Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘And I told you about mine,’ she said.

‘You said Jerry is pro-life and you take the opposite view.’

‘Well, I would.’

‘Does he know about the child you aborted?’

‘I’ve never discussed it with him. He may have heard from his father, I suppose. Now that he’s so anti I wouldn’t risk telling him myself. Call me a coward, but he doesn’t need to know, does he?’

‘This Hosannah Church makes the sanctity of life one of its main issues, doesn’t it?’

‘No doubt of that. Where’s this going, Peter? What are you trying to say?’

He spoke in a low, undramatic tone. ‘We know the medical histories of these women who were murdered. Each of them had an abortion.’

Her face convulsed with horror as she made the connection. Then she covered her eyes. ‘Oh my God, say it isn’t true.’

He knew he must tell her the rest. ‘He visits hospitals with his library trolley. He has the opportunity to see where they keep the patients’ records. He’s known to the staff. No one is going to suspect a volunteer of doing anything underhand. But this pro-life issue is a crusade. People who choose to have an abortion for no good medical reason are murderers in the eyes of extremists.

It’s possible Jerry has taken it a stage further.’

A cry came from Paloma, a long, agonised wail of despair. She dipped forward and her face slammed on the keyboard in front of her. Her back shook. She sobbed uncontrollably.

He couldn’t watch this without responding. He bent over her and gripped her shoulders. ‘Paloma. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry..’

She didn’t answer. She was inconsolable. She had the shakes now.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it round her. Shock is a dangerous condition. The blood pressure falls dramatically. First-aid training tells you the best you can do is calm the patient. But how?

Of all things, the phone in the jacket pocket started vibrating and Paloma felt it against her. She jerked and gasped. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his trouser pocket.

There was a bottle of water on the filing cabinet. He uncapped it and said, ‘Drink a little of this.’

She turned to face him, tears coursing down her cheeks.

He handed her the water and she took some. ‘You came here to tell me?’ she said.

He nodded.

She drank some more of the water. ‘Answer your phone. You’ve got a job to do.’

He took out the mobile and pressed the key to make contact. He knew it would be Leaman.

‘Guv?’

‘Go on.’

‘Two lads on patrol just reported in from Kean’s place. Negative. One of his neighbours saw him go out about nine thirty. That’s two hours ago. It looks bad.’

‘The church?’

‘Also negative.’

‘I’ll get back to you shortly.’ He returned the phone to his pocket and asked Paloma if she had any idea where Jerry would be. ‘If we can find him we may prevent another tragedy.’

Her face was a mask of pain. She shook her head. ‘I can’t think. I can’t think.’

His own thought process had stalled as well. ‘What does he drive now?’

‘He rented a Mitsubishi Shogun. Black.’

‘D’you know the registration?’

She didn’t.

He frowned, struggling to get those thoughts functioning again. Something important. He tried running through Jerry’s routine: the personal training, the hospital visits, the church. He pictured him pushing his trolley of books.

‘When he visits the hospitals, how does he transport the trolley? It wouldn’t fit into the Shogun.’

‘He uses the church van. It’s dark blue, with Hosannah written on the side.’

This was the breakthrough.

‘Where’s it kept?’ He raised his palm. ‘Hold on. I know. You told me there’s a depot for the books on some trading estate. That’s where he’s gone.’

P aloma sat beside him as he drove down Lyncombe Hill. She wasn’t speaking, but she’d stopped crying. She had insisted she wanted to help, and Diamond could see the usefulness of having her with him. An arrest is the ultimate confrontation. Her presence might be a calming influence. She had a good rapport with her son.

The Brassmill Trading Estate, off Brassmill Lane, was familiar territory, almost his own back yard, just down the road from Lower Weston. Raffles the cat had once gone missing for two days and turned up there at a printer’s, where they had a tabby of their own on a diet of gourmet beef fillet in sauce. Raffles, used to cheap chicken chunks in jelly, climbed up the curtain and claimed sanctuary when it was time to go home.

When last there, Diamond hadn’t noticed a book depot on the estate. Easy to overlook, though. Every building looked the same.

He’d called Leaman and cars were converging on Brassmill from several points of the city. There was still a hope that Martin Steel was alive. It had turned midnight already, but the MO suggested he would be taken out and executed later in the night.

‘Not far now,’ he said — the sort of bland remark that gave Paloma the chance to say something if she wished.

After a pause she said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought of this place.’

‘Tucked away, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve never seen it. He scarcely ever speaks of it.’

‘Everything closes down at six. Tailor-made for keeping a hostage.’

That drew a line under the conversation.

The streetlights dwindled when they turned off the Upper Bristol Road at Weston and headed into trading estate country, where functional ‘units’ were rented at a fraction of city-centre prices. The Locksbrook Estate came up first. Brassmill Lane was just a continuation on the road. A police car with lights turned off was parked at the first entrance.

He braked and lowered his window. ‘Anyone gone in?’

‘DI Leaman and two RRVs, sir. Take a left by the tyre-fit place and you’ll see them.’

He drove in and located the other police vehicles parked in front of a carpet outlet. Leaman came to meet him, stooped at the open window and saw Paloma, but didn’t get introduced.

‘What do you reckon?’ Diamond asked.

‘The book depot is right behind this warehouse, guv. There’s a Shogun Warrior parked outside.’

‘That’s his motor.’

‘We’ve disabled it.’

‘Good. What sort of back-up do we have?’

‘A rapid response team. The place is surrounded.’

‘Let’s go in. I’m not expecting a shoot-out. He isn’t that kind of animal.’

He got out and so did Paloma. He asked her to stay well back unless she was needed. Then he walked round the side of the carpet warehouse and saw the Shogun parked in front of a row of three small cabin-style buildings with flat roofs.

Leaman pointed to the one on the left. The windows were screened with slatted blinds. A light was on.

Diamond signalled with palms down that he wanted no action from the armed back-up. With Leaman at his side he walked up to the door, looked for a bell-push, found none and rapped with his knuckles.

No response.

He eyed Leaman, shrugged, and tried again with more force. Same result.

‘It has to be the fifty-pound door key, then.’

Leaman motioned to one of the men in Kevlar body-armour.

An enforcer, a police battering ram, was brought over. ‘It’s a crime scene inside,’ Diamond warned. ‘I don’t want you going in like the SAS.’

The locks must have been stout because three swings were needed to gain entry.

A foul smell hit them when the door swung inwards. Diamond pressed his hand to his face.

His way in was blocked by Jerry’s trolley. He had to trundle it to one side, and even then he was faced with a fully stacked bookcase reaching almost to the ceiling. To get further in you had to sidle around it.