Peter Lovesey - The Summons

Abruptly Farr-Jones said, “In the present exercise, I believe we should set aside any idea of arresting the man.”

Warrilow backtracked shamelessly. “I don’t say we need apprehend him immediately, but we have a duty to the public to take this opportunity of tracking his movements. Rest assured, Mr. Diamond, he won’t be aware of what is going on.”

“Fine,” said Diamond evenly. “You go ahead with your tracking. I’ll rest assured, as you put it-in the first InterCity back to London.”

Tott said in alarm, “Don’t do that!”

“He won’t,” said Warrilow. “He’d regret it for the rest of his life.”

Warrilow talked as if he had just completed a course in assertiveness, but he wasn’t the one who would be putting his life on the line. Nor was he the senior officer present. Farr-Jones cleared his throat. “This is an unusual situation, gentlemen, and it would be wise to establish some priorities. Your duty is to recapture Mountjoy, Mr. Warrilow, and we shall do everything in our power to support you. However, the top consideration must be Miss Tott’s safety.”

“Thank you for that, sir,” murmured Tott, while Diamond privately noted that nothing was said about his own safety.

Farr-Jones continued, “From all that I have heard, Mr. Diamond had a high rate of success in his time here.”

“Second to none,” said Tott without a trace of insincerity.

Sensitive, possibly, to the contradictions in the file he’d studied, Farr-Jones explained, “He didn’t always go by the book, but he achieved results. He knows Mountjoy. He sent him down. He’s our best hope in this emergency. I’m willing to back him one hundred percent.”

“Without surveillance?” said Diamond.

“Yes.”

“No bugs?”

“No bugs.”

Warrilow stated piously, “I should like my dissent placed on record.”

“So be it,” said Farr-Jones without looking at him. “Are you ready to leave at once, Mr. Diamond?”

Decision time. He’d talked some sense into the police. Now was he ready to take on Mountjoy?

“If someone will call a taxi. I’m sorry about the car you had ready, John. What is it, by the way?”

Wigfull frowned. “The make? A Vauxhall Cavalier.”

Diamond grinned.

“What’s funny?” asked Farr-Jones.

“The idea of taking a Cavaliet up to Lansdown. Didn’t they lose the Civil War?”

A long-serving Abbey Radio cab rattled up Broad Street in a slow stream of traffic past familiar landmarks like the Moon and Sixpence and the Postal Museum, with Peter Diamond beside the driver spotting the changes. The disfiguring grime on the stonework of St. Michael’s had been removed, leaving an unexpectedly handsome church. Rossiter’s, where Steph had always bought her greeting cards, remained, but the little cafe two doors up, where students used to congregate, renowned for its cheap, wholesome vegetable soup, had gone. Somehow the Bath Book Exchange had survived the recession, still displaying secondhand books with alluringly handwritten descriptions of their contents; he’d once found a fine copy of Fabian of the Yard there, a volume he treasured. If the city shops had changed, how much more had detective work, and not for the better in Diamond’s opinion; these days it was all bureaucrats and boffins. Strange, then, that this morning the central nick, that barracklike block in Manvers Street, had felt like his second home.

It was as well that Farr-Jones and the others hadn’t been privy to his thoughts. He didn’t want them getting the idea he missed the action. Far better if they imagined he had found his true vocation retrieving supermarket trolleys from car parks.

The danger in this one-man mission was real. Mountjoy could draw a gun and kill him. But as Diamond’s pulse quickened and his skin prickled in anticipation he knew that the razor’s edge was what he had craved for the last two years.

“Where do you want to be dropped?” the taxi driver asked. They’d motored out of the city and the buildings were separated by stretches of open land. The enfenced Ministry of Defense buildings came up on the right and Beckford’s Tower on the left.

“Slow down a bit, would you? It’s only a quarter of a mile past the racecourse,” Diamond said, thinking as the countryside opened out that Mount joy had chosen well. Any police vehicles here would be conspicuous for miles.

They started to acquire a tail of vehicles. Except on race days drivers expected to travel fast along this stretch toward the M4, but overtaking was difficult. Some speed merchant behind was repeatedly flashing his headlights.

“There’s a sign ahead, if you’d take it more slowly.”

“If I go any slower, mate, you can walk in front with a red flag.”

It pointed the route of the Cotswold Way. “There’s a space on the right. Can you pull in over there?” Diamond had caught a tantalizing glimpse of a stone structure not more than two hundred meters from the road.

Of course it was on the opposite side and of course they were compelled to stop for up to a minute to wait for a gap in the oncoming traffic. The procession behind them grew and when the taxi ultimately reached the sanctuary of the small space by the sign for the Cotswold Way a parade of angry faces glared at them from car windows. If anything untoward happened in the next few minutes, there would be no lack of witnesses claiming to have been the last to see Peter Diamond alive.

Ignoring them all, he settled the fare and eyed the stile he would need to climb over to reach the Grenville Monument. A man of his size had to beware of seams splitting. He got over without mishap and set off along a well-trodden grass track toward the stone memorial. No one else was visible.

Sir Bevil Grenville’s monument stood twenty-five feet high and was probably no more of an eyesore than the average war memorial, but it could not be said to grace the scene. It consisted of a gray, four-sided stone on a gray, four-sided pedestal. A sculptured griffin was mounted on the top. The whole was surrounded by railings eight feet high. Diamond walked around it uncertain what he should be looking for. The eighteenth-century inscription on the side he had first approached was an encomium to the Cavalier who had fallen near this spot on a July day in 1643. If it contained some cryptic message, he was at a loss to decipher it. If this account was reliable the noble Sir Bevil hadn’t much in common with John Mountjoy: He was indeed an excellent person… his Temper and Affection sopublick that no Accident which happened could make any impression in him and his Example kept others from taking anything ill or at least seeming to do so. In a word a Brighter Courage and a Gentler Disposition were never marryed together to make the most cheerful and innocent conversation.

No, he didn’t sound like a wife-beater and murderer.

Beneath the inscription was a modern metal plaque detailing Sir Bevil’s heroic role in the Battle of Lansdown. It had been put there by an organization called the King’s Army, one of the groups who reenacted battles.

In all probability the people who played war games were also responsible for the potted chrysanthemum plant and the faded wreath at the foot of the monument that must have been pushed through the railings. Diamond wasn’t built for bending or crouching, but he was glad he put a hand on the railings and made the effort to look more closely because he spotted the corner of a scrap of clean white paper which turned out to be a till receipt, tucked under the flowerpot. He got his arm through the bars and picked it up. On one side was a list of food items bought at Sainsbury’s the previous

day. On the other, a message printed neatly in pencil: D. WALK OFF SOME WEIGHT. FOLLOW THE PATH ACROSS THE FIELDS. M.