Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

‘You said it, lady.’

‘At the same time, being a man of some influence in the community, you must have taken an interest. Were there any juveniles giving Harry a hard time?’

Anderson shook his head.

‘Looking at it another way,’ she said. ‘Was Harry giving any of the kids a hard time?’

He clearly enjoyed that. His gold teeth glinted in the street lighting.

‘What exactly was going on?’ Ingeborg pressed him. This was all against her resolve to stay loyal to a brother officer, but there was something in Anderson’s smile. The truth had to come out if it was buried. ‘Some kind of scam?’

‘Your word, lady, not mine,’ Anderson said.

‘Was Harry threatening the teenagers?’

‘Whatever he did, it worked.’

‘Until Saturday, when he was shot. I need to know more, Anderson. We’re investigating murder, not some dodgy arrangement with tearaway kids.’

‘I can’t tell you who topped him, or why.’

‘You’d better tell me about the scam.’

‘It was small beer. Harry knew what the kids were up to, who was dealing, who was stealing. He turned a blind eye mostly and they paid him when he chose to look and caught them off-base.’

‘Paid him cash?’

‘Cash and kind. Not many kids have cash in hand.’

She felt an uprush of revulsion. ‘What are you hinting at, Anderson? Give it to me straight.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, sister. I mean a stash of the stuff they were dealing in. His way of dealing with juveniles was confiscation.’ He intoned every syllable of the last word like a line of rap. ‘No harm in that.’ He laughed. ‘Confiscation.’

Ingeborg said in Harry’s defence, ‘You couldn’t be more right. There’s nothing wrong in that. His duty was to take possession.’

‘Sure, and they wouldn’t hear any more until the next time they were caught.’

That, certainly, was all against the rules. ‘Are we talking drugs?’

‘And any junk they lifted from the tourists. Bath is one big sweetshop and the sweets are mostly mobiles, cameras and nice designer bags.’

‘He would confiscate these things — is that what you’re saying?’

‘Haven’t I made that clear already?’

‘It doesn’t sound enough to justify murder.’

‘Probably not.’

She had a strong sense that Anderson knew more and might be persuaded to reveal something in a different league from stolen phones. ‘Is it possible Harry got into something major, something that put his life at risk?’

Anderson walked on for some seconds as if pondering the question. More likely, Ingeborg suspected, he was weighing the risk of opening up to the police. In the circles he moved in, there were definite no-nos and informing was high on the scale. Yet he seemed to be tempted.

‘There is one kid, a rich kid,’ he said finally. ‘Likes to think he should have respect. What is it they say? — a rich man’s joke is always funny. Wears all the latest gear, rides a five grand Japanese bike. What he’s got is folding stuff, any amount. He trades in larger items. Don’t know if you’d call them major.’

‘What items?’

He laughed. ‘How would I know? He doesn’t want money my black hands have touched.’

‘Is he a racist, then?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You say he wants respect,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Doesn’t he get it?’

‘A good name is better than wealth. Isn’t that the truth?’

Ingeborg was getting impatient with the axioms. ‘What’s the link with Harry Tasker?’

‘I heard that Harry would make a point of speaking to this youth. If the kid wasn’t around, Harry would ask where to find him.’

‘It sounds as if Harry had something on him.’

‘Could be. If so, he was playing with fire.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the kid’s daddy is Soldier Nuttall.’

Cyril ‘Soldier’ Nuttall was notorious in Bath. Three years ago, dissatisfied with right wing politics, even its extreme forms, he had started a group known as Fight for Britain. Ostensibly a young men’s fitness association linked with patriotism, it had militaristic overtones that appealed to thuggish elements up and down the country and alarmed people who saw it as a burgeoning fascist movement. Boot camps, drill, martial arts, target practice and the shooting of game were compulsory elements and so were cropped heads, tattoos and combat gear. But the FFB was cleverly led. Whenever its innate purpose was challenged, Nuttall pointed out that Britain was a free country and all the activities were legal and practised by some of the most respected people in the land. The fact that the membership was almost exclusively made up of young white males was said to be down to the indigenous thirst for adventure, fitness and companionship. Soldier Nuttall insisted that his nickname went back many years before the FFB was formed and in no way was he leading a private army. He wore the combat clothes and the boots and the tattoos with pride in Britain and its long tradition of self-improvement and ‘get up and go’.

All of this was founded on his personal fortune. He was no fool financially. His millions and his mansion on Claverton Down had been acquired from astute property development. Cut-throat dealings had bought him a luxurious lifestyle and allowed him to promote his organisation and hire the best lawyers. Plenty of complaints had been levelled against him, but no charge had ever stuck.

Ingeborg didn’t need to ask why Anderson was willing to stretch a point and inform on Soldier Nuttall’s son. ‘What’s the boy’s name?’

‘Royston.’

‘From what you’re saying, Royston is a wheeler-dealer like his father.’

‘Except he was born into money,’ Anderson said. ‘He never had to earn it.’

‘And you say he rides a motorcycle?’ She was thinking of the incident in Becky Addy Wood that had left Diamond limping.

‘Sure.’

‘Has he been around Walcot lately?’

‘On and off.’

‘You can be more precise than that. Have you seen him tonight?’

‘Not tonight. Yesterday.’

They’d walked as far as the point where Harry had been shot. It was unmarked now, every trace of blood removed. As if by mutual consent, they stopped under the street light, but short of the place where the body had lain. Ingeborg glanced up at the garden where the shooting had come from, above the wall on the opposite side, as if staring at it might reveal the killer’s identity.

‘Does Royston live at home?’

‘That’s my understanding.’

‘Is his father ever seen in Walcot?’

He vibrated his lips. ‘Not the Soldier. Not his scene.’

They parted there. Anderson turned and started the walk back to his chauffeur-driven car and the two police officers moved on, towards the police station. Ingeborg had mixed feelings. The information on Royston Nuttall could be the breakthrough and she looked forward to telling Diamond their mission had brought a result. But she wished to God it didn’t muddy Harry Tasker’s reputation.

‘I’m moving.’

An executive statement. The mound of gravel had become increasingly uncomfortable. In fact it was just about insufferable for a man dressed normally as Diamond was, without padding. He had just reminded himself that in Gull’s absence he was nominally the supremo here, in charge of the stakeout at the pillbox, even though the tactical decisions would be taken by the young man of inspector rank leading the firearms team.

‘I’m moving,’ he repeated to Sergeant Gillibrand beside him. ‘Need to check some of the other positions.’

There was no objection from Gillibrand. The sergeant said nothing at all. The two men hadn’t exactly bonded.

‘Use your radio to tell the other units I’m doing the rounds. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m the sniper.’