Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

They parked the car in Chestnut Grove, a side street of bungalows. A cloud passed in front of the moon and darkness took over. ‘What do you make the time?’ he asked Leaman.

‘Just after one-fifteen.’

‘Hours yet. Where are you posting yourself?’

‘Opposite where you first saw us, near Upper Farm. There’s a place that gives some cover.’

‘I didn’t notice.’ He grinned. ‘No bad thing.’

‘It’s the way down to the stone quarry.’

‘Where we were in the wood today?’

‘Not the open cast bit. The underground workings.’

Diamond’s insides clenched. He should have remembered Westwood was well known for its stone mine.

‘It’s huge, I was told,’ Leaman said, heaping on the embarrassment without realising how personally Diamond was taking it. ‘It stretches right under where we’re standing and a long way beyond.’

‘I know.’

But he was unstoppable now he’d started. ‘The war work I told you about was done in the mine. The employees were on twelve-hour shifts and never saw daylight for days on end in the winter months. The government installed a room for sun-ray treatment so they could get their vitamin D.’

Diamond wasn’t listening.

‘Or is it E?’

No response.

‘I don’t think you heard a word I was saying,’ Leaman said in an injured tone.

‘I did. You’re on about the mine.’

Only a couple of years ago Diamond had pursued a suspect through the disused underground quarry at Combe Down. The workings had been a honeycomb. Leaman knew about this and still didn’t seem to appreciate the potential a mine had as a secret means of approach and escape.

Diamond said, more to himself than Leaman, ‘Why didn’t we notice this on the map in the incident room?’

‘Because maps only show you what’s on the surface.’

True. Prosaically, maddeningly true.

‘Is it secure?’

‘Metal doors, padlocks. You wouldn’t get in without a crowbar.’

‘I want to be sure of that. Come on.’

Leaman raked a hand through his hair. ‘Do you really want to go there, guv? It’s steep.’

‘Show me now.’

Leaman produced a small hand torch. ‘The mine is one of the last still in use as an underground stone quarry,’ he said, keeping up his tour-guide mode in a too obvious try to cover the unease between them. ‘They dig out huge blocks and leave them to dry out for a while, so they’re firmer. Then they load them onto flatbed trucks.’

Diamond was silent.

The going down wasn’t so bad as all that for a limping man. Only the ramp down to the entrance was tricky.

Several of the massive limestone blocks were stacked nearby, pallid in the moonlight, each stencilled with a number. Diamond asked for the torch and made a close inspection of the doors and satisfied himself that they were, after all, secured with strong metal fastenings. Nothing had been forced as far as he could tell.

‘Looks solid enough.’

‘It needed to be,’ Leaman said. ‘They hid the Crown Jewels here during the war.’

‘Pull the other one, John.’

‘It’s true. The mine had to be air-conditioned and kept at a special temperature. It’s amazing what was stored here, all crated up, of course. They built a narrow-gauge railway underground to transport the stuff. The Elgin Marbles, the statue of Charles I and the Banqueting Hall ceiling from Whitehall, the bronze screen from the Henry VII Chapel in Westminster Abbey.’

The level of detail was persuasive, but Diamond remained sceptical. ‘Who told you this?’

‘One of the Wiltshire sergeants who knows the village. He’ll be hunkered down in Becky Addy Wood by now. He said the local police helped to guard the place. The British Museum supplied most of the security and our people had to help at night.’

‘I thought they used the London tube to store the treasures.’

‘They did until 1942. Then they decided it was safer to move them here. Twenty-five thousand square feet of storage, all secured with strong-room doors brought from Bloomsbury.’

‘I’m starting to believe this — as if it matters now.’ Diamond stepped back from the main door to the mine.

‘All right, then?’ Leaman asked.

Plainly it wasn’t. ‘All these mines have ventilation shafts,’ Diamond said. ‘I’d like to know where they come out.’

‘We’d have to ask the locals.’

He checked the time again. Approaching 2 A.M.

‘I’d better get a move on. If I head down the track, I come to the quarry first and then the wood, right?’

‘I don’t advise it, guv. It’s bloody dangerous. If you don’t fall over and break the other leg you’ll get shot by the firearms team, like as not.’

‘Radio ahead and tell them I’m on my way.’

‘I can’t come with you,’ Leaman said. ‘The men expect to find me here.’

‘I don’t need a bloody attendant, John.’

He didn’t tell Leaman he was confident of this end of the operation. Gull was the weak point.

Without more argument he started picking his way down the escarpment, gripping the crutch with one hand, the torch with the other. Necessarily slow, he was unlikely to trip, he told himself. The moon was fully visible again, allowing him to choose the best footing. He heard from behind him the faint sound of Leaman making contact on his personal radio, occasional snatches of words raised in emphasis: ‘insisted … couldn’t possibly … with a crutch, yes … I should think in the next three-quarters of an hour.’

Sooner than that if I’m any judge, Diamond thought. He was moving better than he expected. The going was easier down the slope than over flat ground, and when his injured leg made contact it didn’t feel as painful as earlier in the day. Severe bruising, probably, and nothing worse. His self-diagnosis in the X-ray department was paying off. He’d saved the National Health Service some funds and saved himself from a dose of radiation.

A voice of reason broke in and told him he was a raving idiot to be doing this alone. If the sniper was about and wanted another kill, he couldn’t have an easier target. And if the sniper didn’t get him, some trigger-happy firearms officer would.

Friendly fire, they termed it. A classic oxymoron, and not a good way to go.

Better not stop for a rest.

He picked up a little speed instead. Ahead he could see the road down to Avoncliff and the dark patch that was Becky Addy. This was where the search teams had been unloaded yesterday (it was safe to call it yesterday now — and, hell’s bells, it felt like two days ago instead of less than twenty-four hours). Back then, the minibuses had parked beside the road. Tonight they must have delivered the men and moved off to some place less conspicuous. Give Jack Gull some credit. He’d got this right.

Even so, the sniper would be expecting a trap.

Increasingly, the crutch was striking chunks of stone half-buried in the ground, an indication that he was close to the site of the old quarry.

He stopped.

From the thicket to his right came the snap of a twig, a sharp, strong sound that could only have been made by foot pressure.

He flung himself face down and lay still. He was on open ground in clear moonlight, an easy target. Go on, you bastard. Pull the trigger and let me have it. You can kill me, but the others will know you’re here.

Another sound came from the same bush, the crunch of dead leaves, too forceful to have been caused by the wind.

Only fifteen to twenty yards off.

His heart pounded his ribs.

He pictured the sniper taking aim, prone, propped on elbows to secure the gun. Professional pride dictated that the bullet should enter the temple just above the ear. A clean kill.

I can deny you that, matey. He brought up his arm and wrapped it around his head. The shot would still penetrate his arm and smash into his skull, but clean it would not be.