Authors: Peter Lovesey
She turned to look at him. ‘1987, guv.’
‘That isn’t what I said.’
‘That was the year of the great storm. October, 1987.’
‘Well?’
‘When so many trees came down. She was buried in the hollow left by a tree’s roots.’
She was bright. He wished he’d thought of that. ‘But can we be sure that tree came down then?’
She nodded. ‘I checked with the Lansdown Society.’
‘The
what
?’
‘There’s a society dedicated to keeping Lansdown unspoilt. I believe they’re a mix of landowners and wildlife enthusiasts. They monitor everything up there, all the activities.’
‘And they knew about that tree?’
‘As soon as I asked.’
He raised both thumbs. ‘So the time frame comes down to twelve years. You’re a star, Ingeborg. And now you can become a megastar by checking the missing persons register for those years.’
‘I already have, guv.’
‘You’ll get a medal at this rate.’
‘Not when you hear the result. I looked at all the local counties, made a list of missing girls under twenty-five, but I’m not confident she’s on it.’
‘Can you show me?’
She worked the keyboard and four names with brief details appeared on the screen.
‘Why so few? Hundreds of people go missing.’
‘We narrowed the criteria. These are all the search gave me.’
‘So what’s the problem with them?’
‘Look at the descriptions. The first girl, Margaret Edgar, was five foot eleven and Hayley Walters was only half an inch less. Gaye Brewster had broken her left arm and had it pinned some weeks before she disappeared. That would surely have been noticed by Mr Peake. Olivia Begg was about the height of our victim, but she went in for body piercings and nothing like that was found at the site.’
‘Those rings people wear in their . . .?’
‘Places I’d rather not mention.’
‘The killer could have removed them. He removed the head.’
‘True, but Olivia went missing only in 1999, at the margin of our time frame, and even that’s in doubt. There was an unconfirmed sighting of her in Thailand two years later. I doubt if she’s ours.’
Diamond exhaled, a long, resigned breath. ‘I’ve got to agree with you, Inge. They’re not serious candidates. When you think about it, plenty of young women of this age leave their families and friends and quite often it doesn’t get reported because no one is alarmed. It’s their choice. They hitch up with a pop star or go travelling or end up on the game. They don’t make the list of missing persons.’
She raked her hand through her long blonde hair and clutched it to the nape of her neck. ‘So what else can we do?’
‘Ask ourselves questions about the killer. Why choose to bury the body at Lansdown?’
After a moment’s reflection she said, ‘It’s remote. He wouldn’t be noticed if he picked his time to dig the grave.’
‘True.’
‘Where the tree was uprooted the soil would be looser to work with. He’d have a ready-made hole in the ground and he could use the soft earth to cover the corpse.’
‘You’re right about that. It was buried quite deep, not the proverbial six feet under, but all of three.’
‘Deep enough.’
He nodded. ‘Most murderers don’t appreciate the difficulty of digging a grave in unsuitable ground. The body found in a shallow grave is a cliché of the trade.’
‘So he chose his spot wisely, but he’d still have to transport the body there.’
‘Well, the ground slopes down a bit, but you could drive across the field in, say, a four by four.’
‘This is looking like someone who knows Lansdown well.’
‘Either that, or he got lucky,’ Diamond said. ‘The body was undiscovered for at least ten years and probably several more. It was deep enough to avoid the interest of foxes and dogs for a long time.’
‘It was a dog that found the bone in the end,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Yes, and I wonder why, after so long. Had something happened to disturb the grave?’
‘Dogs do go digging.’
‘Not that deep. Miss Hibbert didn’t say anything about the dog burrowing. She seemed to suggest he found it near the surface.’
‘What are we saying, guv? Some person was digging there? Why would they do that?’
Out of nowhere he became confessional. ‘When I was about eleven we used to make camps in the woods and smoke our fathers’ cigarettes and look at girlie magazines.’
Ingeborg didn’t really want this insight into his misspent youth and couldn’t see how it impacted on the investigation.
‘The space under the root system would make a good camp if you dug into it,’ he said.
‘Not my scene,’ she said, with a mental image of the adult Diamond sitting in the mud reading soft porn. ‘But I see what you’re getting at.’
‘Do kids still do that – make camps?’
‘I expect so – but I doubt if they’d choose Lansdown. It’s a long way from habitation.’
