Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

He started opening drawers and the contrast with the sights and smells he’d recoiled from in Daniel Gladstone’s cottage could not have been more complete. Everything from thick-knit sweaters to knickers and bras was arranged in layers and each drawer had its bag of sweet-smelling herbs in the front right-hand corner.

The room was conspicuously short of the personal documents that Hildegarde Henkel must have possessed: passport, wedding certificate and social security papers. Their absence tended to confirm his view that she had carried them in a handbag that some opportunist thief had picked up at the party in the Royal Crescent. He doubted if Ada had taken anything from the room. As far as he knew she never stole from individuals.

Anything of more than passing interest he threw on the immaculate bed. At the end of the exercise he had a photo of a dog, two books in German, a German/English dictionary, a packet of birth control pills, a set of wedding photos, a Walkman and a couple of Oasis tapes and a bar of chocolate. No suicide note, diary, address book, drugs. He scooped up the lot and replaced them in a drawer.

In sombre mood, he drove home.

Peter Diamond’s moods may have been uncertain to his colleagues, but his wife Stephanie reckoned he was transparent ninety-nine per cent of the time. This morning was the one per cent exception. His behaviour was totally out of character. After bringing her the tea that was her daily treat, he rolled back into bed and opened the Guardian instead of going for his shower and shave and starting the routine of grooming, dressing, eating and listening to the radio that he’d observed for years. When he finally put down the paper, he went for a bath. A bath. He simply didn’t take baths in the morning. There was never time. He preferred evenings after work, when he would linger for hours with a book, topping up the hot water from time to time by deft action with his big toe against the tap.

She tapped on the bathroom door. ‘Are you all right in there?’

‘Why? Are you waiting to come in?’ he called.

‘No, I’m only asking.’ She was more discreet than to mention his blood pressure. ‘As long as you know how the time is going.’

‘Sixty minutes an hour when I last heard.’

‘Sorry I spoke, my lord.’

She’d finished her breakfast and was on the point of going out when he came downstairs.

The sight of him still in his dressing-gown and slippers evoked a grim memory and her face creased in concern. ‘Peter, should you be telling me something? You haven’t resigned again?’

He smiled and reached for her hand. The two-year exile from the police had been a rough passage for them both. ‘No, love.’

‘And they haven’t…?’

‘Given me the old heave-ho? No. It’s just that I don’t have to go in first thing. I’m supposed to be down at the RUH.’

‘Oh?’ White-faced, she said, ‘Another appointment?’

‘A post-mortem.’

A moment of incomprehension, then, as the light dawned, ‘Oh.’

‘You know, Steph, it never occurred to me when we bought this place that it was just up the road from the hospital. When we lived on Wellsway I could say I’d been sitting in a line of traffic for ages and be believed. That little wrinkle isn’t much use now I live in Weston and can walk down to the mortuary in five minutes. If I want a reason for not showing up on time I’ve got to think of something smarter.’

‘And have you?’

‘I’m giving it my full attention.’

‘Do you really need to be there?’

‘Need? No. But it’s expected. This one is what we term a suspicious death. The pathologist points out anything worthy of note, and discusses it with CID. I’m supposed to take an active interest, or one of us on the case is.’

‘Isn’t there someone else, then? I mean, if you’re practically allergic, as we know you are…’

‘Not this time. I had a bit of a run-in with Julie last night.’

‘Oh, Pete!’

‘Can’t really ask her a favour. No, I’ll tough it out, but I don’t have to watch the whole performance, so long as I appear at some point with a good story.’ He rolled his eyes upwards, trying to conjure something up. ‘We could have a problem with the plumbing. Water all over the floor. Or the cat had kittens.’

‘A neutered male?’

‘Surprised us all. There’s no stopping Raffles.’

‘I’d think of something better if I were you.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as your wife, finally driven berserk, clobbering you with a rolling-pin. No one would find that hard to understand.’

Eventually he drove into the RUH about the time he judged the pathologist would be peeling off his rubber gloves. He parked in a space beside one of the police photographers, who had his window down and was smoking.

‘Taken your pictures, then?’ Diamond called out to him matily and got a nod. ‘Are they going to be long in there?’

‘Twenty minutes more, I reckon,’ came the heartening answer.

He made a slow performance of unwrapping an extra-strong peppermint. He thought he might listen to the latest news on Radio Bristol before getting out of the car, just (he told himself) to see if anything new had come up. Then they played a Beatles track and he had to listen to that.

Finally he got out and ambled towards the mortuary block just as the door opened and Jim Middleton, the senior histopathologist at the RUH, came out accompanied by – of all people – John Wigfull. Well, if Wigfull had represented the CID, so be it. He was welcome to attend as many autopsies as he wished.

Middleton, a Yorkshireman, still wearing his rubber apron, greeted Diamond with a mock salute. ‘Good to see you, Superintendent. Nice timing.’

‘Family crisis that I won’t go into,’ Diamond said in a well-rehearsed phrase. ‘Why do they always blow up at the most awkward times? I dare say John can fill me in, unless there’s something unexpected I should hear about at once.’

‘Unexpected?’ Middleton shook his head. ‘The only thing you won’t have been expecting is that we switched the running order. I’ve just examined Mr Wigfull’s farmer. All done. Your young woman is next, which is why I said your timing was nice. We’re on in ten minutes or so, after I’ve had some fresh air.’

No one needed the fresh air more than Diamond. His eyes glazed over. ‘I had a message that it was to be eight-thirty.’

‘I know, and we were ready to go, but we didn’t like to start without anyone from CID. Isn’t it fortunate that Chief-Inspector Wigfull phoned in to find out what time he would be needed for the farmer? “As soon as you can get here,” I told him.’

Wigfull didn’t actually smirk. He didn’t need to.

There was no ducking it now. In a short time, Diamond stood numbly in attendance in the post-mortem room with a scenes of crime officer, two photographers and a number of medical students. First the photographs were taken as each item of Hildegarde Henkel’s clothing was removed. It was a slow process. A continuous record had to be provided.

Jim Middleton clearly regarded all this as wearisome and unconnected with his medical expertise, so he filled the gaps with conversation about the previous autopsy. ‘Poor old sod, lying dead that long. It’s a sad comment on our times that anyone can be left for up to a week and nobody knows or cares.’

He stepped forward and loosened the dead woman’s left shoe and removed it. The sock inside was as clean as the other. ‘Double bow, securely tied. Yes, he was far from fresh. An interesting suicide, though. I don’t think I’ve heard of a case where the gun is fired from under the chin. A shotgun, I mean. All the cases I’ve seen, they either put the muzzle against the forehead or in the mouth.’