Don’t get paranoid, he told himself. There are thousands of these things on the roads and they’re not all out to get you.
The large neighbour opened Emma’s front door, took one look at him and said, ‘Right, I’m off home.’
‘What’s this called — respite?’ he said as she pushed past.
‘Man, I’ve earned it. You can go in.’
He found the angry widow in the living room kneeling on the floor. ‘Watch where you’re walking with those great plod feet,’ she said and he saw that the carpet was littered with CDS. ‘I’m supposed to choose the music for the committal, as they call it. Harry wasn’t a believer, so I don’t want any of that so-called sacred music. When I told them, they said it was up to me. Pick a favourite piece for a send-off, they said. Fat chance of finding anything here. We bought these for easy listening, not a cremation.’
He let his gaze travel the width of the carpet, taking stock of the Taskers’ collection. Most of it would be called retro: big bands, crooners, even skiffle. Difficult to find a farewell piece among that lot. ‘I Did It My Way’ was supposed to be the most popular choice for funerals, but didn’t sound right for a murder victim. He gave some thought to the few facts he knew about Harry’s life and an idea came to him. ‘You may think this is in poor taste.’
‘Try me.’
‘I see you have some Louis Armstrong here. There’s an old Satchmo number with Bing Crosby called “Gone Fishing”.’
Her deep brown eyes locked with his and seemed appalled. Then they slipped aside briefly and came back to him with a gleam of understanding. ‘ “Gone Fishing”?’ The start of a smile lit up her face. ‘That’ll do nicely. He’s gone for sure and if he’s got any choice, fishing is what he’ll be doing.’ She stood up. ‘You can have that tea. Is my neighbour Betty seeing to it?’
‘She went home for a bit.’
‘Lazy cow. I’ll have to make it myself. Tidy up the discs, would you? I won’t be long.’
Left alone in the room, he made a show of poking the CDS with his foot into a smaller area near the fireplace. He wasn’t going to risk kneeling. That done, he inspected the few paperbacks displayed on a built-in unit along one wall. No new insights here. Several by Stephen King and John Grisham, the Police and Constabulary Almanac for 2009, the Observer Book of Freshwater Fish and The Good Guys Wear Black, by Steve Collins. He picked up the last. It was sub-titled The True-Life Heroes of Britain’s Armed Police. Inside were photo illustrations of various SO19 raids. All action. Not his scene. He replaced it.
Emma returned with a mug of tea in each hand. ‘It was two sugars?’
A distinct improvement in relations, courtesy of Louis Armstrong. ‘Thanks. I was looking at your books.’
‘His, not mine. If you want any, take them. No point in me keeping them.’
‘That wasn’t why I mentioned it. I was thinking we don’t know much about Harry except his fishing and his TV viewing.’
‘Why do you want to know?’ She sat in an armchair and gestured to him to do the same.
‘Oddly enough, I know more about the other guys who were shot. Harry was one of our own.’
‘Typical, isn’t it?’ she said, back on her familiar tack. ‘He was just a number and a uniform.’
‘That’s not been my experience.’
‘You got lucky, then.’
‘I did my stint in uniform. I started in the Met a long time ago.’
‘That lot? We were always hearing horror stories of them. We were country cops, in Cornwall at the start. That’s where we met, Harry and I.’
He’d forgotten she was originally in the force with her husband. ‘Which part of Cornwall?’
‘Helston.’
His brain dredged up something Ingeborg had tried to tell him about town customs and traditions. ‘My geography isn’t up to much. Is that anywhere near Padstow?’
She shook her head. ‘Padstow’s a good forty miles away, on the North coast. Why do you ask?’
‘It was a long shot.’ Stupid bloody expression to use, he thought, the moment he’d said it. He’d never been noted for discretion. By some miracle the words got past her, so he followed them up fast. ‘I was trying to find some connection between the three officers who were killed.’
‘The only connection is the sonofabitch who shot them.’
‘There is that note you found.’
‘The “You’re next” thing? Are you taking that seriously?’
‘I can’t ignore it.’
‘That would mean Harry was a marked man and probably the others as well. Did they get notes?’
‘We haven’t found any.’
‘They could have thrown them away. Why did you ask me about Padstow just now? Was one of the others from Padstow?’
‘No.’ This was as good an opening as he was likely to get. ‘But there is a possible link between the first two victims, Ossy Hart and Stan Richmond. It may amount to nothing. When you said you served in Cornwall, I remembered that the town of Padstow has a hobby horse ceremony.’
‘What?’ All the good work of the past ten minutes went for nothing. She glared as if she’d caught him stealing underwear.
‘The locals call it ’obby ’oss,’ he said.
‘Now you’ve lost me altogether.’
‘Hold on.’ He launched into an explanation: the origin of Ossy’s name and the Minehead May Day celebration and the fact that Stan Richmond devoted his spare time to the study of such things.
She still looked at him as if he was talking bilge, so he threw in the added ingredient of the film man and thousands of dollars. Now it was all out in the open and he felt only the chill of her stare.
‘I don’t know if I’ve understood you,’ she said finally, ‘but you seem to be suggesting they were shot because of this horsing around in Minehead. Is that it?’
‘It’s an incomplete theory,’ he said, wishing already that he’d kept it to himself.
‘You’re hoping I’m about to say something that will make sense of it all?’
‘I’m not expecting anything.’
‘You won’t get anything. The reason they were shot — all three of them — is that some evil bastard hates the police and wants to kill as many as he can. While you waste time on weird theories, he’s no doubt lining up the next one.’
‘We’re actively pursuing him, ma’am,’ he said, thinking of Jack Gull and his armed police on watch in Avoncliff. ‘It’s not just down to me.’
‘I should hope not. In the state you’re in, you couldn’t actively pursue the last man out at closing time.’
There wasn’t much point in continuing. He reached for his stick and stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Do me a favour,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ He prepared for one more crushing putdown.
‘Come to the funeral on Thursday.’
His voice shrilled in surprise. ‘Me?’
‘I don’t know any of the Manvers Street lot except you. A few of Harry’s relief are coming, but they’re only names to me.’
‘I hardly knew him myself.’
‘You thought of “Gone Fishing”. Saved me hours of headache. The least I can do is ask you to be there. And you don’t suffocate me with sympathy. Come for my sake. 3 P.M. at Haycombe.’
Haycombe wouldn’t be easy. He’d been to the same crematorium for Steph’s funeral. But for all her carapace of toughness, this woman was in mourning, and he knew what that was like.
‘All right. I will.’
‘And join us after, for a drink and some snacks,’ she added.
‘Okay.’
She came to the door with him. ‘All that hobby horse stuff is bunk. Don’t waste time on it.’
18
On the drive back, he had a Eureka moment. Ask for another list.
So had he finally flipped?
Not at all. The list would contain the names of all officers from Wells, Radstock and Bath who had completed a firearms course. If the sniper was, indeed, a policeman, he must have been trained to use a gun.
Neat. If this worked, the thousand-odd names in those earlier lists could go to the shredder.