Looking back on the case in the light of what followed, as Diamond would eventually, getting inside that workshop was a pivotal moment. He’d gone to some trouble to achieve it, but his justification had been slight. He was curious about Pellegrini, the well-respected engineer with the unorthodox night life. At this early stage, the man wasn’t suspected of anything worse than some erratic cycling on the night of the crash. He had his dippy side-like the rabbits-but there was nothing truly incriminating, nothing to justify a search of his premises. At worst, Diamond was nosy; at best, driven by a hunch that the place held dark secrets-and he mistrusted hunches. They were invariably unreliable. Those old cliché phrases about feelings in the bones or having a sixth sense or a nose for crime were inimical to his way of doing things.
Yet he did it.
He found the key that fitted and let himself in.
In deference to the hospital sister’s advice, he opened the door just a fraction. Hornby had become rather real in his imagination, too.
No starving cat ran out.
First impression: surprisingly tidy. Each item in its designated place. Maybe all engineers are like this, Diamond told himself as he took stock of a vast array of tools in beautiful condition clipped to a board above the work bench, boxes of shiny screws ranged along the base, strips of wood and metal arranged by size in racks. A blue boiler-suit hung from a hook beside the bench. A stack of engineering magazines, all squared off as if for inspection, were ranged behind a slim computer on a desk at one end.
Along most of one wall was a hinged sheet of chipboard about fifteen feet in length and more than five feet wide. When he unfastened the sides and lowered the thing, trestle legs dropped down. He was looking at a model railway layout, with stations, footbridges, signals, goods sheds, and all in a scenic setting with tiny figures of people, cars, sheep and cattle.
Nothing remarkable in that. Pellegrini wasn’t the only man in the world who played with toy trains. We all get our kicks some way. Some people might think collecting ex-Scotland Yard men’s memoirs was extreme. Each to his own.
Above the door and extending a long way beyond was a name-plate in green and gold that had once been attached to a steam locomotive. Suitably enough, it was County of Somerset. Probably cost a small fortune. Such things are prized by collectors.
Nothing suspicious so far, nothing remotely of interest to the CID. The three plastic urns on a high shelf under the window no longer appeared so sinister. He was starting to doubt whether he’d been right about their original purpose. Someone had decorated them in the distinctive bold, cheerful style of canal-ware. But instead of daffodils and geraniums, each had a brightly coloured locomotive with a white plume of steam. The trains looked lively against the terracotta background. If you have a passion for steam and happen to own some plastic pots, why not?
He switched on the computer and clicked the icon for emails but the storage files were empty. Probably there was another computer in the house that Pellegrini used for mail. This one was for Internet access. Various sites were bookmarked as favourites and they all had engineering or railway connections. Diamond’s lack of expertise with computers prevented him from investigating more. He switched off.
Disappointing.
As an afterthought he curled his fingers under the handle of the desk drawer and slid it open. A few sheets of A4 paper printed from the computer and headed Great Western Railway. He gave them a cursory glance and was about to return them to the drawer when he noticed there was printing on the reverse side. Clearly Pellegrini believed in making full use of every sheet.
This wasn’t about railways. It seemed to be a printout of an online discussion forum. Someone calling themselves
Bluebeard had written:
You only have to check how many murders go unsolved to know plenty of killers get away with it. It’s around fifty a year in the UK, going by official stats over the past ten years. That’s a whole load of dangerous people walking free.
The next person, “Lady Macbeth,” retorted:
Tip of the iceberg. Think about it. The really clever ones don’t get found out. People are being stiffed all the time and it never gets known because the doctor signs it off as natural. Then you don’t have to get rid of the body.
Back came Bluebeard:
And if we knew how many are missed by the police because they take them to be accidents, we’d be shocked out of our skins.
Lady Macbeth:
Accidents or suicide. Nobody guesses there’s some evil-minded person who pushes the victim off the cliff or over the side of the boat.
Bluebeard:
Are you really a lady? I wouldn’t want to fall out with you.
Lady Macbeth:
Haha.
Bluebeard:
You’re on to something, pushing them over the side. Nothing confuses the police and forensic people better than water. They find a floater, as they call them, and unless there are obvious injury marks it’s hard to be certain about the cause of death. Drowning is difficult to prove at the best of times and just about impossible when the victim has been dead in the water some time.
Lady Macbeth:
I thought it was simple to tell from the water filling up the lungs.
Bluebeard was sounding increasingly like a pathologist.
Not necessarily. Some people die from cardiac arrest, basically from the shock of submersion through cold water rushing into the mouth and nose. The water might not even get into the lungs. The nervous reflex triggers a heart attack. This happens quite commonly with drunks who fall in.
Lady Macbeth:
I don’t call that drowning.
Bluebeard:
It’s still a body found in water. I think it’s known as dry drowning. A lot of people die in their own baths. Electrocution is a possibility from using a hair dryer or even an electric fire. Most bathrooms don’t have power points but there’s always some idiot who decides to use an extension lead. You could murder someone by dropping the electrical device in the water.
Lady Macbeth:
I saw that in a TV play.
Bluebeard:
Another water death that comes to mind is a famous case called the Brides in the Bath that happened about a hundred years ago but could still work. This man would marry and take out life insurance on his bride. While she was taking a bath he’d come in and grab her legs, forcing her to slide under the water and die. Then he’d call the doctor and say she must have had a heart attack. It worked so well that he got over-confident and did it too many times. Someone read in the paper about it and he was caught. If he hadn’t been so greedy he would have got away with one or two.
Lady Macbeth:
Nasty. You’ve really studied this.
Bluebeard:
In fact there are so many complicating factors in drowning that the experts use what they call a diagnosis of exclusion. If the body is found in water and there’s no other reason for the death, it’s assumed to be drowning. As for deciding if a drowning is accidental or deliberate, your average pathologist is at a loss. Useful information for a would-be killer.
Lady Macbeth:
Not for me. It’s all too proactive. I’d prefer some method that doesn’t require so much effort on my part.
Bluebeard summed up and ended the discussion:
Whatever. Like I said, it just goes to show there must be hundreds of murderers we could easily rub shoulders with. Next time you’re in a queue at the supermarket take a look at who’s in front of you or more important behind you. I always do.