Peter Lovesey: The Summons

Farr-Jones nodded. “The Police Authority will be duly advised, then, with a recommendation from me. You acted bravely. We’re not ungrateful.”

Diamond grasped the firm, stubby hand that was extended.

Farr-Jones took the camaraderie a stage further by placing his left hand over Diamond’s right shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “What is more, you reeled him in without any nonsense.”

“Nonsense, sir?”

“About reopening the Britt Strand case.”

“Ah, that’s right, sir,” said Diamond smoothly and amiably. “There wasn’t any nonsense about it.”

This cheerful assurance dented the Chief Constable’s smile. “What exactly are you saying?”

“We cracked the case, DI Hargreaves and I. That’s why Mountjoy surrendered. I gave him a solemn promise to get a signed confession from the real killer of Britt Strand. Incontestable evidence. We need nothing less to get the original verdict overturned.”

Farr-Jones reddened ominously. “You’re not serious? The man’s in custody again. That particular case is closed as far as I’m concerned, and you, too, if you’ve got any sense at all.”

“It isn’t a question of my sense, sir. It’s about our sense of justice, isn’t it? Reopening the case may be damaging to my reputation, but it’s right that justice is done. I’m getting that confession tonight.”

“Like hell you are! Where from?”

“Here, sir. While we were in the spotlight at the hotel, Julie Hargreaves was quietly putting the final touches to our investigation. She’s one of your best detectives.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“But I don’t think you’re aware that earlier this evening she brought in a man for questioning.”

The Chief Constable’s eyebrows lifted like the Tower Bridge.

“He’s in an interview room downstairs and I understand he’s willing to make a statement.”

As if struck speechless, he mouthed the word “Who?”

“Jake Pinkerton.”

“The pop singer?”

“Producer, sir. His performance days are over.” The low-key style Diamond was employing was deceptive; secretly, he was savoring the Chief Constable’s appalled reaction. “Would you care to observe? I said I’d assist Julie. She seems to think my presence will be useful.”

Dressed this time in a pale blue tracksuit with reflective strips, Pinkerton was waiting in the interview room absorbed in pressing back the skin from his fingernails, giving a fair impression of nonchalance.

“He was at home, making phone calls,” Julie told Diamond.

“Have you said what it’s about?”

“I didn’t need to. It’s obvious someone has told him.”

“Has he put up his hand, then?”

“I doubt if he will,” she said. “But I think he’ll crack.”

In an adjoining room, the Chief Constable watched the interview through one-way glass.

“Mr. Pinkerton, I don’t believe in prolonging things,” Diamond said after the tape had been switched on and the usual preliminaries spoken by Julie. “When I interviewed you at your house the other day, you gave me some information about Miss Britt Strand, but you were selective.”

“I thought I was extremely frank,” said Pinkerton in a tone that made clear his intention to meet the challenge. “I told you we had it away. I said it was great while it lasted. What else do you want-the positions we liked best?” He winked at Julie.

Diamond didn’t mind brass; it was preferable to silence. “You said the affair lasted several months-into 1988. Is that right?”

“I told you this,” said Pinkerton with irritation.

“You also told me she drank whiskey straight.”

“And you said you heard she was TT, as if I was lying. But I wasn’t. She kicked the habit later.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Diamond agreed. “Everyone else I’ve asked about her drinking said she didn’t touch alcohol. You know damned well why I’m asking this, don’t you?”

“You tell me,” Pinkerton parried.

“First, let’s talk about the driving. We didn’t discuss her driving when we spoke. She was a driver when you met her, back in 1987, wasn’t she?”

He hesitated, pulling back from the table between them. “What’s behind this?”

Julie said, “Answer the question, Mr. Pinkerton.”

He shifted position in the chair. “Yes, she had a sports car, an MGB, red.”

“Good, we’re making progress now,” said Diamond. “Did you ever borrow it?”

“The MGB? No, I had wheels of my own. A Merc, I think, at that time. I’ve had so many.”

“I’m interested in Britt’s car,” said Diamond, choosing his words with care. He needed to trap Pinkerton into a lie, and this was his best opportunity. “She didn’t possess a car at the time of her death. Hadn’t driven for at least two years, according to people who knew her. I wonder what she did with the MGB?”

“Sold it, I expect.”

So that’s how you want to play it, Diamond thought. “No, she didn’t sell it. We checked the ownership. The car still officially belongs to Britt, four years after her death.”

“I can’t help,” said Pinkerton.

“You can. It’s in your possession, isn’t it?”

He tried to look mystified. “What do you mean?”

“We found it this evening, with a little help from your friends.” Diamond grinned. “Out at Conkwell in a shed in the wood behind the studio. Had you forgotten?”

Fingering the tab on the zip of his tracksuit, Pinkerton sighed and said, “Totally. It was so long ago.”

“We could see that from the weeds and things growing all over it,” Diamond agreed. “It’s definitely Britt’s car. How did it get there?”

“She must have asked me to look after it. Yes, I’m sure she did.”

“This was when you were having the affair with her?”

“Right on.” He sounded casual, but he was looking miserable.

Diamond tightened the screw. “Come on, Jake. The affair was over by the end of 1988. Why didn’t she collect her car?”

“Good question.”

“Answer it, then.”

Pinkerton ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. “The way she told it to me, she wanted it off the street. She had no garage for it. She saw I had this shed at Conkwell big enough to take a car, so she asked me if she could keep it there.”

“Not very convenient when she was living in Larkhall.”

“No.”

“So what happened? Did she ever use the car again?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did you?”

“I answered that already.”

“The reason I ask,” said Diamond, “is that the car is damaged. It shouldn’t be on the road in the condition it’s in. The nearside headlamp is shattered, the wing is badly dented and the bumper has been knocked out of shape.”

“So what’s the problem?” said Pinkerton, making a good attempt to seem untroubled. “It hasn’t been on the road.”

Diamond leaned forward and spoke companionably. “Jake, the problem is that you haven’t been giving me the whole truth. When she put the car in your shed, it wasn’t for convenience, it was to hide the damage, and you colluded with her. She failed to report an accident she caused. You must have seen the state of the car.”

He examined his fingernails again. “Yes.”

“It could have been repaired,” Diamond pointed out. “Why wasn’t it repaired?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Could the reason be that she was afraid the damage would be reported?”

“I can’t speak for her.”

“Speak for yourself, then,” said Diamond sharply. “That car has been sitting in your shed for six years. It’s worth a bit, an MGB. It should have been part of Britt’s estate.”

“I’m not into stealing motors, if that’s your drift,” said Pinkerton. “I never wanted the bloody thing.”