‘Never mind the guns. What about the man himself? Does he have an alibi? No. He lives above the garden the shot was fired from.’
‘None of them in the house have an alibi. They were all at home overnight. Any one of them could have gone down to the end of the garden and pulled the trigger.’
‘I may be wrong, but I don’t see the old couple or the dizzy blonde knowing which end of a gun to hold. Willis does.’
‘If it’s him, he’s got front,’ Halliwell said. ‘He didn’t exactly go out of his way to please us.’
‘He’s smart enough to know where to hide a rifle from a search party. Who’s to say he doesn’t have one he keeps at home?’
‘Unlicensed?’
A nod.
‘The sniper used a military assault rifle for the killings in Wells and Radstock.’
‘Does that make any difference?’
‘It’s not the sort of weapon they use in rifle clubs. It’s illegal.’
‘We’re not dealing with an amateur, Keith. If he wanted to get hold of a military weapon, he’d find a dealer.’
‘Is this a hunch, guv, or something stronger?’
‘Call it an informed guess. Check with the DVLC to see if he owns a motorbike.’
‘As well as the car, you mean? Now?’
Halliwell was treated to one of Diamond’s looks.
But the call to Swansea proved negative.
Diamond swore, sighed and shook his head.
‘I know we’ve got Willis in the frame,’ Halliwell said, ‘but shouldn’t we widen this?’
‘Meaning?’
‘What if the killer wasn’t living in the house. He sneaks in the evening before, breaks into the basement and passes the night there.’
‘Sneaks in through the front door?’
‘When someone else is coming or going, using the entry system. If, say, the Murphys had a visitor who was leaving, all it needs is for the killer to choose his moment and slip through the open door.’
‘Okay, an outsider is a possibility. Is there any evidence of someone having hidden in the basement flat?’
‘Nothing obvious.’
‘I wasn’t expecting an overnight bag and a toothbrush. It’s a dusty flat that’s been empty some time. Forensics can tell if someone went through.’
‘Most of Manvers Street went through this morning, guv. Well, that’s an exaggeration. Ken Lockton and Sergeant Stillman and the armed response team. That’s a lot of disturbance. The scene-of-crime team spent a couple of hours taking samples. They promised to let us know.’
‘Forensics.’ Diamond rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Did they manage to work out the sequence of events in the garden?’
‘Before the shooting?’
‘After.’
‘We all assume the sniper was still in the garden when Lockton and Stillman turned up.’
‘How soon did they get there?’
‘Around 4:40 A.M.’
‘The 999 call was 4:09. Heck of a long time for the killer to be still at the scene.’
‘The theory is that he meant to leave immediately after firing the shot and something went wrong.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like his escape plan. Maybe he hadn’t bargained for the shop alarm going off and waking people. Or it could be as simple as the basement door shutting behind him. He’d be stuck there until someone came.’
‘He’d break a window or go over the wall. None of this chimes in with what we know about the sniper. He’s a planner. He leaves nothing to chance.’
‘Chance can bugger up the best of plans, guv.’
‘Agreed.’ Diamond looked down at his injured leg. ‘Go on, then. He remains in the garden for some reason yet to be revealed. What happens next?’
‘He hears Lockton and Stillman coming and decides to hide.’
‘Leaving his rifle propped against the railing? That’s another eccentric action. Wouldn’t he hide the gun as well?’
‘I would.’
‘Me, too. Is it left there deliberately as a distraction? They spot the gun and go towards it, thinking he’s long gone.’
‘That’s what they thought according to Sergeant Stillman.’
‘But in reality he’s still in the garden.’
‘Or the house.’
‘And after Stillman has left, the sniper picks up the gun and clobbers Ken Lockton from behind with the butt and makes his escape. Presumably the motorbike was parked somewhere near. What’s that side street opposite the Paragon?’
‘Hay Hill.’
‘That’s where I’d keep the bike for a swift getaway. Up the top to Lansdown Road and you’re laughing. You wouldn’t meet any of the response vehicles coming to the scene. We need to know, regardless of whether it belonged to Willis. Check the houses in Hay Hill and see if anyone saw a bike parked there overnight.’
While Halliwell went off, Diamond fingered his leg. There was swelling around the ankle and soreness, if not acute pain. His ribs hurt, too. Maybe he should have waited for those X-rays.
He spotted a familiar, lanky figure folding and unfolding his arms, trying to appear important.
‘Mr. Polehampton.’
The early bird of the Serial Crimes Unit turned, saw who had spoken and came over. He eyed the crutches and made no comment.
‘You’ve been here a few hours now,’ Diamond said. ‘Is the crime scene still under your control?’
Polehampton gave a cautious nod.
‘I expect you’ve got to know the area pretty well.’
Another nod.
‘Have you sussed out the shops?’
‘I know what’s there, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Polehampton said.
‘Good. All I can see from here are places that sell sofas, sewing machines and bikes. There’s a charity shop and a couple of eating places. What’s up the street beyond the night club?’
‘A stationer’s, more eating places, a fancy dress shop.’
‘Nothing so useful as a pharmacy?’
‘Further along, maybe.’
‘You’re not certain?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Better ask one of the locals, hadn’t you? Then nip along there and get me some extra strong painkillers. I’ll take over your job.’
7
Call me Ishtar.
Why? It’s as good a way of starting a blog as I can think of. Shades of Moby Dick. But this isn’t about whaling, or seafaring, or moby, or dick. Correction. I guess a moby is sure to come into it if that’s what you call your mobile phone. As for a dick, just wait and see.
Ishtar is the name I’ve chosen for myself, not wanting the world to know who I really am. She is the Babylonian goddess of love and war. A weird combination, you’re thinking, but everyone needs to be loved and most of us are willing to fight for it.
This is the start of something that may soon develop into a story of scandal, fraud and possibly more. Can’t say where it will lead because the action has only just started. Three of us are going undercover. We’re well placed to get at the truth, better placed than the police.
If we’re right in our suspicions, the story needs exposure, which is why I’ve chosen to post my blog this way, through a worldwide network that reveals sensitive information while protecting the identities of the main players, not least myself. Whistleblowers and human rights activists use this facility in confidence of remaining anonymous. The thing I find funniest is that the system is so brilliant that it’s also used by so-called intelligence agencies across the world to give out information while covering their sources, yet they can’t unravel it to unmask other users. How is this done? As I understand it, everything I write will be bounced around such a network of relays run by volunteers that it will be totally impossible for you or anyone else to track me down to my steamy little lair, so don’t even think about trying.
Got that?
Let’s go.
My profile
Whoops — I have to be careful here or my mask will be ripped off even before I begin. I can tell you safely and truly I’m female and between twenty and thirty and passably good looking, enough to have had the lovers I’ve wanted, three when I was still at school, starting with the French assistant, the seriously yummy Monsieur F, who set the bar high for those who came after. Coming up to my exams, just turned fifteen, I was seriously poor at languages, piss-poor, my father said at a parents’ evening, and it takes a lot for him to use words like that, so my form teacher arranged extra tuition and the extra wasn’t what she or Daddy (who was paying) intended. I learned a lot I didn’t know about masculine and feminine. It included French oral, but without words, and, believe me, I experienced the present perfect, but still failed my GCSE. Monsieur F left suddenly after only one term and after that I had to be content with spotty sixth formers who had none of his finesse and knew nothing about irregular verbs or irregular anything.