Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

Wigfull’s brown eyes widened. ‘Peter, you’re talking murder now.’

‘I didn’t say the word.’

‘You were about to.’

‘Hold on,’ said Diamond, deliberately playing down the obvious. ‘The second person could have been trying to prevent the victim jumping off. It could have been a rescue attempt that didn’t succeed.’

Wigfull was unconvinced. ‘Why would the rescuer want to get rid of the shoe?’

Diamond didn’t offer a theory.

‘The only certain thing,’ said Wigfull, ‘is that she fell to her death – or was pushed.’

‘No, there is another certain thing, and that’s that her shoe is missing.’

‘Quite true, and that’s difficult to reconcile with a rescue attempt.’

‘Agreed.’

Diamond, forceful by reputation, was rather relishing this softly-softly approach with his old antagonist. He wasn’t going to thump the desk and say this stood out as a case of murder.

Wigfull said, ‘Do you really think someone else is involved?’

‘Allowing that the shoe went missing, yes. Otherwise, where is it?’

Wigfull sank back into his chair and said with an air of martyrdom, ‘God, why didn’t I ask you to take on the student?’

‘I offered.’

‘I know. You’re saying because the shoe is missing someone else must be involved. What do they gain from disposing of the shoe? What are they worried about? Prints? Fibres?’

‘You know what forensic say: every contact leaves its traces.’

‘Which makes murder a strong bet. But why? Why attack her at all?’

Diamond spread his hands wide, like Moses arriving at the Promised Land. ‘That’s all to be discovered.’

‘You don’t even know the victim’s name. Is anyone reported missing?’

‘What time is it?’ asked Diamond.

‘Two-thirty.’

‘Most of that crowd who were partying last night will be scarcely out of bed. And when they are, a lot of them won’t know whose bed it is. To expect them to notice someone is missing is asking a lot, John.’

‘What was she like, this woman?’

‘Mid-twenties. Dark, with shortish hair. Average height and build. Brown eyes. Dressed for an evening out, in a pink sweater and black jeans.’

‘White socks and one Reebok trainer,’ Wigfull made a point of completing it for him. He liked his reputation as a stickler for detail.

‘She was seen at the party sitting on the stairs with some bruiser in a leather jacket.’

‘And he hasn’t come forward?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Is that the best description you’ve got?’

‘Of the victim? I could do better. I could circulate a picture if we’re serious about murder. This is what I wanted to talk to you about. Unless she’s identified, the post-mortem will have to be delayed, just like it is for your farmer. I’m about to put out a press statement asking for information. Do you want a hand in it?’

Wigfull sighed. If he’d known this unexplained death would shape up as a murder inquiry, he’d have grabbed it for himself. Now that he’d handed the job to Diamond, the official head of the murder squad, he could hardly claim it back.

He conceded bleakly, ‘This one is yours.’

At his own desk Diamond cleared a space with a swimmer’s movement and started drafting the press release, a task he would have handed to Julie if she were not still at the Crescent. Julie was good with words – only she was also a model of tact, the ideal person to have in charge at the scene of the incident, keeping the tenants from getting stroppy. She’d radioed in to say that the sweep through the house was complete. Nothing of obvious significance had been found, certainly no Reebok trainer.

He had radioed back and ordered a search of the building, a specific search this time, for the missing trainer. Yes, a search, he emphasised to Julie. A different exercise from the sweep. This time the team would open cupboards, look into drawers, between layers of bedding, under loose floorboards. When Julie pointed out that they had no search warrant, Diamond told her brusquely that a DI with her experience ought to have the personal authority to carry through an exercise like this. It wasn’t as if anyone was under suspicion of hiding drugs or stolen goods. It was a pesky shoe they were looking for. Julie, caught in the trap familiar to female police officers – the suggestion that they lack assertiveness – bit back her objections and went off to supervise the search.

The press release.

He wrote in his bold lettering, A woman aged between twenty-five and thirty died, apparently from a fall, at a party at number?? [He’d need to check the number again] The Royal Crescent, Bath, late on Saturday night. Police are anxious to identify the woman and trace witnesses who may have seen her before the incident. She was wearing… Then he looked up.

A sergeant had come through the open door, embarrassment writ large across his face. Before any words were spoken, the reason was clear. Apparent behind the sergeant, too large to be obscured by his merely average physique, followed Ada Shaftsbury.

The sergeant started saying, ‘Sir, I did my-’

Ada elbowed him aside and advanced on Diamond. This female lacked nothing in assertiveness. ‘Here he is, the original shrinking violet. Just who do you think you are -the Scarlet sodding Pimpernel? I spend half the day sitting on my butt waiting for a sight of you and you don’t even get up to shake hands. What are you afraid of- that I’ll get mine around your throat?’

Diamond had nothing personal against Ada. In small amounts, and at the right time, he enjoyed listening to her. As a senior officer, he had tried once or twice to stop her causing mayhem in the charge room and quickly came to appreciate her sharp humour and agile brain. Also the strong moral values that, ironically, many habitual criminals possess. Her morality happened to be a little out of kilter with the law, that was all. It allowed her to shoplift with impunity, but never to steal from individuals.

‘Ada, if I had the time…’ He waved the wretched sergeant away. ‘I can give you three minutes. It’s red alert here.’

‘It always bloody is,’ she said, tugging a revolving chair from the desk Julie used and sinking onto it with a force that would forever impair its spring mechanism. ‘I’ve waited all the frigging morning to see you, Mr Sexton bloody Blake, and now you’re going to listen. They asked me to make a written statement. What use is that? I know what happens to bits of paper in places like this. I’ve seen it.’

‘What’s your gripe, Ada?’ Diamond asked.

‘No gripe.’

‘Apart from being kept waiting.’

A brief smile escaped. ‘Well, that. I’m bothered something chronic about my friend, that’s the problem. I live in one of them social security hostels, Harmer House, up Bathwick Street. Do you know it?’

He gave a nod.

‘A couple of weeks ago – it was on the Wednesday – a social worker brought in this girl who’d lost her memory – all of her memory, up to when she was dumped in some private hospital grounds, with broken ribs, bruising, all the signs of an accident. She couldn’t remember a sodding thing, not even her name. Seeing that she wasn’t a paying patient, this hospital patched her up and passed her on to Social Services, which is how she came to us. She’s in your records. Your people photographed her and everything. Don’t know what you called her. She was Rose to us in the hostel. I shared a room with her.’

Diamond warned her, ‘I said three minutes, Ada.’

‘I’m keeping it short, Kojak. Rose was desperate to get her memory back and no one seemed to care. The best hope the hospital could hold out was sending her to a shrink, and she’d have to wait weeks – just to be made even more confused. Not bloody good enough, I said, and rolled up my sleeves and did something about it – what you lot should have been doing – tracking down the old lady who found her in the hospital grounds, and the car that brought her there and the toe-rags who knocked her down.’