Peter Lovesey: The Vault

THE CANDIDATES were assembled in a waiting area at the end of a corridor, five men and three women, among them Ingeborg Smith. A uniformed sergeant was with the group, doing his best to allay last-minute jitters. This was just a preliminary interview, he explained. The selection would be based on a series of assessments including practical exercises overseen by serving constables. No single element in the process was a "pass" or "fail". This evening's interview was meant to be a two-way process, a chance for them to have their questions about the police answered. They should feel relaxed about it.

Nobody believed him.

"Who are they-the interviewers?" one twitchy young man asked.

"A detective inspector-female-DI Hargeaves, from Headquarters, and a lay person, Mr Sturr, who serves on the Police Authority."

Nothing else was said about Sturr, but as soon as the sergeant had gone, Ingeborg hurried away to the ladies' room.

DIAMOND TRIED the side gate and found it bolted. "Over you go, Keith."

Halliwell was halfway over when Diamond added, "Watch out for the Rottweiler."

Halliwell froze.

"Joke. Just jump down, open up and let me in."

Sturr's garden was large, with mature fruit trees and a well-tended lawn, too well-tended to be of any interest to Diamond. "The vegetable patch at the end looks promising," he said, striding across the lawn.

"Promising what, sir?"

"Evidence, Keith. Everything up to now is circumstantial." He started up a paved path between rows of runner beans and onions, heading for the garden shed at the end. "Right. Spades and a sieve."

"Has he buried it?"

"If he has, it will take more than you and me to find it. No, I picture this as more of a cremation than a burial. We're looking for ashes."

They found a heap reduced to whitish powder under a wire mesh incinerator behind the rhubarb in a corner of the vegetable garden. Halliwell stooped and felt the texture of some of the ash between finger and thumb. "This won't tell us much."

"Get some on your spade and put it through the sieve."

He obeyed.

Diamond gently shook the sieve and picked at the few fragments remaining. They disintegrated in his hand and fine ash wafted up and settled on his suit.

Halliwell was resigned to a wasted trip. "Do you want me to go on?"

"That's why we're here."

"Isn't this a job for forensic?"

"In the first place, I can't ask forensic to climb over Councillor Sturr's gate. In the second, there isn't time. I want a result now."

"I meant we don't have the facilities."

"You don't need facilities to find bits of metal in a heap of ash."

There was no response from Halliwell. The mental leap was more than he could make.

"The lock, the hinges."

"Ah. Wouldn't he have destroyed them?"

"Like as not, but he must have missed something. Maybe as small as a screw. Try another spadeful, Keith."

THE ORDER was alphabetical and Ingeborg was the last candidate to go in. The wait had been stressful. She seriously considered not going in at all, in spite of reassurances from the others, who came out saying it had been a doddle. She was no coward, but she felt certain John Sturr had got himself onto the panel to give her a hard time. The sadistic bastard had put himself up for this at the last minute as an act of revenge for the things she had said on Sunday night.

Hers was no pushover.

The two interviewers were in chairs over by the window, clipboards in hand. Julie Hargreaves had the kindness to smile- and she represented the police, Ingeborg reminded herself as she sat down.

It was Sturr who began, staring at her as if she were a stranger. "Miss, em, Smith." He made her name sound like a cheap joke. "You're a freelance journalist according to your application, successful, earning a good living. What on earth are you doing here, sitting in front of us?"

She resisted a sharp answer. She was not going to let him goad her into a verbal fencing match that she would win, but at the cost of appearing too bolshie for the job. "I think I'm suited to police work," she answered evenly. "I've seen it at close hand as a reporter, and it's a worthy occupation and a challenging one, more worthy and more of a challenge than my present job."

"In other words you're fed up to the back teeth with journalism: ? "

"I'm looking for something closer to the action, if that's what you mean, rather than reporting it."

Julie Hargreaves said, "That's good, but I have to say that there's a lot of report-writing in police work and some of it is extremely dull."

"I understand," said Ingeborg. "I can handle that."

Below them, in the car park at the back of the police station, some large vehicle was manoeuvring, sending a heavy throbbing noise through the open windows.

Sturr said something that was drowned by the sound.

"I'm sorry," said Ingeborg. "I didn't catch the question."

He spoke it again, practically shouting. "How do you feel about taking orders?"

A joke about waitressing popped into her head, and she popped it out again. "There's discipline involved in every job, certainly in freelance journalism. I'm very willing to learn."

Julie jotted something on her pad, something positive, Ingeborg hoped. Sturr, obviously unimpressed, was increasingly distracted by the engine sound from below. He leaned back in his chair and tried to look out.

Raising her voice, Julie suggested, "Why don't we shut the windows?"

Sturr didn't reply. He continued to stare out.

Julie gave Ingeborg a sympathetic look. "Sorry about this."

In a move so sudden that it startled both women, Sturr stood up and said stridently, "What's going on? God, that's my Mercedes they're moving. There's a towaway truck being hitched to my car." He pulled the window open wide and shouted, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? That's my car."

Julie Hargreaves got up to look out.

Ingeborg remained seated, conducting herself as well as she could in the strangest interview she had experienced.

"I'm going to sort this out," Sturr said. White-faced, he turned with such force that he knocked over his chair and sent it sliding across the floor.

Ingeborg was aware of another movement on the far side of the room. She had not heard the door open and Peter Diamond come in.

The head of the murder squad said, "My orders, Councillor. I want the car examined."

Sturr's voice climbed at least an octave. "You what?"

"For traces of blood, hair, DNA, whatever."

Ripples of tension ran over Sturr's cheeks. Then he blustered. "You… you have no right."

"Probably not," Diamond agreed.

"You can't just take possession of someone's car."

"I couldn't agree more, but I'm sure we can rely on you to cooperate and let us have the keys. I don't think you'll be using the car for some time, sir. You've got questions to answer."

"What about?"

"The deaths of two people-Jock Tarrant, in September, 1982, and Peg Redbird, on Thursday of last week."

"This is totally out of order."

"Yes," said Diamond. "I'm sorry to interrupt the interview, but I'm sure DI Hargreaves can make the right decision on her own."

Sturr said loftily, "I shall bring this to the attention of the Assistant Chief Constable."

"I've just spoken to her," Diamond said, "and got her backing. I showed her these." He held up a transparent bag. "A couple of tiny screws that we found among the ashes in your garden."

"You've been in my garden?"

"Just left it. I'm no antiques expert, but these screws are not modern, I'm sure of that. They're all that is left of Mary Shelley's writing box. You got rid of all the other metal fitments. Destroyed all traces, except for these."

Sturr shook his head. "Why should I-?"

"It was the box that linked you to the killing of the young man Tarrant in the vaults of the Roman Baths."