‘The crime scene people found some ringpulls.’
‘Adults?’
‘You might have a picnic there on a warm day.’
‘But you wouldn’t go digging for bones.’
His thoughts went back to something John Wigfull had told him. ‘A few weeks ago they re-enacted a Civil War battle up there. Grown-ups playing soldiers. If you were defending a stretch of ground and needed to dig in you’d be glad of a position like that.’
‘It wasn’t the Western Front,’ Ingeborg said. ‘The Civil War was all about man to man fighting, not trenches.’
‘You’d need to store your supplies somewhere. You’d look for an obvious place like that, partly sheltered. I reckon they’re the people who disturbed the grave. If they unearthed a femur in the heat of battle they’re not going to give it much attention. That could be how it came to the surface.’
‘Does it matter?’
He didn’t answer that. He was on a roll. Thanks to John Wigfull, he could air his second-hand knowledge with impunity. ‘Most weekends in the summer there’s a muster somewhere. That’s what they call it, a muster. The Sealed Knot came to Lansdown this year and they’ve been before, but not every year. Obviously they had a major muster in 1993, the anniversary.’
‘Of the Battle of Lansdown?’
‘Three hundred and fifty years on.’ He paused, as if to weigh the evidence. ‘We’re looking for a killer who buried his victim in the hole left by the tree. Depth, soft earth to cover her with. She’s been buried at least ten years. I’m thinking about 1993, right in the middle of our time frame.’
U
nfortunately there was no better way of progressing the case of the headless skeleton than to employ the services of the new media relations manager. John Wigfull was still positioned behind his computer when Diamond came in.
‘How’s business?’ Diamond asked.
Wigfull didn’t look up from the keyboard. ‘Early days.’
‘Any results?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
Diamond picked up a paper from the desk. The
Bath Chronicle.
He’d noticed a Post-it note marking an inside page. ‘Oh, yes. A definite result.’
The page he’d opened had the headline CLOCK THE CAVALIER, over some photos. The picture editor had superimposed Rupert Hope’s face on several well known images. In one he was the Laughing Cavalier of Franz Hals and in another a Van Dyck portrait of Charles I. In a third he was given the resplendent hair of Brian May, of Queen.
‘It’s not the press release I gave them,’ Wigfull said with bitterness.
‘They’ve been creative.’
‘I called the editor to complain. He said the story will get more attention this way.’
‘Probably true. The phone will start ringing soon.’
‘It already has.’
‘Well then.’
‘A number of people claim to have seen him locally. They seem to expect a reward. It’s not a game.’
‘But it’s not too serious. I expect your Rupert Hope will turn up wondering what all the fuss is about.’
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t have released the story?’
‘No, it makes good copy. That’s what your job is about, isn’t it – feeding juicy stories to the media?’
Wigfull twitched in disapproval. ‘It’s a whole lot more than that. I’m not just here to get publicity. I’m after results.’
‘Which is why I’m here,’ Diamond said as if he were Wigfull’s guardian angel. ‘I told you about my headless skeleton. I know some more now and I’m ready to go public.’
‘You want me to inform the press?’
‘Don’t sound so gloomy about it. This is the big one, John, your chance to make the nationals.’ He pulled up a chair and sat beside Wigfull. ‘A young girl, under twenty-one, buried on Lansdown minus her head. We need to know who she was. An appeal for information. Who remembers a girl going missing in the nineties?’
Together, they drafted the press release. When it was done, Diamond returned to the CID office and spoke to Ingeborg. ‘Something you mentioned the other day has been on my mind. The Lansdown Society. You said you’d been in touch with them about the fallen tree.’
She blinked twice and gave a nervous cough. ‘That wasn’t strictly true, guv. A friend of mine did some work for them. That’s how I heard of them.’
‘Not a problem. I was thinking they could be useful to us. I tried looking them up. They don’t seem to have a phone number or a website.’
‘I don’t think they’re a public organisation.’
‘How did your friend get to hear of them?’
‘Perry’s a cartographer. They commission him to make maps of the land use up there. He told me he did one showing features of botanical interest. I thought of him when we went to look at the site.’
‘He’s your inside man?’
‘He doesn’t go to the meetings. It’s all rather secretive as far as I can make out. But he knew about the tree and it definitely came down in 1987. It would have been sawn up and removed, only it has some rare lichens on the trunk.’
