Peter Lovesey: Bloodhounds

"A building?" said Tom Ray, the Chief Constable's staff officer.

"Portable property."

"Something in the Roman Baths, sir?" suggested Wigfull, his whiskers positively twitching with the challenge. "A gold torque?"

"Not so ancient as that."

"Precious metal in some form?"

"No."

"An antique object?"

"You could describe it as such, but antiquity is not what makes it so valuable."

"A work of art, then?"

The ACC bestowed a smile on Wigfull. "You're almost there. Anyone else with a suggestion?"

It was apparent from the faces around the table that there would be no takers except Wigfull.

"I don't know a lot about art, sir. Where is it housed? In the Pump Room?"

"The Victoria Gallery." Sensing astutely that he had reached the limit of his officers' knowledge of fine art, the ACC unveiled the truth. "It is Turner's painting of the Abbey. A watercolor. Anyone been to see it?"

Total silence.

He added, "It's worth over a million."

"One picture?" said Tom Ray, rolling his eyes.

"J.M. W Turner was probably the greatest painter our nation has ever produced. This was one of his earliest works, completed before he was twenty-one."

"Hope it's insured," said Diamond.

The ACC gave him a shocked look. "We're not giving anyone the chance to steal it."

"Isn't the gallery guarded by Impregnable?"

Impregnable was the private security firm entrusted with the safety and security of the mayor, the officers, and all the public buildings of Bath. Among the police, there was an unending series of jokes about Impregnable.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean we abdicate our responsibility."

"Good Lord, no," said Wigfull. "If the Turner was taken, we'd get stuffed by the press, not Impregnable."

"Who's Deep Throat?" asked Diamond.

"Deep who?"

"Your source, sir."

"That's uncertain," the ACC admitted. "The tipoff reached us by an indirect route. A CID officer in Bristol- Sergeant Plant-seeking information on another matter, picked it up from one of his snouts."

"I like it," said Diamond, his belly quivering with amusement.

"What?"

"Sergeant Plant, our plainclothes man. Who was the snout-Mr. Grass?"

The ACC reddened ominously. "You'd do well to take this seriously, Superintendent. Plant is a promising young officer."

Diamond made an effort to contain his amusement by thinking about the list of jobs waiting to be done in his new home in Weston. This meeting shouldn't drag on much longer if the Turner was the only topic.

"The point is," the ACC resumed, "we have the opportunity to prevent a major theft. I'm ordering a review of security at the gallery. Mr. Wigfull, the Bumblebee team will be responsible. You can liaise with Impregnable. We're not trying to score points here. The painting is kept upstairs in the permanent collection. Check the windows, the roof, all points of access. See that the alarms are functioning and the guards are aware of the threat. Art thieves are among the most professional of all the criminal fraternity."

"Right, sir," said Wigfull. "If you don't mind my asking, is the prime objective to scare them off?"

The ACC hesitated. "Well, I see this as an exercise in crime prevention, don't you?"

"Absolutely, but…" His voice trailed away.

"What's your point, then, John?"

Wigfull picked his words judiciously. "I may be out of order, sir, but it seems to me that we have the opportunity of, er, staking out the gallery and pulling in these villains."

"Ah." The ACC's response was flat, still uncommitted.

"If so, it might be wise not to make a show of strengthening the security."

"You think so?"

"We don't want them getting suspicious."

"You're thinking of setting a trap?"

"With the Bumblebee team and a few others, I could catch them in the act, sir."

"Good thinking." Wigfull's plan had got the nod.

"I'll need officers I can rely on, sir, preferably people I know. As we were told that the murder squad isn't overburdened at this time-"

At the mention of his murder squad, Diamond jerked forward in his chair. "Hold on. How long will this pantomime go on for? I can't spare men to sit in an art gallery for weeks on end."

"It might improve their minds," said Tom Ray.

"You're not busy," said Wigfull. "You may not have a murder in the next month."

"I may commit one," muttered Diamond.

He had little chance of defending his empire. It was decreed by the ACC that four of the murder squad should be seconded at once to Operation Bumblebee. Wigfull picked them himself. He had the gall to pick Inspector Julie Hargreaves, Diamond's best detective.

"I can't release Julie."

"I need a woman," insisted Wigfull.

Tom Ray said, "Tell us something new."

Wigfull gave him a fish-eyed stare and said, "She'll be just right for this. She can sit behind the desk and sell postcards."

"Terrific," said Diamond. "Would you like her to dust the picture frames as well?"

On Friday, the paper had a News in Brief item at the foot of page two about the murder of the Saltford bank manager and the magistrates' court appearance of the chief clerk. Stephanie Diamond spotted it by chance when she was looking for the weather forecast. The Guardian's layout always defeated her. Peter wasn't mentioned by name, but now she understood why he was working so late these evenings. He'd muttered something about a meeting as he'd climbed in beside her the wrong side of midnight. Most of his time at work seemed to be spent in meetings or filling in forms.

She timed his breakfast to perfection, lifting the two lightly coated eggs from the pan and placing them on the slice of fried bread beside the bacon and tomatoes just as he came downstairs. The pampering he got at breakfast helped him through the day. She reckoned it was a fair trade for the cup of tea he brought her in bed these chilly October mornings. She couldn't move a muscle without her fix of tea. And he often cooked dinner when he was home.

He reached for the paper and glanced at the football results. Missed the item on page two. Then he yawned.

"Any chance of an easier day today?" she asked him.

"Every chance," he said bleakly.

She felt a stirring of concern. "You haven't done anything rash?"

"Like what?"

"Like resigning again?"

He smiled faintly. "No. It's just gone flat."

"What do you expect in Avon and Somerset? The Himalayas?"

He cut into a fried egg. "I'm not ambitious. I'd settle for the Mendips, but all I see is the Somerset Levels. Take that murder that happened on Monday. The genius who did it walked up to me, shook my hand and confessed."

"That must have helped your clear-up rate."

He didn't answer. Statistics had never appealed to him.

"You can't have it all ways," Stephanie remarked. "We live in a gorgeous old city. It's going to be quiet. If you want serious action, you'd better start applying for jobs in Glasgow or Manchester, but don't ask me to come."

"Thanks." He put some more food in his mouth. "But you're wrong, Steph. Avon and Somerset isn't short of villains."

"You mean they're all in the police."

He grinned.

Stephanie said, "Which villains, then? Local farmers protesting about the bypass?"

"Professionals, I'm talking about. The smartest piece of shoplifting I ever heard of happened in my patch."

"In Bath?"

"Bristol. Didn't I ever tell you? They did one of those ultraexpensive dress shops."

"A boutique?"

"Yes, in Southmead. It was a night job. I don't know how many thousand quids' worth of designer gowns. They didn't break in, didn't smash anything, didn't leave any prints, didn't even set foot on the premises. We never caught them. Took us a long time to work out how it was done."