Peter Lovesey - The Vault

"That makes sense," she admitted.

"By the time Dougan arrived at 9.30, Peg was no longer there, if he's speaking the truth. She could have been dead."

"You're telling me now that Pennycook was the last to see Miss Redbird alive?"

"Pennycook, or X. Pennycook didn't stay long. She handed him the money, he counted it and left. He said she wasn't talkative. She seemed to want to get rid of him."

"When exactly did Pennycook leave?"

He spread his hands.

"But he'd gone by 9.30, when Dougan arrived?"

"That's my reading of it."

"He'd left, and so had Miss Redbird, apparently. Yet you have X, the mystery man, slotted in between Pennycook and Dougan. That's impossible, isn't it? The time is too short."

"No, ma'am, I don't think it is. The way I see it, she finished with Pennycook as quickly as she could and went for her meeting with X. She wasn't seen again."

"She went out?"

"Taking the pictures she intended to sell."

The ACC scrutinised the list again. "Why would she have gone out when she knew Dougan was coming back?"

"She didn't know how soon. She may have thought she was safe for a couple of hours."

She put her hand nervously to her tight-curled silver hair as if to check that it was still there. "Do you have a theory who X might be?"

"Yes, I do, ma'am. Someone with a special interest in early English watercolours. Councillor Sturr."

Sharply, she said, "What do you know about John Sturr's interests?"

The remark hit him hard. In Georgina's eyes, he was a yob who knew sod all about art. She wasn't far wrong, but he didn't like it taken for granted. "He showed me some of his pictures at the Victoria Gallery last week."

"Showed you? Personally?"

Nonchalantly he said, "A private view. Not the most exciting stuff I've seen. He claims to have one of the best private collections in the country, as I'm sure you know. If I were selling a couple of Blakes locally, that's who I'd approach."

The muscles at the side of her face tightened. "This is not a good way to go, Peter."

"I know." He left unsaid his determination to go on, regardless. She could see it in his look.

She said, "You're not seriously suggesting a member of the Police Authority is implicated in these events?"

"I'd like to know if Mr Sturr was in communication with Peg Redbird last Thursday."

"But he spent last Thursday evening at my house. The dinner party I gave. You know that."

"Would you mind telling me precisely when he arrived, ma'am?"

"But you know."

"I turned up late, if you remember."

White-faced, she said, "This is absurd. I invited everyone at seven-thirty for eight, and he was there. It must have been after ten-thirty when he left with Ingeborg Smith. Yes, I'm sure of it. After we looked at your interview on Newsnight."

"He didn't leave the party at any point and return later?"

"Don't be ridiculous, superintendent. Let it rest, will you?"

Staunchly, Diamond said, "I still need to speak to him, ma'am."

"John Sturr's integrity is not in doubt. He has an alibi supplied by me. That's enough."

He let a few seconds pass, inviting her to modify the last statement. She did not.

"Ma'am, if there is someone else in Bath well known as a collector of early nineteenth century watercolours, I'll be glad to have the name. I'll see them first thing tomorrow."

She clutched at that. She was as uncomfortable as Diamond. "I'm sure there are several serious collectors in a city like ours."

Diamond nodded. "I don't know who they are. The only name I have is John Sturr. That's who Ellis Somerset thought of. He didn't name anyone else." He let that take root, then said, "Councillor Sturr and I have an understanding. I can handle him civilly."

"No."

"Would you prefer to question him yourself, ma'am?"

She didn't dignify that with an answer.

He said in a measured, unemotional voice, "Ma'am, this morning when we got the news of John Wigfull you asked me to take over, to give it top priority."

"Finding his attacker, yes. If you think John Sturr is the kind of man who bludgeons police inspectors…"

"This is the way I'm working. If I can't proceed-"

She blurted out, "I've vouched for him personally. Isn't that enough for you?"

"You vouched for his presence at your dinner party. You don't know what went on before and after it."

"God, you don't give up."

He waited.

She got up and walked to the window, twisting a handkerchief into a thin cord and wrapping it tightly around her fingers. "When do you propose to see him?"

"Now."

She winced, but she had given up the struggle. "The questions relate to the possible sale of the pictures from Camden Crescent?"

"Yes, ma'am, and his movements."

She reached for the phone. "Then I'll call him and soften the blow-if I can."

THE WORRY LINES FADED from Georgina's face. Her friend the Councillor was not at home, or not answering his phone. Diamond quit her office, promising nothing.

Mindful of his blood pressure, he left the building and took a steady walk along Manvers Street towards the Abbey. The street lights were on and not many people were about.

The great West window of the Abbey was illuminated from inside, and the sound of Evensong drifted across the paved yard. With difficulty in the fading light, Diamond looked for the carved figures of angels ascending the twin ladders on either side of the window. He was not a church-goer and was not sure about God's existence, let alone the angels', but these were less than perfect angels anyway, old friends he returned to in times of stress. Weatherbeaten after five hundred years, some with stumps for limbs, they still had a restorative effect on a less than perfect policeman. They always made him smile. They were not, as many supposed, climbing Jacob's ladder, but the ladder seen in a dream by the builder of the Abbey, Bishop Oliver King. A nice triumph of human vanity over piety, Diamond always thought, for the Bishop to insist that his own dream was on the front of the Abbey, and sucks to Jacob.

Across the yard by the railings in front of the Roman Baths was a human shape Diamond took for one of the dossers. He went over to see who it was. He knew most of them. Unusually, the man wished him good evening and called him "sir". The voice was Keith Halliwell's.

"What are you doing here, leaning on the railings?"

"It's all right, sir. I'm sober. Just taking stock, that's all."

"Me, too."

"To be truthful, I came up here hoping for some inspiration."

"From the Abbey?"

"The vault. It's below us."

"Right. So it is. The bloody vault."

"Locked up now. This is the closest I can get."

"You think the answer is down there?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't know if we'll ever get an answer."

"We will, Keith. It's coming together. It's the key to everything, what happened down there."

"But I'm getting nowhere with it."

"Don't say that." Diamond put a hand on Halliwell's shoulder. "I looked at your press release. Fine."

"Thanks."

They started walking back towards the police station. The experience between them, two old colleagues united at the end of the day, encouraged confidences. Halliwell asked what would happen about Joe Dougan.

Diamond said simply, "He'll leave for Paris in the morning."

"Is he in the clear?"

"That's another question. I'd pull him in if I knew we had something that would stick. You know the rules as well as I do."

"Do you believe his wife is alive and well in Paris? Can't we get the French police to check?"

"I checked already. There's a Mrs Donna Dougan registered at the Ritz."

"She's OK, then? He was speaking the truth."

"It doesn't mean we have to believe every damned thing he said."