‘Come again.’
‘Lichen. That bright green stuff, isn’t it, like a fungus?’
‘Nature study passed me by at school. Getting back to the Lansdown Society, what’s it about?’
‘According to Perry, they want to keep the down unspoilt. Like I said, they monitor everything that goes on.’
‘Does much go on?’
‘More than you’d think, particularly at weekends. Football, golf, hang-gliding, kites.’
‘It all sounds harmless enough. What are they afraid of – the ground getting scuffed up?’
She smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘One thing is certain. They must know all about the Civil War events. I bet that tests their tolerance, muskets and cannon going off and cavalry charging across the sacred turf. I’d like to know their take on it. How do I get to meet them?’
‘I could ask Perry.’
‘Do that. Is he, er . . .?’
‘Just a friend.’
Lansdown is, indeed, a place where much goes on. Sundays and Bank Holiday Mondays through the summer see a large car boot sale in the racecourse car park. The traders set up from 7.30 a.m. and the buyers are supposed to arrive from 9 a.m. onwards, although dealers have their ways of getting an early look. There’s always the hope that a Hepplewhite chair or the first Harry Potter will be put up for sale by some innocent. After the dealers have swept through, that hope has gone. There isn’t much chance of one of the public finding a real bargain. But the sale is still somewhere to go on a Sunday, a free show and a social occasion. The setting, with those views into Somerset and Wiltshire, is unequalled. But the downside is that it’s exposed to the elements.
On this breezy Sunday anything that wasn’t weighted down was taking to the air. The various wood and fabric structures used as rain covers or sunshades or just extra shelving were under threat from gusts. More than one table collapsed. Some traders spent most of the morning rearranging their displays. It wasn’t surprising that a visitor in a hooded jacket was able to move through the sale helping himself to food items. He’d got some way before one of the traders asked him for payment for a meat pie he’d picked up from a stall that sold hot food.
He replaced it at once.
‘You can’t do that,’ she told him. ‘It’s got a bite out of it. That’ll be one pound fifty.’
The man shrugged and moved on.
‘Hey!’ the woman said. ‘That’s no good to me. I can’t sell it. That’s theft.’
He was already some way off.
She asked the trader nearest to her to take over. ‘He’s not getting away with it. I’m going after him.’
‘Leave it, dear,’ the neighbour said. She was a peace-loving woman with a long chiffon scarf. She sold copper bracelets and good luck charms. ‘He won’t have any money on him. I’ve seen him nick stuff before. He’s simple.’
The pie woman wasn’t to be dissuaded. Snatching up the pie, she set off through the crowd and caught up with the man near a display of model cars. ‘This is your pie, mister. You owe me one pound fifty.’
He shook his head.
‘Here, take it,’ she said, thrusting it at him ‘Enjoy it. I can say it myself, because I made it, it’s a good pie. It’s no use to me or anyone else now you’ve bitten a chunk out of it. Just pay for it and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Madam, I can’t,’ he said in a refined tone. ‘I have no money on me.’
‘That’s great. What are you doing here anyway, if you’ve got no money? This is a sale, not a fucking free-for-all.’ Her shouting was starting to get attention from the crowd and she felt compelled to take action rather than lose face. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Citizen’s arrest. I’m nicking you for theft. Anything you say will be used in evidence against you. Someone call the police. Who’s got a phone?’
The man under arrest shook his head. ‘Not me.’
‘I wasn’t asking you.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ He was co-operative, if nothing else. He looked bewildered.
Uncertain what to do next, the pie woman grasped the man’s arm and led him back towards her van. He came like a lamb.
It was the copper bracelet seller who reluctantly called the police on her mobile. ‘It’s not my name you want,’ she said into the phone. ‘It’s the lady who made the arrest. What’s your name, love?’
Before the pie woman could answer, the arrested man said, ‘Noddy.’
‘God help us!’ the copper bracelet seller said, and giggled. Somehow, she got control of herself and gave the essential facts and ended the call. ‘They said to keep him here if possible and they’ll send someone.’
The result of all this was self-defeating. No trade was done in the next half hour. The man calling himself Noddy had his own aroma competing with the appetising smell of the pies.
When two police officers eventually made their way through the crowd, the pie seller explained what had happened. As proof, she showed them the pie with the bite out of it.
