Peter Lovesey - The House Sitter

“Hold it there,” Bellman said, his eyes never shifting from Diamond. They looked dead eyes. He, too, was in deep shock. This was a petrifying humiliation for him and he was dangerous. He’d believed himself invincible.

“The game is done, just as you wrote on the wall,” Diamond said with a huge effort to keep the same impassive tone, “and if you say you won, well who am I to argue? You outwitted the best brains in the Met and you had me on a string until a few minutes ago. I watched you arrive last night with your rucksack full of tools, and still I wasn’t smart enough to twig who you were, or what you were up to. OK, you didn’t get to your last location. That advertising board on Wellsway, wasn’t it? ‘Because of British Metal.’ Give me credit for working that out for myself. I don’t take much out of this. And now I’m asking you to call it quits.” He took a step towards the crossbow.

Bellman warned in an agitated cry, “Don’t move!”

But Diamond took another step, spreading his palms to show he was unarmed. This had become a contest of will power. “I’m going to ask you to hand me the crossbow, Ken. Then we’ll have a civilised talk, and you can tell me how you managed to achieve so much.”

“I won’t say it again!”

Diamond had taken three or four short steps and was almost level with the feet of one of the bodies. He said, “You know you’re not going to shoot now.”

Then the unexpected happened. There was a moan from one of the women and Bellman reacted. He swung the crossbow downwards and released the bolt.

In the same split second, Diamond threw himself forward and grabbed at the bow with both hands. The bolt missed Anna Walpurgis’s head by a fraction and hit the floor with a metallic sound, skidded towards the nearest corner and ricocheted off a couple of walls. Bellman let go of the bow and lurched backwards. The two ARU men hurled themselves on him.

Suddenly the room was full of noise and people. Hands gripped Diamond’s arms and hauled him upright. “Get to the women,” he said. “Are they all right?”

They were both alive. Their arms and legs were bound. Anna vomited when the straps came off her. Ingeborg said, “It’s the chloroform. He used it on both of us, several times.”

“But you’re OK?”

Anna said in a croak, “Thanks to you, Sparkle. Man oh man, that was bloody heroic!”

Ken Bellman was forced to wait twenty-four hours before having the satisfaction of telling his story to the chief investigating officers. Diamond needed to catch up on his sleep. Hen Mallin wanted to tie up another case before leaving Bognor. And Jimmy Barneston had been called urgently to the staff college at Bramshill.

A lot more happened in that twenty-four hours.

Anna Walpurgis, quickly and fully restored, moved out of Bennett Street and back into the Bath Spa Hotel. From there, she made a series of shopping trips, contributing handsomely to the economy of the city. As well as buying five new outfits for herself, she treated Ingeborg to a stunning red leather suit. And there was a present for Diamond: a widescreen TV and DVD player combined, with a disc of herself in concert. “Just so you don’t ever forget the broad whose life you saved, Pete.”

Red-faced, he thanked her.

Keith Halliwell’s skills as a home decorator were put to good use in Georgina’s house, repapering the wall the Mariner had defaced with the red marker. A team of professional cleaners went through the building, tidying up and restoring the place to inspection order.

In Bognor, Garth Trumpington was charged with the murder of Dr Emma Tysoe. His fingerprints matched those on the stolen car. A check with the duty roster at Wightview Sands car park showed he’d been in the kiosk when Emma arrived on the day of the murder and off duty at the time she was killed. He asked if he would get a lighter sentence if the court was told he hadn’t meant to strangle her. He claimed that the shoulderstrap of her bag got entangled around her neck and tightened while he was struggling with her. No one would venture an opinion on that one.

So it was early on Thursday afternoon when Ken Bellman and his solicitor were ushered into interview room two at Manvers Street, where Diamond, Hen and Barneston were already seated. The solicitor’s presence was only a formality. One glance at Bellman told them he was as eager as the Ancient Mariner himself to tell his story, all they wanted to know, and much they didn’t. He’d been caught with the murder weapon in his hands and made no attempt to conceal his guilt. He intended to justify his actions now. Nothing would stop him. The glittering eye was all too apparent . The Mariner hath his will.

“None of this would have happened if British Metal hadn’t pulled the rug from under my research project,” he said with control, taking his time. “The work I was doing up at Liverpool won’t mean much to anyone who isn’t in electronics, but it was the culmination of years of study. All I wanted was the chance to get on with my project. It was my purpose in life. I got up every day eager to do more.” He paused to register the impact of the outrage against him. “Imagine how I felt when I was told by the head of department that I’d lost my funding through no fault of my own. There was no appeal, and no other possibility of finding another sponsor. I was out. Overnight. Later, I was told about this woman Anna Walpurgis being the new broom at British Metal and wanting to make sure the sponsorship money brought a return for the company. Sickening.”

“Did you try for some funding from anywhere else?” Hen asked.

“Wasted a month and a hell of a lot of energy writing to other firms. ‘We’re fully committed for the next eighteen months.’ ‘We regret to say we’re cutting back on sponsorship because of the economic downturn in our industry.’ Blah, blah, blah. I gave up and came south and got a job in London. What a comedown.”

“In electronics?”

“A security firm installing anti-theft systems.”

“This was in central London?” Diamond put in, understanding how it tied in.

“The head office is. They’re very big. I worked all over the south.”

“And I suppose they had the contract for Special Branch?”

He said with a superior smile, “You’re catching on. We won the contract to upgrade the security on all their properties. I designed the circuits. I had to be vetted, of course. They’re very sensitive about who they employ. But I’m cleaner than clean. I was given the top security rating.”

Jimmy Barneston muttered, “Bloody hell.” Special Branch had blamed him for their failings. He’d come here straight from a roasting by the Bramshill overlords.

“And that’s how I got to know the codes for all the latest safe houses. They came in useful when I wanted to spring Matthew Porter.”

Barneston’s eyes flickered keenly. “So you had all this planned from way back?”

“No, I only decided to get my revenge on British Metal when I saw an item on TV about them putting a huge amount of money into a film, something about upgrading an arthouse film into a blockbuster movie. That really got to me. I mean, my bursary was peanuts to what Summers was given for this crap film about a two-hundred year old poem . How does mankind benefit from that? These ponces who make films are burning up millions on things that add nothing to people’s knowledge. My work was important, and real, and I’m not bullshitting when I tell you it would have been a notable contribution to computer science. A few days later I saw in the paper that this kid Porter had been handed a fortune by British Metal just because he can roll a small white ball into a hole. I flipped. I’ve never been so angry in my life.”