“This is Mr. Franklin, the landlord and owner of the house, guv.”
Mr. Franklin had spent some holidays in Spain, going by the framed posters of bullfighting all the way along the hall. His bright-eyed, darting look suggested he was eager for some action on his own premises and expected Diamond, the limping matador, to make the moves that would achieve the coup de grâce.
Diamond looked away from him. “And?”
Halliwell pointed at the ceiling.
“Has anyone spoken to him?”
“Like you ordered, we waited for you. I’ve got John Leaman watching the rear of the house and young Gilbert is out front.”
“Are we certain our man is up there?”
“Gilbert saw movement at a window.”
“He will have watched the two of us cross the street. He’ll know it’s showdown time. I’ll go up and speak to him.”
“You look as if you’ve been in a fight already,” Halliwell said.
Ingeborg said, “He has.”
“Yes, and I came off second best.” He was already on the stairs, driven by his strong desire to see this through to its conclusion. His brain had snapped into full consciousness. The throbbing and the soreness in his body were unimportant at this stage. Halliwell and Ingeborg were close behind him.
He’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t charge into the front room of the small flat. Instead, he paused on the landing and spoke with all the consideration he would employ when visiting a sick friend in hospital.
“Trevor?”
After some hesitation came, “I’m in here.” No hint of aggression.
“The house is surrounded. We’re police officers.”
“I guessed you must be.” A door was opened. “You’d better come in.” Broad-shouldered, muscled, but only average in height, Trevor, the PE teacher, stepped back to allow them inside. He was dressed in a black T-shirt that on his torso looked as if it was a boy’s size, black jeans and a red baseball hat with the British Heart Foundation logo.
Diamond knew the face. He’d never met the guy, but the features were familiar. The cavernous, troubled eyes, wide mouth and oversize teeth. A thrilling moment of certainty. Theory confirmed as fact.
For a suspected killer, Trevor was remarkably hospitable. “I don’t have chairs for everyone, but you’re welcome to sit on the bed.” Mr. Nice, it appeared.
And Diamond cooperated, too, and with gratitude, by letting the side of the bed take the strain.
But every cop knows — like every fighter — that you don’t drop your guard just because your antagonist does.
“We’ll check you over first.” He gestured to Halliwell to make a body search.
Trevor didn’t object.
While the pat-down went on, Diamond took stock of the small bedsit and the set-up wasn’t as he’d expected. In fact, there was no obvious set-up at all. No surveillance gear. No camera, telescope, binoculars. No gallery of secretly taken photos of Maeve. The pictures on the wall were entirely of sports teams and action studies of professional athletes. A collection of medals on ribbons. Glass-topped computer desk and rotating chair. A two-shelf bookcase stuffed with paperbacks. No room for anything else.
“You take the chair,” Diamond told Trevor. “These two are happy to stand. They spend their time sitting in front of screens.”
He passed up the offer, opting instead to face the music from an upright position.
“What is it with the BHF cap, Trevor? Here you are wearing it at home and I was told you didn’t think much of it.”
He reddened enough to match the scarlet baseball cap. “Who told you that?”
“Maeve Kelly.”
“That I don’t think much of my cap?”
“That’s what she told me yesterday.”
“She’s wrong. I wear it all day when I’m here.”
“She hasn’t seen you in it.”
“Because I wouldn’t wear it to work. I look after it. You can’t trust anyone.” He put both hands to the peak and made sure the angle was right before pressing his fingertips against the soft fabric behind.
That small gesture was a revelation. He was drawing comfort from the cap, fondling it like a living thing because it came from Maeve, regardless that it was the catalyst for the chain of events that led ultimately to a violent death.
“Maeve gave it to you and you presented her with a gift in return.”
“How do you know about that?” Trevor said, blushing again.
“A valuable Toby jug. She told me.”
“What did she say about the jug?”
“That it was very old, one of the first to be made.”
“She said that?” He was pathetically ignorant about the true reaction of the woman who meant so much to him.
He changed his mind about standing. He grasped his computer chair, wheeled it closer to Diamond and sat in it, within touching distance. He was hearing something encouraging and unexpected — that Maeve had appreciated the value of his eccentric gift.
Or so he convinced himself.
Diamond didn’t need to disillusion Trevor. He was getting an insight into the heart of this case. He could see in the moist brown eyes how completely the guy was infatuated. No need to hurt him by revealing Maeve’s disrespect for what she’d called the sodding Toby jug or that she’d accidentally smashed it and been on a guilt trip ever since.
“I knew she’d find out its true worth at some stage,” Trevor said in a hushed voice as if he was talking about Mother Teresa, “but she never said anything. She may have donated it to charity. They’re not daft in these shops. They spot antique items. Maybe they told her its value. She’s very public-spirited. She raised a four-figure sum for the BHF by running in the Other Half.”
“And you coached her.”
“Is that what she told you? A slight exaggeration. It didn’t amount to much. Running is something I know a lot about, so I offered a few tips, that’s all.” He touched the talisman cap again. “She really said I coached her, did she?”
“Words to that effect, anyway. Whatever advice you gave, it worked. I heard she ran the full distance.”
“All credit to her, yes.”
“You weren’t running yourself?”
“Not this year. I’ve done it before.”
“You know all about the Other Half, do you?”
“Sport is my thing.”
“Obviously. Sport and Maeve. Twin obsessions.”
Trevor reacted to the last word by bringing his hands together in his lap and tightening them so hard that the knuckles turned to ridges of ivory.
“Let’s face it, Trevor,” Diamond went on. “You can’t get her out of your head. You don’t want to. Ever since she gave you the cap you’re wearing, you’ve idolised her. It’s why you live here, across the street, why you follow her about. I was prepared to find you’re a voyeur, but I’ve changed my opinion. You’re not a stalker either, not in any unpleasant way. When you follow her anywhere, it’s from a wish to protect her. Am I speaking sense?”
Trevor didn’t answer.
“You do follow her sometimes, don’t you?”
“She’s safe with me,” he said.
“I don’t doubt that for a second. But God help anyone else who tries it on.”
Trevor flattened his palms against his beefy thighs and stared down.
“Such as Tony Pinto?” Diamond said. “Bit of a tomcat, sniffing around sports girls for a few months now. You knew about his reputation, I’m sure. So did I. I can tell you, Trevor, I despised the guy. I didn’t shed any tears when I found out he was killed.”
Trevor looked up, frowning, thrown by the last remark.
Diamond had genuine sympathy for the lovelorn loner he was gently and methodically dismantling. “When Pinto made his move on Maeve, it all happened quickly and at the worst possible time. On the day before her big race, he turned on the charm, offered expert advice on how to run and gave her more than just advice, in a bedroom upstairs in that squalid pub where he was drinking with her. Made you mad. I’m guessing now, but you weren’t far away at the time, were you?”