Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

‘You’ve been following what’s happening, I expect.’

‘All the way. No joy yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Jack Gull came on air from his chosen position at the aqueduct. No one had been sighted there. ‘Looks like he headed your way.’

‘We can hope.’

‘If it’s a no show, you owe me, Diamond.’ Still negative and still quick to blame.

Three minutes went by.

The static alerted him again. ‘Sierra Three at Barton Bridge, repeat, Barton Bridge. We have a sighting.’

Barton Bridge, another of Bradford’s ancient structures, seven hundred years old, spanned the Avon only a few hundred yards from where Diamond was.

Pulses raced.

‘Description?’

‘Average height and build, baseball cap, holding something, could be the gun, moving at a fast step southeast towards the barn.’

He pressed the radio close to his mouth and spoke softly. ‘Stand by, everyone. Hold your fire and let him come. We’ll challenge him near the barn. I repeat: hold your fire.’ He’d posted enough armed men in the area to handle this. As the suspect approached the building he’d find it acted as a barrier closing off one of his escape routes and the police would surround him.

With cruel timing, a large cloud scudded across the moon and drastically reduced the light. The marksmen had night-vision glasses, Diamond told himself. This shouldn’t hamper them too much. Personally he was finding it difficult to make anything out. But if his sight was impaired, then so was the suspect’s. Use the dark to your advantage, he told himself. Maximise your opportunity. You have the chance to get closer in reasonable safety.

He started limping across the turf towards the barn. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, not with the exercise, but the stress. Could he rely on those young firearms officers to act responsibly?

A series of sharp sounds close at hand pulled him up sharply.

‘Oscar One to Bravo. Over.’

Oscar One. Finally.

He tucked the crutch under his arm and grabbed the radio. ‘I hear you. Where are you?’

‘I lost him, sir. I’m sorry.’

‘How? What do you mean?’

‘He gave me the slip near the swing-bridge. I reckon he legged it over the fields. I followed the trail into some kind of park, thinking he must have gone that way.’

Some kind of park? ‘It’s okay, Oscar One, you did all right. We have a sighting of him.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. It’s gone dark. I must be quite close to the river, I think. I can hear it on my left.’

‘If you’re that close, you’re not far from where we are.’

‘I can just see some buildings up ahead.’

A chill crept over Diamond’s flesh. ‘Are you wearing a baseball cap?’

‘My police issue cap.’

‘Are you carrying anything?’

‘Only my PR24, sir, for protection.’

‘Your what?’

‘My baton.’

He pictured the standard side-handle baton: two feet long, black, metal, easily mistaken for a firearm in this poor light.

‘Stop where you are, Oscar One. Don’t take another step. Drop the baton and stand still.’

‘Sir, I think he’s away out of it.’

‘Do as I say.’

If he was right, Oscar One was the man at Barton Bridge, seconds away from being ambushed by armed police.

Fumbling with the radio controls, Diamond managed to get out a general message that the sighting at Barton Bridge was now believed to be of a police officer. On no account was anyone to fire a shot. He insisted on getting responses from each of the firearms teams.

In addition he got one from Jack Gull. ‘Fuck you, Diamond, what are you playing at? Has the killer got clean away again?’

Oscar One was not the rookie constable Diamond had pictured. With hair turning silver at the sides, he was one of the unsung majority who see out their time without moving up the ranks. No discredit in that. In Diamond’s experience the promotion system was designed to reward conformity rather than imagination and risk-taking. You found more likeable blokes, more kindred spirits, among beat officers than in senior positions.

His name was Henry Shilling and he wasn’t used to finding himself in conversation with someone of superintendent rank.

‘Not your fault, but we almost gunned you down.’ Diamond told him. ‘You could have been front page news. The papers like a friendly fire story.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What for?’

‘Saving my life.’

‘Self-interest. Sensitive ears. I can’t stand gunfire.’

PC Shilling frowned and blinked. He wasn’t on the Diamond wave-length yet.

The big man was thinking the sensitive ears quip wasn’t bad for four-thirty in the morning. He went on more straightforwardly, ‘But I’m glad you finally used your radio. That’s what saved you. Saved my career, come to that, so I owe you. Tell me something.’ He paused, not wanting to make this sound like a rebuke. ‘Why didn’t you get in touch before?’

‘Two reasons, sir.’

Diamond raised his palms. ‘No one “sirs” me. “Guv,” if you must. What are your two reasons?’

‘At the start I didn’t want him to overhear me.’

‘You got as close as that?’

‘You told me to go in pursuit and I did. Reason two: towards the end I lost him, so I couldn’t report his position. I was hoping I’d catch up again.’

‘And be able to report something positive?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Understandable.’ It was easy to grasp what had run through PC Shilling’s mind while he was legging it along the towpath in pursuit. Diamond would have felt the same, torn between confessing to failure and trying to reverse it. ‘But you’re still the main player.’

‘How come?’

‘The only sighting of this killer. If you don’t hold the ace of trumps I don’t know who does. What can you tell me about him?’

A troubled look surfaced on PC Shilling’s features. ‘I didn’t see much.’

‘Even when you were so close it wasn’t safe to use the radio?’

‘The light wasn’t good.’

‘Think back. Get him in your mind’s eye again. What’s he wearing?’ There was a touch of the hypnotist in Diamond’s manner, but it was only a surface effect. He couldn’t get anyone to relax if he tried.

‘Like I told you. Baseball cap and dark clothes.’

‘Jacket or shirt?’

‘Tight-fitting jacket. He’s slim. Moves like a fit man. I think he was in jeans and trainers. And he carried the gun.’

‘Ah, the gun. What type?’

‘Short-barrelled, chunky, like our own lads use, and with extra bits.’

‘Extra bits such as?’

‘I don’t know much about firearms, guv.’

‘I gathered that. You know what a telescopic sight is?’

‘There was one of them, yes. Some kind of folding stand under the barrel. And a holder for the bullets.’

‘A box magazine. How did he carry the gun?’

‘In his right hand, the barrel towards the ground. But he stopped once and drew it to his chest and gripped it with both hands. He turned round. I think he heard me kick a stone.’

‘Scary.’

‘Very.’

‘You took evasive action?’

A grin. ‘Flat on my stomach in the long grass. He didn’t see me, I think.’

‘You wouldn’t be telling the tale if he had. Where did this happen?’

‘About a hundred yards after we crossed the swing bridge.’

‘We’ll take a look in daylight. We should be able to find where you were lying. Let’s get back to him. What height would you say?’

‘About the same as me. I’m five nine.’

‘Anything memorable about the way he moves?’

‘A bit of a stoop, but that could be the weight of the weapon. It looked heavy to me.’