Peter Lovesey: The Summons

She said, “It’s hard work. Harder than you think.”

“What is?”

“Posing for a life class.”

Something in her tone made him hesitate. “How would you know?”

She smiled faintly. “When I was single and needed pocket money I did some modeling at the local tech.”

She had ambushed him properly this time. He was appalled. She always spoke the truth.

“Nude, you mean?”

“Mm.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

She said, “It’s not the sort of thing one drops into a conversation. Anyway, I wouldn’t do it now.” After a pause she added, “But then I haven’t been asked.”

He recovered his poise sufficiently to say, “If you like, I can put in a word for you at Chelsea College.”

“Don’t you dare.”

There was another silence.

“I think it’s strange,” Diamond finally said.

She reddened and her eyes narrowed. “What is?”

“The seven-letter word you wanted.”

Much later in bed, he told her, “It’s too bloody late to say this, Steph, but I was an idiot to quit the police. That day I stormed out of the ACC’s office, I had no idea we’d end up like this, in a squalid basement in the back streets.”

“Do you mind? It isn’t squalid at all. I keep it clean.”

“Humble, then.”

“And I don’t see how you can possibly describe Addison Road as a back street. Just listen. No, listen to the traffic. It’s gone midnight and it still sounds like Piccadilly.”

He wouldn’t be shaken from his confessional mood. “If it were just my own life, fair enough, but it was yours and you had no say in the decision. It was the most selfish bloody thing I’ve ever done.”

She said, “It was a question of principle.”

“Yes, mine, not yours.”

“If they didn’t appreciate your worth as a detective, they didn’t deserve to keep you.”

He gave a short, sardonic laugh. “They were only too happy to get shot of me.” He sighed, turned over and talked to the wall. “I deserved to go. I didn’t fit in.”

Stephanie wriggled toward him. “Yes, you’re a brute to be with.”

“Inconsiderate,” said he.

“Tactless,” said she.

“Boorish.”

“And self-pitying.” She tugged at his pajama trousers and slapped his exposed rear. “Does that make you feel any better?”

“Not really.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Who’s talking about sport?”

She pressed against him and whispered in his ear, “I am.”

Apparently the fates wanted some sport as well, because at this intimate moment came the scrape of shoes on the concrete steps outside.

“What the heck…?”

“Some drunks, I expect,” murmured Stephanie.

“Or kids, messing about. Sounds like more than one to me.

“Kids at this hour?”

They lay still and waited.

“Can’t even find the bell,” said Diamond.

On cue, the bell was rung.

“What sort of time is this?” muttered Diamond. “It must be after midnight.”

“It is. Are you going?”

“Sod that. I’m not at home to anyone. I’ll look through the curtain.” He got up and went to the window. Two youngish men in padded jackets were standing out there faintly illuminated by a streetlamp. They didn’t look drunk. “I’m foxed,” said Diamond.

Stephanie sat up and put on the bedside lamp.

“Switch it off!” Diamond hissed at her.

But the callers must have seen the light because they rang again and rattled the knocker as well.

“I’d better go.”

“Do you think you should? They can’t be up to any good at this hour.”

“I’ll keep the chain on.” He reached for his dressing gown. The knocking continued, loud enough to disturb the entire house, so he shouted, “All right, all right.”

He opened the front door the fraction the safety chain allowed, and looked out.

“Mr. Peter Diamond?”

He frowned. A couple of passing drunks wouldn’t have known his name. “Yes?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Smith and this is Sergeant Brown. Avon and Somerset CID.”

“Avon and Somerset? You’re way off your patch, aren’t you?”

“Would you mind if we come in?” The man held a police identity card close enough to the crack for Diamond to see that he was, indeed, called Smith. If you’d wanted to invent a couple of names, would you seriously have chosen Smith and Brown?

“It’s bloody late, you know,” Diamond complained. “What’s this about? Has somebody died?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then?”

“Could we discuss it inside, Mr. Diamond?”

He had to admit that this was authentic CID-speak for dealing with a potential witness-or humoring a dangerous suspect. “I’m ex-CID myself. I know my rights.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I’m under suspicion of something, I want to be told what it is.”

“You can rest assured about that, sir. We’re not here to interview you.”

“But you’re up from Somerset, so it isn’t just a social call.”

“Right, sir. It’s urgent, or we wouldn’t be disturbing you.”

Diamond unfastened the chain. At the same time he called out to Stephanie, wanting to put her mind at rest and realizing as the words came out that he would not succeed, “It’s all right, love. They’re CID.”

He led them into the living room. Both officers took stock of the place with expressions suggesting that they couldn’t understand how a former superintendent had sunk so low.

“Coffee?”

“Please phone this number immediately, Mr. Diamond.” Inspector Smith handed across a piece of paper and added in an afterthought, “You do have a phone?”

Diamond walked to it.

He noticed Sergeant Brown turn and close the door, and it wasn’t to stop a draft. They wanted to prevent Steph from hearing what was said. This cloak-and-dagger stuff was tiresome.

He pressed out the number.

It didn’t have to ring more than a couple of times. A voice said, “Yes?”

“Diamond speaking.”

“Excellent. I’m Farr-Jones, Chief Constable of Avon and Somerset. I don’t believe we have met.”

If they had, they wouldn’t have spent long in each other’s company. Farr-Jones’s voice was redolent of golf clubs and smart dinner parties that Diamond would have avoided like the plague. But the name was familiar. Patrick Farr-Jones had been appointed to Avon and Somerset about eighteen months ago after serving as ACC in Norfolk. The Chief Constable sitting up to take a call in the small hours? This had to be high level.

“You probably guess what has prompted this call, Mr. Diamond,” the velvet tones articulated.

“No,” said Diamond.

The terse response derailed Mr. Farr-Jones. He evidently wanted some cooperation, so after a short hiatus he started again with a compliment. “Well said. A good detective assumes nothing.”

“I’m not a detective anymore, Mr. Farr-Jones.”

“True, but-”

“And it’s debatable whether I was ever a good detective.”

“My information is that you were very good.”

“Pity nobody thought so at the time,” said Diamond. “What should I have guessed? If it was something in the papers, I don’t read them, except to look for jobs.”

“You haven’t heard about Mountjoy, then?”

An image from years ago flickered in his brain: a bedroom, a woman’s body on the bed in pale blue pajamas bloodied with stab wounds. And there was a bizarre feature that had got into all the papers. Stuffed into her mouth and scattered across her body were the heads of a dozen red roses in bud. This ritualistic feature of the murder had created a sensation at the time. “What about Mountjoy?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It was all over the papers last week. He’s out. He escaped from Albany.”