Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘Check it out, Inge,’ Diamond said.

‘Now?’

‘Get the present owners on the phone.’

She looked bemused. ‘Do we know who they are?’

‘Initiative test,’ Diamond said and turned to Halliwell. ‘I want a check on Monnington’s present whereabouts. Is he back home in Wimbledon or on the road? Get onto Wimbledon CID and ask them to visit the house.’

The incident room was recharged. The mood was up now. Phones were in use, files being retrieved. Dalton Monnington was hot again.

Ingeborg swiftly tracked down the current owners of Longsword Lodge, where the Twinings had lived. They told her that the property included a swimming pool, built when the Twinings had lived there, but no jacuzzi.

‘Back to square one,’ Leaman said.

‘It doesn’t mean there was no contact,’ Ingeborg said. She was flushed with excitement and wasn’t giving up. ‘Monnington could have been to the place and tried to sell them one. A big, modern house is the sort he would target. If they chose not to buy he would still have met them.’

Paul Gilbert said, ‘If they refused to buy, he’d have even more reason to kill them.’

‘Buy one of my jacuzzis or else,’ Leaman said with a curl of the lip. ‘If that was the motive, there’d be dead couples all over the West Country.’

‘Back off, John,’ Diamond said. ‘This is the best lead we’ve had. Ingeborg, go on the internet and see what you can discover about Give it a Whirl. We may need to contact someone tonight.’ Like Ingeborg, he wasn’t discouraged. Investigations don’t often pan out so obviously. Her point was a good one. Monnington may well have met the Twinings as a would-be salesman.

A call came in from a Wimbledon police mobile patrol. They were at Monnington’s house and he wasn’t at home. His partner Angie Collier had told them he’d left three days ago. The couple had argued because she’d smelt perfume on the pyjamas he’d given her to wash. She’d accused him of having affairs when he was supposed to be on business trips.

‘Does she have any idea where he was heading?’ Diamond asked.

‘Hold on and I’ll ask.’ There was a pause and then: ‘She says to hell for all she cares.’

‘Great.’ Diamond turned to his team. ‘So it’s not impossible that he’s here with us in Aquae Sulis. Inge, how are you doing?’

She had found the Give it a Whirl phone number and was trying to get through.

‘You won’t get anyone. It’s after office hours,’ Diamond said. ‘Try the Bath Hilton. These reps are creatures of habit.’

Leaman shook his head. ‘He’s not going to have Martin Steel locked in a hotel bedroom.’

‘Yes, but he needs a base. Steel could be trussed up in the boot of his car.’

Ingeborg was through to the Hilton. They told her Monnington was a regular guest, but he wasn’t in residence now and hadn’t made a reservation.

‘Nice try,’ Leaman said, meaning she’d wasted her time.

‘Do we have his mobile number?’ Halliwell asked.

‘Good suggestion… No.’

‘His partner will have it.’

The sergeant in the Wimbledon police car was not overjoyed at being asked to return to Angie Collier.

Ten more minutes passed.

Wimbledon came on the line again with the number. Before disconnecting, the sergeant asked with heavy sarcasm if there was any other service they could perform for their colleagues in Bath.

Diamond tapped in Monnington’s number and put on the amplifier for everyone to listen.

‘Hi,’ a bright voice said to the whole of CID, ‘who wants me?’

Definitely Monnington, but a more bobbish Monnington than they’d encountered the last time.

‘Depends what you have to offer,’ Diamond said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Bath, my friend. The city, not the soap and water.’

‘Where exactly in Bath?’

‘Tosi’s restaurant, for an early supper.’

Creatures of habit. Diamond eyeballed the sceptic on his team.

S even in the evening and Bath was empty. Only later, when the pubs spilled out and the clubbers appeared would it look like a real city. Halliwell drove his boss at speed through the streets and reached George Street before the response car they’d asked for. But the back-up wasn’t needed. Monnington was no longer there. Tosi’s had no customers when they arrived. On a table at the far end a half-finished bottle of red stood between two oval dinner plates.

The substantial owner, Giuseppe Tosi, explained in his less-than-substantial English, ‘Mr Monnington? He go. Mobile, yes, brr, brr, and he go quick. See?’ He indicated the table.

‘Which way?’ Diamond asked.

‘Scusi?’

This would have tried a patient man and Diamond wasn’t that. He stabbed his forefinger left, towards Gay Street, and held out his hands, Italian fashion.

Tosi nodded emphatically.

Diamond tried again. ‘On foot?’

‘Foot?’

Diamond lifted his leg and tapped the sole of his shoe.

Tosi took this as an Englishman’s attempt to learn Italian. ‘Si. Piede. Like football, eh?’

‘So he walked away?’ Diamond said, wiggling his fingers.

‘No, no.’ Tosi could do sign language as well. He stretched his forefinger and thumb as wide as they would go. ‘The signora, she have the tacco a spillo.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Stiletto shoes, capisce? Walk? No way.’

‘Are you saying there was a lady with him?’

Tosi frowned. ‘Lady?’

In desperation Diamond remembered the waiter who spoke passable English. ‘Is Luigi here?’ Before getting a response he said to Halliwell, ‘See if the waiter’s out back.’

Luigi was brought from the kitchen and confirmed that Monnington had been in with a woman guest. The couple had left in a hurry after receiving the call on the mobile. They’d got into a taxi ten minutes ago.

‘Did you see them go?’ Diamond asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Which taxi firm?’

‘Abbey Radio.’

Halliwell called Abbey and hung on while they put out a message. The driver confirmed from his cab that he’d picked up a couple in George Street and dropped them off at a private house on Widcombe Hill.

‘What number?’

‘He didn’t get the number. They told him when they got there.’

‘Oh, great.’

‘Opposite a bus-stop about halfway up. A big house with stone griffins on the gateposts.’

‘Stone what?’

‘It’s a mythical beast.’

‘Never mind.’ They got in and drove off.

‘It’ll be easier than looking for a house number,’ Diamond said, trying to be positive, and he was right. The gate with the griffins came up on their right. Even better, a car he recognised as Monnington’s black Mondeo was on the drive.

There were lights behind the curtains of the tall Victorian villa. Halliwell radioed their position and said they were going in. The back-up team was being informed, they were told.

A delay in answering made the two policemen uneasy. Then the door was opened by a dark-haired woman in a low-cut black dress with spaghetti straps.

Diamond held up his ID and asked to see Dalton Monnington.

She looked apprehensive, but invited them in.

In the large, luxurious living room, Monnington, shoeless and in shirtsleeves, with tie loosened, was lounging on a sofa watching a DVD of some Johnny Depp film. He reached for the remote and touched the mute button.

‘Kill it,’ Diamond said. ‘I want your total concentration.’

Monnington switched off and then made his protest. ‘You’re hounding me. It’s a bloody imposition.’

‘We questioned you once in your own home. That’s no imposition,’ Diamond said.

‘This is someone else’s home.’