Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

He was handcuffed and dressed in the white overall provided for suspects whose clothes have been taken away for examination. Of course the stupid-looking outfit can also puncture the self-esteem of a cocky criminal. Pale, thin-faced and unshaven, with deep-set, staring brown eyes, this one didn’t appear to care. He looked about twenty-five, but days on the run can put years on a man. He could have been as young as eighteen. Red-raw hands, the lines ingrained with dirt, presumably from living rough. Fingernails chewed to the quick.

‘Staying silent isn’t going to help you,’ Diamond told him in a reasonable tone. ‘The evidence we have is overwhelming. Your shoeprints match those found at the scene at Wells where PC Hart was killed. We’ve recovered the murder weapon from the river. There’s no chance you’ll walk out of here.’

He got no reaction except the steady, contemptuous stare.

‘So I’ll tell you what happens next. After twenty-four hours we get an extension from a senior officer. That’s a mere formality. I could issue it myself. After thirty-six, we apply to a magistrate for a warrant of further detention. Another thirty-six. Unless we charge you before that.’

The prisoner seemed indifferent to what was being said. All Diamond was getting from him was hostility. Understandable.

‘In case you don’t recognize me,’ Diamond went on, ‘I’m the one who caught up with you last night. You may think it was rough, being pressed like a piece of ironing under a man my size for twenty minutes or whatever it was. What you may not realise is that I’m also the unfortunate who was standing in your way when you revved up your motorbike and rode out of Becky Addy Wood. Knocked me sideways, put me in casualty. That’s why I was forced to use a walking stick, the same stick I felled you with last night. So there was a little bit of justice in the end.’

Not a glimmer of comprehension. For appreciation, Diamond had to turn to Halliwell. This was all depressingly one-sided.

‘The bike and the helmet were hooked out of the river today. I’m assuming he stole them from somewhere.’

Halliwell gave a nod. Even he was stuck for a comment.

Back to the suspect. ‘What shall we call you?’ Diamond tried. ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name, if you’re coy about that. John? Bill? Andy? Fancy any of those? We’re Keith and Peter, so it had better not be one of our names. I see you as a Bill. William. Wasn’t there someone called William the Silent?’

‘I’ve heard of that,’ Halliwell said, to show support.

‘And there was William Tell,’ Diamond added. ‘Definitely not the name for you. Tell — geddit?’

Some eye contact would have helped. The man had stopped staring and was cultivating indifference, looking at a spot on the table midway between them. He’d had time to practise this act.

Diamond made yet another start, low-key this time, touching on matters that might get through and elicit a response as basic as the flicker of an eye or a twitch of the lips. Find a telling point and work on it. ‘There’s a lot you can tell us when you decide to speak, as you will, sooner or later. What is it about the police that you hate? Some bad experience in the past? You don’t seem to have form. Your fingerprints are new to the system. They’re checking the faces in criminal records, just in case, but it would appear you’re a first offender. So what possessed you? These officers you shot couldn’t have been known to you. They died because they happened to walk by when you were lying in wait with your G36 rifle. Don’t you think their people — their loved ones — are entitled to know why?’

Evidently not.

‘Where the policemen fell, members of the public leave flowers, notes, soft toys even. One word gets written in large letters again and again, in Wells, in Radstock and here in Bath. “WHY?”.’ He paused, allowing it to sink in. ‘The shootings happened. That’s fact. Can’t alter it now. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation? I don’t get the impression you’re mad. You thought this through stage by stage, choosing your position, your timing, your escape. If the killings were meant to be some kind of gesture, a protest against the way this country is policed, or whatever, it’s futile unless you explain the thinking behind it.’

The prisoner swayed back a fraction, barely enough to be noticed, and then resumed the hunched position. For Diamond, the movement was encouragement. ‘Am I making myself clear? The thing is, you haven’t made yourself clear at all.’ He waited again, watching for a response and getting none. He was forced to resume. ‘Your actions are going to be misinterpreted. Did you know that? I bet it’s happening on the internet as I speak, extremist groups claiming you as one of their own, every bunch of nutters intent on undermining the system. You did the shooting and they take the credit. That’s how it works these days.’ He stopped, sensing how strident he was sounding.

He glanced at Keith Halliwell. He, too, was starting to look as if he’d stopped listening.

This wasn’t working.

‘Things get out of proportion if you don’t make yourself clear. I’ll give you an example from my own experience. When PC Tasker was shot in Walcot Street in the small hours of Sunday morning my first reaction like everyone else’s was that this was your work. The Somerset Sniper claims another victim. It was just like the shootings in Wells and Radstock, well planned, but random. The victim had to be a cop, yes, but which cop didn’t matter. Easy to pick one off at night walking his beat. Everyone said the identity of the victim was immaterial to you as long as he was a bobby in uniform.’

He waited, still hopeful of a nod or a shake of the head. Getting nothing, he resumed. ‘Being an obstinate sod as I am, I wanted to test this theory. Was it really as simple as that? I made enquiries about the officers killed in Wells and Radstock. Went down to Wells and talked to PC Hart’s widow and one of my team did some research in Radstock. A strange connection emerged. Ossy Hart came originally from Minehead and used to take the leading role in a street event they have there each midsummer. Centuries old, it is. He’d be dressed as a hobby horse and parade the streets collecting for charity. He was the best horse anyone could remember. Not a pantomime horse. More of a token horse decked out with ostrich feathers and ribbons. Of course it had to stop when he joined the police and got posted to Wells. But there was talk of the event being filmed for some kind of action scene in a Hollywood movie. Some film man came to see him shortly before he was killed offering big bucks if he would reprise the role. Now here’s the link. The officer you shot in Radstock, PC Richmond, had an interest in old customs and was one of the leading experts. He wrote an internet article about the Minehead hobby horse, and it’s not impossible he was seen and hired by the same film company who were offering to make Ossy Hart a rich man. Now can you see why I started to get interested? There was a common interest and the chance of money, silly money.’ He paused again.

The prisoner looked mentally a million miles away from the Minehead hobby horse. Halliwell had a glazed look, too.

Undaunted, Diamond started again. Although this was beginning to sound increasingly like a confession, it was crystallizing his own thoughts. Set out like this, the process sounded logical. ‘After finding this out, I went to see the widow of the third victim, PC Tasker, just to find out if her late husband had ever had anything to do with the hobby horse ritual. He hadn’t. Quite a blow, that. I was forced to accept that coincidences happen and they’re no more than that. In short, I was up the proverbial gum tree. I’d wasted precious time on a theory that didn’t hold water. The killings had to have been random after all. But I did learn something from Emma Tasker that I still can’t explain. Among Harry Tasker’s personal items returned to her after the shooting was a scrap of paper with the words “You’re next”. It threw me into confusion again. Here was another challenge to the theory of random killings. It seemed someone had been out to get him and wanted him to know. Taunting him. What else could it mean?’ He let the question linger for a moment and then put his hand forward and touched the prisoner on the arm.