Питер Ловси - The Stone Wife

‘They’ll have got rid of it unless they’re bigger idiots than I take them for.’

‘You’ve found your killer, then? Was it Wayne?’

‘They were in it together. They’ll all face a murder rap.’

‘Why? What was the point? Surely not to steal that old lump of stone?’

‘Tell you later,’ Diamond said. He’d spotted the flashing blues and twos at the end of the street. His request for back-up from Bridgwater police had been answered. It was time to interrupt the coffee drinkers.

Taunton police station with its interview facilities was the setting for Diamond’s face to face with Tim Carroll, now mostly cleaned up after the fracas in the field. Ingeborg (fully cleaned) sat beside Diamond. The duty solicitor was on the other side of the table with Tim.

‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to make a drama out of this,’ Diamond said to the prisoner after the preliminaries had been got through. ‘You’ve had a stressful time. Joining in the final rites of the man you killed was obviously a step too far. I can understand that.’ He’d found over the years that if you made an effort from the start to reach out to the suspect and understand his point of view, it helped, whoever you were interviewing.

Tim was admitting nothing, but there was a sign that he appreciated the show of sympathy. He pressed his lips together, parted them as if about to speak and then appeared to think better of it.

‘Let’s recap on your first involvement with Professor John Gildersleeve,’ Diamond went on. ‘You were a history student at Reading University, right? A first-year, October 1999 intake. I know you were because I’ve seen the list of undergraduates. You weren’t in Gildersleeve’s department, but as a historian you were offered a place on the dig at North Petherton he organised in the summer vacation. Good experience, you thought. How am I doing so far?’

Tim glanced at the solicitor, who was there to assist the man under arrest and see that he was treated fairly, but was learning the facts of the case as they unfolded. The lawyer simply raised his eyebrows as if to say that only Tim himself could judge how innocuous the information was.

Diamond didn’t wait for a response. ‘We both know what happened. The dig was no dig at all. It had already been dug. As the days went on and nothing was found, you students got discouraged and bored. Someone — and I suspect it was you — had brought cannabis with him and pretty soon Gildersleeve had a spaced-out team, in no condition to continue. It all ended in recrimination and bad odour. The professor was deeply scarred by the experience, more than any of you realised. He had never been too popular in the senior common room and now he became a laughing stock. As dean of the faculty, he felt entitled to respect.’

He paused — an opportunity for Tim to come back at him — but nothing was said. No sweat, he thought. Move on. You haven’t yet played your best cards.

‘When the new term started, you landed yourself deeply in trouble, dealing in cannabis. You were reported to the dean. This isn’t guesswork, Tim. I’ve checked with the university. It’s all documented in their files. You were sent down — for good.’

Tim blurted out, ‘He destroyed me. He didn’t give me a chance.’

The solicitor was quick to shush him.

Encouraged, Diamond said, ‘I’m sure it seemed harsh and still does, but you ought to realise the damage you’d already done to Gildersleeve’s self-esteem. In his mind, the failure of the Chaucer dig and the misconduct of the students were fused together in the same humiliating episode. Years later, he related it all to his new wife and she repeated it to me. He never forgot you. So when you came before him for dealing in drugs, he couldn’t avoid being influenced by what had happened in Somerset. It was a repeat offence as far as he was concerned. He expelled you, and no redress.’

Tim’s shoulders sagged, but he said nothing, locked in his own unhappy memories.

‘To your credit, you came back to Somerset, where you lived, and rebuilt your life. You got a job at the arts centre in Bridgwater. The interest in history hadn’t been knocked out of you. You joined the local archaeological society and took an interest in the early history of the area. They thought well of you. Unfortunately, when the economy went belly up you lost your job like everyone else. You worked for your brother instead, clearing houses. You’re not going to deny any of this because you told me about it yourself.’

‘That’s true,’ Tim said. The exchanges were still civil: a good sign.

‘And although it was a comedown compared to what you might have achieved as a university graduate, you had one remarkable success. Down in the basement of the arts centre, you found the Wife of Bath sculpture and recognised it for what it was. A personal triumph, that, and a sweet revenge, finding a major medieval carving with a direct link to Chaucer that probably had been recovered originally from the Chaucer house in Parker’s Field. You were so proud of the find that you took me down there and showed me the empty space where you first spotted the thing.’

‘You asked to see it,’ Tim pointed out.

‘You’re absolutely right. I had an interest. You were very obliging. But let’s backtrack to the excitement of that discovery, a terrific boost to your self-confidence. The people in the museum and your archaeological society were impressed. Terrific — until the Blake Museum committee discovered what a valuable asset the stone wife was. They were running the place on a modest grant from the council and donations and now they had a chance to boost their income by thousands of pounds. I don’t suppose you approved—’

‘I didn’t,’ Tim couldn’t resist saying.

‘But you understood the economics. You couldn’t do anything to stop the sale. And then — to your horror — you learned that your old enemy John Gildersleeve was taking a strong interest and apparently had the funds to bid high at the auction. All the old wounds were opened. The thought that your find was about to fall into his hands was more than you could bear. You had to stop it and you had the means.’ Diamond paused and watched across the table.

The reaction came, even if it was unspoken. Alarm, if not panic, was all too obvious in Tim’s eyes.

‘We know that Gildersleeve was shot with a thirty-eight calibre bullet that was typically fired from a Webley — almost an antique in itself. I’m going to make a guess now, and it won’t be far out. Working at house clearances, as you do, I’m sure you come across plenty of things tucked away in old places. Some of the generation who served in the war hung on to their service revolvers until they passed on and then the guns lay in the loft or under the floorboards for professionals like you and your brothers to find when you cleared the house. Don’t worry. I don’t expect to find the murder weapon — if, indeed, the shooting was murder.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Tim said, keyed up and quick to react.

The solicitor said, ‘Careful now.’

The interview was fast approaching the critical point. ‘Do you want to explain?’ Diamond asked.

Tim hesitated, and then shook his head.

‘Three masked gunmen were involved in the attempted hold-up at the auction,’ Diamond continued, still willing to lay out the facts. ‘Those balaclava masks worked well. Fortunately, we had a helpful witness — a Miss Topham, from Brighton, known in the trade as the glass lady — and she was standing behind the one we called the first gunman before he pulled the balaclava on. His head was blocking her view and she noticed a few things about it. He had long dark hair going grey. The hair had refused to grow over a scar on the back of his neck described by Miss Topham as like a little crater on the moon. And there were no lobes to his ears. Now fast forward to this morning. We’re lifting the stone off the trailer, I’m next to your brother Wayne, and when he leans over the stone I get a good view of the back of his neck, the hair, the moon crater, the ears.’