‘By the way,’ he told her as he got out, ‘leave the questions to me.’
There’s money in television. The Corcoran residence had a varnished oak door with coach-lamps either side. The chime was the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth. In the moment before it was answered, Diamond took stock. This was a unique situation that had to be handled right. He’d be breaking the news, but not all the news. He’d be telling Corcoran that his partner had been found dead, hanging from a swing, no more. No suspicion that anyone else was involved. The man’s reaction would be worth noting. Any possible sign of guilt would be subtle, not to be missed. Even a glimmer of relief at this stage would tell Diamond he was speaking to a murderer.
The door was opened by a long-haired man in a black kaftan and white jeans. He was rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken.
Then he recognised Ingeborg. ‘Oh, you.’
Diamond showed his warrant card and asked if they could come in.
A hand through the hair, matted brown hair that looked as if it could do with a wash. ‘Is it about Delia?’
Diamond nodded. ‘So shall we speak inside?’
The interior was open plan, a vast space with toys for all the family: giant teddies, an exercise bike, plasma television, a music system and the grand piano. Corcoran led them across the wood floor to an area with a large Afghan rug surrounded by sofas.
‘This is bad news, I take it. Is it the worst?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Diamond sketched the circumstances. He said he couldn’t say for certain that the woman in the park was Delia Williamson, but she closely resembled the photos.
People given news of sudden death are often reduced to one-word questions — When? Where? How? — and this was how it played with Ashley Corcoran. No hint of foreknowledge. He was cool, as Ingeborg had said, yet anxious to hear precisely what had been discovered.
‘I’ll be asking you to identify her later,’ Diamond said. ‘Probably not today.’
‘Is she still…?’
‘Being driven to Bristol by now.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘The post-mortem.’
‘I see.’ Still cool.
‘There are two daughters, I’m told.’
‘At school until three thirty.’ Corcoran raked a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, God, I’ll have to tell them.’
‘That had better wait until we’re a hundred per cent certain. What about their father. Where’s he?’
‘I said I’ll tell them. They treat me as their dad.’
‘Yes, but he’s got to be informed.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ Corcoran’s thoughts were played out on his face. ‘This changes everything.’
‘Has he been seeing his daughters?’
‘He’s written them off.’
‘I gather you don’t know his surname or present address?’
‘Danny? No idea.’
‘Would Delia have it written down somewhere?’
‘Can’t say. Far as I know, she hasn’t heard from him in years.’ He opened his hands in appeal. ‘Listen, I can keep the girls, can’t I?’
‘They’ll need someone else, at least while things are sorted out. Their grandmother sounds like a caring person. She was the one who notified us that Delia was missing.’
‘Amanda’s OK,’ he said. ‘A worry-guts, that’s all.’
Diamond moved the conversation on. ‘Is it possible Delia left a suicide note somewhere in the house? Nothing was found in the park.’
‘I haven’t seen one.’
‘Have you looked? I understand you weren’t too concerned that she went missing.’
He shifted in his seat. ‘That makes me sound uncaring. I didn’t dream she’d do anything like this.’
‘Was there an argument before she left?’
‘No. We were fine.’
‘But she lives here. Has she gone missing before?’
‘We don’t keep tabs on each other.’ Corcoran sighed. ‘Look, I’m a musician. I’m on a deadline for a new TV drama. I work unsocial hours, right? I find night-time is the most creative. We don’t see so much of each other when I’m working.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t notice she was gone?’
He shrugged. ‘The first I knew was when Amanda called me yesterday afternoon.’
‘Excuse me butting in, guv,’ Ingeborg said, unable to stay silent, ‘but what about the girls? How did they get to school in the morning?’
Corcoran said, ‘We have a Filipino girl who helps out. She comes in at seven and sees them off with a packed lunch. Then she comes back and does some housework until midday.’
Diamond asked, ‘And what’s Delia doing in the morning?’
‘She sleeps in.’
‘Doesn’t she have a job?’
‘Waitress, in Tosi’s, the Italian restaurant just up the street from here.’
Diamond’s spirits took a plunge. A simple case was suddenly complicated by Italian waiters and restaurant customers. ‘Full-time?’
‘Six evenings a week.’
He looked around at the expensive furnishings. ‘Did she need the money?’
‘She didn’t want to be kept, as she put it.’
‘From what you were saying earlier, am I right in thinking she had her own room? If so, could we take a look at it?’
A gallery extended around three sides of the upper level and the bedrooms led off it. Delia had a walk-in dressing room and en-suite bath and shower. The bed was queensize with an empire-style arrangement of drapes on the wall at the head. The quilt had been thrown back and a nightdress tossed across the pillows. Underclothes were scattered on top of a basket inside the door. These signs of occupation made Delia Williamson seem more real than the corpse in the park.
‘I respected her privacy,’ Corcoran said. ‘This is the first time I’ve looked in here since she went missing, except on the afternoon her mother phoned. I put my head round the door in case she was ill, or something.’
‘We all kiss goodbye to privacy when we die.’ Diamond pulled open a drawer of the bedside cupboard and told Ingeborg. ‘See what you can find.’
Almost at once she handed him two birth certificates. The children’s names were Sharon and Sophie. More importantly, the full name of their father was Daniel Geaves.
They traced Geaves to an address in Freshford, a village between Bath and Bradford on Avon best known to Diamond for its pub, named logically enough the Inn at Freshford. He’d been there a couple of times with Steph.
Ingeborg did the driving again. Unfortunately the man they had come to see was not at home. The cottage he rented looked as if it hadn’t been used for some days, and the neighbour said she hadn’t seen him all week. Diamond had a hunch, he told Ingeborg, that someone at the inn might have some information.
What he didn’t tell her was that his hunches rarely amounted to anything. His real purpose in going in was a late lunch of fish and chips. The landlord said Danny came in sometimes, but never stayed long. He’d take his drink and a packet of crisps to an empty table. He usually had a paper with him and did the crossword.
Afterwards they took their drinks outside and sat on the wall of the packhorse bridge listening to the ripple and gurgle of the Avon. Across a green field, the steep side of the Limpley Stoke Valley was covered in lush foliage. ‘Not bad, eh?’ he said. ‘Better than watching your friend Dr Sealy doing a post-mortem.’
‘Give me a break, guv. He’s no friend of mine. He’s pathetic.’
‘I can’t disagree with that.’
Ingeborg took a sip of lager and stared down at the waterweeds rippling in the flow. ‘I don’t know if it’s me, but the blokes who seem to fancy me are the ones I’d rather avoid.’
He was reminded of his secret admirer. For one mad moment he considered taking the letter from his inside pocket and showing it to Ingeborg, but the moment slipped by.
Back in Manvers Street what passed for an incident room was more like the quiet room in a silent order. Halliwell was hand-feeding a pigeon on the window ledge.
‘What progress?’ Diamond said, trying to energise someone.
Halliwell turned and said, ‘What progress?’