Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

‘You do already, don’t you?’

‘Useful stuff. I don’t bother reading blogs. People have been blogging about the sniper, ninety-nine per cent rubbish, of course, but she reckons she’s seen one that looks as if it’s being posted by someone local who’s worried about her friend’s partner, who sounds like a nutcase, and possibly dangerous. Might be worth a look.’

‘You reckon?’

‘She’s given me the link.’

‘Cool. Do they use their real name?’

‘Let’s find out if it’s any use first. I’ll take a look tomorrow — if I haven’t resigned by then.’

Deep in the Limpley Stoke valley, Peter Diamond had joined the stake-out. Jack Gull had stayed on watch at Avoncliff for five hours without any result and had phoned Bath Central and demanded some relief. Diamond had asked why DI Polehampton couldn’t take over, and Gull had muttered something about wanting a safe pair of hands, before adding quickly that Polehampton was making an important contribution liaising with the Wiltshire police. Diamond had said his hands might be safe, but he couldn’t answer for his feet. Gull had said the firearms team would take care of any action. They simply needed someone to shout, ‘Go, go, go!’ when the moment came. Privately Diamond thought he’d shout it anyway if the sniper hadn’t shown up by midnight.

He didn’t fancy another night in the open, but he was a realist. This was the place to be. It would be dereliction of duty to ignore the forensic evidence linking the Avoncliff squatter to the murder of Ossy Hart in Wells. The matching of shoe prints from both locations made this stakeout central to the investigation.

The novelty of trying out night-vision binoculars soon lost its appeal.

He was flat on his stomach on a mound of gravel. The stone chippings had obviously been dumped there by the railway company for use as ballast in laying sleepers and maintaining the track. The line from Chippenham to Westbury ran straight through the valley and was the backdrop to his view of the pillbox, in front of the embankment. Heaped together, the gravel was moderately high and formed a convenient lookout post about fifty yards off. The mound must have been there some years. Enough grass and weed had seeded itself between the stones to provide effective cover.

Ideal, he thought, except it was bloody uncomfortable.

‘This is worse than a bed of nails,’ he complained to the sergeant from the firearms unit who was with him. ‘It’s all right for you in all that bullet-proof gear. I’m not dressed for this.’

Not a syllable of response. In truth there wasn’t much the sergeant could say by way of sympathy. If Diamond had thought about protection, he’d have called at Manvers Street and collected the kit. Because he didn’t see himself as an action man and had no intention of becoming one, he’d driven straight here and was still in his day clothes. He’d made a point — and now he was suffering from a thousand points he hadn’t bargained for.

‘What time did you arrive?’ he asked the sergeant.

A finger to the lips. Then, after the point was made, six fingers raised.

It was already after eleven. Diamond modulated his voice. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Andy Gillibrand, sir.’

‘Guv will do. And are you from my lot, or Wilts?’

‘Wilts, guv.’

‘Aren’t you getting cramped by now? I’m sure I would.’

The answer came in a whisper. ‘We move about from time to time. I’ve swapped positions with one of the lads up at the railway station.’

‘They’ll get the first sight of him up there and radio us, will they? Radio communications open at all times?’

‘That’s the theory — if he comes from that direction.’

‘If he comes at all.’

Sergeant Gillibrand plucked at his ear. ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

‘If he has any suspicion we’re here, he’ll stay away. He’s rather good at giving us the slip.’

‘We’ve got to assume he’ll come.’

‘And how many are we?’

‘Right now? With you, thirteen.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘Should be, if we play it right. We’re well spread out.’

Silence resumed. Silence and suffering. No way could he relax on this heap of gravel. The ache in his leg had been overtaken by what felt like piranha bites all over his flesh. Who knows, he told himself, trying to be positive, it may work like acupuncture and cure me altogether. Put your mind on other things, Diamond. Get a grip on what’s been happening.

Plenty had.

In the scramble that had been his day, this was his first chance to get things in perspective. A mass of information had come to light since this morning when he’d got up early to drive to Wells. The challenge was to find how much of it was germane to the investigation. Certainly visiting the scene of the first shooting had been worthwhile. If he’d harboured any doubts that the sniper had planned the shootings to the last detail, they’d been dispelled. That tree house with the view across the street and the easy escape route was a brilliant location.

The first real surprise of the day had been Ossy Hart’s widow. Juliet Hart had defied expectation with her robust way of coping with her bereavement. She was resolute in her cheerfulness. True, she’d had almost three months to come to terms with the shock. At first he’d thought her out of order, then impressive, then a little weird. He wondered how brittle her bravery was. She’d made up her mind that there had been no personal intent in the murder of Ossy. That telling statement — “It was the uniform, wasn’t it? — had been flung at him like a challenge. How could he dare suggest that the killing was anything other than random? He’d told her about the “You’re next” note and ducked out of saying any more. If he’d floated his theory about the sniper targeting certain individuals starting with her husband, she would very likely have snapped.

And yet ironically it was Juliet Hart who had started him on the promising new line of enquiry. He might have dismissed the hobby horse connection as hokum were it not for the big bucks said to have been dangled by the American film man. This wasn’t some documentary for television that was being proposed. It was a Hollywood action movie. He could remember some of the set piece chases through carnivals in the Bond films. Everyone knew the millions that went into modern feature films. But was the money real, or just talk? A film in development, or some kind of confidence trick?

He’d speculated on a link with the second victim, the folklore specialist, PC Richmond, and within hours it had been confirmed.

Ingeborg and her surfing of the web had added substance: the evidence that Stan Richmond had made a study of the Minehead hobby horse celebration. There was a strong chance he would have been approached by the same film man and offered money as a consultant.

Two murdered police officers, each with a strong link to the same ritual. But nothing so far tied in with Harry Tasker. His widow Emma had dismissed any connection out of hand. Different as she was from the eerily cheerful Juliet Hart, this lady’s theory of the shooting amounted to the same: ‘Some evil bastard hates the police and wants to kill as many as he can.’ She’d refused to believe that the ‘You’re Next’ note meant Harry was a marked man.

A movement from the sergeant, hands gripping the gun and taking aim, jerked Diamond back to the gravel heap.

‘What is it?’

He could have saved his breath.

Better not distract the guy, he thought.

By degrees, Sergeant Gillibrand relaxed enough to reply. ‘Wildlife,’ he muttered finally.

‘Plenty of badgers hereabouts,’ Diamond said from personal knowledge.

‘That was a small deer.’ The sergeant rested the gun on its side, black and chunky, not much over two feet in length.