Peter Lovesey: The Vault

But he approached the end with reluctance.

"I KNEW IT. I bloody knew it!"

The gates were closing and there was no chance of getting through in time. The black sports car powered off in the direction of Larkhall, gears forced through a series of rising notes.

Diamond flung open the door of their car and ran back to the house to tell Linda the cleaner to press the gate control. She was slow in responding.

He got back in and slammed the door. The other car would be out of sight by this time. "It doesn't happen like this in the movies."

"Yes it does, sir. The baddies always get a head start. We catch up."

The gates moved apart and Leaman put his foot down.

"Christ, you don't have to kill us both. That isn't in the script." He hated being driven at speed and this was only a CID car without light and siren. There had to be a more intelligent way. "What make was it?"

"Couldn't tell you, sir. I only caught the front view."

"Did you get the number?"

"Too far off."

So it was no use radioing for assistance. If orders were issued to stop every black sports car on the roads of Bath, there would be chaos.

Diamond was running out of ideas. "You're overdoing it," he complained again. "I can't think at this speed."

"The A4's up ahead, sir," Leaman informed him.

"What's that in English?"

"The London Road. Shall we go up the new by-pass? If he went that way, we might get a sight of him."

The big man sat on his hands pressing his fingers into his fleshy thighs. "Might as well, then," he said with an air of doom.

Presently they were in the outside lane overtaking everything.

"It says fifty."

Leaman smiled. He thought Diamond was joking.

They passed a black Porsche being driven sedately by an elderly man in a turban.

Diamond said, "We don't know for sure if the guy coming through the gates was Uncle Evan."

"He used a remote control to open them," Leaman pointed out.

"True. Ease off a bit. We can get through to Sally-in-the-Woods up here."

"The 363?"

"One thing you should know about me, sergeant, is that I don't think in numbers."

"Except speed limits, sir?"

Diamond lifted an eyebrow. After a promising start, this sergeant was beginning to give some lip.

"Sally-in-the-Woods, then. Have you got a plan, sir?"

"I'm full of plans. That's something else you should know."

This winding road through trees along the eastern scarp of the Avon valley would take them past Bathford in the direction of Bradford on Avon and Trowbridge.

Diamond made yet another appeal for moderation. "You can cut the speed now. We're not chasing any more."

"Have we given up, sir?"

"We're using our brains."

Not much was said in the next twenty minutes. Whether this was because brains were in use was open to question. At Bradford, he told Leaman to drive through the town centre and along the Frome Road.

"To Little Terrors, sir?"

"No. In about a mile you'll come to a set of traffic lights. Take a right there."

"Stowford-where he stores his puppets?"

"That's my best shot."

Leaman put his foot down just a little more. They left the road at Stowford Farm and swung left onto the dirt track. And Diamond's best shot seemed to have scored. A low black Mercedes sports car with dark windows was standing on the space behind the workshops. They drew up beside it.

No one was inside, but the engine was still warm. Leaman tried the doors. Locked.

"Want me to radio for help, sir?"

"We can handle him."

Diamond was on his way, striding around the farm buildings towards the copse at the edge of the mill stream. High in the branches above them, a colony of rooks had been noisily disputing the best roosting places. At the sight of Diamond in motion they took to the air.

Beyond the derelict water mill stood the cottage where the puppets were stored. Diamond pulled up, breathing hard, and put out his hand to stop Leaman. "The padlock is still on the door. He can't be inside."

"Is there a back way?"

"Boarded up, if I remember. We can check."

They skirted the building without going close enough to be obvious to anyone inside. The rear door had planks nailed across it. The only possible way in was from the front.

"Crafty bugger," said Diamond. "Where's he hiding? One of the workshops?"

"We're going to need extra men, sir."

"We'll try the mill." He wasn't waiting for reinforcements. He was energised.

The ancient mill clothed in ivy and Old Man's Beard stood at the side of the sluice from the River Frome. The water wheel had long since been dismantled; only the old hub-ring was visible among the weeds.

Diamond tramped through the long grass. He hadn't the patience or skill to look for signs of someone going before. The only sign he noticed was the one screwed to the wall warning that the building was dangerous. He put his hand against the door and felt a slight frisson at how easily it opened.

"Hold on, sir." Sergeant Leaman pressed a cigarette lighter into his hand.

As a source of light in the dark interior it was better than nothing. It showed them an iron face-wheel about five feet in diameter that must once have transmitted the power from the waterwheel to the machinery. The main vertical shaft rose like the mast of a ship to the floor above. It looked reasonably stable up there; down here, the damp had got to the foundations. The floor sagged and the boards were rotten in places. Some living thing, probably a rat, scuttled across the floor and disappeared into a gap. Diamond held the lighter higher and saw the outline of a figure lurking to his left. He jerked into a defensive posture before finding he was fooled by the weird shapes of fungi growing up the walls. Recovering his dignity, he gave Leaman a look that did not invite comment, and moved on. He was interested in a vertical ladder to an upper level by way of an open trapdoor. He tried his weight on the first rung. It was iron and supported him well.

Leaman offered to go up first. Diamond shook his head and told him to hold the lighter.

Considering what had happened to John Wigfull, this was a rash move. Anyone up there could take a swipe at him the minute his head showed through the trap. He had this thought too late to make a difference. He was already above the level of the floor straining to see.

He asked for the lighter again and Leaman passed it up. The flame was now burning tall and yellowish. He wasn't sure if this meant that the fuel was running out; he was just grateful for the extra light, treating him to a sight he had not dared to expect in this place.

This storey had been renovated and furnished. There were two modern office desks, a plan-chest, stools and a table. He climbed the last rungs and stepped onto a carpet made of sisal squares. He could now see more equipment, a viewer for looking at slides, a magnifying lamp and a photocopier. On the larger of the desks under an angle-poise lamp was a draughtsman's drawing-board with a sheet of paper fixed to it with masking tape. Ranged along the side were numerous tubes of paint and several jam-jars, some holding brushes, some filled with water. The other desk was covered in books, many of them open. No question: he had found the forger's studio.

He said aloud, "Where the hell does he get his electricity?"

Leaman called up, "What's that, sir?"

"Come up and see."

Then the lights came on, dazzling Diamond, and a voice said, "Got my own generator, see?"

He swung around. The speaker was behind him, half hidden by the hatch of the trap-door: the thin, long-haired man in glasses he was so curious to meet. Evan Tanner-Jones, alias Uncle Evan, stood with his palms facing forward as if to make clear that he wasn't holding a weapon.