Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

'Have you seen Mr Voss yet?'

'Louis?' he said, his spirits rising. 'Louis Voss is still here?'

'He come back January. Civilian now. They make him computer king. On first floor with all the pretty chicks in tight skirts.'

That rhubarb crumble disappeared in a dangerously short time.

Louis (spoken the French way) had been a detective sergeant, a good ally through some hair-raising jobs at a stage when each of them had more hair to raise. They'd lost touch when Diamond had moved to Bath.

He'd altered little. The slow smile was still there, and the irreverent gleam in the eyes. He'd kept slim, too. 'Amazing,' he said, and Diamond guessed it was a comment on his own disintegration.

Louis must have read in the papers about Steph's murder, because he spoke of it at once, probably to save Diamond from bringing it up. He didn't ladle out the sympathy, but just said he was more stunned by the news than words could express. He remembered Steph from before they were married. 'Let's get out of this place and have a drink,' he suggested. 'If there's a problem, they can call me on the mobile.'

In the saloon at the Fox and Pheasant, a Victorian pub just off the Fulham Road, Diamond gave his version of the past five weeks, the full account, including the finding of the handgun.

Louis listened philosophically. He wasn't surprised that the Met had passed on information to the Bath police about the lax firearms procedure back in the eighties. 'There's been such a stink over corruption in the past few years that this is small beer, the odd gun going astray. Old Robbo faced a disciplinary board and was retired early, as you know, but he still got his pension.'

'Is he still about?'

'Died some years ago. I'm surprised you kept the gun.'

'Forgot about it for years. It was up in my loft – or was until someone decided to bury it. You don't expect to have your own house searched.'

'Did Steph know you had it?'

He smiled and shook his head.

'She wouldn't have approved?'

'That's putting it mildly. I ought to have had more sense. But it's a side issue, this gun.'

'Unless they prove it was the murder weapon. You say they've done tests?'

'Inconclusive so far. The killer used a point three-eight revolver, same as mine, but there are thousands in circulation.'

'Looking on the black side, what if they prove it was your gun that was used?'

Louis had always been a dogged interviewer. Diamond took a long sip of beer and outlined his theory about Dixon-Bligh attempting blackmail, and Steph taking the gun to the park to demand the evidence.

'Wouldn't she have talked to you before doing something as drastic as that?'

'Normally, yes.'

'But blackmail isn't normal?'

'Right. And I guess she felt she could deal with Dixon-Bligh herself. I can't think what he had on her. I suppose we all have things in our lives we're not particularly proud of.'

'How long was he married to her?'

'Just a few years. Four or five.'

'And she didn't stay in touch with him?'

'No, it ended in bitterness.'

'Enough for murder?'

'I never thought so. He was the problem, not Steph.'

'If he did fire the shots, how would the gun have ended up buried in your garden?'

'Big question, Louis.'

'You must have thought about it. Wouldn't he have got rid of the thing some other way?'

'I can only guess he wanted to incriminate me.'

'But he wouldn't have known it was a police-issue weapon. It's a big risk, when he knows he's killed her, visiting your place.' Louis glanced at his watch. 'Would you like another?'

'Just a half, then.'

Louis had made a sound point. Reflecting on it, Diamond was less confident about his theory. But someone had taken the risk of burying the thing.

They were drinking Black Baron, a speciality here. When Louis returned, Diamond asked him, 'Did you hear about that woman going missing, the wife of Stormy Weather, one of the Fulham crowd from the old days, though I can't recall him too well?'

'Saw something about it on my screen. Marriage tiff, I reckon.'

'That's what I thought.'

'Changed your mind?'

'Obviously, I hope she's okay, but…'

'Hope you're wrong,' Louis said. 'I've known her for years. \bu'd remember her yourself, I reckon. She was around in your time here. Fresh face, bright blue eyes, dark hair. Bit of an organiser. We called her Mary, after Mary Poppins.'

'It rings a bell, but faintly.'

'Nice woman, anyway, and good at her job. She got to be a sergeant at Shepherd's Bush. Then she changed careers. Went into business on her own running some kind of temping agency.'

'Where do they live?'

'In the suburbs. Raynes Park, somewhere like that. Stormy is still in the Met, I think.'

'Just hope his wife is all right.' Diamond returned to the main purpose of his visit. 'So how am I going to find Steph's ex-husband?'

'He was local, you say?'

'Blyth Road – until the end of February.'

'Has he got form?'

Diamond shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. Owes a couple of months' rent'

'Then it's going to be difficult, Peter. I can put out some feelers. Dixon-Bligh is an unusual name, and that may help. If you did this through official channels you might get a quicker result.'

'Can't do that,' Diamond said. 'It's only supposition up to now. A few entries in her diary that could – or could not – refer to him. Some things are starting to link up, but not enough for a general alert.'

They walked back together. The chance to air his thoughts to an old colleague had given him a lift. But the parting handshake they exchanged outside the entrance to Fulham nick was a reminder that he was going to have to battle on alone.

Two months had gone by since Harry Tattersall had bought the suit. He'd worn it a few times around the house so that it would feel comfortable and hang well on his trim physique. Two months. He was beginning to wonder if the diamond heist had been cancelled. Nobody had been in touch, even though his answerphone was always switched on. Arabs, of course, are well known for taking the long view, hardly ever giving way to impatience – something to do with riding camels vast distances across the desert. Or drilling for oil. He had to take the long view himself. A hundred grand would be worth the wait.

Finally the call came one Sunday evening about eight-thirty, and he was at home to take it in person, watching The Sting on TV.

'Yes?'

'Mr Tattersall?'

'Speaking.'

'The goods are coming in on the tenth of next month.' An accent redolent of blue-grey serge and brass buttons and high tea in the officers' mess, well up to Dorchester Hotel standards.

The phone clicked, and that was it. Harry thought: I wonder if he gets a hundred K just for that?

Slightly under two weeks, then. He poured himself a large Courvoisier.

He was relaxing with the drink, spending the money in his imagination, with the movie still running on the box, when a troublesome thought popped into his head. Suppose this entire operation was a clever sting. There was a way of checking if the call came from the Dorchester. He got up and dialled 1471. The caller had withheld his number.

No sweat, he told himself. Any professional would do the same.

Next morning, positive again, he took the tube to Waterloo, came up the escalator to the mainline station and strolled in sunshine along the South Bank walkways to the Royal Festival Hall, where he used one of the public phones in the foyer.

He called the Dorchester and reserved one of the roof garden suites in the name of Sir John Mason for a week from the tenth.

Simple.

He called Rhadi and told him the booking was made for the tenth. They kept the conversation short.