Basil Porterfield opened the front door before they knocked. There was no question that he was the man in the Minehead photo — a sturdy, smiling, sandy-haired embodiment of confidence, even after Diamond told him they were police officers.
“Perhaps you heard that Glenn Noble is dead, sir?”
“Saw it in the paper. Devastating.” Porterfield didn’t look devastated, but out of respect he shook his head. “It’s a long time since I saw Glenn.”
“But you were friends?”
“He was the sort you couldn’t help liking. Look, why don’t you come in?”
The welcome was unstinting. In a room big enough for the golf club AGM, they were shown to leather armchairs and offered sherry.
Diamond glanced at the teak wall units laden with pottery and art books. “This is a far cry from Bear Flat.”
“We worked hard to move up in the world,” said Porterfield evenly.
“You’re in the motor trade, I understand.”
“Curiously enough, we prospered in the recession. I don’t sell new cars, I sell parts, and people were doing up their old vehicles rather than replacing them. The business really took off. We have outlets in France and Spain now.”
“You visit these countries?”
“Regularly.”
“And your business is based in Bath?”
“You must have passed it often enough, down the hill on the Warminster Road.”
“Glenn Noble — was he a business contact?”
“Purely social. Through my wife, actually. She took a school project to the printers he worked for. Serena teaches art, print-making, that sort of thing. You can see her influence all around you.”
“Is Mrs Porterfield at home today?”
“No. She’s, em, out of the country.”
Julie’s eyes sought Diamond’s and held them for a moment.
He remarked to Porterfield, “She must be devastated, too.”
“She doesn’t know anything about it.”
Diamond played a wild card. “You said you haven’t seen the Nobles for a long time. Perhaps your wife saw them more recently.”
Porterfield asked smoothly, “Why do you say that?”
Julie, equally smoothly, invented an answer. “Someone answering your wife’s description was seen recently in the company of Glenn Noble.”
“Is that so? Funny she didn’t mention it.” He was unfazed.
“Just for the record,” said Diamond, “would you mind telling me where you were on Monday afternoon between three and five?”
“Monday between three and five.” Porterfield frowned, as if he hadn’t remotely considered that he might be asked. “I would have been at the office. I’m sure my staff will confirm that, if you care to ask them.”
“And your wife?”
“She’s in France, like I said, on a school trip.” He smiled. “She left last week. Last Friday.”
“Where did you say she teaches?”
8
Cavendish College was a girls’ public school on Lyncombe Hill. The Head informed Diamond that Mrs Porterfield was indeed on a sixth form trip to the south of France. She frequently led school parties to places of artistic interest in Europe. She was a loyal, talented teacher, and an asset to the school.
Diamond used a mobile phone to get this information. He and Julie were parked in North Road, with a good view of the Porterfield residence.
“Are you relieved?” he asked Julie. “Serena survives, apparently.”
“I still say he murdered Glenn Noble.”
“And I say you’re right.”
Her eyes widened. “Am I?”
“But he had the decency to do it while his wife was away. We’ll arrest her when she returns.”
“Whatever for?”
“Hold on a little and I’ll show you, if my theory is right. Serena’s talent may be an asset to the school, but it’s a bigger asset to Basil Porterfield. What time is it?”
“Ten past six.”
“After our visit he’s not stopping here much longer.”
Twenty minutes, as it turned out. The Mercedes glided into North Road and down the hill with Julie and Diamond in discreet pursuit. Porterfield turned right at the junction with the busy Warminster Road. Three-quarters of a mile on, he slowed and pulled in to the forecourt of a building with Porterfield Car Spares in large letters across the front.
“Drive past and park as near as you can.”
Julie found a layby a short walk away.
When they approached on foot the only cover available was the side wall of Porterfield’s building. From it they had a view of the empty Mercedes parked on the forecourt. “I should have called for some back-up, but we can handle this, can’t we?” said Diamond.
Julie lifted one eyebrow and said nothing.
Diamond issued an order. “When he comes out, you go across and nick him.”
She lifted the other eyebrow.
He told her, “I’m the back-up.”
Five minutes passed. The traffic on the Warminster Road zoomed by steadily.
“He’s coming.”
Julie tensed.
Porterfield emerged from the building trundling a hand trolley stacked with white cartons. He set the trolley upright, took some keys from his pocket, opened the boot of the car and leaned in.
Diamond pressed a hand against the small of Julie’s back. She started forward.
Sending in Julie first may have looked like cowardice, but it was not. While her sudden arrival on the scene caught Porterfield’s attention, Diamond ducked around the other side of the Mercedes. Just in time, because Porterfield produced a knife from the car boot and swung it at Julie.
She swayed out of range and narrowly escaped another lunge. Then Diamond charged in and grabbed Porterfield from behind and thrust him sideways against the car, pinioning his arms. Julie prised the knife from his fist. Diamond produced a set of handcuffs and between them they forced him over the boot and manacled him.
“Want to see what’s in the cartons?” Diamond suggested to Julie over the groaning prisoner. “Why don’t you use the knife?”
She cut along the adhesive seal of the top carton and parted the flaps. Neatly stacked inside were wads of French one-hundred franc banknotes.
“Money?”
“Funny money,” said Diamond. “We’ll find the offset litho machine and the plates hidden deep inside the building. What with Serena’s artwork, Glenn Noble’s printing expertise and these premises to work in, making counterfeit notes was a profitable scam. But just like you said, Trish got suspicious of all the late nights. Glenn hadn’t dared tell her what he was up to, even though it helped their bank balance no end. She was too high principled to be in on the secret.”
“Why French money?” Julie asked.
“Easier to make. No metal strip. I don’t know how good these forgeries are, but Glenn would have got his brother in Devon to make the paper with a passable watermark.” He picked one up and held it to the light. “Not bad. A portrait of Glenn’s favourite painter, Eugene Delacroix. This has a nice feel to it. They coat the printed notes with glycerine. He’ll have handpressed the serial numbers.”
“And why was he killed?”
“Because of Trish. Unwisely he told Porterfield that she was asking about the late nights. She would have seen it as her moral duty to shop them all, and Porterfield couldn’t risk her wheedling the truth out of Glenn.” He hauled Porterfield upright. “You thought you could get rid of Glenn and do the printing yourself, didn’t you, ratbag? Last Monday afternoon you called unexpectedly at the house. Glenn let you in, offered you a drink, and when his back was turned you drove a knife into him. You escaped through the back garden just as Trish was coming in through the front. Right?”