Peter Lovesey - The Vault

Sturr straightened in his chair, as if ready to take issue, but Diamond had more to say.

"Sadly, it's always been a risk sending children out to play." His eyes locked with the Councillor's, slipped away and came back to him. "I get weary of people telling me life was so much safer in the old days."

A silver-haired man lower down the table said, "I remember Straffen. Wasn't he saved from the gallows?"

Diamond nodded. "He was found insane and committed to Broadmoor. Six months later he escaped and killed another child."

The Chairman cleared his throat noisily and asked if anyone else had an observation on the Police Report. Wigfull, ever the ambassador, spoke of the success of Operation Bumblebee, the clampdown on burglary. Another initiative, Operation Vulture, had also helped to reduce crime. Diamond was glad it was Wigfull giving the spiel. Personally, he rued the day when the image-makers had been let in to package police work. They made his job sound like something out of a Batman comic.

Others wanted their say now, and the sooner they spoke up and shut up, the better, Diamond thought. He disliked the self-congratulation that lurked around the table. We are sitting down with senior policemen, so we must be upright citizens.

It all reached a merciful end at 9.45 p.m. He got up to go and found Sturr at his side. The man reeked of aftershave.

"You really shot me down in flames with your child-murderer, Superintendent," he said. "I asked for it. I laid it on a bit thick."

Diamond took this as a peace offering. "You only repeated what most people say. I hear it so often that I like to put the contrary view sometimes. Devil's advocate."

"Have you got a minute to spare?" Sturr gestured to Diamond to follow him.

Irksome as it was to follow a beckoning finger, curiosity prevailed. And there was some satisfaction in seeing John Wigfull taking this in with his cow-like stare.

The next room was in darkness, the building having closed to the public some hours before. Sturr felt for the light-switch and Diamond saw that they were in a small annexe that served as an extra gallery. About twenty pictures were displayed there, white-mounted in silver frames.

"Take your time," said the councillor, as if there was something to be done.

It had to be an inspection of the pictures. Dutifully, Diamond made a circuit, pausing briefly at intervals. Picture galleries were rarely on his itinerary. To his eye, the works on display were pretty similar, brownish and indistinct. In some cases, the artists had left patches unpainted. Was a picture finished if the paper showed through? He dredged deep for something positive to say. "Unusual."

"I thought you wouldn't want to miss these," said Sturr. A charged quality had entered his voice, "They belong to me, you know. Early English watercolours. I loaned them to the city for two months. DeWint, Cotman, Girtin-they're all here. The plums of my collection."

"Must be worth a bomb," Diamond was moved to say.

"You'd be surprised at the prices I paid. I study the art market and look out for bargains. I wanted you to see that I'm not the philistine some people take me for. I have a degree in chemistry. I have a respect for the arts as well."

Diamond thought he had better demonstrate some respect of his own. One of the paintings, at least, had something other than a few wretched sheep huddled under trees. "I like that blueish one with the dark figure moving across the icy background."

"The Blake? Yes, I'm particularly pleased to own that. We have to say 'attributed to…' because it isn't signed and isn't listed in the catalogues of his work. It doesn't even have a title, but I say it's definitely a Blake, and several experts agree with me. The stylistic features are unmistakable. Are you familiar with Blake's work?"

Occasionally, Diamond's grammar school cramming came to his aid. "The Tyger?"

"I was speaking of his art," said Sturr. "The fluidity of his line. The power of the images. His figures, whether mythical or human, are instantly recognizable."

Diamond went closer to the picture. "Who's this then?"

"I meant recognizable as the work of Blake."

"Got you." He would still have liked to know what it was about, the tall, shabby, long-haired figure striding through a desolate landscape of snow-covered rocks.

The councillor explained, "Mythological, I'd say. The figure doesn't look entirely human to me. Blake was haunted by visions, of course. Oh, yes, there's no question that he painted it.

Superintendent, you're a connoisseur. You picked out the pearl of this little exhibition. It's the only Blake I possess. He produced an enormous amount, but much of his work was engraving, and I only go in for watercolours. Mine is one of the best private collections in the country and I want to share it with people."

"Great art belongs to the world."

"My sentiments exactly. We could get on well, you and I," said Sturr. "So what's your real opinion. Off the record, aren't our streets more dangerous than they used to be?"

Whatever he privately believed, Diamond was not admitting it to this man, fellow connoisseur or not. "It's swings and roundabouts," he said. "If you're talking about streets, the chance of being killed by a car was higher when we were kids than it is today."

"Don't give me that. There are far more cars on the road."

"Far fewer deaths, though. If you don't believe me, check it out."

"Are you responsible for traffic?"

"No, sir. I investigate murder, when it happens."

"And how often is that?"

"Often enough to keep me in employment."

"Are you working on a case right now?"

Diamond smiled. "No, I'm looking at pictures."

"You can't be all that busy, if they let you have an evening off." Councillor Sturr had not got elected for being tactful.

"I'm working on a case from a long way back," said Diamond, "when the world was supposed to be a safer place." He was not known for his tact either. And this had not been an evening off.

THAT NIGHT, IN THE privacy of their suite at the Royal Crescent Hotel, Joe Dougan came clean with Donna.

"Want to see something special?"

Donna had just showered and changed into her nightdress. Her eyes, usually so expressionless, widened and sparkled. "Why, have you brought a friend?" she teased him, loosening her hair. Then she noticed he was holding out a book, one of many he had carried away in triumph from Hay-on-Wye the previous week.

"Jeez, Joe, it's bedtime."

"You don't have to read it."

She had no desire to handle a book so old that its binding was turning to a reddish powder. "What is it?"

"The Poetical Works of John Milton."

"Terrific."

Ignoring the sarcasm, he said, "Yes, I happen to agree with you. It is terrific."

An argument at bedtime is not conducive to sleep or anything else. In a change of tone, Donna asked, "Is it the first edition?"

"Lord, no. A Milton first edition would be more than our joint savings, and that's if you could find one. No, this little baby dates from 1810. Dr Johnson's edition."

"Uhuh?"

"I got it for twenty pounds."

"Are you sure you didn't get rooked? It's not in very good condition."

"Showing signs of use, I'd say," said Joe, undeterred.

"Don't you have a clean copy of Milton back home?"

"I have three. The point about this one is… Well, I guess I should have told you before now. Take a look."

Donna said. "If you don't mind, Joe, I'd rather not. I don't want to wash my hands again."

He sighed. "I'll hold it for you." With an air of ceremony, he held it for Donna to see. The front cover was a greyish board. In the top right-hand corner, someone had inscribed in ink that had faded almost to yellow: