Authors: Peter Lovesey
‘And you say he rides a motorcycle?’ She was thinking of the incident in Becky Addy Wood that had left Diamond limping.
‘Sure.’
‘Has he been around Walcot lately?’
‘On and off.’
‘You can be more precise than that. Have you seen him tonight?’
‘Not tonight. Yesterday.’
They’d walked as far as the point where Harry had been shot. It was unmarked now, every trace of blood removed. As if by mutual consent, they stopped under the street light, but short of the place where the body had lain. Ingeborg glanced up at the garden where the shooting had come from, above the wall on the opposite side, as if staring at it might reveal the killer’s identity.
‘Does Royston live at home?’
‘That’s my understanding.’
‘Is his father ever seen in Walcot?’
He vibrated his lips. ‘Not the Soldier. Not his scene.’
They parted there. Anderson turned and started the walk back to his chauffeur-driven car and the two police officers moved on, towards the police station. Ingeborg had mixed feelings. The information on Royston Nuttall could be the breakthrough and she looked forward to telling Diamond their mission had brought a result. But she wished to God it didn’t muddy Harry Tasker’s reputation.
21
‘I
’m moving.’
An executive statement. The mound of gravel had become increasingly uncomfortable. In fact it was just about insufferable for a man dressed normally as Diamond was, without padding. He had just reminded himself that in Gull’s absence he was nominally the supremo here, in charge of the stakeout at the pillbox, even though the tactical decisions would be taken by the young man of inspector rank leading the firearms team.
‘I’m moving,’ he repeated to Sergeant Gillibrand beside him. ‘Need to check some of the other positions.’
There was no objection from Gillibrand. The sergeant said nothing at all. The two men hadn’t exactly bonded.
‘Use your radio to tell the other units I’m doing the rounds. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m the sniper.’
The relief of getting upright was marvellous. Parts of him that had gone numb were restored. He almost forgot to pick up his stick, the sensations were so good. He could probably have walked all the way to Avoncliff station unaided, but decided it was wise to have it with him. Heels sinking into the cascading shingle, he slid down the gravel mound the back way, making no more sound than Gillibrand had on his trip to the bushes.
Now that he was mobile he wondered why he’d endured the prone position for so long. The thinking had been that he’d presented less of a target. But if you’re face down on stone chippings there comes a time when safety considerations dwindle to nothing.
He could have borrowed those night-vision glasses, but they
weren’t of much use on the move. The moonlight came and went, and his eyes adjusted well. He could see enough of the ground at this minute to step out with confidence. Equally, he had to remember he would be visible to the sniper.
Was the killer of three police officers really holed up somewhere in this remote spot? He had his doubts. Even so, he stayed close to the river bank, as far from the footpath as possible. The firearms lads were posted at least fifty yards to his left with their guns pointing away from him.
The going was easy here, fairly flat, with nothing more difficult than a few waist-high clumps of meadowsweet to negotiate. The Avon had a tendency to flood in this section of the valley after heavy rain and it was squelchy in parts. But the ripple of the water close at hand meant he was safely south of the area targeted by the police marksmen. Closer to Avoncliff he would pick up the roar of the weir.
Despite what he’d said to Gillibrand he didn’t really plan to check the firing positions. It would be folly to creep up behind an armed man. Polehampton might, but then Polehampton was Polehampton and even he might have learned something from the handcuffing episode.
No, the object of this move was purely to get his blood flowing again. He’d reached a stage on that gravel heap when he was incapable of thinking of anything except his own discomfort. This was bliss, inhaling the fresh night air. He patted the injured leg: virtually restored, he decided. He was favouring it a little from caution rather than necessity.
A sudden piercing shriek drilled a shock through him. Close, frighteningly close. He halted, tense, alert for danger.
Blood-curdling – but was it human in origin?
Then a skittering in the water told him he must have stepped close to a coot or a moorhen.
Better not stay so close to the bank, he told himself. There are sure to be other waterfowl and the screech must have been audible for some distance around. Advertising his presence wasn’t in the plan. He veered left, around some reeds and found more of a path. He would follow it in confidence that the river ran parallel with the railway. Keep going for ten minutes or so and he should find himself reasonably close to Avoncliff Station without disturbing the firearms teams.
