Peter Diamond - 09 - The Secret Hangman
The Secret Hangman
By the same author
WOBBLE TO DEATH
THE DETECTIVE WORE SILK DRAWERS
ABRACADAVER
MAD HATTER’S HOLIDAY
INVITATION TO A DYNAMITE PARTY
A CASE OF SPIRITS
SWING, SWING TOGETHER
WAXWORK
THE FALSE INSPECTOR DEW
KEYSTONE
ROUGH CIDER
BERTIE AND THE TINMAN
ON THE EDGE
BERTIE AND THE SEVEN BODIES
BERTIE AND THE CRIME OF PASSION
THE LAST DETECTIVE
DIAMOND SOLITAIRE
THE SUMMONS
BLOODHOUNDS
UPON A DARK NIGHT
THE VAULT
THE REAPER
DIAMOND DUST
THE HOUSE SITTER
THE CIRCLE
Short stories
BUTCHERS AND OTHER STORIES OF CRIME
THE CRIME OF MISS OYSTER BROWN AND OTHER STORIES
DO NOT EXCEED THE STATED DOSE
THE SEDGEMOOR STRANGLER AND OTHER STORIES OF CRIME
THE SECRET HANGMAN
Peter Lovesey
Copyright © 2007 by Peter Lovesey
All rights reserved.
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Lovesey, Peter
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-56947-457-0 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1-56947-457-5 (hardcover)
1. Diamond, Peter (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. Detectives—England—Bath—Fiction.
3. Serial murders—Fiction. 4. Bath (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6062.O86S4 2007
823’.914—dc22
2006036362
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
To Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond
Dear Mr Diamond,
This is so difficult. Several tries have ended in the bin already.
Please be kind and read to the end before making up your mind.
I’m a woman of – let’s say a few years younger than you. Like
you, I was married for a time but now I’m back to the single life and
I can’t say I enjoy it even though I’m left with my own house and
enough to live on. What else? I went through university in the days
when it was difficult to get in. I like a lot of the things you enjoy,
like old black-and-white films, rock music and the occasional glass of
beer. I’m lucky enough to be in good health. People tell me I’m good
company. Figure-wise, I could still get into some of the clothes I had
as a student if I’d kept them, but I keep up with fashion, so I’m
always buying new things. You don’t have to be a detective to see
where this is leading, so I’m going to stop wittering on about myself.
I just wanted you to know I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West.
You’ll be wondering how I know so much about you and I’d
better come clean and say I read about you in the paper a couple
of years ago and cut the piece out because I liked your picture and
the things you were saying. It was a feature article with a photo. I
just loved the way you talked about your life in the police. You give
it to them straight whether they’re chief constables or cub reporters
from the Daily Grind. Since then I’ve followed you through several
cases and it’s obvious you’re in the top bracket as a detective.
What do I want now I’ve plucked up the courage to write? I just
wonder if you’d like to meet some time for a drink and a chat? My
generation of women isn’t used to making the first move, not face
to face, and even writing it down like this is a big effort – which
is why I’m hiding behind a made-up name and no address.
I’ll be in the Saracen’s Head this Thursday between seven and
eight. If you come in, I’ll introduce myself.
In anticipation – and thanks, anyway, for reading this far,
Your secret admirer
Lady, if you knew anything about me you wouldn’t bother, Peter Diamond thought. He sighed and shook his head.
He dropped the letter into the bin with the other junk mail. The envelope was about to follow, but didn’t. He’d noticed it was the self-seal kind and the seal wasn’t too good because the flap had come apart easily without tearing anything. He tried sealing the thing again and it wouldn’t hold – just as if someone had opened it already.
No stamp. No address. Just his name on the envelope and
By
hand
written where the stamp should have been. She must have delivered it to the front desk, and that gave him an uncomfortable thought. Suppose the entire nick knew he’d got a secret admirer.
Now he picked the letter out of the bin, replaced it in the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. Later, he’d put it through the office shredder.
A worse thought: some joker on his own team had done this as a hoax. They were waiting to see his reaction.
Well, he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Bugger it, he’d check
their
reactions. He got up and took his usual route between the desks towards the door at the far end, appearing nonchalant while alert to any suggestion of a snigger. At one point he stopped and swung round as if he’d forgotten a file and needed to go back.
No one was paying him any attention.
Two, at least, had their eyes on Ingeborg, the novice detective, as she bent over a filing cabinet. Keith Halliwell, the longest-serving DI – and well capable of practical joking – was on the phone. The civilian staff were fingering their keyboards.
Yet he doubted if Halliwell would stoop to this. Halliwell had been with him that ill-fated morning when he attended a crime scene in Royal Victoria Park and made the worst of all discoveries. Keith of all people knew better than to trespass on his personal life.
The hoax theory withered and died.
He moved on and kept going through the building as far as the canteen. Picked up a mug of tea and a sticky bun and parked himself at a table at the quiet end. He was used to being alone.
Not for long. Assistant Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore, the closest thing he had to a boss, appeared from nowhere carrying a glass of water and sat opposite him.
‘Peter, you look peaky.’
Peaky
. That was a word from the past. He’d last heard it used by one of his aunts forty years ago to explain why she wouldn’t sample his mother’s Victoria sponge.
