Питер Ловси - The Finisher

“No. She got away, but she was so traumatised that she went off the radar for days.” He checked himself. He didn’t need to tell Belinda’s story right now, even though her experience was vivid in his memory. “What interests me is why Pinto went back to Combe Down after the race was over. All most runners want to do is rest up.”

“He hadn’t exerted himself,” Jones said. “He could have run it much faster. It must have been the pull of the girl. He had unfinished business with her.”

“More than two hours after he’d lost contact with her? I find that unconvincing.”

“There is another explanation.”

“Okay.”

“He was under orders. Ivanov had instructed him to report there at a certain time.”

“That’s more likely,” Diamond said. “It explains why Ivanov was there — which would have been my next question.”

“Ivanov has no alibi. He was supposed to be in his office in the Sydney Place house dealing with business matters, but of course his wife was in the race, so she can’t vouch for him. He’s the killer. He’ll plead manslaughter, but we’ll be able to show it was premeditated.”

“How?”

“Phone evidence. My people are going through Pinto’s call history — and Ivanov’s — as we speak.”

“You’ve got it buttoned up, then,” Diamond said.

Jones prised himself out of the chair. “I know this is disappointing for you and your team, but it’s crime on a scale you could never have known about. We at ROCU have the advantage over you fellows working at the coal face, but we do appreciate the work being done locally. Do you play golf?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting you again some time. Incidentally, my name isn’t really Jones. One of these days when we’re both off duty I’ll tell you what it is.”

Diamond was tempted to say it was Smart-arse, but he refrained. Inside he was seething, but his contempt for the man and his tinpot theory mattered less than pushing ahead and really cracking this case.

Alone again at his desk, he gathered all the information he had about the Other Half — the race-pack information, sponsorship rules, description of the course, the coloured map, the list of finishers and times at all the checkpoints. He turned on his computer and went to the race website and studied the photographs the organisers had posted. He was trying to reconcile Pinto coming in after four hours when he should have got round in two or less. Even if he had lost time chasing after Belinda, he should have finished sooner. He was a fitness freak, for God’s sake.

There was a limit to the amount of time the head of CID was willing to spend poring over details. After twenty minutes he’d had enough, so he took everything into the incident room and asked the efficient DC Sharp if she’d completed her searches into Pinto’s race at each checkpoint.

“Almost, sir,” she said.

“‘Guv’ is what most of them call me,” he said. “What they call me behind my back I can’t tell you, but ‘guv’ sits better with me than ‘sir.’ What’s your problem with the checkpoints?”

“He keeps up with the rest until Dundas Aqueduct. You’d expect him to get there with some of the people who started at the same time and he does.”

“You showed me.”

“But then we lose him.”

“He ran off the course, we think.”

“Yes, and I’ve looked for him at the next checkpoint after the two tunnels, but he misses that. He must have rejoined the race towards the end.” On the wall beside her was pinned a large-scale 1:25,000 Ordnance Survey map of Bath on which she’d highlighted the entire half marathon course in yellow. She placed a fingertip on one of the southernmost points and moved it upwards. “Here’s the first tunnel. If he stayed above ground and went over Combe Down, he could have taken a short cut through Lyncombe Vale and cut out a large loop.”

The short cut was obvious when she showed it.

“And still taken four hours? It doesn’t make sense. Can you bring up the clip of him finishing?”

“This is the problem, guv. I’ve been through the footage any number of times and I haven’t found him.” She went back to her computer screen, found the video of the finish and used the pointer icon to accelerate the action. “The race time is shown at top right.”

“Okay. He finished in how long?”

“Four hours, twenty-three minutes, twenty-six seconds. He ought to be obvious.”

Runners in various states of exhaustion were crossing the line. He saw the ostrich with swollen legs go by. “Four hours, three minutes. That’s when I gave up myself and stopped watching. Move it on.”

After a few more plodded through, a sturdy, smiling blonde woman approached the finish with her arms going like piston-rods beneath conspicuous well-contained breasts.

“She’s walking,” Diamond said. “It’s Olga.” He couldn’t hold back a smile of his own. “Show me again.”

Exuberant, confident and with a touch of self-mockery, Olga crossed the line again.

“Back to work.”

DC Sharp stopped the action at 4:23:26. “This is where we should see Pinto, but we don’t.” In slow motion, she ran the film through the next few seconds. First, another fun-runner came through with a polyester Royal Crescent curved across his shoulders. “He’s got so much superstructure you can scarcely see the guy immediately behind, but you do get a glimpse on one frame. Here.”

She had stopped the film again and the head and shoulders of the second runner definitely didn’t belong to Tony Pinto and wasn’t anyone Diamond recognised. The height was about right, but the physique was heavier, the face broader, the mouth wider and the kit was different, the cap and T-shirt black. The time was correct at 4:23:26.

“Run it on a bit longer.”

She worked the mouse again. “I must have watched this fifty times over thinking I missed him. If you can see him, you’ve got X-ray eyes.”

“This is all I need,” he said.

She blushed. “Sorry, guv.”

“I was talking to myself, not you. You’ve done all you can and done it well. It’s up to me to make sense of this.”

That evening he took a taxi to Lyncombe. Paloma had promised to cook. An appetising aroma was drifting into the hall from the kitchen.

She looked him up and down. “How are you on your pins?”

“Fine. I could almost manage without the stick.”

“Don’t you dare. In that case, I’m going to ask a favour.”

“You left the veggies for me to do?”

She shook her head. “They’re done. It’s Hartley.”

“Oh?” He’d forgotten about Hartley. “You’re still in charge of him?”

“Yes, and he’s being a pest tonight. He’s so restless. I had to shut him in the office. He had his walk earlier but I think he may need another.”

“No problem.”

“Are you sure? He’ll pull on the lead.”

“He’s just a scrap. He’s not going to pull me over. What time are we eating?”

“Take as long as you like. It’s a beef and ale casserole in the slow cooker and I can serve it whenever we want.”

“I caught a whiff of something special as soon as you opened the door. You know what? I can tell you why Hartley is playing up. The smell is driving him crazy.”

“It’s not for him. As well as the ale there’s half a bottle of Rioja in it.”

“A drop of booze won’t hurt him.”

“Take him for his walk, Peter, and we can argue later.”

He collected Hartley and clipped on the lead. He was about to go out of the door when Paloma handed him a small plastic bag.

“What’s this for?”

“There speaks a cat owner. On your way, guys.”

It was an open question who was being taken for the walk. Hartley set off at a fast trot, helped by the downward slope, head down and ears almost brushing the pavement, straining to get to the limit of his retractable lead.