Lane seemed to think the same. He didn’t linger over anything in particular until he got to the centre where the little Rodin dancer stood, presumably because it was recognizably human, I thought uncharitably. He spent some time admiring it from all angles, then made for the exit. It was no hardship to tear myself away and I followed him outside into the dancing rain. Lane took a left up Bridge Street, then turned his back on the Abbey and walked to the post office where his bus stop was. I had a pretty good idea where this was going and I had no intention of tagging along again. Not once had he given the slightest indication that he didn’t need the stick, not a single lapse and no exaggerations either. He just looked like a guy who had a slight problem in the walking and staying upright department.
I scanned the street for anyone following Lane. I could still hear Deeks say ‘brand new detective constable, good exercise for him’ but I couldn’t see any evidence of a tail on Lane. Or perhaps the DC was better than I’d thought. I didn’t much care because I was starving by now and had been running around long enough. A reward was in order so I steered a course towards the Abbey Church Yard. The rain and the lateness of the season had cleared it of tourists but all too soon it would be sporting a giant Christmas tree. I crossed to the Pump Room. Water is Best some abstemious wit had chiselled on top of the sandstone façade, in ancient Greek no less. Yes, water was all right, I’d called the business after the stuff, but right now I felt I’d seen enough of it. I was shown to a table near the low stage where the Pump Room Trio were playing Mozart at an unobtrusive volume. Here, everything was calm, relaxing and reassuringly expensive. As always the service was swift and efficient. I ordered Eggs Benedict and a pot of Earl Grey and sat back to enjoy the salubrious surroundings. By the south window a bloke in Georgian costume still dispensed the warm mineral water that came out of the ground here but there weren’t many takers today. Apparently the water that bubbles up is an amazing twelve thousand years old. It tastes like it, too.
It didn’t take long for the perfectly proportioned columns, the splendid chandelier and the excellent ambience of the room to convince you that you were indulging in real luxury, even before you looked at your bill. The tea arrived first. My stomach gave a delicate rumble as the waitress poured the first cup for me. Naturally as a private eye I was supposed to drink mugs of stewed tea and eat eggs-over-easy in a ‘greasy spoon’ somewhere but apart from the fact that you’d be hard pressed to find such an establishment in Bath it just wasn’t my style. This, I was telling myself, as the white-aproned waitress wended her way towards me with my Eggs Benedict, was my style. Just then dirty jagged shadows fell across the pristine white of the table linen. The waitress slowed, then stopped.
‘Thank you, we’re not hungry,’ said DI Deeks. The waitress hovered uncertainly.
‘And he’s about to lose his appetite,’ added DS Sorbie, pointing at me.
Quite the comedy duo. There was no sign of hangover in Sorbie today; he was well shaven, neatly pressed and frighteningly alert.
‘What’s up with you two?’ I asked, annoyed because the waitress was retreating with my order towards the manager at the cash desk.
‘We bring glad tidings,’ Deeks said. ‘We found your car.’
My heart sank. ‘Did they trash it? Where’d you find it?’
‘Not much damage but then I’m told it wouldn’t have looked much different before you said you lost it.’
‘Very funny. Where is it?’
‘In the middle of a field in Lower Swainswick.’
‘So it’s not a total write-off? They didn’t torch it?’
‘No,’ said Sorbie reassuringly. ‘It’ll be just fine. Once we’ve scraped the dead body off the back seat.’
Chapter Four
The car zipped fast up Lansdown hill. DS Sorbie was driving, I was in the back of the big Ford with Deeks. Neither of them answered any of my questions though where we were going was becoming obvious when Sorbie screeched right, down a minor road which soon turned into a network of muddy farm tracks. ‘We really want a Land Rover for this kind of thing,’ Sorbie complained as he cranked on the wheel to avoid the worst ruts and holes.
‘Dream on,’ Deeks encouraged him. He turned to me. ‘Now, I should really have cautioned you at the Pump Room only the Super said there was no need. But you do anything stupid or even think about doing it and I’ll cuff you, clear?’
So Needham had put in a word for me. Obviously not a huge one or I’d be finishing my Eggs Benedict just about now but a word nonetheless. ‘Yeah, no sweat.’ Then I gave an involuntary groan because as we splished past yet another cluster of dripping farm buildings I could see it there below us. Smack in the middle of a gently sloping field of pasture stood my car. Three doors were open. The tracks on two sides of the field were clogged with police vehicles: Land Rovers and saloons and a noddy car, vans, a minibus and an ambulance. There was a large white tent in the field, just below and to the left of my black DS21. Police tape fluttered everywhere.
When we got there Sorbie simply abandoned the car on the track and we all got out into the thin rain. We hopped and zigzagged and took unnaturally long strides to avoid the puddles and waterlogged ruts until we got to a uniformed constable stoically guarding the remains of a wooden five-bar gate. It looked like someone had driven the DS straight through it. It also looked like it was half rotten anyway which meant somebody had been lucky; only on TV do wooden gates simply crumble when you drive through them. The small field was bordered by hedgerows on all sides and this appeared to be the only way in. Scene of Crime Officers were busy along the hedge, around the car and the tent, all in their white space outfits. At the entrance to the tent stood the bulk of Superintendent Michael Needham, sensibly clad in a blue rainproof over his suit. He’d stuffed his trousers into a pair of black wellies but even so he’d managed to get his suit splashed with mud. His deep-set intelligent eyes under thin, dark eyebrows dispassionately followed our slithering progress up the slick slope. Needham’s sparse grey hair was closely cropped, his broad face pale and tired, his mouth set in impatient contempt. By the time we got to him the bottoms of our trousers were dark and heavy with moisture and mud.
I noticed Needham had lost a bit of weight recently yet I preferred him when he wasn’t on a diet. Diets really did make him grumpy. He missed his Danish pastries and absolutely loathed tea without sugar. Just now he took a sip from a plastic mug, pulled a sour face and splashed the remainder of the grey liquid on the ground, which probably meant it was missing that vital ingredient. He dropped the mug on to the trestle table behind him without looking where it fell and attracted my full attention by grabbing my arm hard. ‘You’re in deep shit this time, Honeysett, so no arsing about. Do exactly as you’re told, touch nothing, answer all questions in full, stay behind me. Got that?’
‘Got it,’ I agreed soberly.
‘Deeks, Sorbie, stay here.’ Needham talked to them like they were a couple of hounds.
I followed him up to the Citroën which stood, mud-spattered and with a crumpled bonnet, just above us, nose pointing to the right. Forensics were still busy all around and a bloke with a large video camera took sweeping panoramic shots of the valley.
The offside rear door was closed. Inside, against the window, slumped the body of a man. A blue and white face below a mess of bloody skull pressed against the pane. Blood streaks and mud nearly obscured the glass. There was a hand print in the middle of it all. Someone was moving around inside on the back seat and two technicians in moon suits, both women, were standing by the open door on the other side.