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Back in the 1980s when Diamond had joined the Met, as many as fifteen per cent of the force had gone though a five-day course at the range and were dubbed authorised firearms officers. After certain well-publicised fiascos in the last decades of the twentieth century arising from under-trained armed police, the policy had changed. Since 2004 the National Police Firearms Training Curriculum ensured that the training was much more rigorous and intensive. An initial course lasted thirty-five days and those who passed were required to complete two days’ training every month and requalify four times a year.

An AFO was now a specialist. And they were all on record.

Better start on home ground, he decided. Back in Manvers Street, he asked for the Bath Central names. Fourteen in all.

He didn’t know them all personally. Even after serving here for so long, he couldn’t keep up with the staff changes outside CID. But he knew who to ask, the key people in each section.

The problem wasn’t who to ask, it was what. ‘Has PC Plod the firearms officer been acting strangely of late? Talking to himself? Looking over his shoulder? Writing two-word notes on slips of paper?’ Questions of this sort could rapidly turn the whole place into a hotbed of rumour and recrimination. The word witch-hunt had already been used in CID.

His enquiries had to continue alone. He couldn’t even risk asking for help from the civilian staff. Face it, Diamond, he told himself, you’ll have to exercise the mouse.

He started by accessing the duty rosters for the last twelve weeks. You’d think old stuff like that was over and forgotten, but in the computer age everything can be retrieved. Straight away he eliminated eight of the fourteen AFOs. Two had been on protection duty for some minor royal in Bristol at the time of the Wells shooting and three on the night shift in Bath. Another three couldn’t possibly have been in Radstock when Stan Richmond was shot because they were at Portishead on the two-day rifle refresher course.

Down to six already.

He turned to the rosters for last Saturday night. Of those remaining, one had been off sick all week with a broken arm and three more on night duty and accounted for as part of the armed response unit which had actually attended the scene in Walcot Street when the shout came.

That left two from the original fourteen: a Sergeant Stillman and a PC Gaunt. Theoretically, either could have been at all three scenes.

The first name was familiar.

He didn’t have to dredge deeply in his memory. Stillman was the sergeant who had accompanied Ken Lockton on the morning after the shooting. He’d driven Lockton from Walcot Street to the Paragon and gone through the house to the garden where they’d found the rifle resting against the railing overlooking the scene of the shooting.

If Stillman had been with Lockton that night he couldn’t have shot Harry Tasker.

Or could he?

Assumptions sometimes need to be challenged. Diamond sat back in the chair and closed his eyes in concentration. This was the kind of problem he had a knack of unravelling.

The only version of the events in the garden was Stillman’s. The sergeant had surprised everyone by turning up two hours after the shooting saying he’d fallen asleep in his patrol car after being told to move it out of sight by Ken Lockton. But what if Stillman had been lying? Could he have clobbered Lockton himself? And done it to cover up the fact that he’d earlier shot Harry Tasker?

Hair-raising possibilities. They had to be explored. Stillman’s whole story was odd. He’d apparently been on patrol in his car, heard the shout about the shooting in Walcot Street and driven there. Was he alone then? The usual arrangement was that patrolling officers at night worked in pairs.

Then — according to his story — he’d been spotted by Lockton and ordered to drive him up to the Paragon, which in itself was strange, because it would have been quicker to use the steps. The pair had been admitted to the house by the blonde, Sherry Meredith. That much was true. She’d testified to it.

There was only Stillman’s word for the rest of what happened. The next undeniable event was that the firearms unit broke into the garden and found Lockton face down and unconscious from a serious head injury. The sniper’s gun was gone.

Sergeant Stillman needed to be questioned, and soon. He was on duty, Diamond learned from the control room, but in a patrol car north of the city on Lansdown. His shift was due to end within the hour.

‘Shall I tell him to report to you, sir?’ the operator asked.

‘Absolutely not.’ There were ways of doing things and Diamond’s way was not to announce them ahead of time.

He turned his attention to the other authorised firearms officer of potential interest, PC Gaunt. But it turned out that Gaunt couldn’t possibly have murdered Harry Tasker. On Saturday afternoon his wife had gone into labour and at 3:20 P.M. in the Royal United Hospital he’d become the proud father of twin girls. Under the Partners Staying Overnight scheme, he’d taken up night duty of another kind, in the maternity unit until 9 A.M. on Sunday.

Diamond was waiting for Stillman when he drove into the yard where the police vehicles parked.

The sergeant turned as pale as his shirt. ‘Something up, sir?’

‘It is if you insist on calling me “sir”. A few things need clearing up. We can do it in one of the interview rooms. Saves going upstairs to my office.’

The eyes showed Stillman didn’t fancy being treated like a suspect. ‘I don’t mind the stairs.’

‘But I do,’ Diamond said, pointing to the stick. He could be informal and still assert his authority.

They used interview room 2. No caution, no tape running, but not lacking in tension, and Diamond’s first question didn’t lessen it.

‘How well did you know Harry Tasker?’

Stillman blinked rapidly several times. ‘Quite well, I suppose. He’d been around a long time and so had I.’

‘What did you make of him? Nice guy?’

‘He was okay.’ Not a thumping endorsement.

‘You can be frank,’ Diamond said, picking up on the lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s not easy to speak ill of the dead, especially after what happened, but we’re on a murder investigation here. I’m looking for honest impressions of the man.’

‘There isn’t much I can say. We didn’t have a lot in common.’

‘Was he good at the job?’

Stillman hesitated. ‘He put in the hours all right.’

‘Not always the same thing.’

‘I meant he didn’t skive off, like some do.’

‘This isn’t a test of your loyalty, sergeant. If there was a problem with the man, I need to know. I’m sensing something wasn’t right.’

‘I wouldn’t call it a problem.’

‘What did it amount to?’

‘Nothing more than gossip, really.’

‘From him?’

‘About him.’ Stillman had an expressive face, and the mental anguish was spreading over his features like spilt paint.

‘Come on.’

‘Harry didn’t take kindly to change. If someone called in sick and the beats had to be rearranged, he wasn’t at all happy. He liked to be given his duties for the week and stick to them. He kicked up so much that we tended to ask other people to switch.’

‘What was the gossip you mentioned?’

A downward look. He drew a line along the table with his finger as if to tell himself that he’d already said too much about his dead colleague.

Diamond wasn’t stopping there. Tittle-tattle it may be, but it was going to come out. The stakes were too serious for reticence. He sat back with arms folded and insisted with his eyes.

In a battle of wills, Stillman was always going to lose. ‘No one ever proved it, but they said he made arrangements.’

‘Arrangements?’

‘Meeting certain people.’ Stillman looked away. ‘This is all speculation.’

‘He was on the take?’

‘That’s what the whisper was, but we weren’t sure how, or who was involved, or how much.’