Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

For once Diamond did the approved thing: phoned the CID Headquarters at Surrey and asked if he might visit the scene. Making his pitch to a cautious-sounding inspector, he explained he was 'involved' in a case of fatal shooting that might conceivably be linked to the Woking incident.

Needless to say, his own CID wouldn't have regarded this as the approved thing. For the time being he preferred not to have them involved. McGarvie would be better employed trying to trace Dixon-Bligh.

'You're quick off the mark, sir,' the cautious Surrey inspector said.

'It's the computer age, isn't it?' Diamond remarked as if he spent all his time in front of a screen.

After a pause and some murmured consultations at the end of the phone, the decision was made. 'If you think it's worth your while, come down. Bowers is our man at the scene. DCI Bobby Bowers. He and his lads will be there the rest of today and most of tomorrow as well.'

'Is he extra thorough, then?'

'It's the location.'

'By the railway?'

'Horribly overgrown and on a wicked gradient and the body's in several pieces from all I hear. Are you still up for it?'

'Of course.'

'I'll tell Bobby to expect you.'

He looked at a map of Surrey. Woking is south-west of London, a short way south of the M25 and within five miles of another motorway, the M3. Convenient both for commuting and dumping a body.

It is also a main railway station on the Portsmouth line to Waterloo.

During the drive he prepared himself mentally for his first visit to a murder scene since that February morning that remained as vivid in his memory as anything in his experience. He wasn't sure how he'd react. The sight of the corpse should not trouble him, he thought. He'd seen plenty in his time, and they were all different. This one was in pieces anyway, and while that prospect might turn many people's stomachs, he would find it more acceptable than a recognisable body. The acid test would come when he met the professionals at the scene. He wasn't sure if he was ready yet for black humour. It was going to take an effort to stay calm, let alone join in.

In an effort to loosen up he tried to recall the wording of a press release – probably apocryphal – he'd laughed at many years ago during his training. It was along the lines of: 'Portions of the victim's dismembered body were buried in seven different locations. She had not been interfered with.' This time, it didn't amuse him.

Driving at his usual sedate pace, he eventually spotted the signs for Woking and by four-fifteen was there. It looked no different from any other dormitory town as the rush hour got under way. He crawled the last stretch in the queue along the A324 with the patience of a Buddhist. What's one murdered corpse when twenty thousand of the living have to get home for a meal and The Bill on television?

Surrey Police were well organised. Two caravans and several people-carriers were lined up in the street nearest to the scene. More promising than that, a mobile canteen was in place with some exhausted coppers in white overalls standing about drinking from cans. He parked as close as he could, introduced himself and accepted tea and a doughnut before moving on to a mobile caravan. He showed his ID to a uniformed sergeant and asked for DCI Bowers. The chief was down by the track.

The access was a short path through a public park where three little boys in the Manchester United strip were kicking a ball around. With just such little boys in mind, the railway embankment had been fenced off from the park, but the wire fence was rusty and holed in places. He could shake his head about young vandals, yet he remembered as a ten-year-old cutting holes in fences to trespass on his local stretch of track. The big dare was to leave pennies on the rails to see how the train wheels crushed them.

This July and August had been wetter than usual, producing a dense ground cover on the fenced-off side. The nettles and ferns were shoulder-high in places. From the top of the embankment Diamond parted some bracken and looked down on a sixty-metre stretch cordoned with crime-scene tape. Screens had been erected to shield the scene from passing trains. A team was at work stripping back the growth. Hot, backaching work. He'd done it in his time. You don't picture yourself scything a way through the jungle when you join the police. Sooner or later, it happens, and then you have to be grateful you're not excavating the council tip or up to your waist in stagnant water. That, too, can happen if you stay long enough in the lower ranks.

Someone pointed out the recommended way down to the trackside. It was a biggish detour, but the quick route would have been a steep slope straight through the search area. Surrey CID would not appreciate the big man from Bath sledging in on the seat of his pants. He did the right thing.

Which of the search party was DCI Bobby Bowers was not immediately obvious. Three young men were directing operations from a chart of the search area pinned to a trestle table, and to Diamond's eye they looked like schoolkids. He gave his name and had his hand shaken firmly. Close up, Bowers, in a black polo shirt and faded jeans, looked marginally older than the others.

'You're from…?'

'Bath.' He explained – with some telescoping of the facts – that he'd learned about the body from the police computer, and it might possibly have links with an unsolved case seven months back in Bath.

'Hope you're right,' Bowers said. 'We need all the help going.'

'What have you got so far?'

'Only what the animals left us. A well-chewed torso and one leg found here.' He tapped a finger on the chart. 'Skull, with two bullet holes and exit wounds, here, farther down the slope. The other leg – or part of it – on the gravel beside the track. And miscellaneous bits scattered over a wide area. Putrefaction well set in. The lads are calling her Charlie.'

'Ah,' Diamond said without fully catching on.

'Charlie – cocaine – she gets up your nose,' Bowers filled in for him. 'The pathologist estimates six months to a year on a first look, but he'll give a better estimate when he's had the maggots analysed.'

'Definitely female?'

'Unless it's a bloke in tights and a C-cup.'

'Age?'

'Too soon to make an estimate.'

'I was told she was about forty.'

'That's our impression from the clothes.'

'Any possessions? Handbag?'

'Not yet. We're still picking up bits.'

'Rings?'

Bowers shook his head.

'How about the bullets?'

'You're joking, I hope.'

'I suppose she was shot somewhere else and brought here.'

Bowers sniffed and looked away, 'Yeah, we worked that out'

'Why wasn't the body noticed before today, with trains going by all day?'

'You didn't see the place before we started to clear it. You could hide the Red Army here and no one would know.'

'At this time of year, yes. What about six months ago?'

'The scrub would still have been dense enough to hide a stiff, no problem. There's years of growth. A railway embankment is a clever place to dispose of anything, when you think about it. Nobody much comes down here apart from railway workers.'

'So who discovered it?'

Bobby Bowers rolled his eyes. 'A prize nutter. All the trains are held up for some reason, stacked up waiting for a signal, so chummy decides to get out and board the one in front, the fast one he missed back at Guildford. He hasn't gone more than a few yards when he sees this half-chewed leg beside the track. Gets the screaming abdabs and climbs back on the train. But – mark this -he doesn't call nine-nine-nine till he gets to work. It's a crowded commuter train. You know what they're like these days with bloody mobiles going off every couple of minutes. Our wiseguy insists that the rest of the good citizens on the train told him not to call the fuzz right away because it was sure to mean another delay. That's your great British public. We finally got the shout at ten-twenty.'