The power of these things was a revelation. The bowstring is made of steel cable, but the force of the pull, at least two hundred pounds, is in the prod. We were each given a padded glove to wear on our left hand, the one that supports the bow, because if that cable snapped you could sever your fingers. But first he simply demonstrated what happens when the bowstring is cocked and the bolt is in place and the trigger pulled. The snap of the cable was awesome. The bolt thudded into a target thirty metres away.
I felt goosebumps on the backs of my arms and legs. I was glad I hadn’t seen Axel Summers’ body.
We were each given a bow and shown how to zero the sights (i.e. adjust them to the target) and cock the string. Our instructor told us he preferred a kneeling position with the left elbow supported on the knee. So my assumption that the Mariner was belly-down may have been wrong. We tried the position, yours truly showing slightly more thigh than your average archer does.
I’ve fired a rifle before, and I’m certain the trigger was easier to pull than this one, even though the catch and trigger were well greased. Provided you hold the bow steady and squeeze the trigger evenly without shifting your aim, you should succeed. My bolt hit the target, though not the bull. Jimmy’s was about the same. We had two more shots, and definitely improved. But I still think the Mariner must have put in plenty of practice.
My adrenalin level was pretty high after that. As we walked back across the park, I linked my arm through Jimmy’s and asked what other surprises he had in store, and he knew exactly what was on my mind. But he said he had to get back to Horsham, and hadn’t I heard him promise Matthew Porter quick progress? I said something really naff about how he could make even faster progress with me behind a bush, and I meant it at the time. Those hormones were in overdrive. I would have screwed him silly regardless of my posh clothes. But it wasn’t to be. We hailed a taxi and he dropped me at Waterloo, saying he was looking forward to my report. He gave me a peck on the cheek.
Bloody men.
The second file ended there. Diamond closed it and switched off. He sat for a moment, taking it in, reflecting on what he’d learned, and not just about Emma Tysoe, but Matthew Porter and Jimmy Barneston as well. He’d taken to Emma with her Prada shoes and her overactive hormones. Reading the journal, it was difficult to accept that she was dead. It saddened him.
The glimpse of Porter, too, was valuable. Diamond wasn’t a golfer and didn’t follow the sport with any real interest, but everyone had heard of Magic Matt, the kid who rolled them in from anywhere on the green and made it look simple. The clip of him winning the Open with a twenty-five foot putt at the eighteenth was shown over and over on television. Everything about the young man’s demeanour on the golf course suggested he was mature beyond his years, possessed of an extraordinary physical and mental harmony. It was revealing to find that this didn’t extend to his life outside the game. The routine of the safe house was going to be increasingly irksome to him.
As for that dark horse-stallion-Jimmy Barneston, mixing business with pleasure, Diamond thought he wouldn’t care to be in his shoes when the Big White Chief at Bramshill decrypted the files and read them. But he’d modified his own opinion of Barneston. He could understand the man trying to keep his one night stand with Emma off the agenda (maybe more than one night, if file number three was as frank as the first two). But since it was no longer a secret, he’d have to face some questions. It was important to know if Emma had communicated anything that might touch on her murder.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Finished, Mr D?” It was Clive.
“You?” he said, swinging his chair around.
“Something the matter, boss?”
“I’m not best pleased with you any more. There was I, relying on you, thinking you were watertight, and you leaked like a hanging basket.”
“But Ingeborg is on your team, isn’t she?”
Ingeborg. That young woman would go far.
“Doesn’t mean I tell her everything. Haven’t you ever heard of the need-to-know principle? Someone else might be put in a very embarrassing position by these files.”
“That DCI who got his leg over?”
“Heads could roll, Clive, and not just his.”
“You mean…? Jesus, I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.”
“Believe me, if there’s anything I can do…”
Diamond let him squirm a moment longer. “There could be something, as a matter of fact. Is it possible for me to press a couple of keys and send a copy of these red hot files to someone I know?”
Clive’s eyes widened. “What-in this place?”
“No-another officer, in another county. A DCI Mallin, at Bognor Regis.”
Keith Halliwell had tracked down the registration details of Emma Tysoe’s car. It was a 2000 Lotus Esprit.
“Not a bad motor,” Diamond said. “And lecturers are always grouching about being underpaid.”
“We also found the garage she rents in Pulteney Mews, just like Ingeborg suggested.”
“Surprise me, Keith. Was there anything in there?”
“Not even a bike, guv.”
“What colour was this motor? Dark green, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Put out an all units call on this. London and everywhere south and west. The thing must be somewhere. Where’s Ingeborg?”
“She’s up at Popjoy’s, looking at their reservations book, trying to work out the name of the ex-boyfriend.”
“She’ll be lucky. Restaurants usually make bookings with surnames alone.”
“Yes, but we know which evening it was, so we’ll have the names of everyone who made a reservation. How many would you say-twenty maximum?”
Diamond raised a thumb in tribute. “Good thinking, Keith. I must be blinkered.”
Halliwell smiled wryly.
“Couldn’t think past the name of Ken,” Diamond explained. “Pity she didn’t once call him by his surname in the journal.”
“She wouldn’t, would she?”
“She used full names for everyone else.”
“But she was sleeping with Ken.”
“No, she’d stopped sleeping with Ken. That’s what makes him special.”
He returned to the basement to finish reading Emma Tysoe’s files. The third was dated two days before her death. It turned out to be the shortest.
Can’t get Jimmy Barneston out of my mind. I know he’s working all hours on the case and I can’t expect him to call me and make another date, but I keep wondering if he thinks of me as nothing more than an easy lay. It didn’t seem like that at the time. OK, neither of us made a big emotional deal of it. We fancied each other and went to bed. But the sex was special (I ought to know) and I’ve never felt so good as I did lying beside him afterwards. I’d like to be cool and tell myself he was just another shag, but I can’t. There’s a whole lot more about Jimmy that I find attractive. I want more. I want a real relationship.
Computer, what can I do? Sit here biting my fingernails, or think of something positive? I could ask to meet Anna Walpurgis, I suppose, but even if it could be arranged I really doubt if she can tell me anything useful. I sense I’ll get nothing more from her than I did from Matthew Porter. I’m thinking they were chosen because of their fame, to create more of a sensation when they are killed. I say ‘when’ because in spite of all the security I feel strongly the Mariner knows what he’s doing.
Hold on. I’ve just made a whopping assumption. OK, profiling is all about probabilities rather than certainties, but let’s stand this one on its head. All along I’ve been reminding myself there may be nothing personal in the Mariner’s selection of these people as targets. Could I be mistaken?
From a profiling perspective, I’m conditioned to expect the victims to be randomly picked. Serial killers-the true serial killers-have no personal involvement with the people they kill, no other motive than that they fit a pattern. That’s why they’re so difficult to catch. They choose a class of victim, like prostitutes, or schoolgirls, or young boys, or old women, and prey on them ruthlessly. I’ve taken it for granted that the Mariner fits the mould and has targeted the famous and successful. He gives the impression of being detached, cool, calculating, everything I expect.