Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘And?’

‘I get the impression you also have a career.’

‘In the absence of a sugar daddy? Yes, I’m one of the self-employed. Any guesses?’

Difficult. He didn’t want to cause offence. She had a good income if she was used to eating out. ‘Something artistic?’

‘Only marginally.’

‘Theatrical?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘You write plays.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not creative at all. I have a business supplying illustrated material for the media, pictures of past fashion basically. If someone is writing a piece about Edwardian ball gowns, for example, they look on the internet and find I have hundreds of contemporary pictures they can choose from.’

‘You collected these?’

‘It’s been a lifelong passion. Plum the schoolgirl was filling scrapbooks when she was eleven years old. When I got older I bought from dealers. Now I have the biggest collection in the country, probably in the world. Magazines, newspapers, pattern books. Someone asks for examples and I scan them and send them back in a very short time. The internet has transformed the way it’s done.’

‘And this is mainly as a service to journalists?’

She shook her head. ‘There are all kinds of requests. Film and television costume departments are always wanting ideas. There are classics being filmed all the time. They know they can rely on me for something the rival company hasn’t already used.’

‘What’s your business called?’

‘Once in Vogue.’

‘Cool,’ he said, borrowing from Ingeborg. ‘Do you supply the costumes as well?’

She winced at the idea. ‘Couldn’t possibly. Just the pictures.’

‘You must have an efficient filing system.’

‘I’m well organised. If you really are interested, I could demonstrate. Do you have a computer at home?’

‘Rarely used. It belonged to Steph, my late wife.’

The mention of Steph didn’t throw her at all. ‘Well, if you want to look me up, if you ever want a picture of a Victorian policeman, or a Bow Street runner, click on onceinvogue. com.’

‘I will.’

‘But you must give me a challenge. Surprise me with a really unusual request.’

There was just the hint of playfulness.

‘I’ll try and think of something. Speaking of surprises, you certainly ambushed me with all this,’ he said.

‘Their desserts are good.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass on the dessert.’

‘Don’t run away with the idea that I come here every night,’ she said. ‘I do most of my eating out of packets, same as you, I expect.’

‘Tins, in my case.’

‘Baked beans?’

He grinned. ‘You’ve got me sussed.’ But he wished he hadn’t said it. He wasn’t the helpless man and he didn’t want to give that impression.

‘Was your late wife a cook?’

‘She was good at it. We both went out to work so I did my share with the saucepans.’

‘On the baked bean nights?’

‘Actually I can manage a few other dishes. Cooking is less appealing when you live alone.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Were you married?’

‘Until he traded me in for the new model,’ she said. ‘Once my self-esteem recovered, it was a huge relief to be shot of him.’

‘Kids?’

‘A son, grown up now. Jeremy’s got one of those jobs that didn’t exist until someone thought of it — personal trainer, persuading rich people to use their treadmills. It’s paying well at the moment, but I don’t know if you could call it a career. And you? Do you have any family?’

He shook his head, not choosing to go into the detail of Steph’s gynaecological problems. ‘There’s just Raffles the cat, who allows me to share the same address.’

‘A cat. What sort?’

‘More than one sort, you could say. A tabby, a handsome tabby.’

‘Who considers you his slave?’

He grinned. ‘Have you got one? Sounds to me as if you know all about them.’

‘No longer. I had a black and white called Fritz, a wicked old character who lived to seventeen, and I miss him dreadfully, but it’s too soon to replace him. The birds can visit the garden in safety now.’

‘You have a garden? In the city?’

‘On the outskirts. I live in Lyncombe. We still think of it as our village, even though it was swallowed up by the city council about two hundred years ago. And you? Are you a Bathonian?’

‘I pay the council tax,’ he said. ‘I live in Weston. Don’t know if I can call myself a Bathonian.’

‘If you’re defending us all from villains, I’m sure you can. You’re the first policeman I’ve met on a social basis. That’s the best way to meet one, I suppose. Better than being stopped for speeding.’

He told her he didn’t work in traffic.

‘More of a back-room boy?’

‘Back-seat boy.’ He wasn’t going to volunteer that he was CID.

After the coffee, she said, ‘I’ve enjoyed this, Peter.’

‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

She signalled for the bill. ‘I must get back now and do an hour or so on the internet. My clients expect a quick response.’

He was relieved. She was drawing a line under this evening. She’d saved them both the awkwardness of the invitation home for another coffee or a drink, or whatever. He certainly wasn’t ready for whatever. She wasn’t pressing for a closer relationship and neither was he.

They walked back to Green Park and talked about films they’d seen. As if by mutual consent they’d done enough exchanging personal data. When they reached her car she opened her bag and took out a business card. ‘As I was saying, you can look me up if you’re interested in the agency.’

‘Thanks. I’m not so well organised as you,’ he said. ‘Don’t carry a card.’

‘Now I feel pushy.’

He shook his head. ‘I know when people are pushy, and you’re not.’

She got into her car. ‘Where’s yours?’

He pointed across the car park.

She said, ‘Watch out when you reverse.’

He came out with a line that made him cringe as soon as he’d said it. ‘After tonight no carrier bag is safe.’

She smiled and drove off.

O ne thing is worse than an alarm clock going off when you are sleeping, and that’s a phone. Diamond didn’t know where he was. He reached out to the sound and knocked over his glass of water.

Now he knew. He’d been dreaming. This wasn’t Paloma’s bedroom. This was home.

‘Jesus,’ he said when he got the thing to his ear.

This seemed to confuse the caller. After a long pause came a tentative, ‘Sir?’

‘I don’t expect calls in the middle of the night.’

‘Is that Mr Diamond?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve got the Assistant Chief Constable for you, sir.’

‘On a plate?’

‘On the other line.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Six fifteen just gone, sir.’

‘Nearly lunchtime,’ he said with sarcasm that was wasted on the switchboard operator.

‘I’m about to connect you.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

Georgina greeted him as brightly as if she was suggesting coffee and crumpets in the Pump Room. ‘Peter, are you up and about?’

He could feel a tide of cold water advancing across the sheet he was lying on. ‘I will be shortly.’

‘You’re not an early riser, then? Listen, something has happened overnight. Another hanging, a man this time.’

He was jolted fully awake. ‘Where?’

‘This is it, Peter. It couldn’t be more public. He’s over the Bristol Road near the railway station. Motorists are calling in to report it.’

He couldn’t picture this. ‘Over the road?’

‘Hanging from the viaduct.’

‘What viaduct?’