Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘What letter?’

‘That first letter asking to meet you in the Saracen’s.’

Ambushed yet again. That letter. ‘The one I ignored?’

‘Yes, it was unforgivable what I did. I had this stupid idea that if I started a friendship with a policeman, a senior policeman, and invited you home, Jerry would be shocked into stopping whatever he was doing that was making him so furtive.’

He’d taken one low punch before, when she’d told him he was virtually entrapped. He’d ridden that one, telling himself he should be flattered to get the attention. Now he’d found out she’d picked him because of his job, not who he was. He was just ‘a senior policeman’.

Paloma’s next words came in a burst, as if to stop him saying anything. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I deceived you. I used you. I read about you and knew you’d lost your wife three years ago. I thought you were probably lonely. Once I’d got this idea, I pursued you. I was driven. It was the only way I could see of getting through to my son.’

He couldn’t speak. It was his turn to be numb. He closed his eyes, absorbing it all. What a mug. All the soul-searching about starting a relationship, the guilt about Steph, the belief that someone found him sexually attractive — overweight and middle-aged as he was — all this was down to vanity. Pathetic. Even after learning that the affair had been plotted by Paloma to reel him in, he’d forgiven her. Deep down, he’d been flattered that she cared enough to go to all the trouble she had.

Now he knew she hadn’t wanted him at all except to make a point to her shithead son, as evil a killer as he’d come across.

Conned.

‘And none of it succeeded,’ he managed to say finally. ‘He didn’t give a toss.’

‘That’s wrong, Peter. When he met you and learned I was going out with you he was shocked to the core. I could tell.’

‘He carried on with the killing.’

‘Peter,’ she said. ‘I just want to say-’

‘Don’t say anything. Not now. I can’t take any more.’

He got out of the car and started walking to where Leaman was speaking to someone on his radio. He felt betrayed.

But at this low point he still had to function. A killer was out there. Another victim was about to die.

One thing made sense. Paloma’s last remark — about Jerry being shocked to the core — linked up with a real event. Jerry must have torched his own car, the precious Nissan Pathfinder, in panic that it would be searched and reveal DNA from his recent victims, Delia and Danny.

There seemed to be something happening. Leaman flapped his hand to him to hurry.

‘We’ve got the shout, guv. The Hosannah van is in Sainsbury’s car park, just like you said.’

A fter telling Paloma where he was driving, he was silent. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

The trip was a short belt into the city along the Upper Bristol Road and then south to Green Park. Unusually for Diamond, he put his foot down. Not much was on the move at one twenty in the morning. Sirens and beacons were not being used. This would make the inrush of police vehicles conspicuous, so he’d ordered a discreet operation. He didn’t want Jerry Kean alerted and making a run for it.

Back in 1966, after nearly a century of railway history, the last train pulled out of Green Park station. It was decided not to demolish the fine Palladian facade built by the Victorians. It fitted in with the rest of Bath and hid the train shed behind. Now the site was regenerated as a shopping precinct with car park, shops, superstore, restaurant and covered market. Diamond wished he’d thought of this place as a likely site for the next execution. The arched interior with its cast-iron ribs was in the classic style of St Pancras and other great stations. Crucially for Jerry Kean, there was open access. Once the market stalls inside were closed for the day, the old train shed was deserted. Ample opportunity to sling a cord over a girder and rig up another spectacular hanging.

Not many cars were parked overnight in the space where rail tracks had once run. In his private car Diamond drove past the police vehicles and right up to the end where the great arched shed was. It was difficult to see much, but he picked out the Hosannah van and stopped a few spaces away.

He’d expected Leaman the keeno to be ahead of him. Instead, when he got out, the first to come up was Georgina. Seeing the triumphant look in her eye, he would have settled for Leaman.

‘Glad you made it, Peter,’ she said. ‘My tactics seem to have paid off.’

‘Your tactics?’

‘Pulling out all the stops. The massive surveillance exercise.’

‘That was your idea?’

‘My decision.’ She was taking any credit that was going. Such is the privilege of assistant chief constables.

‘Have you made the arrest, then?’

‘Good Lord, no. I’ve only been here three minutes, straight from seeing the organiser of the ram raids. The man who calls himself Harry Lang, would you believe?’

He didn’t trust himself to comment.

Georgina added, ‘DI Halliwell interviewed him in hospital with me sitting in. He admits to everything.’

‘Congratulations. Are you sure he isn’t in your choir, singing like that?’

She gave an uneasy laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Shall we get on with this, ma’am? Has the van been searched?’

‘I gather DI Leaman has had it open and found nothing.’

‘They’re somewhere in the station, then.’

‘Apparently not.’

He gave her the quizzical look she seemed to expect.

‘No joy so far,’ she said and leaned closer. ‘Who’s the lady in your car, if it isn’t a personal question?’

‘Ah, but it is.’ Bloody cheek, he thought. Spotting Leaman, he turned his back on Georgina and went over.

‘I don’t get it, guv,’ Leaman said. ‘The van’s been parked for some time. The engine’s almost cold. No one inside. They’ve vanished.’

He didn’t believe that for a moment. Taking a few steps into the shed, he peered up at the arched girders. By day, the glass roof gave plenty of light. At this late hour it was impossible to see what was up there. ‘Let’s have some lights. If he’s still about he knows we’re here.’

He wanted to see if the tell-tale plastic cord had been drawn over any of the girders and tied to one side, ready for the hanging.

Powerful flash-lamps probed the roof. A vehicle equipped with rotating lights was driven in. In the next five minutes numerous pairs of eyes stared up at the ironwork and sighted nothing.

‘I don’t get it,’ Leaman said for the second time.

‘Shut up, then.’

Diamond was near the end of his tether. He walked to the far end, the former booking hall. By day and evening it was in use as a brasserie, sometimes with live jazz, but at this hour it was in darkness. There were no signs of a break-in. He rattled the door. ‘Let’s have this open.’

‘What with?’ one officer asked.

‘What do you think? Your magic wand?’

A kick did the job. They went in, switched on the lights and made a swift search of the seating area, bar, kitchen and toilets.

Nobody was in there.

‘What’s upstairs?’ he asked.

‘The Bath Society meeting room.’

He felt movement in his pocket and took out the mobile and looked at it. Who on earth knew his number besides Paloma and Leaman, who were both near by?

He slapped it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘Guv.’

Ingeborg. She’d shown him how to use the thing.

‘Guv, he’s here, round the front entrance. You’d better come fast, but try not to panic him. There’s a noose round Martin Steel’s neck.’

His skin prickled. He ran to the door that led on to the street and kicked it open. He was among a cluster of metal tables and patio heaters. He ran on across the cobbled forecourt to where he saw Ingeborg standing beside a police car parked in James Street West to block the traffic. She was pointing.