Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

‘You, too?’ he said. ‘Wigfull had a blast this morning and I had a basinful yesterday.’

Julie said she knew about his basinful because Ada had referred to him.

‘That’s a delicate way of phrasing it, Julie.’

She laughed. ‘We agreed on one or two things, Ada and I.’

‘Thanks.’

She said, ‘I don’t know if it crossed your mind, but when she was talking about this Rose or Rosamund, the woman who hasn’t been in touch, I couldn’t help comparing her description with the woman who was killed at the party.’

‘Really?’ The word was drained of all interest the way he spoke it.

‘Some of the details do compare,’ she pressed on. ‘The age, the colour and length of the hair, the slim figure.’

‘All that applies to thousands of women. Could easily be a description of you.’

‘Do you mind? I paid a bomb for these blonde highlights.’

‘You can’t deny it’s short.’ He made a pretence of swaying to ride a punch. ‘Fair enough, I was ignoring the highlights. They look, em, good value. Would you like your coffee topped up?’

She shook her blonde highlights.

‘A fresh one, then?’

Conscious that he had some fence-mending to do, he also offered to buy her a bun. When he returned with a tray and two mugs and set them on the table Julie had chosen, well away from the snooker game, she remarked, ‘I still think you ought to speak to Ada. One of the things she goes on about is that some man tried to grab her friend Rose outside the hostel and force her into a car.’

‘She told me.’

She mopped up some of the coffee he’d slopped on the tray. ‘Well, it isn’t a fantasy. It really happened. Remember a week or so ago, the morning we met at the Lilliput, I was late because of a German woman I had to take to the Tourist Information Office? That afternoon I was given a statement in English of what she said, and it turns out that she was a witness to this incident in Bathwick Street. She lives in the hostel and she happened to be right across the street when the bloke tried to snatch Rose.’

‘I didn’t say it was a fantasy, Julie.’

‘I’m just passing on my thoughts about Ada. I know it doesn’t interest you particularly, but she’s in a fair old state about her friend.’

He sighed. ‘Tell me something new, Julie.’

She wasn’t giving up. ‘Ada may be a chronic shoplifter, but she’s not stupid. If she thinks there’s something iffy about the woman who collected her friend, she may be right.’

He admitted as much with a shrug. ‘But it isn’t my job to investigate iffy women.’

Julie’s blue eyes locked with his. ‘You could take Ada down to the RUH and give her a sight of the corpse.’

‘What use would that be?’

‘Who knows – it could be her friend Rose in the chiller.’

‘No chance.’

‘Yes, but it might get Ada off your back.’

‘Now you’re talking.’A slow smile spread across his face. ‘What a neat idea.’

Ada was so stunned that she stopped speaking for about five seconds. When she restarted, it was to ask in a faltering voice for a drop of brandy. Most of the morning she had been sounding off to all and sundry that her friend could easily be dead by now. She was not expecting this early opportunity to find out. she said her legs were going.

She was guided to a chair and something alcoholic in a paper cup was placed in her plump, trembling hand. Peter Diamond, prepared to do a deal, told her gently that if she didn’t feel able to accompany him to the mortuary, nobody would insist. She could leave the police station and nobody would think any the worse of her – provided she stayed away in future. As for the likelihood of the dead woman turning out to be her friend, it was extremely remote. ‘A shot in the dark,’ he said – an unfortunate phrase that caused Ada to squeeze the cup and spill some of the drink. Hastily he went on to explain that he doubted if Rose, or Rosamund, last heard of returning to Hounslow with her stepsister, had come back to Bath and fallen off the roof of the Royal Crescent on Saturday night. There were just the similarities in description, all superficial, and the importance Ada herself attached to Rose’s well-being. If Ada cared to go through the points with him now, she would probably find some detail that didn’t match and save herself a harrowing experience.

He read the description to her. She asked for more brandy. A short while later, he drove her to the hospital.

From the back seat, Ada confided to him that she had never seen a dead person. ‘They said I could look at my poor old mother after she went, but I didn’t want to.’

‘You’re in the majority,’ he said. ‘I get queasy myself.’

‘But you’ve seen this one?’

‘Oh, yes. Looking very peaceful. You wouldn’t know she’d, em… Well, you wouldn’t know.’

She said in a shaky voice, ‘I want to tell you something, Mr Diamond.’

He leaned back in the seat, trying to be both a good driver and a good listener. ‘What’s that?’

She said huskily into his ear, ‘If this does turn out to be Rose, and you tossers could have saved her, I’ll push your face through the back of your neck and wee on your grave.’

The mortuary attendant was a woman. Diamond took her aside and asked if a chair could be provided for Ada. ‘The lady is nervous and if she passed out I doubt if you and I could hold her up between us.’

With Ada seated and shredding a tissue between her fingers, the trolley was wheeled out and the cover unzipped to reveal the features of the dead woman.

‘You may need to stand for a moment, my dear,’the attendant advised.

Ada got to her feet and glanced down at the face. She gave a gasp of recognition, said, ‘Strike a light!’ and passed out.

The chair collapsed with her.

He phoned Julie from the mortuary.

‘Was Ada any help?’ she asked.

‘She was, as it happens. She recognised the body. Gave her a real shock. She passed out, in fact. But it isn’t her friend. Not that friend. It’s someone else she knew from Harmer House, someone you’ve met, a German woman called Hildegarde.’

Julie Hargreaves was still at Manvers Street, at work on a computer keyboard, when Diamond looked in. She was logging her report on a phone call to Imogen Starr, the social worker responsible for Hildegarde Henkel, the woman who had fallen to her death at the Royal Crescent.

‘Aren’t you just kicking yourself?’ he said.

‘What for?’ she asked.

‘For not paying more attention to this woman when she tapped you on the arm that morning she appeared downstairs.’

‘She didn’t tap me on the arm, Mr Diamond. The desk sergeant asked me to help him out. I gave her all the attention I could considering she hardly spoke a word of English. I walked with her personally all the way to the Tourist Information Office and left her in the care of someone who did speak her language. If there’s something else I should have done, perhaps you’ll enlighten me.’

He muttered something about not going off the deep end and said he would need to take a close look at the statement, but he’d need some background first.

‘Can you give it to me in a nutshell?’ he asked. ‘I was supposed to be home early tonight.’

Barely containing her irritation, Julie said, ‘I could have a printout waiting on your desk tomorrow morning if you’re in that much of a hurry.’

‘I’ll have it now.’

She stared at the screen. ‘Well, she’s German, from Bonn. A drop-out from school who lost touch with her people. Got friendly with a young English guy working as an interpreter at the British Embassy and married him. Soon after, they moved to England. He turned out to be a fly-by-night and was away in a matter of weeks. This poor girl found herself jobless and without much knowledge of the language.’