Peter Lovesey: The Summons

“I trusted you, bastard,” said John Mountjoy, spacing the words as if every one tasted noxious. If he had sounded agitated the last time they had met, in the Francis, this was a voice on the edge of breakdown.

“I didn’t fire those shots,” Diamond was quick to say.

“I imagined it, did I? My back is a bloody mess of torn flesh and pellets and I imagined it?”

After one of the quickest mental adjustments he’d ever had to make, Diamond talked fast and earnestly. “You’re wounded? That wasn’t me, I tell you. That was some morons who got into here without my knowledge. They weren’t police. I just got rid of them. They’ve been taken away. They didn’t think they hit you.”

Mountjoy came back at him. “In a corridor, with a shotgun?’

“Are you badly hurt?”

The question was ignored. “You’re lying, Diamond. You were calling my name before the shots were fired. I stepped into the corridor and got shot. You set me up, you bastard.”

“I did not. I didn’t know they were up here. I want to end this peacefully. I’ve got news for you.”

“Yes,” said Mountjoy bitterly, “the place is swarming with police. Christ!” He groaned in pain and pressed the gun harder against Diamond’s neck.

“Your conviction was wrong. I can prove it now.”

There was an interval without words, but it wasn’t because of what Diamond had said. It was filled by Mountjoy rasping for breath. He was in real pain. Finally he muttered, “Double-crosser.”

Diamond said with difficulty, because the gun was constricting his breath, “We had a deal. You wanted the truth about Britt Strand-by today, you said. I kept my word. I know who did it now.”

“I’m going to blow your brains out.”

“Will you listen?” His mind raced. The man was past reason, in too much pain.

The pressure on his throat eased and it was not a good omen. He was certain that Mountjoy was about to press the gun to his head and fire. In the split second before it could happen, he did the only thing open to him. Blindly he swung his arm upward to deflect the gun. He dipped his head in the same movement. His forearm made contact with Mountjoy’s. The gun blasted.

There is said to be a short grace period after any severe trauma such as a bullet wound, during which the shock to the nervous system results in the victim feeling no pain. Diamond had no idea whether he was wounded. He dived to his left, hit the floor and rolled over several times until the floorboards ended and he dropped into the space over the joists. He knew they were joists because the upper edges crunched into his limbs and ribs in parallel. It took extraordinary self-control not to cry out.

He pressed himself into the space and lay still.

Then white streaks penetrated the roof area and it came alight. The searchlight beam.

A short distance off, Mountjoy was about to pick up the gun. The pain of the pellet wounds must have been severe, because in the act of bending his back he gave a groan and stopped before completing the movement. He was forced to go down on one knee.

Diamond was up and charging at hm as the hand groped for the revolver. Mountjoy succeeded in picking it up and partially turning before Diamond flung himself into a diving tackle that crunched into the convict’s ribs, bowling him over like a tenpin, still holding the gun. He was no sharpshooter. He’d missed his opportunity. Diamond flattened him to the floor, gripped his wrists with both hands and hammered them against the boards until his grip loosened and the gun slipped free and out of reach.

Mountjoy gave up resisting.

“As far as you and I are concerned, that cleans the slate,” said Diamond. He reached for the gun and held it against Mountjoy’s head. “Where’s Samantha?”

No answer.

“If you’ve harmed her…”

“No,” said Mountjoy, responding to a jab from the gun. “She’s all right. Get off me, will you?”

“Where?”

“Over there, behind the big tank.”

“Where’s that?”

The big tank could have been anywhere. The searchlight had shifted again.

“Just a few feet away.”

“Lead me to her,” said Diamon. “You’re sure she’s all right? Why hasn’t she said anything?”

“She’s gagged.”

He eased himself off, allowing Mountjoy to get to his knees, groaning. It seemed unlikely at this stage that he was capable of counterattacking, but the gun was a wise safeguard. He kept it pressed against the sore back, ignoring the wincing and groaning while Mount joy got himself upright and started stumbling over joists and pipes. He reached what was evidently the cold water tank and edged around it to the far side, sliding his hands along the surface.

“Here. Careful. Don’t tread on her. There’s a torch down here somewhere.”

“I’d shoot you,” Diamond warned him. His senses were compensating for the dark. He could hear how close he was to Mountjoy and he was primed for any sudden movement. And he was conscious of the closeness of someone else, whether through body heat or scent he was not sure.

“Got it.”

The light came on and discovered a young girl lying face upward in the cavity between two of the joists. Her ankles and thighs were tied with white flex and her hands were strapped behind her back. A brown adhesive strip was across her mouth. One of her eyes was bloodshot and her forehead was bruised.

“It’s all right, love,” Diamond told her. “It’s over.”

Of the major players in the Empire Hotel drama, Diamond was the only one to take part in the final act. When the crucial interviews were conducted late that evening at Manvers Street Police Station, John Mountjoy was face down and naked in a treatment room at the Royal United Hospital having pellets of shot removed from his back and buttocks. Commander Warrilow and two armed officers were in attendance and the patient was in no doubt that if he made one false move he would require further treatment.

Samantha allowed her father to drive her home for a hot meal, a bath and a night between clean sheets in the family home. Exhausted as she was, she insisted that she would return to the squat the next day, although she conceded that busking was not in her plans.

After making statements about the firing of the shotgun, G.B. and Una were given a stern dressing-down by Keith Halliwell and told that a decision would be taken later about possible prosecution. This was something of a charade; they knew it wouldn’t happen. They left the police station before midnight.

In the room upstairs with the oval table and the portrait of the Queen, where the assignment had first been given to Diamond, the Chief Constable thanked him warmly for securing the safe release of Miss Tott and the recapture of Mountjoy.

“It’s what I undertook to do,” said Diamond, adding, after a pause, “… sir. I think I should address you in the proper manner now.”

“Er… really?”

“I mean, in view of our agreement.”

“That, yes,” Farr-Jones said vacantly.

“My part of the deal was to bring the siege to a peaceful end by midnight,” Diamond reminded him.

“True-although Mountjoy might argue with that.‘Peaceful’ isn’t the word I would use to describe the state of his end-his rear end.” Farr-Jones grinned like a shark.

“He’s alive, sir.”

“And kicking, I dare say.” Farr-Jones was in cracking form.

Diamond waited.

“Well, I can’t say I approve of everything you’ve said and done in the last couple of days, Diamond, but I certainly gave my word and I’ll see what I can do about getting you reinstated. You’re quite sure you want to resume your police career?”

“My CID career, sir.”