Peter Lovesey - The Vault

Disappointing.

"What is it now?"

"Something new has come up, sir," Halliwell told him.

"Another stiff?"

"Not entirely."

"What do you mean-not entirely?"

"Not an entire body. We're talking parts. Some leg bones, a rib cage and a piece of an arm."

Bones. With an effort he made a mental switch to the case Halliwell was working on. "Not in the vault? We dug every inch of the vault."

"No. The River Wylye, near Warminster."

"That's Wiltshire."

"It's only a half-hour drive."

"It's not our patch."

"With respect, sir, killers don't work to county borders like us."

"What do you mean-'with respect'?" he rasped into the mouthpiece. "I'm not questioning whether the bones are worth checking out. I'm trying to work out how we got onto them. Are they still available for inspection?"

"At Chippenham. I've just been speaking to CID there."

"When you said a piece of an arm…"

"The radius."

"Come again."

"Radius. The long bone in the forearm. In my opinion…em, I wonder if you think it's worth comparing it with the hand we have, see if they join up at the wrist."

"It's a long shot, considering our bones were in the cellar nearly twenty years."

"These haven't just been found, sir. They were picked up in 1986 by some boys fishing."

"And this is the first we've heard of it?"

"It didn't get much attention at the time."

"It's going to get plenty now. When the press get to work on it, they'll tell us Frankenstein's monster is roaming the country ripping people apart. Get it organised, then," Diamond said mechanically, more interested in the way this came to light. "Was this your idea, Keith, checking old files?"

"I can't take the credit, sir."

"Don't depress me. You got it off a flaming computer."

"No. It's one-up to the human race. Someone had the bright idea of checking newspapers. They found this report in the files of the Wiltshire Times."

"Nice work. One of our rising stars in CID?"

"Actually it was a tip-off."

"Oh, yes? From a member of the public?"

"Not exactly." Halliwell's stonewalling was ominous.

A chill note of reserve crept into Diamond's voice. "Anyone I know?"

"You do know her actually. Ingeborg Smith."

Diamond sighed in a way that confirmed the inevitable. "Something else to put in the job application."

"She'd like to tell you about it herself. I told her if she looked in here again about five-thirty…"

"Thanks a bunch, Keith."

Muttering, he put down the phone and shifted his thoughts back to the immaculate home life of Peg Redbird. The address book Wigfull had found was helpful only in the sense that it contained about three hundred entries. Peg had not been short of contacts.

"We'd do just as well knocking on doors," he said. "What we want first is an itinerary of the last hours she was alive-the last day, in fact. The only information we have so far comes from Joe Dougan."

"And I wouldn't put any reliance on that," Wigfull sourly added.

"But do you agree with me?"

"About what?"

Some subtle power-play was in progress here. Diamond wanted more than a consultative role. He was willing to cede the nuts-and-bolts work to Wigfull and his team whilst reserving the crucial decisions for himself. "Knocking on doors."

"Of course I agree."

"Then will you get a door-stepping team on the job, or shall I?"

"Leave it to me," said Wigfull, thinking this was the opening he needed. "You've got enough on your plate."

"Enough on my plate? You know me, John. No table manners at all. If I see something tasty on another fellow's plate, I help myself, whether mine is full or not."

BY USING the back door of the nick, he avoided being waylaid by Ingeborg. She would be out front somewhere, wanting her pound of flesh for providing the breakthrough in the case. He wasn't ready to admit such a thing. Ingeborg had given him one false lead already-Violet "Tricks" Turner-and the bones from the River Wylye might prove to be another.

So he gave Ingeborg the slip-and that was how he met the Assistant Chief Constable coming out to the car park with Councillor Sturr. A polite exchange of words was inescapable.

The councillor said with a smile as slick as his three-piece pinstripe, "Fancy meeting you, superintendent. Only just now I was reminded of your comforting remarks at the PCCG meeting. The Assistant Chief Constable tells me you have another violent death to investigate. Ironic, isn't it? Rather bears out my point that Bath is a dangerous place to live these days."

"One swallow doesn't make a summer," was the best Diamond could think to say in reply.

"Quite a high-flying swallow, Peg Redbird. The antiques trade is not going to like this. They're a close-knit group, as I'm sure you're finding out, and they'll expect some rapid action from you."

"People always do," said Diamond. "Rapid can mean hasty, and hasty can mean faulty, so I don't let it get to me."

"Well, if I can be of service…"

"I don't suppose you can, sir, unless you were in the area of Walcot Street last evening."

"I'm not offering myself as a witness. I meant in my official capacity, backing your efforts."

"Much appreciated, sir."

"I was on the other side of town," Sturr volunteered, in case there was any doubt, "at a rather enjoyable 'At Home'." He smiled at Georgina Dallymore.

"Of course you were," said Diamond.

"If you want to know who I was with…" Sturr was milking this for more than it was worth.

"I saw you leaving together."

"So it seems I can't help you after all."

"Shame. I'll have to widen the net."

For this ill-considered quip, Diamond received a cold stare.

Sturr shook hands with Georgina and strolled across to his car.

Diamond, too, started to move on, but the ACC asked him to wait.

"That last remark was uncalled for," she rebuked him.

"I'm sure he's heard worse than that, ma'am. He's a politician."

"But we're not in the business of baiting people, least of all the people who make decisions about resources." She raised her hand in salute as the councillor drove past them in his silver Mercedes, out of the car park.

"He was having a swipe at me, going on about the murdered woman. Right, I was out of order," he said quickly, noting the muscles tighten at the edge of Georgina's mouth. "Pressure of work, I expect."

"I'm glad you mentioned that," she said. "I was going to raise it with you anyway. This is too much, the murder of the antiques dealer, coming on top of all the brouhaha about the hand in the vault. It's obvious that you can't run two inquiries yourself. You must delegate."

The word was not in Diamond's vocabulary. "I've got Chief Inspector Wigfull on the antiques case," he said at once.

"In theory, yes, but you're breathing down his neck. I understand you've been with him almost all day, at the Royal Crescent, at Walcot Street."

"It's my job," he pointed out. "I'm the murder man here."

"Yes, and Mr Wigfull ran the show when you were otherwise employed." Georgina was revealing a grasp of events that happened long before her arrival in Bath. "This new case is well within his capacity. Let him run it his way. Keep an overview, by all means. But concentrate your efforts on the Frankenstein business. That's the number one investigation. Do you understand?"

"Has Wigfull complained?"

She said, "Just do it, Mr Diamond. You're too easily provoked for a man of your rank. You won't go any higher in the police until you learn about priorities."

AT ABOUT six the same evening in the Royal Crescent Hotel, someone was at the door of Joe Dougan's suite, disturbing his deep, delayed sleep. Joe's tired brain registered dimly that the knocking had been going on for some time. Groaning, he rolled off the bed and groped his way forward, practically falling over the little white balustrade that acted as a room divider. Still dressed only in boxer shorts, he opened the door to find one of the detectives who had called earlier, the one with the large moustache. This time Chief Inspector Wigfull was accompanied by two younger men in plain clothes.