Peter Lovesey: Cop to Corpse

‘Police,’ he said, ‘about the murder.’

After a pause, she said, ‘Why didn’t you say so? Push the door.’

Trying to give the appearance of calm, he stepped inside. Sherry Meredith, exquisitely made up, was halfway along the passage holding a door open, a yoghurt pot in one hand, a teaspoon in the other. ‘You’ll have to be really quick. I’m due back at work in fifteen minutes and I can’t run in these heels.’

She showed him into the flat. Decorated in primary colours, blue and yellow, it had shelves with collections of pottery figures, rabbits along one wall, Disney characters and fairies another. ‘I’d invite you to sit down, but there really isn’t time,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in awful trouble if I’m late back.’

Diamond shrugged. ‘So we’ll get down to it. We talked before about what happened early Sunday morning. I need to know more about you and your background. I expect you have plenty of boyfriends.’

The false eyelashes did some rapid work. ‘As many as I want. But one at a time.’

‘Not going steady, then?’

‘It’s funny. I always start off thinking I am.’

‘Where do you meet them — nightclubs?’

‘Mostly, yes.’ The blue eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘It’s my job. Have you ever dated a policeman?’

She was open-mouthed. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m only twenty. Aren’t you a bit senior for me?’

He remembered how tricky it was to interview her. ‘I’m not talking about myself. This is an investigation. Would you answer the question, please.’

She appeared to decide he wasn’t, after all, chatting her up. ‘A policeman? I’m not sure.’

‘You must know.’

‘With some guys I never find out the jobs they have. We talk about other stuff — if we talk about anything at all. The bands we like, and that. Some of them like to get physical straight away. I’ve discovered it’s best to stay clear of the silent ones.’

‘There’s a lad called Royston,’ Diamond said. ‘Younger than you, but mature in looks. He’s often around the clubs. Ever met him?’

‘I don’t think so. Cute name. I’d remember it.’

‘How about Anderson, a black guy?’

‘Everyone’s heard of Anderson,’ she said. ‘He’s cool. But he’s never shown any interest in me. Why are you asking me about these guys?’

‘I need to know who has visited here.’

Her mouth formed a perfect O. ‘I don’t bring them home. If I spend the night with them it’s never here. I wouldn’t want that. I mean, they might ask to use my bathroom.’

‘It’s a case of his place, or his place?’

She giggled. ‘That sums it up.’

‘You’re telling me you haven’t entertained a man here in the past year?’

‘Only my Dad and he brings a blow-up bed.’

He believed her. He doubted if she had the ability to lie. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Sherry. What I need to know is who could have visited this house with a view to planning the murder of PC Tasker.’

‘Not Daddy,’ she said. ‘He’s a parish councillor.’

‘No, not him. Do you remember any other visitors?’

‘To me?’

‘To anyone in the house.’

‘They could be visiting upstairs, I guess. It’s a quiet house. The Murphys have friends in on Friday evenings. I think they play bridge. They’ve been coming for years. They’re all about eighty.’

‘And the man on the top floor?’

‘Mr. Willis with the ponytail? He’s younger and he has a lady caller I’ve met at the door a couple of times. Thick dark hair and too shy to smile. I know she has a key because she lets herself in at night sometimes. She’s really quiet, but some of the stairs creak, so I hear her. I don’t mind. It’s romantic. She’s gone before morning. I can’t believe she’d murder anyone.’

‘He must have other visitors.’

‘Well, I don’t see all the comings and goings. I’m at work most of the day.’

‘So is he. He’s a civil servant. Have you ever seen him carrying a gun?’

‘Lordy, no.’

‘He belongs to a gun club.’

‘Never. Who would have thought it?’

‘His shooting friends could come calling.’

‘With guns?’

‘Probably not. Just socially.’

‘They’re very quiet if they do. I don’t hear anything.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go. I don’t want to lose my job.’

‘You can tell your supervisor you were being interviewed by the police.’

‘I don’t think I will.’

He allowed her to leave, but he remained in the building. After she’d closed the door behind her, he went upstairs and tried the Murphys’ door. They didn’t answer his knock. He went up another flight and found Willis wasn’t at home either.

But he had the opportunity of another look inside the basement flat, which was unlocked. Forensics had been through on the first day, so he didn’t expect to find a vital missing clue. Yet it was helpful to stroll through the rooms imagining how the killer could have passed several hours waiting to go into the garden and position the rifle for the shooting of Harry Tasker.

The garden, when he ventured outside, he found transformed. It had been levelled of those tall weeds, so he couldn’t easily picture the second phase of the crime, the attack on Ken Lockton. Somewhere here, or inside the flat, the carefully executed plan went wrong. The killer had almost been caught red-handed — or with the G36 in hand — when Lockton arrived with Sergeant Stillman. Then it was a case of lying low, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Lockton had dismissed Stillman and gone to the front door with him. The sniper had retrieved the rifle, skulked in the undergrowth until the chance came to make a dent in Lockton’s head with the stock. In the minutes that followed, nobody else came and the chance of escape was possible and ultimately simple.

Well-planned? There had been a plan, certainly, but luck must have played a part as well. He walked to the railings and looked down into Walcot Street, busy with the lunchtime crowd. Difficult to visualise the same street at 4 A.M. on Sunday morning with just a lone policeman almost at the end of his beat, passing under the lamplight.

Calculating and cold-blooded.

Diamond gave a soft sigh for the death of his brother officer and the way he’d been ambushed.

Back in the nick, the desk sergeant told him he was wanted in the interview suite.

‘Wanted who by?’

‘Mr. Gull. The interpreter arrived.’

He glanced at his watch. Not much time.

In interview room two, Gull greeted him with, ‘Been out to lunch? All I have time for is a fucking sandwich.’

‘Is that better than egg mayo?’

The joke was lost on Gull. ‘Pull up a chair.’

‘I may have to leave shortly. You can’t turn up late to a funeral.’

As usual, Gull was oblivious of Diamond’s needs. ‘This is Polly. She’s English.’

The reason he’d said so was because the young woman seated opposite was wearing the hijab. She looked young and confident.

‘Married to an Iranian living here,’ she explained.

Gull was impatient to begin. ‘I’ve filled her in on the background.’

The prisoner was brought in, his bored expression suggesting he was resigned to yet another unproductive session. But the hours in custody had improved his appearance. The red-raw look from living outdoors had toned down to a passably healthy glow and a few hours’ sleep had made his eyes brighter and less sunken. He looked younger, closer to twenty than twenty-five. The whole face lit up when he saw Polly and she said something to him in Persian.

Miracle of miracles, he spoke some words back.

‘He is Iranian,’ she said, ‘from Tehran.’