Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

But it didn’t end there. His attacker forced him further over to his right and groped for the other arm. Diamond at first trapped it under his own body. When that didn’t succeed, he tried stretching it beyond reach.

No use. A longer arm than his own found his wrist and tugged it inwards and against his back.

Something odd happened then. Something very odd indeed. He was handcuffed.

First he felt the enclosing steel as his right wrist was clamped. Then the left was pulled across and applied to the second cuff. These were rigid cuffs, the sort the police themselves use, simple to operate with one hand.

Hot breath gusted into his right ear and a voice started speaking familiar words. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

He’d been arrested.

‘On your feet.’

‘You’re joking, of course,’ Diamond said, still face down on the gravel heap.

‘That’s an order. Do it now.’

‘What do you think this walking stick is for?’

A moment for thought. ‘Sit up, then,’ his attacker said. ‘You can do that.’

Manacled as he was, he rolled over and succeeded in raising his back from the stones. He had difficulty seeing in this poor light. The voice had sounded strangely familiar, though, and the height of the standing figure silhouetted against the night sky confirmed the galling truth. ‘Oh, Christ almighty!’

DI Polehampton of the serial crimes unit was no less appalled. ‘Stone the crows, I thought you were the sniper.’

‘You thought wrong. Get me out of these cuffs, you wally.’

Polehampton was in full body armour, black coveralls with pockets galore. Diamond’s confidence of an early release faded when he saw the man starting to frisk himself.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the key.’

‘It’s here somewhere.’ He kept locating new pockets and patting them. ‘What were you doing lying there in your ordinary clothes?’

‘I’m CID. That’s what I wear, plain clothes.’

‘I was expecting a man in combat gear. I was told one of the Wiltshire firearms team was here, not you.’

‘Sergeant Gillibrand. He’s on a comfort break.’

‘Look, I’m frightfully sorry.’

‘Save it, man. Just find the key and unlock the cuffs.’

Polehampton was round to his thigh pockets now in a process that was getting frantic, ripping Velcro apart with sounds that must have carried all the way to Avoncliff station. ‘The view I had of you, lying face down, I just couldn’t take a chance. I know the key is on me somewhere.’

‘It had better be.’

‘I hope I didn’t hurt you.’

‘Apart from causing facial scars that could be permanent, pushing my head against the gravel and destroying my sciatic nerve with some item of equipment you’re wearing on your belt, you didn’t trouble me in the least. Have you tried the back pockets?’

More ripping sounds ensued.

‘Got it.’

‘Thank God for that.’

Polehampton knelt behind Diamond and got to work on the handcuffs. ‘I didn’t know you were here. I thought Superintendent Gull was in charge.’

‘He was until an hour ago. What’s holding you up? My wrists are giving hell.’

‘Done.’

The cuffs snapped open. Diamond massaged his chafed flesh.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d better move on,’ Polehampton said. ‘There’s more liaising to be done.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

The irony was lost on Polehampton. ‘Are you able to move?’

‘No thanks to you.’

Left alone, Diamond checked for blood where his face had been forced against the gravel. To his surprise there didn’t seem to be any. His wife Steph had once told him he had a tendency to over-dramatise injuries and ailments. He’d denied this, of course, while admitting to himself that there was a germ of truth there. Now he could almost see her smiling at this latest non-injury. A comforting thought. He massaged his bad leg. Pins and needles had set in. As the blood flow returned he expected the steady ache to come back, but it didn’t. Was it possible that the wrestling match had effected a cure?

The gravel crunched again and Sergeant Gillibrand reappeared.

‘I thought I heard sounds,’ he said.

‘More wildlife,’ Diamond said.

In Walcot Street, Ingeborg and Paul Gilbert had reached the Bell, one of Bath’s oldest pubs at some two hundred and fifty years, renowned for real ale and live music, and close to the point where Harry Tasker had been shot. They had spoken to a few more of Bath’s night owls along the way without adding anything to the dossier on their dead colleague.

‘Going in?’ Gilbert said.

‘What’s on?’ Inbeborg asked.

‘Getting choosy, are we?’

‘Jerk. Is it Anderson’s kind of music is what I’m asking. It doesn’t sound like hip-hop to me.’

‘I’m starting to think Anderson is a red herring. And I need a drink.’

‘We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, DC Gilbert.’

‘It’s on me.’

Her eyes widened.

The music was definitely more folksy-rootsy than hip-hop and any tall black guy should have been obvious and was not, but Paul Gilbert was able to pick his pint of real ale from an abundant selection. The Bell’s large interior had a well-used feel to it. A whiff of malt, a live band playing, a congenial atmosphere. The somewhat hippy clientele averaged fifteen years older than the crowd at the Porter.

Ingeborg had a spritzer and a packet of crisps. They worked their way through the crush to a games room at the back with table football and darts, far enough from the music to make conversation possible.

‘We won’t have much to report to the guv’nor,’ Gilbert said.

‘He can’t say we didn’t try.’

‘Did we try enough?’

She said with a sharp note of disfavour, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Let’s be honest, Inge. Your heart isn’t in it, and neither is mine.’

She was silent for a while, then shed any pretence at irritation. ‘True. I’ve never felt like this about a case before. I want the sniper off the streets, of course I do. I guess I want it on my terms, without rubbishing a dead colleague.’

‘Leaving everyone’s reputation okay?’

‘Except the sniper’s.’

‘Him? He’s scum. Goes without saying.’

‘Am I asking too much?’ she said. ‘When Harry was murdered, I was shocked, of course, same as everyone. I looked at the papers next day, and thought there’s something different here, the way it’s being reported. For once the Old Bill are getting a good press. Outraged headlines that someone should kill a policeman. None of the flak we’ve got used to about clear-up rates and never being on the spot when you’re needed and turning a blind eye to rampaging kids. They want us to catch this creep before he shoots another cop. But here at the coalface it doesn’t feel like that. First the boss talks about our own people coming under suspicion and then he’s suggesting Harry was bent. How’s that going to play with the public if it ever gets out?’

‘If it’s true,’ Gilbert said. ‘Personally, I don’t see it.’

‘The guv’nor does, and he’s no mug.’

‘Do you think he knows something he isn’t telling us?’

She shook her head. ‘He plays it straight. There’d be no point in keeping back information. But he’s troubled. I can read him.’

‘I wish I could.’ He stared into the foam still settling in his glass. ‘Was it his wife being murdered that turned him so grouchy? It couldn’t have helped.’

‘The truth is, he was like it before. He takes it personally when a case is difficult and he doesn’t know how much it shows. When I was a crime reporter, I used to watch him do press conferences. The press boys baited him for sport. They liked to see him lose his rag. A big laugh, especially as they didn’t have to work with him. There was a DI called Julie Hargreaves who was brilliant at deflecting questions. He relied on her a lot and I think she put up with a lot. Even she got to the end of her tether and put in for a transfer. He was gobsmacked.’