Peter Lovesey: Cop to Corpse

‘He says the combination of being alone and on the run, forced to break the law to get food, often being hungry and too afraid to get much sleep, affected his brain. He became paranoid.’

‘His word?’ Diamond asked Polly.

She reddened. ‘All of this is as accurate as I can make it. Paranoid is the expression he uses. I can ask him again to be certain.’

There was another short exchange before she said, ‘He confirms it. He was having nightmares about the police. He believed they were everywhere, watching him through spy cameras, setting traps, waiting to ambush him. It all built up in his brain and became unbearable, usually at night.’

‘This is breaking me up,’ Gull said with a yawn.

Farhadi’s explanation had moved on to a new level. ‘When the night terrors reached a particular point of crisis, he believed there would be no release until he used the gun to shoot one of his tormentors. This would be a way of striking back when everything was targeted at him. At first he thought it might be enough just to get a police officer in his sights without pulling the trigger. He would plan the shooting with great care and the sense of power might satisfy.’

The two detectives were compelled to wait while the process of translation was renewed.

‘He found a place in Wells that suited his plan, a tree-house. Two nights he took aim at a passing policeman and resisted firing a shot. But the impulse was overwhelming and on the third occasion he pulled the trigger.’

Gull slapped his hand several times on the table. He’d got his confession.

‘He got away and left Wells for good, but he needed to find another town where there were bins to search for food. He came to Radstock and for a short time he survived quite well. Then the terrors undermined him again. He felt compelled to use the gun a second time, and he did.’

‘For the hell of it, or what?’ Gull said, becoming angrier now that guilt was admitted.

Polly put this into some form of words for Farhadi and got a response.

‘He experienced the same build-up of extreme anxiety that he believed could only be assuaged by shooting another policeman. He wishes to make clear that he didn’t know either of his victims. They were uniformed police and the idea alone was driving him, inhabiting his brain.’

‘ Either of his victims?’ Gull repeated.

‘He told us about two,’ Polly said.

‘I heard what he told us, but we all know there are three. He shot Harry Tasker right here in Bath.’

In response to Polly’s enquiry, Farhadi shrugged and made another short statement.

Polly told Gull, ‘He denies this. He shot two policemen, two only, in Wells and Radstock, and nobody in this city. He was living in Becky Addy Wood and Avoncliff, not Bath. He came here because he was at college in Bradford on Avon and knows the locality.’

‘Bullshit,’ Gull said. ‘Listen, chum, I don’t serve in this dump. I’m from headquarters. You’ll get no sympathy from me this way. You’re a piece of crap whether you killed two of us, or three. Might as well fess up.’

But Farhadi was insistent when it was put to him again.

‘Fucking liar,’ Gull said.

Then Diamond said, ‘Actually, I believe him.’

Before leaving, Diamond instructed Keith Halliwell to take a small surveillance team to keep watch on Emma Tasker’s house while she was at the funeral.

‘Are you expecting a break-in?’ Halliwell asked, appalled. ‘What kind of sick bastard would plan something like that?’

‘Get with it, Keith,’ Diamond said as one who had heard and seen it all before. ‘That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Weddings and funerals. They know the house is empty at this time, so they take their opportunity. I don’t want it happening today. Take Ingeborg and Paul Gilbert and stay out of sight.’

‘If anyone tries it, we’ll come down hard, don’t worry.’

‘Hold on.’ The lofty tone changed rather suddenly. ‘I’m not suggesting violence. It could be just a neighbour pushing a sympathy card through the door.’

He was at Haycombe crematorium a few minutes before the hearse arrived. He stood with the three uniformed police who had served with Harry. They told Diamond that more would certainly have come, but Emma had insisted she wanted three only. About fifteen other people had gathered outside. They all looked grim-faced. He found himself thinking his suggestion of ‘Gone Fishing’ for Harry’s send-off may not have been such a good one.

‘You’re invited to the Hop Pole after the service,’ a man who seemed to be family told the police group. ‘It’s on the Upper Bristol Road, quite close to the house.’

‘We know it, thanks,’ Diamond said. In some ways, he thought, a couple of strong drinks before a funeral wouldn’t come amiss. This would be the first he’d attended since Steph had died. He’d felt numb that day. The main service had been in the Abbey, a large affair with almost four hundred in attendance. The close family had been driven here for the committal.

This would not be easy to get through.

The hearse glided through the cemetery towards the entrance followed by a red Fiat Panda. Everyone stood respectfully while the undertaker and his team attended to the coffin. Emma emerged from the Panda in a black trouser suit with a blue shirt. She’d been driven by Betty, the neighbour Diamond had met on his second visit to the house. Actually, Betty looked more like the principal mourner, in a long fur-trimmed coat, black tights and a hat large enough for everyone to shelter under if it rained. They followed the coffin into the chapel.

Apparently Harry had not been religious. The last rites were overseen by a dapper little man Diamond recognised and couldn’t place who admitted in his opening remarks that he’d never met ‘our much lamented friend,’ which sounded like a contradiction in terms. On hearing the voice Diamond remembered arresting the man the previous summer for selling fake Rolex watches outside the Roman Baths. It seemed he had a second career officiating at non-religious committals.

Someone had prepared a short account of Harry’s life that the watch salesman read out in a suitably uplifting voice. He reminded the mourners that Harry had met the love of his life, Emma, while they were both serving in the police. There was a lot about the selfless dedication of the force that was gratifying to hear. Better still from Diamond’s point of view, the tribute went on to say how much Harry had enjoyed his fishing. Surely some of those present would make the connection when the music started.

At the front with her large-hatted neighbour, Emma controlled her emotions. She wasn’t the sort to break down and weep. Hands clasped in front of her, she gazed steadily ahead.

‘And now we have a few moments for quiet reflection on Harry’s life before we take leave of him.’ In a lapse of decorum, the salesman turned his arm to glance at his watch.

The genuine article? You bet it is, Diamond thought.

He couldn’t help noticing that the salesman had a CD in his other hand. Had he forgotten to hand it to whoever managed the music? He could see the man’s eyes widen as he sensed his mistake. In the nick of time he stepped to one side and passed the disk to the undertaker.

After a silence that threatened to go on too long, the curtains started to close around the coffin and the first chords of music filled the chapel.

But the tune didn’t sound right.

‘Lazy bones,’ came Satchmo’s voice.

They’d got the wrong track.

Heads turned. People shifted awkwardly in the pews. The music stopped and the curtains went into reverse.

Finally, ‘Gone Fishing’ took over.