‘I’m OK,’ he said to Georgina.
‘Overwork?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Something personal?’
‘I said I’m OK.’
The boss gave him a sympathetic look. She’d given him looks like that ever since Steph was murdered, as if she expected him at any moment to bury his face in her bosom and sob uncontrollably. She said, ‘An MP report has come in.’
‘That’s all we need,’ he said, rolling his eyes upwards.
She frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Politicians, that’s what’s wrong. We don’t want them breathing down our necks.’
‘Not members of parliament,’ she said in the despairing tone of a schoolmistress to the kid who never listened. Diamond had an inbuilt resistance to abbreviations. ‘Missing person.’
He thought about that for a while before saying, ‘Got you.’
‘A woman in Walcot with a partner and two small daughters was out on Tuesday night and hasn’t been home since.’
‘Tuesday? That’s only yesterday.’
‘It’s very unlike her,’ Georgina went on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘She’s in the habit of speaking to her mother on the phone every day at the same time.’
‘The mother reported it. Not the partner?’
‘He’s relaxed about it. Says she must have needed space and she’ll come back when she’s ready.’
‘He’s probably right. And you want it checked?’
‘Please, Peter.’
‘Isn’t it rather quick? One night away isn’t much. She’s not a fourteen-year-old.’
Georgina’s chest expanded, an ominous sign well known in Manvers Street nick. ‘I happen to have spoken to her mother. She’s in my choir. A level-headed woman. She wouldn’t fuss without reason.’
He understood now. Georgina was a devoted singer. How good her voice was, he didn’t know. She had joined, and left, several of Bath’s many choirs over the past four years. Even so, there is a fellowship among singers, a kind of freemasonry as Diamond viewed it, that meant they helped each other when they could. She was going to insist on a routine check.
‘Who’s looking after the kids?’ he asked.
‘The partner.’
‘Are they his?’
‘I believe not.’
‘His name?’
‘Corcoran. Ashley Corcoran. More importantly, hers is Delia Williamson.’ She handed him a scrap of paper with some details she’d got from her friend in the choir.
Missing persons are a constant of police work. Over four thousand join the list every week in Britain. Rebellious teenagers, runaway spouses, middle-aged dropouts, feeble-minded old people. The index grows steadily, but a good proportion return. Some give cause for real concern. A few are never heard of again.
He returned upstairs and told DC Ingeborg Smith to find out what she could about Delia Williamson.
‘Are you thinking this is a domestic, guv?’ Ingeborg asked, mustard-keen as usual. She had everything on computer at the speed of a texting teenager. As a former investigative journalist, she was used to meeting deadlines.
‘I’m keeping an open mind. When you visit the partner – this Corcoran – make sure a man is with you.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘With a bloke at your side, Inge. I don’t want two female detectives knocking on his door.’
She drew a sharp breath, and then bit back what she was going to say and settled for less. ‘It says here Corcoran is cooperating.’
‘They do at the beginning. That’s an order.’
He looked at the printout she’d given him. Delia Williamson was thirty-three, dark-haired and wore glasses. The two daughters, aged eight and six, were from a previous relationship. ‘Get the name of the father,’ he told her. ‘Everything you can on him.’
At home in Weston that evening, he felt in his pocket for a pen and discovered that letter from the secret admirer. He’d forgotten to shred it. No need. He’d tear it into small pieces and dispose of them with the rubbish.
But he didn’t.
Here in the black hole that was his private life, with only domestic chores and television to keep self-pity at bay, he thought about the effort it must have taken to write that letter and deliver it to the nick. He unfolded it and read it again. The woman hadn’t said if she was bereaved or divorced.
I’m back to the single life and
I can’t say I enjoy it
.
‘You and me both,’ he said.
Even so, he wasn’t going to be suckered into walking into a pub to meet a stranger who’d read about him in the paper. It would be worse than a date set up by one of those agencies that make money out of lonely people. At least they show you a video-clip to help you decide.
Three years had gone by since he’d found Steph gunned down in Royal Victoria Park. He’d loved her with a passion no one else would understand. She had been warm, amusing, honest, wise, sexy, brave and, in his eyes, beautiful. She’d made him the luckiest man in the world – until that February morning. He’d repeatedly told himself he would find his own way through the grief. For Steph’s sake he wouldn’t let the sadness show. She would have expected him to hold up, and he had, so far as anyone could tell. Finding her killer had helped fill the gap in those early months. Work, work, work had been the therapy since. Slack times were black times.
He could just about remember the newspaper interview this woman must have seen. It had been in the
Bath Chronicle
six months after the murder, when the investigation seemed to be going nowhere. He hadn’t kept a copy. His mind had been on other things. They must have printed that trivia about the black-and-white films and the rock music, or where would she have got it from? But what was he doing, talking to the press about music and movies six months after Steph had died?
He could check in the newspaper files, but he’d be wasting his time. The letter was of no importance. He wouldn’t be meeting the woman.
He glanced down the page and smiled at that sentence:
I just
wanted you to know I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West
. She had a sense of humour, whoever she was. He stuffed it back into his pocket. Then he sorted through the heap of dusty videos on the floor and picked out
The Postman Always Rings Twice
. The original version, with John Garfield and Lana Turner. It would see him through until bedtime.