Peter Lovesey - The Vault

"What's going on there at this time of night? Drive right round and we'll have another look."

Leaman, to his credit, did not even sigh. He took the car rapidly round the circuit formed by Grand Parade, Orange Grove and the High Street and entered Bridge Street for the second time.

"Pull up here."

They went to look.

It could conceivably have been a heist in progress. Large objects cocooned in bubblewrap were being carried from the gallery and loaded in the van. But nobody took flight.

"Police," Diamond announced. "What's going on exactly?"

A figure he recognized as the gallery caretaker stepped out of the shadows. "No problem, officer. Everything's in order. They've just dismantled the exhibition and now they're loading it onto the van."

"From the main gallery?"

"The annexe."

Diamond became more interested. "The watercolours?"

"Right."

"Councillor Sturr's collection?"

"Yes."

"Now where do they go-back to the owner?"

"You'd better speak to the driver."

A young bearded man said from inside the van, where he was loading with a young lad as assistant, "Back to Mr Sturr's house, yes."

"Is he home, then? We tried to get hold of him earlier and he wasn't there."

"He went out for a meal. That's why it's a late job. We're unloading at ten at his house."

"We'll follow you, then," said Diamond cheerfully. "Wouldn't want to miss him, would we, sergeant?"

"No, sir," said Leaman in a hollow tone.

They waited while the remaining pictures were put aboard and roped to the floor. The van with its police escort in trail moved off at 9.50 p.m.

"I'll be interested to find out why this operation had to wait till now."

Leaman didn't answer. His level of interest was waning by the minute.

Sturr's residence was a Victorian villa the size of a town hall at the lower end of Lansdown Road. Security lights flashed on as they entered the gravel drive. A white sports car was parked under some tall trees.

The driver of the van tried the doorbell and got no answer.

"Where's his Holiness?" said Diamond.

"It isn't ten yet," said Leaman.

Three minutes later, Diamond said, "It is now."

A further seventeen minutes passed before the silver Mercedes swung sedately onto the drive and pulled up next to the van. The tall figure of Councillor Sturr got out and walked around the front of the car as if the removal men and the police did not exist, and opened the door for his passenger. There was a gleam of thighs caught in the glare of the security lamp and out stepped Ingeborg Smith.

"REMEMBER, I AM NOT recording the vision of a madman."

There used to be a phrase applied to certain murderers that they were "guilty, but insane". The gentler version was that they killed "while the balance of their mind was disturbed". A comforting phrase in the days when the alternative was a date with the hangman. If you were temporarily unbalanced, you were not responsible for your actions. Instead you were sent to a prison for the criminally insane.

He was not mad.

He was not unbalanced.

He was responsible for his actions. Proud of most of them.

COUNCILLOR STURR USHERED INGEBORG through his front door and then turned to face Diamond, and his expression was not welcoming. "It's inconvenient."

"It's necessary, sir."

"You can see I've got pictures to unload."

"Isn't that the removers' job?"

"Don't you tell me how to unload pictures. I must check every one for possible damage, the glass, the frames."

"How many? That won't take long, sir. We've been waiting hours to see you."

"You made no appointment."

"We don't," said Diamond. "We just drop in."

For a time, Sturr ignored them to supervise the unloading of his pictures. Each had to be unwrapped in the hall and inspected before being taken into a front room. The removal team got on with the job while Diamond and Leaman stood by the front porch like two immovable Jehovah's Witnesses.

Diamond said confidentially to Leaman, "Did you recognise the woman?"

"I've seen her hanging about the nick."

"Ingeborg Smith is a hotshot reporter. Wants to join the police."

"Must be out of her mind. Is that her car, the white Peugeot?"

"Presumably."

"Did you know she was a close friend of Mr Sturr's?"

"She's upwardly mobile, is Ingeborg."

"I already noticed that."

The unloading of the pictures was completed with no damage discovered. Sturr took out his wallet and tipped the removal team. They returned to the van, closed the rear doors and drove off.

Diamond stepped up to Sturr before he could retreat inside the house. "Can we get this over, sir?"

"I told you it's not convenient."

"It's not convenient for us, but we're here."

"Look, it's ten-thirty on Sunday evening, damned near my bed-" He broke off, cleared his throat, and rephrased the statement. "You can see I have a visitor."

"You have three visitors, and two of them are from the police."

"Anyway, what is this about?"

"The death of Miss Redbird and the attack on our fellow-officer, John Wigfull."

As a member of the Police Authority, Sturr could not avoid making sounds of concern. "That was shocking. How is he?"

"Still out, I think. I've been too busy to ask." Diamond stepped closer. He'd had enough. "Either we talk here, Councillor, or down the nick. It's up to you."

Sturr braced, as if for a fight. He thrust his face towards Diamond. Then, quite suddenly, he submitted like an ageing stag faced by the herd leader, turned and walked into his hall, leaving the door open for the two detectives to follow.

The pictures had been carried into a sitting room and propped against the wall. There, as a centre piece, in competition with the artistry of Cotman, Cox and Blake, Ingeborg was seated in her short summer dress, all leg and cleavage, looking faintly amused. Sturr told her, "This is extremely tiresome, my dear, but would you mind waiting in another room?"

She said with spirit, "That's all right. Mr Diamond and I are old chums."

Sturr moved right up to her and muttered something in her ear. The smile vanished. Colour blazed in her cheeks. Here she was, perfectly placed for an exclusive, and they wanted her out.

Sturr said something else, earnest and forceful. Ingeborg still looked in two minds. She shamed him with her large, intelligent eyes.

"If I step out," she said in a voice everyone was meant to hear, "it's out of your life, John. I'm not your plaything, to be brought out when you feel like it."

"That's unfair," protested Sturr.

"It's business before pleasure with you, isn't it?" she continued bitterly. "If you're not on the phone to America, or checking your precious pictures, you're in conference with the police.

Meanwhile I'm supposed to sit around waiting, and if the other night's anything to go by, I could wait for ever."

"For God's sake, Inge!"

"I'm off. You can stuff your vintage Mumm up your vintage bum."

With that, she got up and walked out of the building. She refrained from slamming the front door behind her, but certainly closed it with firmness. From the window, they watched her walk to her car in the glow of the security light, and start up.

Diamond saw no reason to apologise. He had not asked her to leave.

Sturr's way of dealing with the incident was to ignore it. He said tersely, "You'd better tell me what you want."

"Miss Redbird," said Diamond. "Did you know her personally?"

"I knew of her. She wasn't a friend, if that's what you mean."

"Did you ever do business with her?"

"Buying stuff from her shop? No, no, I don't go in for antiques."