‘No, not curly. Straight, and combed back, fixed behind her head. What do they call that?’
Diamond knew, but he wasn’t going to put words into the witness’s mouth.
Beever was getting there by stages. ’’ Orse-tail. Is that it?’
Halliwell looked ready to supply the word, so Diamond cut in, ‘We’ve got to hear it from you to be of any use, Mr Beever.’
’’ Orse-tail, I said. No, that b’ain’t right. Pony-tail. She had a pony-tail. If you ask me, pony-tails look nice on little girls and really scrawny women. Her’d had too many good dinners to get away with it.’
‘And the face. Can you picture the face?’
‘You want a lot for nothing. ‘Twere the other woman I came in about. Well, I don’t know if this be any help, but she made me think of them women in boots.’
‘Boots?’ said Diamond.
‘The tarty ones on the make-up counters. Heavy on the war-paint.’
‘Ah, Boot’s the chemist.’
‘I was telling thee what happened. She made a great to-do about could she rely on me to wait. I told her if she were paying, I didn’t mind how long it took. So that’s what happened. We drove to Bathwick Street. I bided my time outside Harmer House, reading my paper for a good half-hour, maybe longer. Then she came out with this other woman, the one you’re trying to find. She’d said sommat about luggage, but it were only a couple of carrier bags, so I didn’t open the boot. I drove them up to St James’s Square-’
‘Was anything said?’
‘Could have been. I don’t recall. When we got up to the Square – off Julian Road, behind the Royal Crescent-’
‘We established that.’
‘Be that as it may, m’ dear, nine out of ten people couldn’t take you to it without a map. When we got up there, she pointed out the house. I can’t tell you the number. It were on the south side, with a red door. That’s all I got to say, really. She settled the fare – something over twenty-five by that time – and I give her a receipt and out they got. They went in with their bags and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.’
‘Did she let them in with a key, or did someone come to the door?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. I didn’t look.’
‘Is your taxi in our car park?’
‘I bloody hope so. That’s where I left ‘er.’
‘Right. You can drive me to the house. One of our patrol cars will meet us there.’
St James’s Square is one of Bath’s tucked-away Georgian jewels, located on the slope above the Royal Crescent and below Lansdown Crescent. You come to it from the scrappy end of Julian Road, where pasta- coloured housing from the 1960s cuts it adrift from the dignified end of the city. But the spirit soars again when you come upon John Palmer’s charming square dating from the 1790s, noble buildings with Venetian windows and Corinthian pilasters facing across a large lawned garden with mature trees.
John Beever said as he double-parked outside the house with the red door, ‘It be too much to hope that I can charge this to the police, I reckon.’
‘I reckon, too,’ said Diamond, and added, ‘Nice try, m’ dear.’
‘Do I have to stay?’
A patrol car was entering the square on the far side, so he was content to let John Beever drive away in search of a paying passenger.
There were lights at the windows of the two upper floors. The bell-push gave names for all four flats. He pressed the top one first. Angus Little.
Meanwhile the patrol car had pulled up. Two uniformed constables got out and joined him.
‘You know what this is about?’
They did not.
He explained succinctly. There was ample time before anyone came to the door. This house was not equipped with an answerphone.
Angus Little from the top flat was silver-haired, sixtyish and deeply shaken to have the police calling.
Diamond showed his ID and the picture of Rose.
Little took off his glasses and examined the picture. Then shook his head. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Would you mind terribly turning off the flashing light on your car? It’s a bit of a poppyshow, if you know what I mean.’
‘Can’t do that, sir,’ said the driver. ‘We’re blocking the street.’
Diamond asked, ‘Do you live alone, Mr Little?’
He did.
‘Tell me about these other tenants.’
As if he had never previously noticed the names listed against the four bells, Mr Little bent close to inspect them. His own was a printed visiting-card, David Waller’s had been produced on a printer, made to look like italic writing; Adele Paul’s was a peel-off address-label; and Leo and Fiona (no surnames) had typed theirs on pink card.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who are they? Young people, married couples with kids, pensioners?’
‘There’s only Mr Waller underneath me now. He’s single, like me, and quite a bit younger. The other flats have been empty for months.’
‘So Adele Paul and – who is it? – Leo and Fiona aren’t living here although their names are showing?’
‘That’s my understanding. Nobody has bothered to remove the cards, that’s all. It may be deliberate, for security, you see. You don’t want people knowing that some of the flats are unoccupied. I expect the agent is having trouble finding anyone prepared to pay the rent. It’s pretty exorbitant. I had the impression Miss Paul was a student at the university. Well-heeled parents, I expect. She must have left last June.’
‘Have you noticed anyone using either of the empty flats recently?’
‘I can’t say I have, but then I’m out so much. I’m in the antique business. Buying and selling clocks and watches. You might do better asking Mr Waller. He spends more time here. He’s a computer expert, I believe, and he tells me he can do most of it from home, lucky man.’
Mr Waller could be saved for later, Diamond decided. He wanted to see inside the two allegedly empty flats. The door to the ground floor one was just ahead. He knocked, got no reply, and asked the more solid of the constables to force it.
Mr Little protested at that. ‘Shouldn’t you contact the landlord first?’
‘Who is the landlord?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. But we pay our rent to an agency called Better Let. Do you know it? They have an office in Gay Street.’
‘So we don’t know the landlord, and the agency is closed by now. What are you waiting for, constable?’
The door sprang inwards at the first contact of the constable’s boot.
The flat had the smell of many months of disuse. They didn’t spend much time looking at the even spread of dust on the furniture. ‘We’ll try the basement.’
Mr Little was returning upstairs, probably to confer with Mr Waller. No one had mentioned a search warrant yet, but the computer buff might.
No answer came to Diamond’s rapping on the basement door.
‘Get on with it, lad.’
This one was harder to crack. The door-frame withstood a couple of kicks and it took a kung fu special to splinter the wood.
Diamond felt for the light-switch. The result was encouraging. The mustiness upstairs was not present here, even though the apartment was shuttered and below ground. He stepped through the living-room to the kitchen, confident that the fridge would yield the clue, as it had in Rose’s London flat. But it was switched off, empty, the door left ajar as recommended by the makers.
He looked into the cupboards. There was a tin containing tea-bags, and a jar of instant coffee. The label had a ‘best before’ date of December 1996 – evidently bought some time ago.
