Питер Ловси - The Stone Wife

‘But are you familiar with his poetry?’

‘What I know of it, yes.’

‘In that case, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to help with the valediction.’ She took a sheet of paper from the glove compartment and handed it to him. ‘A few lines from the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales .’

Talk about being put on the spot.

Ingeborg, uncomfortable with this, said to Monica, ‘I didn’t know you were planning a ceremony. Tim agreed to show us the site of Chaucer’s house, nothing else.’

‘He’s a Chaucer scholar. It’s serendipity that he’s with us. He’ll do it beautifully.’

‘If that’s really what you want,’ Tim said. ‘I’d have worn my suit if I’d known.’

‘You couldn’t have dressed better than you have,’ Monica said. ‘What you’re wearing is ideal. John would have approved. And it isn’t meant to be a ceremony, but just a dignified farewell to my dear husband.’

So it was that after they had pulled up at the edge of the field and picked their way across the rutted ground to the area Tim pointed out, the four stood together with lowered heads. From across the field, the drone of motorway traffic was steady, but could almost be ignored in the intensity of the moment. This unmarked patch of ground was where the Chaucer house had once stood, where the Wife of Bath had been buried for centuries until the Victorians had unearthed her, and where John Gildersleeve had come with high hopes and been disappointed.

Monica ended the meditation by tugging at the lid of the urn and finding it too tight to open. She turned to Tim and passed the urn across.

‘Be an angel, would you?’

He looked uncomfortable.

Ingeborg was thinking this had the potential to be a disaster, but Tim managed to ease the lid away and keep the urn upright. Not a speck of ash was spilled. He returned it to Monica.

She said, ‘Now, Tim, if you would.’

He took the paper from his pocket and in a low voice started reading Chaucer’s words:

Tim’s voice was faltering. He stopped, his eyes welling with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go on.’ He thrust the paper into Ingeborg’s hand and took several steps away from the little group.

Emotion can get to people on occasions such as this. What could Ingeborg do, except take up the recitation? She intoned in a firmer voice than Tim’s:

She became aware as she was speaking that Monica was walking ahead, tipping the ashes at the same time.

Sister Erica waited for the urn to empty and said, ‘Amen.’ It was as good a way as any to bring an end to the proceedings.

Monica said, ‘Thank you, all of you. What happened to Tim?’

A needless question. In full sight of everyone, Tim was sprinting away across the field, not in the direction of the car, but towards the motorway.

Diamond would have a fit.

‘I must stop him,’ Ingeborg said, kicking off her shoes. If her innate sense of occasion hadn’t browbeaten her into reciting Chaucer, she would have grabbed Tim the moment he stepped away. As it was, he was at least thirty yards off already. And he was quick. Bats and hell came to mind.

So it was a sudden transition from the dignity of the scattering to a cross-country chase. Ingeborg prided herself on her fitness. She could run and now she had to. She could feel Diamond’s fury whipping her forward (‘You let him escape? Were you sleeping on the job?’). Striding over the ploughed ground, ignoring the pain of the occasional stone under her feet, she went flat out to try and reduce the advantage.

Tim was bolting like a panicking goat, but he wasn’t a natural runner. He glanced over his shoulder and the long, brown hair got in the way and he had to drag it against his neck. When he sighted Ingeborg, he lost his line and veered left. Then he almost tripped. He staggered several paces just to stay on his feet.

She cut across the angle and gained yards. Her left heel struck a flint and she cried out with the stab of pain, yet she kept going. Action like this was what she craved in all those dull hours in the office. Even so, she was more of a sprinter than a distance runner and she knew from experience she wouldn’t last a long run. She urged herself into another burst of top speed.

Steadily she cut the distance Tim was ahead.

He was slowing appreciably.

Ten yards.

Five.

Two.

She dived. It wasn’t quite a rugby tackle, but she managed to grasp the flapping gilet and halt his by now faltering progress. Tim flung out an arm and she ducked and felt it pass closely over her head. His balance was going. He toppled over and hit the mud and brought Ingeborg with him.

Gasping loudly for air, he tried to fight her off, but she was in the superior position, bearing down on him from behind. She grasped his right arm and yanked it upwards. Then she struck him above the elbow with a karate shuto — the knife hand — that she knew would disable him. She grabbed his other wrist, slammed it against the numb one and handcuffed him. His resistance hadn’t amounted to much and now it was at an end.

She hauled herself up and stood over him. She, too, was panting like a dog.

‘On your feet.’

Not easy when you are pinioned. He achieved a kneeling posture first, and then forced one exhausted leg forward and levered himself up.

Ingeborg looked across the field to where Monica and her sister were standing open-mouthed at what they had just witnessed.

She told Tim, ‘Let’s go.’ And the pair of them dragged their aching limbs across the ground to unite the party again.

Erica, a headmistress by temperament if not by appointment, handed Ingeborg her shoes and said, ‘You both need a good bath after that. What on earth was it about?’

It was too soon after the scattering to go into detail. Ingeborg simply said, ‘My boss said to make sure we all travelled back together.’

While more coffee was being served in the museum office, the next phase of the police operation was under way outside in Blake Street. George the driver had moved the Land Rover and trailer to a new position at a right angle to the kerb on the far side of the Carroll brothers’ van, effectively sealing the street.

As an extra safeguard, Diamond drove a screwdriver through the nearside front tyre of the van and enjoyed the sound of the air escaping. A screwdriver is a versatile tool. He scraped enough paint off the van’s bodywork to satisfy himself that it had been sprayed and was originally silver. Then he smashed the side window and let himself in. Finding the murder weapon was too much to hope for, but after a methodical search he located two plastic replica handguns taped against the sides of the seats. Both were Webley revolvers. He showed them to George.

‘They’re toys, aren’t they?’ George said.

‘Not when a hitman points one at you. You’d take them seriously then. Under the ASBO legislation, it’s an offence to carry replicas in public. I’m thinking these were used in the hold-up at the auction.’

‘Fired, you mean?’

‘No. It’s likely the killers had one working weapon between them. These were used to back up the threat.’

‘Where’s the murder weapon? Still hidden in the van?’