Peter Lovesey - The Last Detective

If Diamond's thoughts had really taken on aesthetic overtones (which is doubtful), they must have been galvanized by the sight of Andy Coventry crouching down on the floor among the columns at the far end.

Diamond froze, undecided whether to go down there. Coventry hadn't looked up; he was absorbed in whatever he was doing.

The right course, Diamond decided, was to watch and wait. He backed away, out of Coventry's sight, up a flight of stairs that led to the toilets.

There was an interval of two or three minutes when nothing happened; then the scrunch of shoes on the gritty under-floor of the hypocaust, followed by the sound of Coventry hoisting himself back on to the walkway; and brisk steps as he returned to the Great Bath.

Peter Diamond was down the steps and over the barrier before the drumming of the footsteps had ceased. With agility born of urgency, he sidestepped between the columns until he came to the place where he had seen Coventry. As he had anticipated, there was a cavity near one of the vents to the flue. He knelt, put his hand inside and touched something most unlike a Roman relic. It was soft, smooth and light in weight.

He lifted it out – a plastic bag containing a white, glittering substance.

In appearance it was identical to the cocaine he had found in the bag of flour in Jackman's kitchen. He felt inside the cavity again and located similar bags, stacks of them, too many to remove now.

As a hiding place for drugs, the hypocaust had advantages. Unlike much of the site, it was dry. The cavity was masked by one of the brick columns, and nobody had reason to look there, because this section of the Baths had been comprehensively excavated. The public were kept well back behind the plexiglass. Yet it was neutral ground that Andy Coventry could visit twice-weekly without fear of being seen. Whether collecting or depositing, he could carry the stuff in and out of the building in his sports-bag. And who in his right mind in the Avon and Somerset Drugs Squad would suggest the Roman Baths for a bust?

Diamond stood up. The immediate problem was what to do about it. He was entitled to make a citizen's arrest. But was that the wisest course of action? Ideally he wanted to question the man about the murder. Drug-dealing was dangerous and despicable and Coventry would take the rap for it, but not immediately.

Then the lights went out.

This part of the building had no windows. It was pitch-black. Diamond reached out to steady himself. He didn't want to blunder into those columns of bricks and lose his balance. His first thought was that the lights had been routinely switched off now that the place was officially closed.

His second thought was more alarming, prompted by a sound somewhere ahead like the scuffing of a shoe on limestone grit. Of course it might simply have been a fragment of stone dislodged by some natural means. He doubted that. Suppose Coventry had returned and spotted him at the hiding place. Suppose he had deliberately cut the lights.

It wasn't wise to remain where he was.

There was no question of finding a way through the hypocaust. He would have to edge along the back wall like a spider trapped in a sink. Tentatively he slid his hand along the surface, put out a foot and shifted his weight sideways. He paused, listened, heard nothing, and repeated the move, this time finding one of the columns in his way. Still with his palms flat to the wall, he edged around the obstruction, intent on putting as much distance as possible between himself and the cavity where the drugs were hidden.

By this means he negotiated three more columns. He was feeling his way around a fourth when he heard a scrunch from the far side. No doubt about it: someone had climbed down from the walkway and let himself on to the gritty surface of the underfloor.

A voice, definitely Coventry's, called out, 'I know you're there, fatso.'

Diamond made no response. Remaining still and silent was the best way to limit the damage.

Coventry was on the move. The steps were quick and even. Either he was willing to risk skinning his knees on the columns of the hypocaust, or he knew the layout perfectly.

It was a test of nerve. Diamond waited, tense and poised to defend himself.

Coventry was heading for the place where the drugs were hidden. He must have moved right along one of the aisles between the columns, because he didn't falter. Only when he reached the wall did he stop.

There was a short silence. Then Coventry spoke up again. 'All right, you bastard, let's see where you are.' With that, a cigarette-lighter flamed.

He held it at arm's length and moved it in a wide arc, casting long shadows across the floor of the hypocaust. Inevitably, the flame picked out Diamond.

The triathlon was Coventry's sport, but he could certainly have made a success of all-in wrestling. He came at Diamond as if he'd just rebounded off the ropes. The lighter went out – too late to be of help to Diamond, who stepped back to avert the force of the charge, and fell. A brick column that had endured for two thousand years was flattened under his bulk. On a reflex learned in rugby scrums, he brought his knees and arms to his chest and swung his body hard to the right. He felt a searing pain in his side as he was crushed against the debris. One of his ribs had snapped. Using the leverage of his thighs, he succeeded in forcing the man aside and followed it up with a jab with the elbow that made contact with yielding flesh.

The pain in his side was severe. In a hand-to-hand fight, he wasn't going to last long. He groped in the darkness and made contact with another of the columns. Blessedly, it took the strain. He hauled himself on to his haunches. Then something hard hit his head.

Coventry must have picked up a brick and swung it wildly. The full force would have brained Peter Diamond. Instead, it scraped down the side of his skull, raking the skin just behind his right ear, and sank into the muscle tissue of his shoulder. He staggered, held on to the column, and lurched forward. His shoulder went numb.

Andy Coventry meant to kill him.

He was upright and moving between the columns with no idea which direction he was taking, except that it had to be away from his assailant. The darkness was absolute. Heightened by the deprivation, his other senses gave him a vivid animal awareness. The dank, dead smell of the stones filled his nostrils. The chill ripped through his flesh. The crunch of his steps resounded from the roof and walls. This was the blind rush of the hunted. He didn't care if he transformed the hypocaust into a heap of rubble, so long as he survived. Taking huge, audible gasps, he stumbled through the black void, hands outstretched.

And stopped.

His hands were flat against a smooth surface which had to be the plexiglass side of the walkway. Reaching up, he found it impossible to make contact with the rail, so he worked his way to the left until a stone obstruction stopped him. The wall again. Behind him, he could hear the crunch of Coventry's steps.

He reached up with his right hand to see if there was any chance of scaling the wall, and got an agonizing reminder of the injury to his rib. Using the left hand instead, he discovered a ledge about three feet above the ground. He got his knees up to the level and hauled himself higher. A second step now presented itself. Laboriously, he scrambled up, made contact with the plexiglass again and then – mercifully – the rail of the walkway. He got his legs over and felt the flat rubber surface under his feet. Now he could discern a faint gray light. Daylight. He staggered towards it, conscious that Coventry must reach the walkway at any moment.

The Great Bath was ahead. There, common sense argued, he would be safe from further attack. Coventry could hardly carry on the fight in front of his students.