The House Sitter

“I expect he makes an effort to get out. You’d have to.”

“We don’t know, do we?” he said.

“I could chat up his colleagues if you like,” she offered. “Face to face.”

“Not at this stage. We don’t want him finding out we’re interested. Let’s keep the chatting up in reserve.” He didn’t doubt Ingeborg’s ability there. “Why don’t you check him on the PNC? See if he’s got form.”

If she noted the irony of this suggestion, she had the good sense not to take it up with him.

Later in the morning he took a call from Jimmy Barneston. The shell-shocked Jimmy of yesterday sounded more in control. More deferential, too.

“I thought you’d like to know I slept on your advice and decided it made sense. I’ve called a press conference for this afternoon.”

“Good move. Take the initiative away from the killer.”

“I’m going to tell them just about everything except the third name on the Mariner’s list. You know who I mean?” Clearly he didn’t trust the phone, and he was probably right.

“I’m a detective. I can work it out,” Diamond said. “Speaking of that person, have you told her about Porter-I mean a well-known sports personality-being snatched?”

“Not yet. Oh, fuck, I’ll have to now, won’t I? Don’t want her hearing it first on the telly.”

“Have you moved her?”

“Er… yes. She’s in another-em-place.”

“A safe place?” Diamond spoke the words in a tone of dread.

“I, em…” The voice trailed off.

Diamond waited, and then said, “That’s not a good idea, Jimmy. Have you told her about my offer?”

“Not yet. She doesn’t know anything yet.”

“When you break the bad news about Porter being snatched you can tell her my offer is the good news.”

“All right.”

“You will mention it?”

“I’m still thinking it over.”

“Don’t spend too long thinking. You could regret it. I guess there’s nothing new on the Mariner? Did the house-to-house achieve anything?”

“No. And the treadmarks aren’t sharp enough to help. Forensics are looking at them, but they told me not to expect much. They tested the steering wheel for DNA and they reckon he wore gloves. He’s ultra-careful. We haven’t even found what type of gas he used.”

“Are both of the guards recovering?”

“They were sent home last night. I’ve spoken to them. They added nothing to what we know already.”

“You may get some help from the public after the media get to work on it.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” He asked how the search for Emma Tysoe’s killer was going and Diamond gave him the news about Ken Bellman. They agreed to keep in touch.

After putting the phone down, Diamond was fidgety. He sat back in his chair and fiddled with a stapler, shooting at least a dozen across the desk. Certain things were starting to go his way, but plenty could still go wrong, and probably would. His team was up to the challenge of Ken Bellman. If the man was guilty they’d have him, the mug who lost in love and kicked back. But the Mariner was in a different bracket. No passion there. He was a class act, a cerebral killer, calculating every move. If he came to Bath, he wouldn’t come blindly. He’d estimate the risks and minimise them. How would the likes of Keith and Ingeborg cope with a professional assassin?

Soon they had to be told. He had no hesitation pitting himself against a serial killer, but it was asking a lot of Ingeborg, little more than a rookie, and Keith, dependable as the days of the week, but not the brightest star in the firmament. John Leaman was quicker, but still inexperienced for a sergeant.

For a few indulgent moments he daydreamed about having Julie Hargreaves back on the team, Julie, the sidekick who’d taken one kick too many and asked for a transfer. She was an original thinker, as well as a check on his own lapses and excesses. He was still in touch, and she’d been a tower of strength after Steph was murdered. Still, she’d made her position clear about working with him ever again, and it was no use wanting the impossible. You play the cards you’re dealt with.

Towards midday Ingeborg reported her findings on the PNC: no findings at all. Kenneth Bellman had led a blameless life apparently.

“Bellman, Bellman-why does the name seem familiar?” he said.

“The Hunting of the Snark?” she suggested.

“The what?”

“It’s a poem by Lewis Carroll. A nonsense poem. The Bellman was the main character.”

He gave her a bemused look. “No, it can’t be that. You read poetry, do you, Ingeborg?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you happen to know The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”

“Bits, guv.”

“I don’t mean know it by heart. Have you read it?” With pride in the performance he recited those first two lines: “‘It is an ancient Mariner / And he stoppeth one of three.’”

Innocent of the tightrope she was walking, Ingeborg completed the verse. “‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye / Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?’”

But her boss’s reaction was positive. “Hidden depths. Tell me, what was it about the albatross that made it such a big deal in the poem?”

“It’s a bird of good omen, guv. Should have brought good luck to his ship, but he shot it.”

“With his crossbow. Then everything went pear-shaped?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I can understand that.” He sighed softly and shook his head. Some things he would never understand. “It’s a strange thing, Ingeborg. Since coming to Bath I’ve had to mug up so much English literature.”

“Yes?” She sensed he was unburdening himself of something she ought to know about.

“Famous writers keep cropping up. Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, and now Coleridge.”

“Are you doing an Open University degree, guv?” she innocently asked.

“Christ, no. Whatever put that idea in your head?”

Keith Halliwell was back by lunchtime and Diamond took him for a bite and a pint at Brown’s, just up the street on the site of the old city police station in Orange Grove, an Italianate Palazzo-style building so much easier on the eye than their present place of work. “So what do we know about Ken Bellman?” he asked, when they were settled in one of the squishy sofas upstairs.

“There’s not a lot to report, guv,” Halliwell told him. “He’s been around for about six months. Gets his paper- the Independent-from a shop on Bathwick Hill, and also buys computer magazines and chocolate. He dresses casually in polo shirts and baggy trousers with lots of pockets.”

“Where’s he from?”

“The north, I was told. He boasts a bit about the life up there being better than anywhere else.”

“Sounds like a Yorkshireman, all mouth and trousers. Why come south, if it’s so much better up there? Anything else, Keith? Is he a driver?”

“Yes, he has an old BMW that he services himself.”

“Useful to know. Colour?”

“He’s white.”

“The car, Keith, the car.”

“Oh, I didn’t discover that. It’s a series 3 model.”

“Description?”

“Thirtyish, about five nine, with a mop of dark hair.”

“You mean curly?” Diamond said, thinking of the man in the black T-shirt.

“It’s what they mean, not me, guv,” Halliwell said, with reason on his side but at the risk of nettling his boss. “And they said a mop.”

“You didn’t catch a glimpse of him, I suppose?”

“He wasn’t about.”