Peter Lovesey: Cop to Corpse

Keeping watch on Emma’s house was more of a challenge than Keith Halliwell had anticipated. The small terrace stood at a right angle to the Upper Bristol Road and the only approach was a narrow passage along the front with a six-foot wall along the left side. Anyone standing there would be as obvious as a bull on a bowling green. The unmarked police car had slotted into a space across the road, but the view from there was side-on.

‘Better split up and keep radio contact,’ he told the other two. ‘I suggest you take the far end of the terrace, Inge. As for you, Paul, find a vantage point somewhere on the gasworks side, at the back.’

‘Do we have any idea who to expect?’ Paul Gilbert said.

Ingeborg rolled her eyes. ‘If you don’t, I do. Why do you think you and I were chosen for this?’

Paul stayed silent, not caring to reveal his ignorance.

‘Be ready for anyone,’ Halliwell said. ‘Soon as they show up and seem interested in the place, we radio each other.’

‘Do we let them break in?’

He nodded. ‘Grab them in the act.’

‘I thought the first duty of a police officer is to prevent crime taking place,’ Ingeborg said.

‘Not this time, kiddo.’

They split up.

Halliwell looked at his watch. Down at Haycombe, the funeral would be under way. He preferred doing this.

A blur of heavy vehicles moved past the window, some of them rocking the car. As one of the main arteries into Bath, this was not the ideal residential area. There was an army recruitment place and a fitness centre, the Hop Pole pub and an Argos with its own car park. Further along on the north side was Victoria Park, with its play area, but a line of tall conifers behind wire fencing blocked out the light where the car was parked.

Halliwell guessed anyone planning a break-in was likely to approach the terrace from the south, using Midland Road. He made sure his radio was switched on. He’d give the others a few more minutes to take up positions before getting in contact.

Two joggers approached from the Bath direction and passed the terrace without a sideways glance.

Halliwell spoke into the phone. ‘All set?’

‘I’m in place,’ Ingeborg answered.

‘Me, too,’ Paul said.

‘Anyone suspicious, sing out.’

The radio went quiet again. More HGVs thundered past. Halliwell wished he could have had a pound for each minute he’d spent on police duty waiting for something to happen. He’d buy an Aston Martin on the proceeds.

His phone beeped.

‘Yes?’

‘How’s it going?’ Diamond, straight to it, as always.

‘Nothing happened yet, guv. How’s it with you?’

‘Funeral’s over. We’re outside looking at the flowers right now. Then we move off to the Hop Pole.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘It’s tough at the top. Stay sharp and be gentle.’

Confused by the last remark, Halliwell pocketed the phone and heard what he took to be another lorry coming close, but it wasn’t. This was a motorcycle, a powerful machine, coming to a stop in a space a couple of parked cars away. The rider, in black leathers and dark helmet, lowered the kickstand, swung his leg over and pulled up the visor to check the road. Then he crossed, heading straight for Onega Terrace.

‘Stand by,’ Halliwell said into his radio. ‘Guy on a motorbike just arrived. Heading your way on foot.’

In all that gear, the figure could have been anyone of average height and build. Definitely male, Halliwell decided. He watched the approach to the access path, saw the motorcyclist stop in front of Emma’s house. The gardens were so short that there was not much chance of privacy for the residents. It was easy to see the interiors through the bay windows unless there were blinds or curtains in place. Equally, anyone inside would notice a visitor approaching.

Sometimes you get a feeling whether a house is inhabited or not. It’s an instinct cultivated by door-to-door salesmen and burglars. The motorcyclist, whatever his purpose, seemed to have made up his mind. He didn’t break in. He didn’t need to. He lifted the doormat, looked underneath and picked something up.

‘Give me strength, you couldn’t make it up,’ Halliwell said to himself as the visitor put the key in the door and gained entry. ‘Why are people so bloody obvious? A police family, too.’

The others had to be informed, and fast. He said into the radio, ‘She keeps a spare key under the mat. He’s found it and gone inside.’

‘What do we do now?’ Ingeborg asked. ‘Is that technically a break-in?’

Technically, it wasn’t. In theory the intruder could be there by invitation, a friend or family member, but there wasn’t time to analyse the situation. ‘We close off the exits at front and back. Get as near as you can without being obvious and stop him when he comes out.’ Halliwell left the car and crossed the road. He would cover the obvious escape route, the end of the access path. Ingeborg would be at the far end and Paul would take the back door.

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

Confusing thoughts rushed through Halliwell’s head. Maybe this was just someone who had turned up too late for the funeral and decided to wait in the house for Emma’s return. He could be making himself at home, sitting in front of the TV or helping himself to a cup of tea. On the other hand, he might be ransacking the house, looking for whatever bits of jewellery Emma possessed.

The house was only a box of a place. Shouldn’t take long to search. Any self-respecting thief would go through it in under ten minutes.

There would come a point when the only sensible option was to ring the doorbell and see if anyone came.

Not yet.

He spoke into the radio. ‘Paul, where are you?’

‘Back of the house, right up against the wall by the back door. He can’t see me.’

‘Can you hear anything inside?’

‘Traffic’s too noisy.’

‘We’ll give it three more and then I’ll ring the bell. Inge, are you all set?’

‘All set. Wait, the door’s opening. He’s coming out, coming your way.’

This was it, then. Up to now, Halliwell had been out of sight, using the cover of the end-terrace house. He stepped onto the path and saw the black figure of the motorcyclist striding towards him, having removed the helmet and carrying it in his left hand. Halliwell didn’t recognise him. He was just a youth, but he could be dangerous.

In his right hand was a black plastic sack wrapped around an object with an ominous shape.

‘Hold it,’ Halliwell said, ‘Police.’

The youth dropped the helmet and it skeetered across the path. But he held on to the object in the sack. He ripped open enough of the sack to reveal the barrel of the automatic rifle Halliwell had suspected was inside. He gripped it in the firing position.

Halliwell’s flesh prickled. ‘Drop it,’ he shouted.

The young man spun on his heels and dashed in the other direction, towards Ingeborg.

‘He’s got a gun,’ Halliwell yelled, to warn her. He jammed the radio to his mouth. ‘Paul, get round the front.’ He was already sprinting up the path in pursuit, regardless that the gunman could swing around and fill him with bullets. There was no escape, nowhere to duck and dodge. This was death alley.

The next moves happened in a split-second that — to Halliwell’s adrenaline-charged brain — appeared like a slow motion sequence. The gunman reached the low wall at the end of the path and vaulted over. Ingeborg, crouching out of sight, made a grab for his leg. They crashed to the ground and the gun flew from his hand. Ingeborg held on and the pair of them rolled over and over.

Halliwell leapt over the wall just as Paul Gilbert appeared around the side of the house. Together, they flung themselves onto the struggling man and forced his arms behind his back. Halliwell handcuffed him.