‘And you arrested him?’ PC Andy Sullivan said.
‘Citizen’s arrest,’ the woman said. ‘It’s common law.’
‘I know that, ma’am. Do you want to press charges?’
‘I want to be paid for my pie, that’s all.’
It’s the job of uniformed police to defuse a situation whenever possible. Andy Sullivan spoke to the prisoner. ‘Why don’t you give the lady the money and settle the matter?’
‘Because I haven’t got any money, officer.’ Shabby and strong-smelling he may have been, but the man was polite, well-spoken and logical. Not the usual troublemaker.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Noddy.’
Sullivan revised his opinion.
A stifled sound of mirth came from behind the copper bracelet table.
While this was going on, Sullivan’s partner, PC Denise Beal, wished she was a million miles away. Her stomach was churning. She could see her short career in the police coming to a quick end if Noddy recognised her. She was trying to avoid eye contact. Sullivan moved his face closer to the prisoner’s. ‘If you mess with me, my friend, you’ll regret it. Now tell me your name.’
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll regret it.’
‘Don’t get smart with me. Who are you?’
‘That’s what I’m called. Noddy.’
‘He’s not right in the head,’ the copper bracelet woman said. ‘I’ve been trying to tell her.’
‘Hold on,’ the pie woman said. ‘I’m the victim in all this, not him. I’ve lost half a morning’s trade through him. I’m taking him to court.’
‘Where do you live?’ Sullivan asked the man.
The copper bracelet woman said, getting another fit of the giggles, ‘Toyland.’
Sullivan told her to shut up. Then he turned back to the man. ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘I’m living up here for the present.’
‘But where exactly?’
‘Anywhere that’s dry on a wet night.’
‘So you’re homeless?’
The man nodded.
This touched the heart of the copper bracelet woman. ‘Did you hear that? He’s homeless. You can’t take a homeless man to court.’
‘I can and I will,’ the pie woman said. ‘He may sound like a smoothie, but he’s a thief. You can’t argue with the evidence.’ She held up the pie. But such was the force of her feelings that her thumb and finger met in the middle and the evidence collapsed and fell in bits on the ground. ‘Oh, buggery!’
‘I was going to say “crumbs”,’ the copper bracelet woman said, in giggles again. ‘Case dismissed, I reckon.’
This was all too much for the pie woman. ‘You bitch!’ Angry and defeated, she made a grab, caught hold of the other woman’s scarf and wrestled her to the ground. They rolled over and over, screaming, in a flurry of bare legs and black underwear, all dignity gone.
‘Get them apart,’ Andy Sullivan said to Denise.
It took half a minute and some grappling, but at least Denise was in trousers. She’d had recent training in detaining a suspect resisting arrest and she succeeded in getting the pie woman’s arm behind her back and forcing it upwards so that the other woman could squirm free.
‘Okay,’ Sullivan said to the pie woman, still on the ground. ‘Are you going to be sensible and calm down?’
She said, ‘Let go of me.’
The copper bracelet woman had retreated to the other side of her table and was brushing down her clothes. She said, ‘I could do her for assault. She almost strangled me.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Sullivan said. He nodded to Denise. ‘You can let go of her now.’
The pie woman got up, mouthing obscenities, but not giving voice to them.
Andy Sullivan was in control. ‘And now I think you ladies should go back to doing what you paid your fee for, selling your wares.’ ‘Where’s he gone?’ the pie woman said. ‘What happened to the thief?’
In all the distraction, the man known as Noddy had gone.
Late the same Sunday evening, Diamond took a call at home. It was Ingeborg, apologising for troubling him, and saying she’d made contact with her friend Perry, the link to the Lansdown Society. Two of the committee, Perry had told her, had a regular Monday morning round of golf and it might be an opportunity to see them. They met at ten.
‘Who are these two?’ he asked.
‘A Major Swithin and Sir Colin Tipping.’
Thinking his own thoughts about ranks and titles, he wrote down the names. ‘Tipping? I’ve heard of him. He sponsored a horse race I watched the other evening.’
‘I didn’t know you followed the horses, guv.’
‘I was being sociable. Horse racing or golf, I take it all in my stride. Is that the course up at Lansdown? I don’t really need to ask, do I? Thanks for that, Inge. I’ll make it a threesome and ruin their morning.’