Peter Lovesey - The Vault

Unlikely as it seemed, the Chief Inspector was now sitting on the grass with about thirty small children and a few parents in front of a wooden structure with an eight-foot-high proscenium arch and curtains, erected against the open back of a white van. The puppeteer could reach inside for extra puppets and scenery without interrupting the show. Helpfully for Wigfull, Uncle Evan was in view working the strings, a man probably past forty, of the sort you see in large numbers at folk festivals, with dark hair to his shoulders, beads around his neck and metal-framed glasses. Generally they are with thin women in long dresses and sandals.

The stage had a section cut out to allow Uncle Evan to step forward and make full use of the space. The children were not troubled by seeing how the puppets were controlled; they were wholly engrossed in the story, an action-filled plot borrowed from fairy tales, pantomime and television. There was even a Frankenstein's monster looking like Boris Karloff, a large cloth puppet that fitted onto Evan's arm and drew delighted screams from the small audience.

You would have to be totally insensitive to interrupt the show. Wigfull was only ninety per cent insensitive.

"The Monster, the Monster!" chorused the audience, as Uncle Evan made the Frankenstein figure sneak up on the little boy marionette who was the link for the story. Wigfull gave the drama only scant attention. He was thinking what he would ask Uncle Evan after the show. This, after all, was the man Joe Dougan claimed had pointed him in the direction of Noble and Nude. It was a heaven-sent chance to check out Dougan's story.

THE DAY OF REST started restfully enough. Peter Diamond remained horizontal until about nine, when Raffles the cat started hunting in the bed, the quarry being human toes and the toes at serious risk of getting clawed in the process. The Diamonds had invented the game when Raffles was a kitten. They had got some good entertainment simply by wriggling their toes. Raffles was fully grown now, still more than willing to play kitten games with a set of claws that would not have disgraced a leopard. This cat, and perhaps all cats who ever chanced upon a set of bare toes, treated them as separate entities unconnected with the owner. Under a winter duvet there had been some protection, but this was heat-wave weather and the Diamonds slept with a cotton sheet loosely over them. An uncovered foot was irresistible to Raffles.

The man who held Manvers Street in thrall moaned in submission, rolled out of bed, put on his moccasins, padded downstairs and opened a tin of Whiskas.

In twenty minutes, he was showered, dressed and off to the paper shop. Sunday might be a day off, but he was curious to see whether Ingeborg's story had made the front page.

It was there in a banner headline with the word "Exclusive" printed over it in red:

FRANKENSTEIN FRESH BONES HORROR

He scanned it rapidly, not expecting much correspondence with the facts. "Fresh" was hardly the word for those dusty bits of skeleton that had been lying in a box in Chippenham nick since 1986. Broadly, however, the paper had got the story right, dressed up as it was with horror movie trappings and sensational writing. He was styled as "Bath's burly Murder Supremo". He could live with that. Was it Ingeborg's phrase, he wondered, or dreamed up by a sub-editor?

Strolling home in the sunshine, he planned his day. Nothing strenuous in this weather. The garden would benefit from some water after so many days of sun-if he could summon up the energy to unroll the hose. First, he would cook a good breakfast and tempt Steph downstairs with the world's most potent appetizer, the whiff of fried bacon.

But when he turned the corner she was standing at the front gate in her dressing gown, extraordinary behaviour for Steph. Her strained, anxious expression was alarming enough, and she was also signalling to him to hurry. A series of potential disasters raced through his mind: someone in the family had died; the kitchen was on fire; the tank had burst and flooded the house. He ran the last yards.

"What's up, love?"

"They called from Manvers Street. John Wigfull has been attacked."

"Attacked? What? How come?"

"A head injury, they said. Someone found him in a field this morning."

"What-dead?"

"He was alive when they called, but it sounds bad. He's unconscious, in intensive care in the RUH. They need you, Pete."

"They'll get me."

Driving in from Weston, still dressed in his Sunday casuals, he was at a loss to understand, seesawing between anger and guilt. What in the name of sanity had Wigfull been doing, to get attacked in a field? The last he had seen of him was driving out of the nick on Saturday, the cue for some unkind comments that had to be regretted now. "He thinks he's the dog's bollocks." What a tribute to a wounded colleague. What an epitaph, if it came to that.

Because the Royal United Hospital was on his side of town, he drove straight into the Accident and Emergency reserved parking. Inside A &. E, they sent him to another section. He stepped out along the corridor, breathing in the sick-sweet air that you only ever find in hospitals. There was a Sunday morning indolence about the place. No sign of a doctor. Smokers in dressing gowns and slippers stood in the small courtyards between the wards. Then a set of swing doors ahead burst open and a patient on a trolley was wheeled towards Diamond, with nurses walking at speed to keep up, holding containers connected by tubes.

He moved aside, his back to the wall, and caught a glimpse of a dead-white face, half-bandaged, the comical, overgrown moustache caked with blood. It was Wigfull. They rushed him by.

Diamond had not fully believed until this moment. The shock gripped him. He stood rigidly long after the trolley had been hurrried through another set of doors. Someone in a white coat passing the other way asked if he needed help. He shook his head and left the building.

AT MANVERS Street, the desk sergeant told him the Assistant Chief Constable wanted him in her office.

"What for?" he snapped, targeting his troubled emotions on the first hapless person within range. "I know sod all of what's going on."

Georgina, grim-faced, was on the phone when Diamond arrived upstairs. She beckoned him in. He strode across to the window and stared out, knowing he ought to compose himself before saying anything.

From this end of the conversation, he gathered she was getting the latest from the hospital. The back of Wigfull's skull was impacted and more X-rays were being taken. He was still unconscious. The ACC asked what his chances were. Her reaction to the answer was more than Diamond wanted to know.

She put down the receiver. This was a hard emotional test for her as well. She let out a long breath, closed her eyes for some few seconds, then said in a low voice, "We're not to expect anything except bad news."

He had to say something, and it sounded trite to the point of callousness. "He's survived a few hours, anyway."

She added, "There's a grace period, if I've got the term right. The shock to the nervous system puts everything on hold. The real crisis comes after."

Still Diamond found himself taking refuge in platitudes. "In all my time here, we've never had an officer killed."

"Was he investigating the woman found in the river?"

"Peg Redbird, yes."

"Wasn't she beaten about the head?"

"That's right."

"Do you know who John Wigfull was seeing yesterday?"

"No, ma'am." He was going to add, "Your orders," but wisely held back the words.

"We must find out from his team. I suppose he got too close to the truth and panicked the killer."

Diamond said nothing about that. If she wanted to speculate, fine. He would wait a bit.