That could wait. When the search team arrived, he’d spread them in all directions to look for a body.
Uncertain of what lay on the other side of the hedge, he stepped up to the gate and let himself into the next field. A surprised sheep raised its head, stared, then turned tail and ran towards the rest of the flock when he moved on for a better view.
From a distance, a resting sheep could be mistaken for a human figure dressed in white. He had to go closer to some to make sure they moved.
Sheep, all of them.
Part of his brain had heard most of what Paloma had been saying and he replayed it now and found it unconvincing. He couldn’t share her optimism about Belinda’s fate. There was no denying some of the clothing had been removed and hidden from view. Would she do that herself? His own scenario of a violent sexual attack was far more realistic. Factor in her disappearance and it was likely she had been killed and her body disposed of, but where? Pinto would have difficulty moving it far, and there was always the risk of local people witnessing him.
To get a better sight of the rest of the field, he moved to the centre, where he’d noticed a patch of ground that hadn’t been grazed. As well as a small crop of briars with some well-established blackthorn and hawthorn, there were large embedded pieces of limestone too massive for any farmer to remove. Now he understood why this island of thorns had been allowed to thrive in the centre of the field.
Some of the stone projected waist-high and would give a better view of the entire area. He heaved himself up on to one of the slabs.
And the view didn’t interest him any longer.
Hidden under brambles between the slabs of stone was an iron grille coated in rust. What he’d found was an old ventilation shaft.
He was reminded that Combe Down wasn’t just an unremarkable name for an unremarkable village. It was the source of Bath’s magnificence. Beneath him was a deep bed of Jurassic stone, the most valuable in Britain, used for the historic buildings of Bath and Bristol and throughout southern England as well as for parts of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle.
He swung his legs over the steep side of the slab he was on and slid down to the level of the grille, wanting to check if anyone had recently lifted it. He swore as the thorns scratched his legs, and when he got a foothold along the edge and crouched, he was pricked in his backside. For every action there is said to be a reaction and in this case it was painful.
The shaft gaped wide enough to dispose of a body, but the iron cover looked immovable, fixed in place like prison bars. Beneath it was a black void. He dropped a large stone and heard it hit the bottom. Maybe twenty to thirty feet in depth, he thought.
Nothing suggested the cover had recently been opened. You’d need a crowbar to move it. The surface rust was powdery and some fell through when he touched it.
He doubted whether anyone else had explored this relic of the mining industry in years.
Stone extraction had really taken off in the early eighteenth century, when Ralph Allen had started quarrying in earnest, having realised the potential of the vast deposits of oolitic limestone at Combe Down. Such had been the demand that more than forty quarries eventually joined the Ralph Allen workings and the ground beneath the village became honeycombed with shafts and tunnels, so intensively that no one could map them with total accuracy. Eventually this led to serious problems of subsidence because the workings were relatively shallow and the supporting columns had been shaved by locals wanting the stone for private use. A four-year infilling programme using foam concrete had been undertaken to stabilise the inhabited part of the village and completed in 2009. Outlying workings remained untreated and, in some cases, unlocated.
His legs and buttocks itched from the scratching and his hands looked as if they’d been steeped in henna, but he wasn’t discouraged as he hoisted himself back over the stones and prepared to rejoin the others. He’d learned something useful. The unique character of Combe Down meant any killer had opportunities of disposal all over the area. One ventilation shaft had proved negative. More needed to be examined.
The drone team had packed up and gone by the time he had toiled up the side of the first field. Two police vans were parked at one side and about twenty bobbies in uniform were being issued with rakes. The section of hedge where the shirt was found was already marked off with do-not-pass tape. A dog and its handler were checking the leaves at the far end.
“Hold on,” he said. “First things first. I want all the surrounding area checked for a body. Leave the rakes for later.”
While the sergeant in charge was dividing the men into smaller groups, Diamond found Halliwell. “Does Georgina know about this lot?”
A smile and a shake of the head. “She left with the others before the vans drove in. The young couple offered to show her around their workshop, or whatever it’s called.”
“They’re brother and sister,” he pointed out testily. “She’s out of it, then, off my back for a while. Did Paloma go, too?”
“A few minutes ago. The dog got excited when it saw the uniforms.”
“Noisy?”
“Worse than a pack of hounds.”
“I can imagine. Did you find anything?”
“Under the hedge? Nothing of interest.”
“Where’s the nearest house from here?”
“Beechwood Road or Summer Lane.”
“We should knock on doors.”
“In case anyone saw anything?”
“Or heard. That’s not a job for uniform. How many are coming from Concorde House?”
“I think Inge and Paul.”
“They’ll do.” He went back to check on arrangements with the sergeant in charge of the search team.
Two hours later, all the nearby fields and several small wooded areas had been walked by the searchers, but without any result. A lunch break was called and Diamond was approached by the same sergeant who, it soon became obvious, was angling for a move to CID.
“Mind if I make a suggestion, sir?”
“Fire away.”
“Speaking as a humble copper—”
“Spare me that. What’s on your mind?”
“Are you sure this is the place, sir?”
“What do you mean — am I sure? It’s where the shirt was found.”
“Yes, but I was wondering, if I may be so bold, if the attack happened somewhere else.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You said the shirt still had the victim’s number on it and that’s why the perp rolled it up and buried it under some leaves.”
The perp, for pity’s sake. Diamond was tempted to tell this sycophantic creep he watched too much American TV. “No argument with that. Her name and address were written on the back.”
“So he’d be an idiot to stick it under a hedge at the crime scene. He’d move on somewhere else.”
“Fair point.” Annoyingly, it was bloody obvious. And by implication, Diamond was an idiot, too. “You’re telling me the rest of her clothes are on another part of the down?”
“I wouldn’t presume to tell you your job, sir.” He wasn’t just a groveller. He was so servile he could double up as a butler.
“You’re not the first. I agree with you. We should be searching the whole of Combe Down.”
“Between here and the old railway tunnel.”