“The Computer Crime Unit.”
The penny dropped-twice. This was Clive, the computer expert.
“What did they want?”
“They, em”-a long pause-“they seized Dr Tysoe’s hard disk.”
“What-the thing you’re working on?” This was devastating. “For crying out loud, Clive. Didn’t you stop them?”
“I couldn’t do that. They’re part of SO6.”
This was one abbreviation he recognised. “The Fraud Squad.”
“That’s who they work for, but they handle any kind of computer crime. They said they had authority, waved some piece of paper in front of me. It was no use arguing.”
The moguls at Bramshill were behind this, he guessed. If Jimmy Barneston were the instigator, he would have mentioned it, surely. “We’re down the pan, then. And I suppose you were still trying to crack the code?”
“It’s a brute, Mr D. The geeks in the CCU can give themselves a headache now, can’t they?”
“You didn’t succeed, then?”
“Sorry. No.”
“I was banking on you, Clive.”
“I put some hours in, believe me. I could save those guys some time by telling them what doesn’t work, but I guess they want to find out for themselves.”
Diamond said with a sigh, “I’m whacked-flat out on the canvas with my eyes closed.”
Taking him at his word Clive made a silent count of five before asking, “Do you want me to stop now?”
“What?”
“Should I give up?”
“But you have to, if they’ve got the disk.”
Clive said in the same calm tone, “It’s all right, Mr D. I can use the zip.”
“The what?”
“The zip disk. It’s a back-up of everything on the hard disk. I wouldn’t do a job like this without at least one back-up. I can carry on trying to decrypt those files if you want.”
With one bound…
Mightily relieved, Diamond asked, “Do the Fraud Squad know you’ve got this copy?”
“They’d expect it. I’d have to be a complete nerd not to back up something as important as this.”
“Get back to it, then. Pull out all the stops, or whatever you do with computers. You’re still ahead, lad. You’ve done all this work already.”
“What do you mean-‘ahead’? We’re all on the same side, aren’t we, Mr D?”
“Don’t push me, Clive.”
He told Hen the news over a cup of tea made and served by the WRVS in the main waiting area of Crawley General Hospital. The next moves had to be discussed.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Bramshill gave Dr Tysoe the job, so they’re entitled to know what progress she made. The files could tell them.”
“I might be reading too much into this, but I thought it was a cynical move to stop us finding out stuff they want to keep secret.”
“Such as?”
“The names of the two other people this killer is out to get. She could have named them.”
“Let’s hope she did. And let’s hope your computer wizard delivers.” Hen gave an unexpected chuckle. “It would be a hoot, wouldn’t it, if this encrypted stuff turns out to be some other secret enterprise she was working on, like a thirty-something novel? Or erotic poetry?”
He winced. “You’re not helping my confidence.”
“Look on the bright side,” she said. “A window into Emma Tysoe’s thinking will be fascinating, whatever’s there. Up to now I haven’t felt I know her.”
“Me neither.”
“It could be a diary. We might get all the dirt on the Psychology Department.”
“Spare me that. I had five hours in the car with Dr Seton. I can only take so much.”
But he was forced to agree that Emma Tysoe’s university colleagues had to be investigated further. And Hen promised to make another effort with the beach staff at Bognor, the lifeguard and the car park attendants and café staff.
Hen was stubbing out her cigar prior to leaving when one of the tea ladies came over to the table and asked if they were from the police.
“At your service, ma’am,” Diamond said, uncertain what was coming next.
“Because we just took a phone call from Sister Thomas in intensive care. She said would you please go back directly?”
Diamond saw the flash of alarm in Hen’s eyes. Tragedy had leapt into his mind as well. No words were exchanged. They got up from the table and moved fast to the exit.
The sister was waiting for them outside the intensive care unit.
“Thank God you’re still here.”
“Bad news, Sister?”
“We had a man here.”
“What?” Neither of them had anticipated this.
“Just a few minutes ago. He came to the desk insisting he was the patient’s husband, and I think he was, because she seemed to recognise him. We were very alarmed, knowing the circumstances.”
“Couldn’t you stop him?” Hen said.
“I tried. I told him visitors weren’t allowed. He didn’t get really close to her. There was a bit of a scuffle as he tried to go past me. He shouted her name from the door and then he left. I called Crawley police, and then I thought you might still be here, because I heard you say something about tea as you were leaving.”
“What’s he like?” Diamond asked.
“Dark-haired, thirtyish. He could do with a shave.”
“He went which way?”
She pointed along the corridor. “And he’s in a rather crumpled black or grey striped suit.”
“Can he get to the car park that way?”
“Yes.”
Diamond started running.
The big man in quick motion was a danger to the public. In his rugby-playing days faint-hearted defenders had been known to step aside claiming they were sold a dummy when he charged at them. In a hospital corridor he was a potentially lethal force, dodging wheelchairs and trolleys and patients on crutches. Convincing himself this was for the greater good, and he was in control, he powered ahead, bursting through swing doors and around corners trusting to God he wouldn’t meet a freshly plastered leg-case being wheeled towards him like a scene out of a Charlie Chaplin classic.
By good fortune he made it to the main exit without mishap and dashed along a covered walkway towards what looked like one of the main car parks. Michael Smith had the use of a car, and it was likely he’d driven here after hearing that his wife was in intensive care.
Three hundred or more cars were parked in neat rows and others were in the aisles waiting for spaces. It was the time late in the afternoon when out-patients were leaving and visitors arriving. A few pedestrians were visible, but nobody remotely like the tall, mean-looking man Diamond knew he ought to recognise from the photo in his pocket.
He slowed to a walk and stopped altogether, catching his breath. The chase was over. The sister’s estimate of a few minutes must have been unreliable. Or Smith had slipped out by some other route.
More cars were streaming in on the far side, through a gate system that seemed unable to prevent the congestion. Diamond watched the striped arm go up and down a couple of times before realising it could be his salvation. A pay system was in operation here. Each driver had to pay something at the automatic exit. So there was only one way out-and it was possible Smith hadn’t got there yet.
Another dash, this time across the car park among slow moving, but still hazardous vehicles. Twice he had to swerve around a reversing car as if he was handing off a tackle. But it was worth the risk. At the exit was a queue of five or six waiting to pay, and the fourth in line was a white Honda Civic. Heart and lungs pounding, he approached the driver. Definitely the man in the photo. And the car couldn’t move out of line.
Smith had his window down. One look at Diamond’s warrant card said it all. He knew he was caught. Without any conviction he said, “What’s up?”
Diamond told him to switch off the engine and step out.
The questioning took place in a room normally used by the hospital almoner, with flowers on the desk and holiday posters on the walls-a distinct improvement on the average police interview room. This was a coup for Diamond and Hen. They would hand the prisoner over to Crawley police at the end of the day, but they had first crack at him.