‘No gun.’
‘He’s smart, isn’t he? Either he’s got it with him or it’s somewhere nearby.’
‘The motorbike as well?’
Gull preferred not to think about the motorbike. In truth, it was probably parked in a street somewhere.
Diamond glanced at the folded newspaper. Part of a banner headline was visible: SNIPER: NOW IT’S — . Every national daily was reporting the shootings. Because the paper happened to be face up, nothing could be assumed about the recent inmate of the pillbox.
‘These places get used sometimes by people sleeping rough.’
‘Rough is what he is,’ Gull said. ‘We know he passed at least one night in Becky Addy Wood. The bugger’s on the run and dossing down wherever he can.’
‘You think he’s moved on, do you?’
‘He wouldn’t leave his bedding here, or the food. He’ll be back and I’m laying on a welcome.’
‘If you’re right and he’s got the gun with him, that may not be such a good idea.’
‘Get real, Diamond. I’ve got armed police in hiding all around us. You wouldn’t have noticed.’
True. He hadn’t spotted them.
‘With orders to shoot on sight?’
‘No, they’ll close in after he comes back.’
‘Is that wise? This thing was purpose-built for defence. From in here he could take out several more coppers.’
Gull thought about that, obviously decided it was true and then glared back. ‘What’s your suggestion, then?’
‘Ambush him before he can get inside. He’ll be trapped between the railway and the river.’
This silenced the head of the Serial Crimes Unit.
‘Or you could let him go in and then bung in some tear gas. By the sound of it, you need a better game plan. If I were you, I’d think it over, but not in here. I’m getting out in case he’s on his way.’
In truth, Diamond found it hard to believe that the sniper — if that was who had spent the night here — would return in broad daylight. But he’d satisfied his curiosity. He limped back to the car park, leaving Gull to work out the new strategy with his shock troops.
Back with CID, he asked for the latest on Ken Lockton. No change, the hospital had told Keith Halliwell. The patient remained unconscious, in the critical care unit. Christina, the sympathetic PCSO, was still with the family.
Diamond had never known such an atmosphere in his workplace. Bath CID had become the Slough of Despond. A lot of it was down to him and his inept performance yesterday, but there was still a pervading air of gloom. The murder of a colleague on duty and the near-murder of another had poleaxed everyone. The angry mood of the first day had given way to this grim resignation. Generally humour has a way of breaking through the most harrowing of investigations, if only for sanity’s sake. Right now, a light remark seemed like a betrayal. The usual currency of so-called wit was unfit for use.
The only way to get through this was to focus on the job in hand. You knuckled down and did whatever you could to bring the killer to justice.
He walked into his office and closed the door. That heaving in-tray waited on his desk. First, he phoned Emma Tasker. The call was picked up by the Good Samaritan from next door, who’d survived longer as comforter than anyone could have expected. Her voice showed the strain. She said they hadn’t long been back from the undertaker, fixing the funeral, and she doubted if Emma would come to the phone. He said it wasn’t necessary. He just wanted Emma to know she could expect another visit from the big thug from Bath Central this afternoon around three.
‘Are those the exact words you want me to use?’ the neighbour asked.
‘She’ll understand.’
‘She won’t like it.’
‘She’ll have to lump it, then. And speaking of lumps …’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s milk and two sugars for me.’
He cradled the phone, set aside the morning’s mail for later and started leafing through those lists of personnel from three police stations. Not just the current staffs, but years of them, including people transferred and retired. The job of finding matching names was likely to take hours. For a start, he crossed out the three victims and Ken Lockton and his own CID team. If he couldn’t eliminate them as suspects he might as well jack in the job. But upwards of a thousand remained. They weren’t even alphabetical. They were listed in order of taking up duties.
He’d been at the task about twenty minutes when there was a knock and Ingeborg came in. He bent forward to fold his arms protectively over the lists, a reflex action. Clumsy as ever, he found he’d tipped several sheets on the floor. He reached for the walking stick, but Ingeborg stooped to pick them up.
She couldn’t help seeing what they were. ‘How are you getting on with this, guv?’
‘Barely started.’
‘I bet you’ve already found a bunch of Smiths.’
‘Well, I’d expect to.’
‘Smith … my surname.’
He’d been slow to spot this attempt at a peace offering. ‘Oh, I get you,’ he said finally. ‘No, I’m not lining up my own team as possible suspects.’ He leaned back in the chair. The need to be furtive was well over. ‘What did you want?’
‘I found a website called Fairs, Feast-days and Frolics and you can download hundreds of articles on folklore and customs. Stan Richmond definitely wrote about the Hobby Horses.’
‘Did he, by God?’
‘Several places have them. Padstow in Cornwall, Combe Martin in Devon — ’
He raised a finger. ‘Do I need to know this?’
‘I thought you’d be interested.’
‘I’d rather you got to the point.’
Her lips tightened. ‘You could download the piece if you want.’ She knew damned well he wouldn’t.
‘You’ve obviously digested it,’ he said.
She nodded.
‘So what were the tasty bits?’ He watched her wince a little.
‘It’s clear that he visited Minehead at some point and spoke to people on the hobby horse committee.’
‘When was this?’
‘The article was dated 2008.’
‘No chance he interviewed Ossy Hart, I suppose?’
‘Ossy was living in Wells by that time. I guess Stan could have caught up with him there if he wanted to talk about what it’s like acting the Sailor’s Horse, but he doesn’t mention him by name, or list him in the acknowledgements.’
‘If I’ve learned anything from all these years of sleuthing, Inge, it’s that nothing comes easy. At least you’ve found proof of what we suspected — that Stan Richmond knew about the hobby horses.’
‘I’ll get you a printout if you want.’
‘That would help.’ He reached for the lists again.
She stepped to the door, hesitated and turned her head, in Lieutenant Columbo mode. ‘One other thing, guv.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Shouldn’t we be tracing that film man, Cubby, or whatever his real name is?’
‘If we knew his real name, yes,’ he said. ‘Anything you can do to find him would be helpful.’
She smiled. ‘Anything? Like a trip to Hollywood?’
‘That might be hard to explain to our paymasters.’
‘Is there any proof that Cubby also made a cash offer to Stan Richmond?’
‘Not yet. It’s starting to sound possible.’
‘And Harry Tasker? What if he met this guy?’
‘That’s something I hope to find out from his widow. I’m seeing her shortly.’
‘Again? People are going to start talking.’
‘Get outta here.’ But it did him good to know someone on the team still had a spark of humour.
The sight of Bath’s last gasholder didn’t do much for his morale when he drove up and parked across the road from Onega Terrace. Unsightly and outmoded, the great drum of gas seemed to sum up his self-image. He was about to cross the road when a sudden barrage of sound came from behind him. He stepped back and a motorbike that had just started up from a parking place a few cars away zoomed past and away towards the city. The rider was in black, just as the motorcyclist in the woods had been.