“You told me.”
“And the most likely sequence of events is that Olga phoned her husband at the airport after Stella’s visit and he came straight home in a vile temper and knocked her senseless.”
“Why?”
“For blabbing to us. We know he wasn’t willing to help us with the Tysoe murder.”
“But she didn’t come to us.”
“Right.”
He thought for a moment. “So if Stella hadn’t spoken to Olga Smith…”
“Yes, and I take responsibility,” Hen stressed. “We should have picked him up first. Mistake.”
“We all make them.”
“And Olga Smith is fighting for her life because of me.”
“Hold on,” he said, not liking the confessional tone. “It was her decision to phone him-if that’s what happened. She knows what he’s like. If he’s violent, she knew exactly what to expect, so don’t take on that burden, Hen.”
“I still cocked up, Peter, and we both know it.”
He could tell there was no use in pursuing the point. “What about young Haley? I hope she wasn’t home when this was going on.”
“No, thank God. She has lunch at school. One of the neighbours is looking after her tonight.”
“Poor little kid. Mother in intensive care and father on the run.” Diamond had no difficulty empathising with children, even though he’d never been a parent. This man Smith couldn’t have given much thought, if any, to his daughter. Callous behaviour would be characteristic of a serial killer, but it was too soon to build anything on that. Plenty of people who are not psychopaths treat their children with indifference. “So what’s being done to find him?”
“Crawley are handling the search and letting me shadow the SIO. They’ve already held a press conference and issued a photo and announced that Smith is wanted for questioning. The main effort is being put into finding the Honda.”
“Are they doing enough?”
“No complaints.”
“Does he have form?”
“Apparently not-if Michael Smith is his real name.”
“How much have you told Crawley Police about this guy’s connection with the Emma Tysoe case?”
“They’re aware of it. Obviously nothing was said to the press.”
“I’ll come in the morning, then. Which hospital?”
“Crawley General.”
“Would around nine suit you? Main entrance?”
He went to the incident room to update those of his team who were still at work. And on his way back to Weston that evening he called at the library and borrowed a copy of
Evenings were hard for him. He no longer thought of the house as his home. He still grieved for Steph more than he would admit to anyone. When the place was silent, he would sometimes speak a few words to her as if she was in the room. If the phone rang, he would snatch it up in the expectation that through some miracle he’d hear her voice. When he was really unable to cope he went for long walks, and even that was no remedy because he’d find himself fantasising that he’d meet her in the street. Non-stop television seemed to be the only way to occupy his mind, except that it could trick him at any time with subversive images that brought pain. Whether reading
The next morning Hen Mallin sported a yachting cap that gave her a maritime air, perfect for the esplanade at Bognor, but slightly frivolous for a visit to intensive care. She was waiting in the main entrance when Diamond arrived, his legs stiff and shaky from flogging up the motorway faster than he liked. An officer from Crawley, DI Bradley, was also waiting, but unfortunately for all of them the interview with Olga Smith would have to wait. “There’s a definite improvement,” the doctor told them. “She’s conscious now, but I can’t have her subjected to the stress of questions when we’re still looking for symptoms of more serious damage. Why don’t you come back later this afternoon, say around four?”
Police work is like that.
Diamond asked about the extent of Olga Smith’s injuries and was informed she’d taken a blow to the back of the skull, her right arm was fractured and there was extensive bruising.
“A single blow to the head?”
“Yes, and that could easily have killed her. The cranium is lacerated and there’s a swelling under the scalp.”
“So she’ll have concussion.”
“That’s to be expected. It’s highly likely she’ll have no memory of the incident.”
“You haven’t already asked her what happened?”
“I’m dealing with the injury, officer, not the cause of it.”
Thanks a bunch, doc, Diamond thought. He suggested a visit to see where the attack had happened. DI Bradley, the Crawley officer, looked at his watch.
“Is it far?” Diamond asked.
“It’s not so much a question of how far it is-” Bradley started to say.
“It is to me. How far?”
So the hard-pressed DI Bradley drove ahead, and the house was only five minutes from the hospital. The Smiths lived in a semi on a recently built estate where coachlamps and satellite dishes seemed to be standard fittings. Two laburnum saplings had been planted in the front and the lawn-like most of the others in the street- had the stripes of a recent mowing.
Bradley had a key and let them in. It seemed the Smiths had a taste for period furniture. A rosewood table and a pair of upholstered chairs stood in the hallway. The SOCOs had been through the previous afternoon, leaving a powdering of zinc over the hard surfaces.
“She was found in here,” Bradley said, pushing open a door.
This room was more typical of a young family, with fitted carpet, three-seat sofa and matching armchairs, a wall-unit with TV, sound system and a few books. The only period piece here was a mahogany dining table in the bay of the window, square, with built-in flaps to extend it. The surface had the same fine coating of white dust as the hall furniture.
“Where, exactly?”
“I thought that was obvious.” DI Bradley was making it clear this was all extremely tedious for him. He pointed to a bloodstain at the window end of the room, close to the table. It was the size of a beermat, but it blended with the carpet’s busy brown and beige design. Diamond hadn’t noticed it at a first glance.
“Was any weapon found?” he asked, knowing anything portable would have been taken for forensic testing.
Bradley shook his head. “If he had any sense, he’ll have taken it with him. Villains are wise to DNA these days.”
“I was thinking if there isn’t a weapon she could have cracked her head on the corner of the table.” He stepped closer to the table and assessed its position in relation to the bloodstain.
“Theoretically possible, I suppose.” From his tone, Bradley didn’t think much of the suggestion.
“If this is where she was lying…”
“Are you saying it was an accident?” This was fast becoming a spat between Crawley and Bath.
“If she fell and hit her head, it wouldn’t be the same as if he bashed her with a blunt instrument.”
Hen said with diplomacy, “I don’t suppose she tripped over the cat. The husband probably took a swing at her.”
“Maybe,” Diamond conceded without going so far as “probably”.
“Anyway,” Hen added, “forensics have obviously looked at the table. They’ll find out if she cracked her head on it. Every contact leaves a-”
