The House Sitter

Bellman turned to look at him, nodded, and said nothing.

There was no denying the disappointment. It wasn’t in Diamond’s nature to make light of a setback so serious. They’d devoted many hours to Bellman that could have been put to better use.

Ingeborg tried to console him by pointing out that it wouldn’t be all that difficult to forge a petrol receipt. “He’s a computer geek. He’d have no trouble reproducing the right font and printing it on the sort of paper they use. No way is this the alibi he claims it is.”

“It looks like the real thing to me.”

“Well, it would, guv. I could make another one just like it, no problem.”

“They ought to have a copy at the garage, didn’t they?” he said, starting to function as a detective again.

“What’s more,” Ingeborg chimed in, “many garages have security videos running. If we tell them the date and the time, it shouldn’t be any problem to check. We even know it was pump five.”

“Do it, then,” he told her. “Get on to them now. Go out to Beckington and collect any video evidence the garage have for the time he claims to have been there. Let’s call his bluff-if we can.”

“And the fingerprints?”

“I’ll see to them.”

Hen Mallin had already sent through the fingerprints lifted from Emma Tysoe’s car, an incomplete set, but enough, certainly, to make a comparison if the cup and saucer yielded good results. Diamond went in search of a SOCO.

Prints left on a china or porcelain surface and leaving no visible marks are known as “latents”. They require dusting with a chemical. Any marks revealed in this way have to be sealed by exposure to SuperGlue vapour for several hours.

Frustrating.

In truth, he wasn’t optimistic. Ken Bellman had been on the defensive for sure, yet this didn’t automatically indicate guilt. The man knew he was under suspicion. These days anyone picked up by the police was entitled to be apprehensive. There were too many stories, too many proven cases, of wrongful arrest and stitch-ups. He had been caught out in a lie about the circumstances of the reunion with Emma, but that could be put down to self- preservation. He was a weirdo and a stalker, but not necessarily a killer. They seldom are.

A call to John Leaman brought reassurance. Anna Walpurgis was still in the house in Bennett Street and had ordered the same lunch as yesterday and a long list of CDs and videos that Leaman had promised from the MVC shop in Seven Dials. “So it sounds as if she’s resigned to staying indoors, guv.”

“Make sure she does. Who’s buying these things?”

“Uniform. I can’t spare anyone.”

“I hope they don’t know who they’re for.”

“They think it’s all for me. My street cred is sky high.”

“And what’s happening in the street? All quiet?”

“So quiet I can see parking spaces.”

“Is there any way he could gain access from the back of the house?”

“I can’t see how. The back gardens are enclosed. Sealed off.”

“Make quite sure, John. Have someone check.”

“Do you think he knows she’s here, guv?”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

Time that hung heavily for Diamond.

He called Hen and told her that Bellman seemed to be in the clear.

She said, “In your shoes, darling, I’d have my suspicions about a bloke who produced his alibi as late as this. Where did he say the damned thing was hidden? Somewhere under the handbrake?”

He explained about the gap between the brushes.

“And it happened to be the one receipt he needed? Sounds dodgy to me.”

“We’re checking. If it’s a try-on, we’ll know shortly.”

“You sound as if you’re not expecting a good result.”

“He’s laughing up his sleeve, Hen. I’m sure he was stringing me along. Probably had the sodding receipt all the time and just wanted to hit us with this at the last minute. That’s the impression I get.”

“Dickhead. Do him for wasting police time.”

“Not worth it.”

“Don’t the fingerprints match?”

“Don’t know yet. They could be my last throw.”

“With this guy, perhaps,” she said, leaving no doubt that she had something up her sleeve. “You haven’t heard my latest. Remember the lifeguards, those two who called themselves Emerson and Laver? Stella Gregson has spent the past week trying to track them down. Finally, she found an ex-girlfriend, someone they each had a fling with, apparently, and now we know their real names, as well as their mobile numbers. They were travelling west, towards Dorset. Stella is confident of finding them today or tomorrow.”

“What are the names, then-Rosewall and Hoad?”

“I’m being serious, ducky. These two are my most wanted. Trevor Donald and Jim Leighton, both from Perth, Western Australia. Dorset police are on the case. Do you want to join in when we catch up with them?”

“I’d love to,” he said, “but-”

“But you’re hoping to catch an even bigger fish. Say no more.”

“You’ll keep me informed?”

“Depend on it.”

As always, he felt buoyed up after speaking to Hen. Her hearty self-confidence didn’t even contemplate failure. She deserved a result, and he wouldn’t begrudge it in the least if one of those Australians turned out to be the beach murderer.

* * *

Ingeborg returned from the Star service station late in the afternoon with the news that the cashier had found the duplicate receipt for the one Bellman had produced.

“Genuine, then,” Diamond said with disappointment he couldn’t disguise. “We can forget the clever forgery theory.”

Ingeborg said, “But there’s still no proof it was Bellman who bought the petrol. He may have come to the garage later and picked up a receipt someone else had thrown away. Easy to do.”

“Difficult to prove.”

“Not impossible,” Ingeborg said. “They gave me the video for pump five.” She patted her shoulderbag.

They slotted the cassette into the machine in Georgina’s office and sat on the leather sofa to watch the rather tedious images of cars moving up to the pump and drivers getting out to fill up. Fortunately a digital record of the time was displayed in the bottom left corner.

“What was the time on the receipt?”

“Three forty-seven.”

“He’ll have filled up around three forty-five. Can you fast forward it?”

Ingeborg worked the remote control and the visuals became more entertaining as figures darted out of cars like Keystone Cops in an old movie.

“We must be getting close. Slow up.”

The pictures reverted to normal speed. The time was showing three forty-one. A grey Toyota was at the pump. The elderly driver filled up, went to pay, returned, and picked up a cloth to clean his windscreen.

“Get off, you old git,” Diamond said to the screen.

The man got in and drove away his Toyota and a blue BMW glided into its place.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” Diamond said-by his moderate standards, a cry of desperation, if not despair.

There could be no argument. The man who got out to use the pump was in a black T-shirt and jeans. He had dark, curly hair. There was no mistaking Ken Bellman.

Further proof followed at the end of the afternoon. When the fingerprints were compared, it was obvious that