‘Where was he at the time?’
‘The golf club.’
‘With Sir Colin Tipping?’
‘You’ll have to ask him.’
Diamond nodded to Septimus, who stepped to the door and jerked it open. Predictably, the major was there, eavesdropping. ‘Step inside, major,’ Diamond said, ‘and let’s hear it from you.’
The moon was the only source of light and there wasn’t much of that. Paul Gilbert, still on duty in the field below the cemetery, was having doubts. Doubt One: would Duckett, the forensics man, bother to come out on a Saturday night to look at a dead horse? From all he’d heard, Duckett was an awkward type who’d clashed with Diamond and might well ignore the call, or leave it to the next day.
Doubt Two: would Diamond remember his promise to send a car? The boss had more urgent matters on his mind, like arresting suspects and bringing the whole investigation to a climax. Would he give another thought to the most junior member of the team, stuck on this godforsaken hill?
This could be a long night.
Get a grip, he told himself. Give it an hour at most and then phone the nick and ask them to send a replacement. If someone has to stand guard all night, it’s a job for uniform, not CID.
He felt better for that – until he checked his back pocket and remembered he’d left his phone in the car.
Idiot.
Somewhere on the hill came the hoarse triple bark of a dog fox, answered by a vixen’s scream, a hair-raising sound.
A short way off, vehicles were going by intermittently, each set of headlight beams offering the faint hope that Duckett was immi-n ent. Faint indeed. What was the point of Duckett coming out here after dark? Once he took over the scene he and his people would be responsible. There were rules about continuity of evidence. Someone had to be on watch all night because of the remote chance that an intruder or one of the suspects would visit the place and corrupt the evidence.
Let an intruder come, Gilbert thought. Let someone come.
Preferably not the killer.
His thoughts turned to the victim, who’d lived up here for a couple of weeks, concussed, off his chump, not knowing he had a car and a home. What threat had poor old Rupert Hope presented in his pathetic state? Finishing him off in the graveyard had been a heartless act. This killer had no mercy.
The cool of early evening had turned in a matter of minutes to shivery cold. What else could you expect on an exposed hill seven hundred feet above sea level? The luckless Rupert had at least found himself a rug and a place to lie down. There was nowhere in this field except the grotto itself, and Gilbert didn’t fancy that, but he was starting to understand what had driven Rupert to rob the tomb.
A twig snapped nearby. His self-pitying stopped.
He looked where he thought the sound had come from, straining to detect a shape or movement.
Then he heard what sounded like short gasps for air.
‘Who’s that?’ he said.
No answer. Only an animal, he tried telling himself. The breathing was too heavy to be a fox. Were there deer on Lansdown? He’d never seen one.
He had nothing to defend himself with. Should have thought of that.
In his heightened state, he started to see shadowy shapes closing in. He looked over his shoulder and they were all around him. Bushes stirred by the breeze, or attackers closing for the kill?
‘I can hear you,’ he said aloud. ‘I know you’re there.’
A beam of light shone directly into his face, dazzling him. ‘Stay still, absolutely still.’ The voice was male, high-pitched, yet authoritative.
Gilbert obeyed.
‘What’s going on?’ the voice asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My job.’ Gilbert managed to add, ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘You’re not dressed like one.’
‘I’m CID. Plain clothes. I can show you my ID. Who are you?’
The man with the torch had the advantage and intended to keep it. ‘What’s a police officer skulking around in the dark for?’
He was cautious. ‘I can’t say. I’m on duty.’ He fished his warrant card from his back pocket. ‘See?’
The beam shifted down and Gilbert took his opportunity, grabbed the arm holding the torch, hauled the man towards him, at the same time thrusting out a leg and toppling him over. It wasn’t the sweetest of judo moves, but it worked. They both hit the ground heavily. The torch flew out of range. The advantage had swung to Gilbert. Bearing down with all his strength, he clung to that arm and twisted it behind the man’s back.
‘You’re breaking my arm.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Gilbert demanded.
‘A man of God.’
‘What?’
‘Charles Smart. I live in the vicarage across the road.’
If this was a try-on, it was a clever one. If not, Gilbert was wrestling with a vicar. Now that the name was sinking in, he remembered seeing Charlie Smart’s name listed on the display board in the incident room. ‘What are you doing here, then?’
‘I saw the light earlier.’ This, from a vicar, would have been laughable in other circumstances. ‘I came over to see what was going on.’
‘You were taking a chance.’
‘If God be for us, who can be against us? Do you mind? The pain in my arm is unspeakable.’
Gilbert let go, made a grab for the torch and shone it on his adversary. The man had wide blue eyes and a shock of blond hair. True to his claim, he was wearing a strip of white across his throat, a clerical collar. He propped himself up with difficulty and massaged the top of his arm, saying, ‘That really wasn’t necessary.’ ‘Creeping up on me and shoving a torch in my face wasn’t necessary,’ Gilbert said.
‘I’m in the Lansdown Society. I made a solemn promise to keep an eye on things up here.’
That was the connection.
‘And if you’re about to ask me if I witnessed the murder, save your breath,’ Charlie Smart continued. ‘Your superintendent already covered the matter and I couldn’t help at all.’
‘Did you see the victim roaming around here?’
‘We covered that, too. No. The first suspicious behaviour I’ve seen was yours tonight. Lights in the field. A car parked up the road. Very dubious, after all that’s been going on. As a responsible citizen, I dialled 999 straight away. They should be here any minute.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Gilbert said.
In the incident room, Diamond checked with his team on the results of the house arrests. The suspects were in custody and the evidence had been gathered, labelled and sealed. ‘Nice work, people,’ he said. ‘That was the easy part. The real job starts now and I’m not expecting any favours from the suspects. We’ll take them one at a time, using the interview room with one-way glass, so the rest of you can see how we do. Cavalry Officer Smith, I need you with me for the first one.’
Excitement was written large on Inge’s face and no one seemed to mind that she was the first choice, particularly as the suspect was female.
The custody sergeant brought Davina Temple-Smith to the interview room. White-faced and with a sullen stare, she was a different incarnation from the radiant winning owner at the races. She had the consolation of appearing in her own clothes – jeans and a red sweater – rather than a zipper suit. A personal search hadn’t been deemed necessary. Her DNA sample and fingerprints had been insisted on as routine procedure following an arrest.
She had her own solicitor seated beside her, a woman new to Manvers Street interviews.
After Ingeborg had gone through the preliminaries of place, time and who was present, Diamond took over.
‘We found Hang-glider this afternoon, what’s left of him, the neat hole in his skull where he was despatched with a vet’s equipment, the penetrating captive bolt gun. Expertly done, right on the spot, humanely, I don’t doubt.’