She would serve probably a dozen years of the lite sentence and be released on licence. She was no danger to society. Most of the murderers he'd known had been like her – a group apart from other criminals… people driven by family pressures or their own obsession to commit one crime in their lives.
And yet…
A vestige of unease lingered in his mind. Certain things about the case still challenged an explanation. The Jane Austen letters had not been found. No doubt the prosecution would suggest that Geraldine had destroyed them in an act of jealousy, and Dana Didrikson had killed her in a fit of outrage fired up by her infatuation with Jackman. Yet Geraldine had known that those letters were valuable. According to Jackman, she had been overdrawn three thousand pounds. Mightn't she have seen the letters as a way out of her financial mess?
Maybe it was mistaken to assume that Geraldine would make that kind of calculation. According to Jackman she had been mentally unstable, if not actually unhinged.
According to Jackman… So many of the assumptions in the case depended on Jackman's statements. He had interpreted the fire in the summerhouse as an attempt on his life, a manifestation of Geraldine's paranoia. It was worth remembering that Jackman's field of expertise was English literature, not psychiatry.
What other evidence had he provided of her mental illness? There were the persecution fantasies such as her belief that he was conspiring with her doctor. There was the time she had accused him of stealing the hand-mirror from her vanity set.
The incident had appeared trivial when Jackman had described it, and still did. Other mirrors were in the house, and Geraldine had already taken possession of Jackman's shaving-mirror, yet she had got into a state because hers was missing.
Hardly worth repeating. People – perfectly sane people – were forever getting into huffs with each other over things they foolishly mislaid.
Diamond plumbed his memory for more significant evidence of Geraldine's instability, and recalled that some had been provided by Dana Didrikson herself. Dana had witnessed that curious scene in front of John Brydon House when Geraldine had wrestled with the blond man called Andy to try and prevent him leaving. And on another occasion, Dana had arrived home and been deluged with what she had termed a torrent of abuse from Geraldine, apparently unjustified.
One night in April, six months since he'd quit the police, he was going over the incidents in his mind when the realization came to him that changed his understanding of the case. Ironically, something he had disregarded galvanized his thinking – the mirror Geraldine had lost.
The next morning he phoned Jackman and asked to meet him at John Brydon House. There was no reluctance on Jackman's part. The voice, bleak in its greeting, abruptly changed when Diamond spoke. 'It's you – I thought you'd lost interest.' The words gushed from him with hope on tap again. 'I tried reaching you several times.'
Diamond knew. He'd avoided the calls.
'This could take some time,' he said when he got to the house. 'I want to make a search.'
Disappointment spread across Jackman's face. 'They already did. They pulled the place apart.'
'I know. I'll start in the bedroom. Okay?'
'If you're looking for those letters, forget it.'
'I'll start in the bedroom.'
Jackman's back was stiff with dissension as he led the way upstairs. Apparently he had built himself up to expect some blazing insight that would transform the case, not just one more search of his home.
Diamond went straight to Geraldine's dressing room and found the switch for the frame of lights around the dressing table. The publicity photos on the walls gleamed. While Jackman watched him from the doorway, he opened the centre drawer and began examining the contents, sifting through the jars and tubes of face-creams, opening them, sniffing them, and, in the case of a box that turned out to contain talcum powder, dipping his finger in and tasting it. He took the drawer right out of its housing, placed it on the floor and explored the space. He repeated the exercise with the other drawers.
Jackman asked, 'What are you hoping to find?'
'Do you remember telling me about the fuss she made when her hand-mirror was missing?'
'Yes – but it turned up later in the garden, of all places. Is that what you're looking for?'
'In the garden, was it? Maybe someone else used it.' He didn't enlarge on this. He replaced the drawers and turned to the wardrobe, running his hand along the shelf. He scooped out some silk scarves and a black straw hat. Then he knelt and began rummaging among the boots and shoes. 'Mirrors have many uses. It's just an idea I have.'
But there was nothing in Geraldine's dressing room to support the idea, so he said, 'Do you mind if I make a search in yours?'
Jackman shrugged.
His room was as austere as a sauna after Geraldine's, the walls devoid of decoration, the chest-of-drawers functional, all the surfaces bare except for a newspaper and a couple of books of poetry. 'Do you want to open the drawers yourself?' Diamond asked. yourself?' Diamond 'Be my guest.'
They contained nothing remarkable. Nor did the bathroom and the other rooms upstairs, for all the painstaking search. After two unprofitable hours, Diamond accepted the coffee Jackman offered. They sat in the kitchen and Jackman started angling again. 'I'm still not sure what you hope to find.'
'Do you cook for yourself?' Diamond asked.
'I wouldn't describe it as cooking. Without Marks and Spencer and the microwave I wouldn't survive.'
This wasn't the time to embark on a debate about microwave cookery. Diamond feared that Stephanie hadn't yet mastered their new oven. Some of the meals that came up sizzling were cold by the time you got them into your mouth. There had been government warnings about food insufficiently cooked. In any other circumstances – across the bar of the Old Sedan Chair, for instance – he would have got into a helpful discussion now. However, his sleuthing took priority.
'Was she much of a cook?'
'Gerry? That's a laugh.'
'Except for barbecue sauce, I take it?'
Jackman looked unamused.
'So what do you keep in those jars marked tarragon and oregano?' ^v
Tarragon and oregano. Just to impress her friends.'
Diamond worked his way through the spice-rack, unscrewing the lids. The jars still had their seals. He tore each of them aside and sniffed the contents. 'When the police made their searches, they didn't bother with your kitchen, then?'
'You bet they bothered. They stripped the cupboards bare.'
'But they didn't look in these.'
'You couldn't hide an antique letter in ajar that size.'
'True.' He moved along the fitted units, opening the cupboard doors.
'What do you want – sugar?'
'No, thanks.' A large box of drinking-straws had taken his attention. 'Are you lemonade drinkers?'
'What?'
'The straws. A box of 500. Plenty have gone. I suppose you had them for the party.'
'I didn't notice.'
He replaced the box and took out a half-used packet of flour and set it on the kitchen table.
'Going to bake me a cake?'Jackman morosely jested.
Diamond was sniffing again. 'Do you have a spoon – a large one? Thanks.' He dipped deep into the flour, scooped up a spoonful and tipped it back, repeating the process several times. Then he returned the bag to the cupboard and took out an unopened one. It was folded at the top and fastened with a small piece of Sellotape.
This time he felt some resistance when he dug the spoon into the flour. Encouraged, he said, 'I'll have that plastic bowl from the sink.'