Peter Lovesey: The Summons

“You didn’t want it known that you conspired with her to conceal an accident.”

After a pause, he said, “Is that what this is about?”

“That’s why you did nothing, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?”

Pinkerton looked away.

This time, Julie followed up. “You saw the state of the car. You must have asked her how it was damaged and she must have told you.”

Still no response.

“Tell us exactly what she said. At this point,” she added, “we’re looking to you for cooperation.”

Pinkerton was bright enough to recognize a hint. He glanced toward Diamond, then back to Julie, knowing that they wouldn’t offer a no-prosecution deal while the tape was running. They sat like two Sphinxes.

He talked. “Britt came to my house in Monkton Coombe one night, late. She was in a state. She’d been working on a story, as she put it, out at Warminster, and she’d had a liquid lunch.”

“When was this?” said Julie.

“I was working on the Sons of Slade album, so it must have been 1988. October,‘88.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Yes. She told me she’d been well over the limit when she started for home and she got on the wrong road and found she was heading for Westbury, instead of Bath. It wasn’t too serious because she knew the way back through Trowbridge. But then she noticed a police car in her mirror and she got the idea he was following her. She knew damn well if she was Breathalyzed, she’d lose her license. To shake him off, she left the main road, and then lost her way altogether in the lanes. It was already starting to get dark, so I guess it was around five by then. As she told me, she was driving through a village when a pedestrian stepped into the road suddenly. Britt swerved, but couldn’t avoid hitting the person and tipping them over, as she put it. The car scraped against a drystone wall, but she held on to the wheel and got it under control again and kept going.”

“Kept going. She’d hit this person and didn’t stop?”

“Right.”

“Man? Woman?”

“She didn’t say. She didn’t actually drive over them, and she was braking when she hit them, so she thought they couldn’t be seriously hurt. But if the shunt was reported, she could be in real trouble. She couldn’t leave the motor in the street outside the house. She had to get it out of sight. She came to me asking for help, so I said she could keep the motor there, at least until the incident was forgotten and she could get the damned thing repaired and back on the road again.”

“And she never did,” said Diamond.

“That’s right.”

“Did you hear any more about the accident?” Julie asked.

“She never mentioned anything to me.”

Diamond said, “Didn’t you bring it up? I mean, you had her car sitting in your shed long after you split up with her.”

Pinkerton gave a shrug. “You’re going to find this hard to believe, but it’s true. I forgot all about the thing. My business was expanding. I was being given new bands almost every month, creating sensational new sounds. Bloody snowed under.”

“You’re quite sure she didn’t discuss the accident again?”

“Not with me. It was a sensitive area. I mean, she cut out the booze completely, and we both knew why. And as far as I know, she stopped driving.”

“The way you described it when I interviewed you last time was different. You led me to believe that you hadn’t the foggiest idea why she gave up.”

He shook his head ruefully. “Give me a break, man. I didn’t want to get involved.”

“We’re investigating a murder, and you ask me to give you a break?” Diamond piped. “You’ve withheld evidence, put me in risk of my life, and you ask me to give you a break? You’re joking. And I’m not satisfied with your answers. I don’t believe you forgot about the car’s existence.”

“It’s gospel truth,” insisted Pinkerton.

“It’s bullshit. When she was murdered, and there was all the stuff in the papers, you must have thought of the car.”

He rubbed his face.

“Out with it,” said Diamond.

He sighed. “Okay-I kept quiet about the motor. I’m bloody well-known in the biz, Mr. Diamond, much bigger than you realize. As it was, I had the press on to me asking questions about my relationship with Britt. I said it was over, history, and that was the truth. If they’d known I still had her car, they’d have put the knife in, and so would you. No one would have believed we broke up.”

“You told me when we spoke before that you kept in touch with her. Was that correct?”

“Sure. We stayed friends.”

“And she never mentioned the accident or the car?”

“I told you it was a sensitive area.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“About three weeks before she died. In Milsom Street, by chance. She was alone, shopping.”

“What was said?”

“Nothing much. We got up to date. I gave her the dope on the bands I was working with and she talked about the magazines she was in. That’s all. Just a few minutes in the street.”

“Did you speak on the phone after that?”

“No. It was definitely the last time. I’ve told you everything now, honest to God.”

“What was the point of all that?” Farr-Jones demanded in an irritated tone. “I was led to believe you were about to extract a confession of murder.”

“Murder? No. Vital information, yes,” said Diamond.

“Hearsay, most of it.”

“True,” he conceded.

“He did admit to keeping the car hidden,” said Julie. “He conspired with her to withhold evidence.”

“You’re not seriously proposing to charge him with that?” said Farr-Jones. “I’ve had a very long day, you know, and it’s late. Personally, I’m adjourning until tomorrow.”

“Right, sir,” said Diamond mildly. “What time would you care to see us?”

“Is there any more to discuss?”

“Some clearing up.”

“Eleven o’clock, then.” The thought of another day made Farr-Jones yawn.

“Fine,” said Diamond. “Outside the church?”

“Which church? It isn’t Sunday, is it?”

“Steeple Ashton.”

“Whatever for?”

When Farr-Jones had left, Diamond shook his head slowly. “He’s had a very long day. Doesn’t it bring tears to your eyes, Julie?”

By one of those contradictions that enhance the charm of the English countryside, the parish church at Steeple Ashton has no steeple. A storm removed it in 1670. The tower survived and dominated the village and the landscape north of Westbury Hill, for even in its truncated form St. Mary’s is a tall church. Knobbly pinnacles in profusion compensate for the lack of a steeple, and, if anything, the building looks over-ostentatious rather than incomplete. The lavishness of the decoration is a testimony to the profits of the wool trade in medieval Wiltshire and curiously most of the gargoyles carved on its hood molds and battlements have the chunky character of knitted toys.

All this was lost on the group of senior policemen stamping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands while they stood under the south porch like mourners waiting to line up behind a coffin. A hard frost had whitened the churchyard and a sharp east wind was blowing.

Precisely as the hour of eleven showed on the blue and gold dial of the church clock, Peter Diamond and Julie Hargreaves came around the side of the building.

“Good day to you, gentlemen. Is everyone here?”

It was a gratifying turnout. As well as Farr-Jones and Tott, there were John Wigfull, Keith Halliwell and a pair of uniformed inspectors who had earlier been assigned to Commander Warrilow. The latter, to everyone’s relief, had returned in triumph to the Isle of Wight the same morning with his patched-up prisoner.