Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

‘It’s got the feel of something much more serious.’

‘Get in touch with the blogger, then.’

‘I wish we could. She’s taken good care she can’t be traced. I guess she feels freer to write whatever she likes.’

‘Can’t be traced? I don’t follow you. We’ve got hackers who can break into anything.’

‘Not this. It’s a site that uses an elaborate relay system, bouncing anything that’s posted on it from point to point until no one can get back to the source. Intelligence agencies use it to disseminate their own information, but they’ve never succeeded in cracking it.’

He gave a nod of approval. ‘In a way it’s heartening to hear there’s something computers can’t do — until you realise it’s been set up by a bloody computer.’

‘People are involved as well. Do you want to look at it when we get back?’

‘I’d better. We can’t neglect anything.’ His head turned. ‘Hey, did you notice that — an old-fashioned sweetshop with big glass jars in the window?’ He’d spotted the display in Widcombe Parade, along Claverton Street, in a row of shops with traditional fronts that supposedly imparted a ‘village’ feel to them.

After a pause, Ingeborg said, ‘You don’t do much shopping, do you, guv?’

‘Why?’

‘They’re opening everywhere, old sweetshops, every town on the tourist map, anyway. Don’t ask me why. I don’t bother with them.’

‘Sweet enough?’

She didn’t say so, but she found the comment about as cringe-making as the outfit he was wearing.

Widcombe Hill morphs into Claverton Down Road a mile out of the city and then loops around the contour and doubles back. At almost the farthest point out, Ingeborg swung the little car into a space in front of a set of closed iron gates.

‘This is it.’

A straight drive between lawns led to a large three-storey building. Block-like in shape, the house had an institutional look, rows of windows as regular as a prison. But it was heavily clad in some climbing plant like wisteria that had established such a good hold that it reached to the eaves.

‘Wouldn’t be my choice,’ Diamond said.

She shrugged. ‘Up here, the air’s easier to breathe than it is in Bath through most of the summer. Prime location and plenty of land. I bet you wouldn’t get much change out of ten million.’

‘Let’s see how we get in.’

A notice on the gatepost informed them: Callers strictly by appointment. Video surveillance in operation. High voltage protection. Guard dogs patrolling .

‘And a hundred thousand welcomes,’ Diamond said. He pressed the entryphone button and put his head close to the mesh. Nothing happened and the gates stayed shut.

‘Maybe you should say something into it,’ Ingeborg suggested.

‘Like: open up, it’s the Old Bill?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of: special call for Mr. Royston Nuttall with something to his advantage.’

‘You try, then. You’ve obviously got the patter and you’ll look better on the video.’

She tried and those assets made no difference.

Diamond inspected the perimeter wall. It was brick-built, all of eight feet high and topped with what looked like a triple electric cable strung along its length. He ruled out climbing. ‘The gates look as if they might open with a little persuasion.’ He gripped the left side and pushed. The base was anchored to a grooved arc in the ground, but there was some movement higher up. ‘I could squeeze through, at a pinch.’

From nowhere obvious, a black Dobermann flung itself at the gate, all teeth and snarling. Diamond withdrew his fingers just in time. ‘Not such a great idea.’

Ingeborg produced her mobile. ‘Shall we try phoning the house?’

‘I have a feeling they’re ex-directory, but no harm in trying.’

No joy.

‘If it wasn’t for the dog, we could get in,’ he said.

‘I know how to deal with the dog,’ Ingeborg said.

‘Shoot it?’

She told him her plan.

‘I’m willing to try,’ he said.

They got in the car and drove back to the shops at Widcombe Parade. In the traditional sweetshop they asked for aniseed balls and a strong tin to put them in. ‘It acts like catnip except it’s dogs who go for it,’ Ingeborg told him. ‘He’ll be far more interested in these than your fingers.’

Beside the river, the sergeant was looking at his watch. The search was taking longer than he’d estimated. He’d sent for reinforcements and now had two men underwater and they’d moved a short distance downstream. Closer to the pub, but not close enough for his liking. He’d call a halt soon.

He didn’t have long to wait. One head surfaced and then another.

They didn’t appear to have brought anything up. The searching of river bottoms can be unrewarding. Mud and reeds make it difficult.

‘No joy?’ he shouted, with joy of his own in mind.

‘It’s okay, we hit the jackpot this time,’ one of the constables said, ‘but we’re going to need lifting gear.’

‘For Christ’s sake — what is it?’

‘A bloody great motorbike.’

Diamond and Ingeborg returned up the hill and tried the conventional entryphone once again and still got no response. Ingeborg opened the tin and tipped out one of the aniseed balls just out of the Dobermann’s reach at the far end of the gate. The dog was there at once, muzzle through the bars, sniffing strongly. Ingeborg put down two more, taking care not to handle them. One rolled close enough for the dog to twist its head sideways and scoop up. The sweet was crunched in those powerful jaws. ‘That should improve his breath.’

‘Will it improve his behaviour?’ Diamond said.

‘Why not give it a go and see?’

Tentatively, he put his shoulder to the gate. The dog paid no attention, fully absorbed with the challenge of reaching the remaining aniseed balls. Diamond increased the pressure, forced a space and squeezed through. On the other side, with the Dobermann for company, he said, ‘Hurry up. I don’t fancy standing here for long.’

Ingeborg eased herself through and they walked at a quick rate up the tiled drive towards the house, leaving the dog to work on its tantalising problem.

‘It all seems strangely quiet,’ Ingeborg said. ‘The lawns are well mown. They must have staff.’

‘Part-time, I’d say. It’s low-maintenance, grass and trees. Not a single flowerbed.’

As they approached the front, Diamond pointed to more cameras. ‘Before we declare ourselves, let’s see what else there is.’ He’d spotted some outbuildings to the right of the main house. An open-sided barn contained two motor-mowers, a four-by-four, a red Porsche and a powerful-looking motorbike. Behind it were a woodshed and a couple of locked buildings that probably contained tools.

‘Would that be the bike that ran you down?’ Ingeborg asked.

‘It was all too sudden. I wouldn’t know.’

‘Might be worth getting a print of the tyres.’

‘What with?’

‘Later, then. Fancy a swim?’ Ingeborg said, moving on. Shimmering in the sunlight, tiled blue, green and gold, and enclosed by Romanesque columns, the pool looked more California than Claverton Down. It was at least thirty metres by twenty and deep enough to have a springboard. At the far end was a whirlpool and a building that probably housed a sauna.

‘An hour on one of those recliners with a beer would do me the most good,’ he said. ‘What’s over there — a games room?’ Behind the house and some distance away he had seen a long, low wooden building with shingle roofing. ‘No, it’s a firing range. Let’s go over.’

A private range fitted in with the ethos of Fight for Britain. And this one was on a military scale. The target lines on gently rising ground were set at what must have been four hundred metres and backed with sandbags. A higher set of butts was at about six hundred metres.