That waterbird had shaken his nerves. All the pleasure of being on the move had gone. He was tense, primed for more disturbances. A mass of cloud had crossed the moon again. He was forced to take shorter steps, even though the path was clear of hazards.
He could definitely hear the faint swish of falling water now. The weir was some distance beyond the station, so he was making good progress. He stopped and listened. He didn’t need to walk too far.
Then he heard a loud splash to his right.
Something pretty big had entered the water. More wild life? The sound had been heavier than a bird would make. What else could have made it? Were there otters along this stretch of the Avon? He wasn’t aware of any. Actually it had sounded heavier than an otter.
If the cause of the splash wasn’t natural, what was it?
His heart thumped.
He hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps when there was another sound, more alarming still, a grunt as of effort, chesty, heavy, close at hand. Some living creature far larger than an otter was nearby.
Maybe the splash had disturbed some mammal, a fox or a deer. Or was it the mammal that had leapt into the water?
Animal or human?
He soon knew.
The cloud cover shifted from the moon. A man with a backpack was up and running, not more than ten yards ahead of him.
‘Hey, you!’ Diamond yelled.
The runaway figure didn’t react, except to go faster.
He shouted a time-honoured warning: ‘Stop, police.’
This didn’t work either.
More from instinct than good sense, Diamond started running too. He was back in rugby-playing mode, a Met Police wing forward doing his damnedest to catch an opposition three-quarter in full flight. He’d never been the fastest man on the pitch. Power had been his forte more than speed and he’d added much weight since his playing days, so this couldn’t last long.
In the urgency of the chase, his leg was functioning as it should. The problem was that the opposition was faster on its feet. There was no way of catching up. Nor could he get a decent view of the guy, who was little more than a black smudge now, fast disappearing.
Diamond stopped running and gulped in some air. Felt twinges in his thigh. A few visits to the fitness centre would have helped.
Up ahead, a gasp and a thud sounded across the landscape. Had someone else joined in?
Heavy-legged, he forced himself into a semblance of motion again, heading towards the source. It was impossible in the moonlight to make out precisely where the fugitive had got to. Not where Diamond expected. He appeared to have got clean away.
But he hadn’t. The man was grounded, and suddenly Diamond could see him, in the act of getting up. He must have tripped and fallen.
When you get lucky, you need to make the most of it. He bore down on the runaway, who was now upright and starting to move off again, but with less agility. The tumble must have winded him, or caused an injury.
Diamond realised as he belted across the spongy turf that, ridiculously, he was still holding his walking stick. He was about to toss it aside when he had a thought that it could yet come in useful. He was definitely catching up, starting to move with more freedom, accelerating again. He urged himself on and reached a point a few yards short of his quarry.
Now use the bloody stick, he told himself.
His grip was halfway up the shaft. Still at full pelt, he extended his arm, dipped forward, and managed to hook the curved handle around the man’s left leg above the ankle.
The man went over for a second time with another bellow of pain, or frustration. And this time, Diamond’s full weight followed, a dive so committed that it absolutely required a soft landing. For a split second he was airborne. Then his shoulder crunched against firm flesh. He grasped for something to hold and found what must have been one of the shoulder straps of the backpack. The main thing now was to stay on top and let his body mass work for him.
The guy was wriggling like a beached fish. He couldn’t escape from the middle-aged spread bearing down on him.
‘I told you to stop,’ Diamond said breathlessly into his ear. ‘You’re nicked.’
No response.
For the next minute or so, the struggle was frenzied. By degrees the resistance became intermittent. The trapped man would let up for a few seconds before making another attempt. He was strong, no question, and quite a bit younger than Diamond. But he was exhausting himself.
The main problem in Diamond’s mind – apart from staying on top – was what to do next. The advantage was his for the present. He could hold this position for some time and he would need to, because he wasn’t carrying handcuffs. He hadn’t expected to make an arrest tonight. He didn’t even have a personal radio on him. All those young policemen in full kit had cuffs with them, but were they within hailing distance?
