. Then someone told me a sobering fact. No matter who you are, what age you are, what kind of life you lead, it’s more likely you’ll drop dead by eight o’clock Saturday night than win the big one. So I don’t do it any more.’