Her desk wasn’t far away. She was staring fixedly at her screen. Too fixedly. She knew her message had been seen. She just couldn’t know if it was one of those he’d screwed up and binned.
It was next to impossible to get enthused anymore, but he was here among his team and he had to act normally or come clean. For the present he wouldn’t say anything about downgrading the investigation. He’d break it to them at tomorrow morning’s briefing.
He crossed to where DC Sharp was scrolling through images from one of the fixed cameras. Mind-numbing work. She was the newest on the team, in her twenties, tall, with dark brown hair in a thick plait. She’d come with a recommendation from the inspector she’d worked for in traffic.
“You found him, then? Good spotting.”
“His kit stands out from the rest, sir,” she said, eager to make the right impression. “Hold on, I’ll pull up a chair for you. Then I’ll get the first sequence up.”
“The start? I don’t need to see that. Can I see the next one, whatever that is?”
“No problem. I’ve bookmarked his appearances.”
In no time at all her screen was filled with runners taking bottles from tables. “This is the first drinks station, Dundas Aqueduct. I’ll pause it when he appears. There.”
Eerily alive, more animated than anyone else on the screen, Pinto, in his polka-dot headband and yellow T-shirt, was in line at a table where there was some congestion. Immediately ahead of him was a woman Diamond recognised as Belinda Pye. She looked even more under strain than when he’d met her. Pinto seemed to be saying something, but of course there was no sound. Just as Belinda was reaching for a bottle, she turned her head sharply and looked over her shoulder.
“Did you see that?” Diamond said. “Play it again. I think he goosed her.”
“He what?”
DC Sharp didn’t know the term or didn’t approve of it, making Diamond feel he belonged to the generation that had condoned or ignored the whole range of inappropriate handling of women from hugging to coercive sex. He might deplore the action, but the word condemned him.
“Can you re-run it?”
Sharp played the few frames again and Belinda’s startled reaction was obvious.
“What did you call it, sir?”
“Groping. Didn’t I say that? She told me this happened a number of times in the starting pen and during the race.”
The film moved on and so did Belinda. She hadn’t waited to drink at the table, as most did. With the unopened bottle in her hand she got into her stride again. Pinto was the fresher and wouldn’t have any difficulty catching up. He grabbed two bottles, glanced up at the marshal behind the table, a short, swarthy man, and did a double take. They both appeared transfixed, as if the video had been paused, but others in the shot were moving.
“Odd,” Diamond said. “What’s going on there? The marshal didn’t give him lip for touching her, did he? Can we play it again?”
He watched the sequence closely. Nothing seemed to have been said by either man. If anything, panic was written on the marshal’s features, not reproach.
“They know each other.”
“Looks like it,” DC Sharp said.
“Now what’s happening?”
Pinto moved out of shot, and other runners replaced him. The marshal turned from the table as if about to reach for another stack of bottles and instead darted to the left and was lost to view. How frustrating it was that the camera was fixed and didn’t follow him.
“He’s off.”
“What was that about?”
“I’d love to know.”
As more runners came into shot, the table rapidly emptied of bottles and after a short delay when people were clustering there, another marshal stepped in with fresh supplies.
“Okay, you said you have footage of them going through ten K.”
The computer-wise DC Sharp soon had it ready to roll.
A camera sited on a narrow stretch between low walls gave a view of runners passing over the mat that by electronic wizardry took information from the chips attached to their shoes. A timing display along the foot of the picture was showing 56 minutes and rapidly changing seconds.
“Do you know where this is?” he asked. “I can see the remnants of railway sleepers.”
“Tucking Mill viaduct, not long before they entered the Combe Down tunnel.”
“Ten K is six miles, give or take?”
“A bit over.”
“Can you slow it up? I’ll never be able to pick him out.”
She said, “I know when he appears.”
“You did well to find this.”
“I had his time at ten K, so it was easy. He stands out anyway. Here we are. Belinda comes into the picture now and he’s only two-tenths behind her.” She changed to slow motion.
“I see him, the tosser.”
Belinda’s laboured running was apparent and Diamond remembered her telling him she’d gone faster than she planned because Pinto had been so close behind. At this stage the man was still moving easily.
“She got away from him by quitting the race soon after,” Diamond said. “She wasn’t going to risk the tunnel.”
“Good for her.”
“It wasn’t easy. She’s not used to dealing with predators like him.”
“Not many of us are, sir.”
“Yes, but she had an unusually sheltered upbringing, a one-parent family, I believe. Lived all her life with her mother and became her carer. Worked from home on a computer. No social life to speak of. When her mother died, Belinda made this effort to get sponsored and run for the heart charity and she was devastated at pulling out. We can look at all these runners and we have no idea of the stories behind them.”
“He’ll have had a story, too,” she said. “Where’s he from?”
“Prison. A fifteen-stretch for using a knife on another young woman. Waste no sympathy on Tony Pinto.”
She nodded. “I’ve yet to find him at the other points where cameras are placed. He seems to have slowed right up or taken a rest because his finishing time is really slow. Do you think he went off course to look for Belinda?”
“Can’t say for certain. Keep at it and we may get some answers.”
He reached for his stick, braced his good leg and picked his way back to his own desk.
The final Post-it note simply read: Call Mr. Jones.
He’d left it until last to give him time to remember who Mr. Jones might be. He’d known a few Joneses in his time. This one hadn’t bothered to leave a contact number. There were surely some in Bath Police, but he couldn’t think of any in Concorde House. The wording was more of a command than a request. There wasn’t a high-up in Concorde House or headquarters called Jones.
The penny dropped. Mr. Mysterious from ROCU.
Somewhere in the Himalayan range of paper spread across the desk was the business card with Jones’s personal number. Much burrowing in the foothills caused minor avalanches and didn’t uncover anything. He rolled his chair away and tried to see what had fallen on the floor. Then he remembered using one corner of the card to scratch an itch on the back of his neck. Perfect for the job. Where had he put the damn thing after that?
Somewhere handy.
Got it. Under the mouse mat.
“Mr. Jones? Diamond from Bath.”
“Oh?”
“You asked me to call.”
“But how can I be sure it’s you?” The opening move in the silly game of secrecy.