Doubtful. And he didn’t want to give encouragement to his prisoner at this stage of the arrest.
He took stock.
If he allowed the man to stand up, the balance of power changed. He could be up and running again, with a good chance of getting clean away.
Another bout of wriggling came to an end.
‘What’s your name?’ Diamond asked.
Silence.
‘Suit yourself. This can’t be comfortable and it could go on some time.’
He was talking to himself as much as the prisoner. There was no logical reason why anyone should come to his assistance. The firearms team were intent on watching the footpath leading to the pillbox. They wouldn’t even give a glance in this direction. And he doubted if he could make them hear.
There were arm-locks he could try, but he hadn’t much confidence he could keep a man under arrest who was so evidently fitter and younger. He didn’t even know if he could still get upright. The chase may have finally done for his dodgy leg. Just about every fibre of his body was aching.
Yet he had a duty to hold out. This squirming piece of bone and muscle could be a triple killer.
Help was urgently needed. He took a deep breath and shouted with all the voice he could raise, ‘Over here! By the river!’ But he was so low to the turf that he knew the sound hadn’t carried any distance at all.
Of course no one shouted back. Anyway, they were in whispering mode, like Sergeant Gillibrand.
‘Diamond here,’ he yelled. ‘Someone get over here, for God’s sake!’
The only immediate result was a heave from the prisoner that almost toppled him. The guy was strong.
A doubt crept into Diamond’s mind. What if this was not the sniper, but some hapless person who had happened to be out late walking by the river? He’d run away when challenged and tried to break free when arrested, but that was the only sure thing against him. Alone in the dark, pursued by someone in plain clothes purporting to be a police officer, mightn’t anyone have made a run for it?
And what if he actually was the lowlife who had been sleeping in the pillbox? Was that the clincher? Plenty of people lived and slept rough through choice or circumstance. Diamond hadn’t ever been fully convinced by Jack Gull’s theory that the killer was at large in Avoncliff.
Gull would point out that the shoeprints collected from the pillbox matched the prints found in Wells. He’d need more than that to get a conviction. He hadn’t yet found the murder weapon.
‘Are you going to tell me who you are?’ he asked again.
An unshaven cheek rasped Diamond’s face as the head jerked away, the closest thing to an answer he’d got so far.
‘What were you doing out here at night?’
Not a murmur.
You do not have to say anything, Diamond mentally intoned to himself from the official caution, and added his own corollary: but what’s stopping you if you’re innocent?
More minutes passed.
If nothing else, the bouts of struggling had stopped. Maybe the guy had exhausted himself. Or was he preparing for one almighty push for freedom?
Diamond tightened his grip, just in case.
He couldn’t be sure how much more time passed before he thought he heard a movement nearby, no more, perhaps, than a rustle in the reeds. More of that wildlife? He wasn’t certain. He strained to pick up another sound.
Getting nothing, he lifted his head and said, ‘Anyone there?’
Amazingly, there was.
Brilliant lights dazzled him, and a voice blared through a loudhailer, ‘Armed police! Don’t move.’
22
‘I
s that it?’ Jack Gull said.
In the yard at Bath Central police station, a van used for transporting prisoners had backed up to the entrance. The rear doors were open, but the grille remained in place. Alone inside, a slight, scruffy man, his clothes coated in mud, sat with his hands cuffed behind him. He looked dirtier, but otherwise no different from the drunks who are brought in any night of the week. Red-eyed, unshaven, not much over twenty, he stared past Gull as if he didn’t exist. His expression wasn’t defiant, or angry, or resigned. It was indifferent.
Anticlimax was about to ruin the night.
Gull had come in specially for his moment of triumph. Fireworks and a fanfare were in order. For while it was Peter Diamond who had detained the man, the major credit had to be chalked up to Supergull for setting up the operation. All the planning was down to the Serial Crimes Unit. As for Diamond, he’d been called in only as a stopgap. He wouldn’t have played any part if Gull hadn’t needed a break after five hours on watch. The silly arse hadn’t even armed himself, or the arrest would have been routine instead of the pantomime it had become.