Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

He took a brief look around. A search team executing a warrant was supposed to do its work with 'minimum disruption'. The door of the living room wouldn't open over the rucked-up carpet, the pictures were still off the walls and the drawers in the wall unit wouldn't close and were in the wrong places. Steph would have spent the evening straightening up. He ignored the mess. Out in the garden, he stood looking balefully at the place where the tin box containing the gun was supposed to have been found. No use denying there was a hole in the ground. One more weird twist to this nightmare. He had no explanation. His world had gone so crazy that he actually asked himself whether he could have buried the gun himself and wiped the episode from his memory. So much had been squeezed into the five weeks since Steph's death that certain things already seemed remote, if not unreal. Why would he have wanted to hide the gun – unless his brain had flipped and he'd done the unimaginable thing he'd been denying?

'Christ, no,' he said aloud. 'You may be so dumb you couldn't find your arse with two hands at high noon, but you would never hurt Steph.'

He returned indoors and the phone started again, so he lifted the receiver and clicked it dead. Made himself tea and tried to decide if he could stomach beans on toast again.

The cat wanted to eat, for sure. It pressed against his leg, making piteous sounds. He opened a tin and put down some food.

Then the damned phone went again. 'You're bloody persistent, whoever you are,' he said before finally putting it to his ear. 'Yes?'

'Where have you been?' a familiar voice asked. 'I've been trying to reach you for days.'

'Julie. If I'd known it was you…'

'Great! You just let it ring, do you? What if it was a real emergency instead of an old oppo wanting to know how you're coping?'

'What do you mean – "a real emergency"? Don't you think I'm in a real emergency already?'

'Still getting to you, is it?' Julie's voice sounded more concerned. As his deputy until a couple of years ago, she knew all about his mood swings. They'd led in the end to her request for a transfer to Headquarters.

'I'm up shit creek, Julie. The prime suspect. They searched my house this morning, with a warrant – would you believe? – drove me to the station and put me through the grinder. McGarvie thinks I'm Dr Crippen.'

'How ridiculous. Whatever for?'

He told Julie about the gun.

'That is a facer,' she agreed. 'Whatever possessed you to keep a gun? Oh, don't bother. What are they doing? Testing it?'

'Yes, and when it turns out to be the murder weapon, I'm screwed.'

'How could it be?'

'You tell me. I didn't expect it to turn up in a tin box in my garden.'

'You think someone is trying to frame you?'

'Trying? It's done and dusted.'

'McGarvie wouldn't stoop to that. You may not like him, and I understand why, but he's honest.'

'And so wide of the mark, Julie. He should be out there catching the real killer instead of breathing down my neck.'

'Yes,' she admitted. 'I thought he was going to make a fist of this. I misjudged him.'

'You're not alone.'

'But I told you he was good. I'm sorry.' She tried sounding a brighter note. 'What about you? I bet you haven't been sitting on the sidelines these last weeks. What have you dug up?'

'Sweet f.a., apart from Steph's diary' He told her how he'd tracked it down with the help of the wino, Warburton, and how McGarvie was alleging that the entries relating to 'T' were faked.

'That man has certainly got it in for you. How did you get up his nose?'

'You know me, Julie. A touch hot-headed.'

'Only a touch?'

He sensed that she was smiling.

She asked, 'What else have you been up to?'

'I'm still convinced this was a contract killing. I called on one of the Carpenter brothers – Danny. I can hear you saying "That wasn't wise", and you're right. He'd think nothing of topping me. He's bitter aboutJake, never mind that the toerag got what he deserved. But Danny Carpenter wouldn't see the point in having Steph killed. That's too devious for him.'

'You count him out?'

'Unless there was some motive I'm not aware of.'

'But who else would hire a gunman?'

'I've been over that many times, Julie. McGarvie took me through all the cases I've had anything to do with in Bath and Bristol. Most were domestic. No one fits the frame.'

'How about earlier – when you were in the Met?'

'Bloody long time to harbour a grudge. More than ten years. It's true I came up against professional criminals more often in those days. But, Julie, the hard men think like Danny Carpenter: if they wanted to hit me, I'm a big enough target.'

Julie asked suddenly, 'In your time with the Met, did you ever rub shoulders with a DCI Weather?'

'Say that again.'

'Weather.'

Anything outside the focus of his attention was an effort to take in. 'In the Met, you said? There was a copper of that name at Fulham. We called him Stormy, of course. He could be the same guy. Chief Inspector now, is he? Why – have you met him?'

'No. His wife is missing. She's ex-police. A sergeant at Shepherd's Bush until a year or so ago. Pat Weather. I read about her in one of those Scotland Yard bulletins that get sent out – the ones you never bother with.'

'How long has she been gone?'

'More than a week.'

'Problem in the marriage, I expect.'

'I just thought I'd mention it. If some evil-minded crook was looking for a way to settle old scores, he might be targeting detectives' wives.'

He weighed the suggestion. 'You think this missing woman is dead?'

'I just wonder.'

'It's a big assumption, Julie.'

'At this point, yes. But if anything has happened to her…’

'Let's hope not, for both their sakes. But thanks. I'll keep tabs on this one. Stormy Weather. Right now I don't remember anything about the guy except his nickname, but he could have been involved in cases I was on. Let's see how it plays. Can't call him with the news that my wife was murdered when he's hoping his is still alive.'

'So what are your theories about the diary?' she asked him.

'This T"? I'm foxed. Can't link it to anyone. And not for want of trying. I've been through our address book as well as Steph's.'

'If it's the killer, you can bet you won't find the name in your address book.'

'Right. The odds are on a new contact.'

'Does McGarvie have any leads?'

'I told you. McGarvie has convinced himself I forged the diary entries as some kind of red herring. Working out who "T" might be is not high priority.'

'Are you certain it's Steph's writing?'

'No question. It's printing, actually, but she often wrote things like that.'

'You made a copy?'

'Yes.'

'Then I think you should put all your efforts into cracking this one.'

'Tell me about it!'

'Maybe the people in the charity shop heard her mention something.'

'I'll give it a go. I drew a blank at the hairdressers'.'

'You'll crack it, I'm confident of that. Could "T" stand for a surname?'

'If you ask me, Julie, it's invented. The killer isn't going to give his real name, is he?'

'Depends. If it was someone she knew already, they wouldn't use a false name.'

'Good point. Actually, I can't see it being a surname. Steph liked to be on first-name terms with everyone. I reckon if she met the Queen, she'd be calling her Liz in a matter of minutes. I tried going through all the Christian names from Tabitha to Tyrone, but I'm convinced this is someone I haven't heard of.'

'Nicknames? Taffy? Tich? Tubby?'

'Those, too. I won't give up. I just have to cast the net wider.'

She asked how he was coping with living alone and he told her everything was under control, at the same time eyeing the curtain the search team had tugged off the rail. Why burden Julie with his problems? She didn't want to know that he hadn't slept properly since it happened, that he still reached across the bed for Steph, expecting the warmth of her smooth skin, and still ached for her wise advice, her marvellous gift of defusing the troubles he faced.