Peter Lovesey - The Vault

"Which hotels?"

"You name it. The Hilton, the Francis, the Bath Spa. You can check. They'll remember me."

"That was in the afternoon?"

"All day, from eleven on."

"Until…?"

"Until my feet cried out for mercy. Do you have any idea how many hotels there are? I got back around five, I guess. Sat in the bath tub for a long time. Had a meal on room service. Watched television until I was falling asleep in the chair."

"Make any phone calls?"

He shook his head.

"Did you see Chief Inspector Wigfull at any stage yesterday?"

"You don't give up, do you? No, I did not."

"And now you're proposing to leave Bath and join your wife in Paris?"

"Tomorrow. You don't have to sound so grudging. I'm a free agent."

"Where is she staying?"

"The Ritz. Donna doesn't do things by halves."

"Have you made your travel arrangements?"

"Sure. I'm catching the 10.28 to London tomorrow morning. I booked a seat on the Eurostar train."

"Without Mary Shelley's writing box?"

He rolled his eyes upwards. "Don't break my heart. I wish I knew what happened to that."

Before leaving the hotel, Diamond checked on room service to the John Wood suite. An evening meal of asparagus soup, sole meuniere and fresh strawberries and cream had been logged at 6.20 p.m. Saturday. "It still leaves him out of the hotel for long enough to attack John Wigfull and get back," he commented to Leaman.

"He'd need transport, sir."

"There and back. Don't say it-the logistics are difficult. If we knew for sure when the attack took place, it would help. My feeling is that it happened in daylight. Wigfull would know there isn't much point in chasing a wanted man across fields after dark."

"Maybe the house-to-house will turn something up," Leaman said.

"Maybe." Diamond hadn't much confidence.

Wiltshire Police were at present knocking on doors to find a witness who had seen someone on the footpath over the fields, or noticed the cars outside the Manor House. There was also a large search-party combing the fields for the weapon used on Wigfull. They had to try.

They returned to Manvers Street, where the police station was like a prison before an execution. The only news of John Wigfull was that he was still unconscious, his condition critical.

AT THE time Avon and Somerset Police acquired their helicopter, Diamond was heard to say it was an expensive toy that he would never use. Like many of his stands against technology, this one was fated to be undermined. Strapped into the seat, staring fixedly ahead, he was being flown over the great expanse of Salisbury Plain towards the South Coast. Privileged views of the ancient sites of Stonehenge and Avebury passed unnoticed. He did not enjoy the sensation of flying.

They touched down on the lawn in front of Montpelier Crescent, Brighton, the address of Ralph Pennycook, the young man who had sold antiques to Peg Redbird on the day of her murder. The journey was done in under an hour. When Diamond looked about him, after stepping down and battling with the draught created by the rotor blades, he had the strange sensation that he had never left Bath. The neo-classical facade of the crescent was, if anything, grander in scale. Each large house with its own pillars and pediment might have been the front of a theatre.

Helicopter travel is convenient, certainly, but not discreet. People had opened their doors to watch and children were running across the grass towards the chopper. "After this puppet-show, let's hope he's at home," Diamond muttered to Sergeant Leaman.

He was-already at the front door-and their mode of travel had impressed him markedly. His hand was at his throat, pinching at a fold of loose skin, and his eyes behind the plastic lenses had the staring roundness of a nocturnal creature.

There was no need to explain who they were. The chopper had Avon and Somerset Police in large letters on the outside. Pennycook ushered them in fast-as if the entire Crescent had not noticed the police making a call on him. Diamond's quick assessment was that he had the look of a young man out of step with his generation. His casuals on a warm Sunday afternoon amounted to a thick yellow cardigan over a black T-shirt, with blue corduroy trousers and brown leather slippers. The cardigan had the label showing; it was inside out.

The room they were shown into was nicely-proportioned, and that was all that could be said for it. Beer stains disfigured the wallpaper. The furniture amounted to a chipped and rusting fridge and some wood and canvas folding chairs that belonged to Brighton Corporation. He must have nicked them from around the bandstand in one of the public parks. And this was the heir to Si Minchendon's fortune. He could certainly use some money.

Diamond lowered himself cautiously onto one of the chairs; he had a history of bursting through canvas. It creaked, groaned and just held his weight. He considered how to begin. With a helicopter standing on the lawn outside, he was in no position to say what he would normally have said, that this was just a routine enquiry. "You were in Bath a couple of days ago, sir?"

"Yup."

"Would you mind telling us what brought you there?"

"My uncle's funeral." The voice was toneless and barely audible.

"That would be the late Mr Minchendon?"

Pennycook nodded. His fingers were twitchy. He plucked at the sleeves of the cardigan, tugging the cuffs over the backs of his hands.

"Of Camden Crescent?" Diamond said, more to encourage a response than glean information.

Another nod.

"Nice address."

"If you say so." He ran the tip of his tongue around the edge of his mouth.

"When was the funeral-one day last week?"

"Yeah."

This was like chiselling marble. "Which day was the funeral, Mr Pennycook?"

"Dunno."

"Speak up."

Leaman said, "It was Tuesday."

"Tuesday," said Diamond. "And you were there, and you don't remember?"

"I've had a lot going on."

"So you stayed longer."

"Things to see to."

"What things?"

"Papers to sign, and stuff."

"Your legacy?"

"Yeah."

"I understand your uncle left you everything."

"Right."

"Does that make you the owner of the house in Camden Crescent?"

"More or less."

"What does that mean?"

"I have to wait for probate, don't I?"

"So you're not the legal owner yet?"

The pallid face registered pain, as if Diamond had struck him. He blurted out a few inarticulate words that sounded very like a confession. "I don't want no aggro. Needed cash in hand, right? Cash in hand. The stuff was coming to me anyway. Ask them, if you like. If you lay off, I'll square it with the bank."

"You did a deal with Peg Redbird, the owner of Noble and Nude?"

"Is that her name?"

Diamond reacted angrily. "Don't play the innocent. You don't do dodgy deals with people without finding out who they are. You went to some trouble to pick a dealer likely to connive at this fraud. Had you met Peg Redbird before?"

"No, and that's the truth."

The phrase slipped easily from his tongue and added to Diamond's impatience. He leaned forward menacingly. "Young man, every word you say to me had better be the truth. Understand?"

Pennycook understood, and showed it. Beads of sweat were rolling down the side of his face.

"So who put you onto her?"

Now he gathered himself and launched into a stumbling explanation. "I had some time after the funeral, didn't I? Sniffed around like. Antiques markets and stuff. Got talking to the stall-holders."

Hard to imagine you talking to anyone, Diamond thought.

"They gave me the buzz on the trade in Bath. Not the la-de-dahs up Bartlett Street. The other end of it. No questions asked."

"Nod and a wink?"

"Right. Her name kept coming up. Peg Redbird does the business, I was told. She had this shop in Walcot Street full of junk."