The cat’s welfare ceased to be of interest. “Britt’s friendship with this man started only a few weeks before she died, am I right?”
“As far as I know.”
“They were still seeing each other at the time you went on holiday?”
“I believe so.”
“Did Martin bring flowers for Britt?”
He shook his head. “That one was far too mean.”
“Did anyone? Did bouquets ever get delivered to your door?”
“I can’t remember any.”
“Did Martin ever stay the night?”
“No one did. We made that very clear to Britt and she respected it.”
“Did you respect ber?”
Billington frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Her privacy. Did you ever go into her flat when she was out?”
“Only for maintenance.”
“What maintenance is that?”
“Checking the radiators for leaks, changing light bulbs, inspecting the fabric-the usual things, you know.”
“I can guess,” said Diamond, and he could.
“She had nothing to complain of.”
“That night you found her dead. What time was it you went into her flat-about one A.M., wasn’t it? Was that maintenance, or what?”
“That isn’t funny.”
“But I want an answer.”
Billington’s gaze shifted to the ceiling as he recollected that evening. He was still talking lucidly. “It had been so quiet. Usually we could hear her moving about. She always took a shower before going to bed, and we’d hear the water going through the system. We’d hear her footsteps across the floor. That night, nothing.”
“But there must have been times when she spent the night in other places. She had lovers. What made this night so special that you decided to check?”
“It was coming back after being away. You’re more aware of things, sounds and that. Of course we noticed the milk hadn’t been taken in. We assumed she was away, but it wasn’t like her to go off without telling the milkman. She was such a well-organized person. Violet started worrying about her, and couldn’t get off to sleep. In the end she nagged me into checking.”
Knowing Violet Billington, Diamond thought it likely that the worry wasn’t so much over Britt Strand’s welfare as the possibility that she had done a flit without paying her rent. “Tell me what you found.”
“I’ve told you before. I’ve told it in court. I’ve told it dozens of times.”
“Refresh my memory.”
He screwed his face into a resentful look and turned his eyes toward the end of the ward where the sister had gone. “Well,” he said after a time, seeing no one coming to his aid, “I let myself into the flat and spoke her name. I had a sense that the place was empty and yet not empty. It was a strange sensation. As far as I can remember I went straight to the bedroom. The door was open. I didn’t switch on the light at first. I could just about see that the bed was occupied, but there was a smell that wasn’t healthy. I asked if she was all right. There wasn’t even a movement from the bed. So I stepped out into the passage and put that light on, which gave me enough to see what had happened. It was the worst moment of my life. I still get nightmares.”
“What did you do?”
“Went downstairs and told Violet. She came up to have a look. Then we phoned the emergency number. That’s all.”
“Tell me about Britt’s appearance.”
He gave a shrug. “What do you mean-appearance? She was dead.”
“Describe the scene.”
“You saw it. You were one of the first.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
He closed his eyes and started to speak like a medium in trance. “The curtains are drawn. Her clothes are lying on a chair by the dressing table, folded. Shoes together on the floor, neat-like. She’s lying face up on top of the bed, not in it, in a white dressing gown and pajamas. Blue pajamas. The dressing gown is made of towel stuff. It’s open at the front. The pajamas are stained with blood, pretty bad, but dry and more brown than red, and so is the quilt she’s lying on. One arm-the right-is stretched out across the bed. The other is bent across her stomach. She’s turned a sallow color and her mouth is horrible. Deep red. Filled with dead roses.” He opened his eyes. “If Mountjoy didn’t do this, you’ve got to get the brute who did.”
“Your time’s up, Inspector, more than up,” a voice broke in. The redoubtable sister had reappeared.
“I hope not,” said Diamond.
“What?”
He gave her a smile. “I’ve still got things to do. But I’m leaving.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Events were not running smoothly for Diamond. First, when he went to look for the Escort it had gone; Julie had taken it to pursue the woman who had visited Billington. Second, he carried no personal radio; hadn’t even thought of asking for one. So he had to use a public phone to get a taxi back to Bath. But there was a consolation: the driver recognized him from the old days. They had a satisfying to-and-fro listing the inflictions they considered were ruining the character of the city: black London-style cabs, sightseeing buses, tourism, ram-raids, “New Age” travelers, shopping malls, traffic wardens, busking, Christmas decorations, students, old people, schoolchildren, councillors, pigeons, surveys, horse-drawn carriages and opera singing in front of the Royal Crescent. Diamond felt much beter for it by the time the cab drew up in front of the shabby end-terrace near the bottom of Widcombe Hill where Una Moon, and, until recently, Samantha Tott, were squatters.
His spirits plummeted again on learning from a hairy young man in army fatigues that Una had moved out.
“Where can I find her?”
“Who are you, then?”
“A friend.”
“What time is it?”
Diamond usually asked that himself, and expected to be told. “Around two-thirty, I imagine. Where will I find her at this time?”
“Up the uni.”
“The university?”
“Unicycle.”
“Ah.” Diamond’s face registered the strain of this mental leap.
“Down by the abbey,” his informant volunteered, and then asked, “If you’re a friend, how come you don’t know she juggles?”
Diamond got back in the cab.
A crowd of perhaps eighty had formed a semicircle around two performers in the Abbey Churchyard, close to the Pump Room. A man in a scruffy evening suit and top hat was doing a fire-eating act before handing the lighted torches to a young woman wobbling on a unicycle, who juggled with them. Not a convenient moment to question her about the Trim Street squat.
She was as thin as a reed, with a face like a ballerina’s and fine, dark hair in a plait that flicked about on her back with her movements controlling her bike. Ms. Moon, beyond any doubt.
A church clock chimed the third quarter and Diamond seriously considered interrupting the performance, regardless that it wouldn’t be a popular move, and might be dangerous. He decided to give them two minutes more, two minutes he could use to update himself on the siege, for the north end of the Abbey Churchyard led to Orange Grove. He strode in that direction.
Street barriers had been placed across the pedestrian crossing by the Guildhall, blocking the access to Orange Grove. A constable was stretching a band of checkered tape across the pavement.
Diamond explained who he was and asked what was happening now. On Commander Warrilow’s orders, he learned, the area in front of the Empire Hotel had been closed to traffic and pedestrians. Sensitive listening equipment had been set up and certain landmarks around Orange Grove were being used as observation points. Someone was posted on the roof of the abbey in the tower at the northeast end; not a marksman, the constable thought. It wouldn’t be good public relations, would it, to use a place of worship as a gun emplacement?
“Have they appeared at the window at all since the girl was spotted?” Diamond asked.
“Not so far as I know, sir. He won’t let her do that again, will he? He’s got the whole hotel to himself, so he might as well keep her in a room at the back. There’s plenty of choice.” This policeman seemed to be making a bid for CID work.