anything happened to her, he would not forgive himself.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Almost midnight. Presently he would do the round of his team, seeing if anyone had anything to report.
Before that, he gave some thought to the Wightview Sands murder. The finding of Emma Tysoe’s sports car, empty of petrol and with the key still in the ignition, certainly suggested a joy-rider, but was it likely someone would kill for the gratification of a drive in a car? Personally he hated travelling at high speed, yet he knew the fascination cars exerted on some people. You couldn’t park a car like a Lotus in certain parts of Bath and expect to find it when you returned. The attraction was almost sexual. They saw a special model and lusted to possess it. Advertisers had tapped into that for years. Every night on the television you were persuaded that if you had a powerful motor your sex life would go into overdrive as well.
On a beach, where nothing was the same from one day to the next, where different people and different cars come and go, the temptation was strong. It wasn’t difficult to conceive of some oddball who saw an attractive woman step out of a smart car and made up his mind to joyride it. The killing of the woman was a prelude to stealing the car, and the driving of it was the climax.
Horrible, yet not impossible.
Again, he was conscious of some elusive memory, a connection with all this that he couldn’t pinpoint. He knew better than to force it. Let the subconscious work on it, he told himself. When I’m busy with something else it will come to me.
He screwed the top back on the flask and got out of the car and looked at the stars. Two thousand miles away, on the Nile, Georgina would be asleep in her cabin, travelling at a civilised speed, unaware of all this interest in her house. Thank God.
He strolled towards the Assembly Rooms at the end of the street, where one of the team was stationed in a doorway just out of the lamplight.
“How’s it going?”
“Nothing to report, sir. A couple of people across the street came home ten minutes ago. That’s all.”
“Stay tuned, then.”
The man at the Saville Row turn gave him a similar response. Most of Bath was asleep.
The sum of the sightings so far was three couples and about six cars, not one of which had stopped in Bennett Street.
He returned to his car. Out of interest he tried to find Galaxy 101, the radio station that had let the cat out of the bag. Instead, he got some inane chat show about people’s experiences after eating curry. “What sad people listen to these things?” he said aloud, turning up the volume.
At ten past three, the intercom beeped.
“Yes?”
“A guy on his own, coming up Lansdown, sir. He’s got a backpack with something in it. Looks heavy. Shall I stop him?”
“No. Stay out of sight. Just watch him and report.”
“He’s made the turn into Bennett. Coming your way.”
“OK.”
Another of the team, at the corner of Russell Street, announced that he could now see the man. Diamond turned in his seat and he had him in sight, too. Average height, baseball cap, both hands at his chest under the straps of the backpack, as if to ease the weight from his shoulders.
“What’s he carrying-a computer he’s knocked off?” the man on Russell Street said.
“If it is,” Diamond said, “we’re not interested.” This was a focused operation. “Just watch where he goes.”
The man remained on the side of the street opposite Georgina’s. He didn’t cross. Presently, he went down some steps to a basement flat and let himself in. If he had been out burgling, he would never know how lucky he was.
At seven thirty in the morning, for his peace of mind, Diamond gave Anna a wake-up call.
She said, “Piss off, will you? I’m asleep.”
At eight, the new team arrived to take over. Ingeborg had thoughtfully brought a doughnut and a bottle of spring water for Diamond.
“Everything’s under control,” he told her. “But you know my number. Keep me informed.” He also handed her the spare key of Georgina’s front door.
“Aren’t you going for a kip, guv?”
“Keep me informed. Anything at all. And stay in regular touch with Anna. You can go in there for breakfast if you want. A word of advice. Don’t ask her to cook for you.”
He left her in charge. He was tired, but there were crucial things to be done.
Back in his office in Manvers Street, he phoned Hen.
She said with heavy disapproval, “Is the world coming to an end? Have the Martians landed in Bognor? No one calls me before nine. Don’t you know that, whoever you are?”
“Hen, this is Peter.”
“Buster, if you were Saint Peter I still wouldn’t want to come to the phone this early.”
“Will you listen to me, Hen? I’ve been up all night.”
“So?”
“So, I’ve been trying to get a grip on a vague idea about Wight-view Sands that seemed to be hovering somewhere in my brain. It came to me a short while ago.”
“Can it wait?”
“No. I want to pass it on to you now, for what it’s worth.”
“Be my guest,” she said with a sigh.
“This joyriding theory of yours. If it’s true, the killer was more interested in the car than the victim, right? The motive was to steal that handsome car and belt the life out of the engine for a couple of hours.”
“That about sums it up.”
“You said it’s not the first time at Wightview. Am I right? Other cars-nice cars-have been nicked and later found abandoned?”
“Over the past year, yes.”
“You thought kids were responsible?”
She yawned. “We’ve been over this before, Peter.”
“So what if we’re dealing with a serial joyrider, someone who makes a habit of pinching cars from the beach? Generally he follows the owner onto the beach and waits for them to go for a swim, leaving their bag or clothes unprotected. Then he helps himself to the car key and drives off in their nice car.”
“That’s the pattern.”
“Now, on this occasion, the owner didn’t go for a swim. By all accounts, Emma Tysoe remained where she was, stretched out on the sand. Our thief watches her and waits… and waits. He can’t snatch the bag containing the car key because she’s being careful with it, keeping the shoulder strap close to her hand. He’s tantalised. He really covets that car. In the end he decides to go for the bag while she’s still there. He moves in. There’s a struggle. She hangs onto her bag. Trying to get it away from him, she passes the strap over her head. He grabs it, twists and strangles her. That would explain the ligature. Or the strap came away from its fixing and he twisted the free end around her neck. Are you with me?”
“Just about,” Hen said. “Where does it get us?”
“Back to the killer.”
“Some kid, you mean?”
“Maybe someone slightly older, but still nuts about cars, the man in the perfect position to pick out the one he wants to joyride, someone who sees every car drive in.” He waited, wanting her to make the connection.
Finally she said, “The car park attendant?”
“We know he was on duty in the morning when she drove in, because Ken Bellman saw him chatting with her,
