“Let’s do it, then.”
There was a danger of being carried away by Hen’s get-up-and-go. “Before we do, I’d really like to hear from Olga Smith, if she’s recovered enough to talk.”
“About what she saw on the beach? Now that’s a smart move. She’s out of hospital. She’s at home now. Her sister is looking after her.”
“Any news on the husband?” Diamond asked.
“He’s facing charges of smuggling cigarettes.”
“Is that all?”
“Honey, this wasn’t a few packets in his hand luggage. This was big-time smuggling, a profitable scam at the airport with some baggage handlers. They delivered them to his stockroom in cartons the size of tea chests, and he acted as a conduit to the criminal trade right across the south-east.”
“Which explains the large cash deposits?”
“And why he cut and ran when Stella Gregson called at the house. Customs and Excise have taken it over now. He’ll go down for a spell.”
“And I reckon a few of those fags will have found their way into officers’ pockets. Did he deal in cigars?”
Hen laughed. “No such luck.”
They agreed to meet at midday at the Smiths’ house in Crawley. Hen would call Olga Smith and arrange an interview. Later they would drive the short distance to Horsham and speak to Jimmy Barneston-and not by appointment.
Ingeborg was back in the incident room using a phone when Diamond looked in. He asked if she’d identified Ken.
She shook her head. “I’m still checking the reservations at Popjoy’s.”
“Do they ask their customers for phone numbers?”
“Yes. I’m running through the list right now. The thing is, they only write down the surnames.”
“Did you think about checking the credit card slips? You might pick up some initials there. ”
“Oh.” She put down the phone. “Good thinking, guv.”
When he told Ingeborg and Halliwell he could be contacted later if necessary at Horsham police station, knowing glances were exchanged. Not much escaped them. He was damned sure they knew about Jimmy Barneston’s romp with Emma Tysoe.
On the drive through Wiltshire and across Salisbury Plain he welcomed the chance to catch up mentally on the past twenty-four hours. Emma’s lively love life had shifted the balance of the case. Earlier, he’d assumed her reputation as a top profiler had put her in the path of her killer. Now it seemed possible it was a crime of passion.
He hoped not. If this turned out to be no more than a matter of pulling in Ken-whoever he was-and charging him with the strangling on the beach, there would be no pretext for staying involved in the more fascinating case of the Mariner. He really wanted to pit himself against this arrogant killer. But as soon as someone else was charged with the murder of Emma, Jimmy Barneston could say, “Hands off. The Mariner is my investigation.”
It was almost a temptation to hang fire for a bit. Pity he’d suggested the credit card slips to Ingeborg. She might have found the right name already.
A small, solemn girl with her hair in bunches tied with white ribbon came to the door.
“You must be Haley,” Hen said.
A nod.
“We’ve come to see Mummy, my darling. Can we come in?”
Olga Smith, pale and tight-lipped and wrapped in a black dressing gown made of towelling, was sitting in the living room they knew from their previous visit. Another woman sat at the table in the window bay, arms folded, making it clear she intended to remain. She had the watchful look of a solicitor.
Olga said, “My sister Maud is here to support me.”
She could still have been a solicitor.
Hen said, “Whatever you wish.”
So the sister remained. Haley had already nestled close to her mother on the sofa.
“This is not easy for any of us, Mrs Smith,” Diamond opened up, “and we’re grateful to you for seeing us. You’re looking much better than when we saw you last.”
She said, “I’ve been advised not to discuss the trouble my husband is in.”
“That’s fine by me. We’re here on another matter entirely.”
“The woman at Wightview Sands?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t mind talking about that. I wanted to say something when we first heard what happened, but Mike, my husband-”
The sister interrupted. “Careful, Olga.”
Diamond said evenly, “That’s OK. We understand. Just tell us what you remember of that Sunday on the beach.”
“I’ll do my best. We got there at about eleven, I think, and it was already crowded in the car park. We found a spot on that part of the beach near where the lifeguards have their lookout, and we hadn’t been there long when she arrived and sat more or less in front of us.”
“On her own?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what she was carrying?”
“A blue towel and a windbreak for sure.”
“A bag?”
“Yes, some kind of beachbag, blue, like the towel, with a dolphin design, about the size of the average carrier bag, but not so deep.”
This was new, and possibly important. Olga Smith had made the journey worthwhile already.
“She was wearing a headband that she took off and put in the bag. I think she was in denim shorts and a top that she took off later. She spread out the towel on the sand and set up the windbreak. She took her sunglasses out of the bag and put them on. And she had a bottle of sunscreen. After that, she settled down behind the windbreak and I couldn’t actually see her. But later I went down the beach to take an ice cream to Haley, and when I returned I had a different view and the woman was sunbathing in a white two-piece.”
“She didn’t speak?”
“Not that time. She smiled at me. And quite soon after that, a man came by and spoke to her. They seemed to know each other from what I overheard.”
“What did you overhear?”
Olga Smith blushed. “I’m not nosy. You can’t help picking up bits of conversation on a beach. He was being amusing, or trying to, trotting out that line from some old film about all the gin-joints in all the world.”
“‘Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’”
“That’s it.”
“Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.”
“Was it? Anyway, as a chat-up line, it didn’t seem to work very well. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I heard his side of the conversation. He offered to get an ice-cream or a drink and she wasn’t interested. Then he asked to join her and she obviously gave him a short answer because he said something like, ‘Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave you to it.’ Then he swore and walked away.”
“What were the words?”
“The swearing?” She blushed again and glanced at her sister, who turned her head and looked out of the window.
“He said, ‘Oh, what the fuck.’” She mouthed the final word, unseen by her small daughter.
“He was angry, then?”
“Annoyed, anyway. After he’d gone, he didn’t look back.”
“This is really helpful,” Diamond told her. “Can you remember what the man looked like?”
“I’d say he was around thirty. He had a black T-shirt and I think he was wearing jeans. His hair was black, quite curly. Latin looks, I think you’d call them.”
“Was he tall?”
“Not specially. About average, I think, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He was nice-looking, a broad, strong face. I think he had sunglasses on, because I don’t remember his eyes.”
“But you’d recognise him if you saw him again?”
“I expect so.”
“Your husband told us he didn’t see this man. Why was that?”
“Mike was face down with his eyes closed.”
She’d sketched a pretty good word-picture. Diamond had his own mental image of the Smiths relaxing on the beach while this potentially fatal rebuff took place in front of them.
“Before I ask you about the rest of the afternoon, do you remember who else was sitting to either side of you?”