Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

'Just a caller, then.'

'Or a customer.'

'What – come to buy a gun?'

'Keep your eyes on the door, Dave. Let's see who opens it.'

Unfortunately, nobody did. The caller tried the bell twice more, looked at his watch, stood back and looked up to the balcony, and then gave up, returned to his car and drove off.

'We've wasted our time again,' Stormy said.

'No, look. Coming round the corner.'

The woman in the floppy hat and red leather had started up the hill towards the terrace, this time carrying a folded magazine.

Diamond watched, and something made him sure he'd seen her before. He couldn't tell the colour of her hair under the hat, but the face was one he knew. She wasn't Janie Forsyth, the she-cat who had attacked him, and she wasn't Danny Carpenter's wife, Celia. He needed a closer look.

Without a word to Stormy, he opened the door of the car and stepped across the street and stood outside the house.

Ten yards from him, the woman hesitated. Diamond stared, frowned and stared harder. It required a great leap of the imagination to tell that this lady in red leather was not, after all, a lady.

'Wayne?'

Wayne, if it was he, turned and started running back down the hill. Diamond pursued. His overweight, lumbering movement was about as ineffectual as his quarry's, hampered by high heels. But he kept running and managed to reach out and get a hand on a leather sleeve at the street corner and bring the chase to a skidding halt. He swung the person around and when they were face to face it was obvious he was right. This was not, after all, a woman. This was a skilfully made-up, smartly groomed, cross-dressed Wayne Beach. Prison life generally leaves its mark on an ex-con, but the result, in this case, had been unusual.

'How long have you been out, Wayne?'

The face tautened, making a mockery of the lipstick and foundation. 'What do you want? Who are you? I know you, don't I?' The voice also was at odds with the get-up, all too guttural.

Diamond showed his warrant card and reminded Beach who he was and how they'd met.

'You look different. You've changed,' Beach said.

'That's rich. What's all this nonsense, flouncing about in skirts?'

'It's a free country. I can dress how I want.'

'Is it a disguise, or what?'

'These are the clothes I choose to wear now. I don't need to justify them to you or anyone else.'

'Have you had the operation?'

'No, but I might.'

'What are you doing here in Bristol?'

'Visiting.'

'Come off it, Wayne. You live here. The house with the yellow door. Are you going to invite us in?'

'Us?' Beach looked across the street and saw Stormy Weather close the car door and step towards them. 'Beetroot face, as well? I know him. Once seen, never forgotten. What's going on?'

'Questions, that's all, if you play it right.'

'I did my time. You've got no right to persecute me.'

Stormy came over and took stock with a hyperthyroid stare. He shook his head and said, 'Well, I'll be buggered.'

'I wouldn't bank on it,' Diamond said. 'However, Wayne is going to invite us into his house for a coffee and answer our questions.'

'I don't have to,' Wayne said.

'I don't have to go to a magistrate for a warrant, but I will if I'm pressed.'

The bluff worked. Wayne felt in his shoulder-bag for a key and in so doing gave Diamond enough of a glimpse of the magazine he was holding to show it was the Shooting Times. They entered a hall with a crimson carpet and striped Regency wallpaper.

'Nice pad.'

'Nicer than Latchmere Road,' Stormy said.

Wayne turned. 'Listen, I only pick up the social to keep my probation officer happy.'

'Rest easy, Wayne. We're not here about your fraudulent claims.'

Beach removed the hat and hung it on a peg. He wasn't wearing a wig. He'd grown his own brown hair to a thickness any woman would have envied and had it clipped sheer at the back, twenties-style. In the kitchen – a gleaming place of natural wood and silvery appliances -he filled the kettle. They all sat on stools.

'What do you want?'

'You were released from the Scrubs when?' Diamond asked.

'Christmas. Just before.'

'So when did you move down here?'

'Not long after.'

'Not good enough,' Stormy said. 'We're talking dates, Wayne. You know the day you moved in.'

Beach gave a sigh and a toss of the head, playing the harassed female to perfection. He unhooked a spiral diary from the wall and flicked through the months. 'February the fifth.'

'Let's see that.' Diamond was reviewing his mental picture of that February morning in Royal Victoria Park. What if Steph had been approached by someone she supposed was a woman? Might that have been why her killer got so close before firing the shots? And why Wayne Beach got away without being noticed?

He handed the diary across. Diamond studied it. Each day was a narrow strip where appointments could be written in. February the fifth had the pencilled entry 'Bristol. Keys from Homefinders 11.30.' Various other appointments were filled in throughout the month, some indicated by initial letters. He looked at Tuesday the twenty-third, the day of the murder, and it was blank.

'What about this day here?'

Beach came over to look and treated Diamond to a whiff of some perfume heavy with musk. 'It's blank.'

'Does that mean you had a free day, or what?'

'No. If you look, you'll see each Tuesday is blank. I keep Tuesdays clear.'

Diamond checked the rest of the diary and saw that this was so. 'Why?'

'They're not really clear. Every Tuesday is spoken for. That's when I go to London to see Mr Dawkins.'

'Who's he?'

'My probation officer.'

'Ah.' The sound came from Diamond as if he'd taken a low punch, and that was how he felt. 'And you definitely went to London on the twenty-third?'

'I had to. Dawkins thinks I'm living in Clapham.'

'What train do you get?'

'The seven-twenty. I check in at his office at ten-thirty.'

This was beginning to look like a solid alibi. 'I'll check with him myself.'

'You wouldn't let on?' Wayne said in horror.

'What – that you're living the life of Riley here in Bristol flogging guns to any lunatic with cash in hand? Of course I'm going to let on. I'm a copper, Wayne, not your favourite uncle.'

In the act of pouring the coffee, Beach spilt some over his immaculate work surface. 'Who said anything about guns?'

'Half the criminal fraternity of Bristol. You're well known. It's a change from shooting taxi drivers in the leg. Two sugars, please.'

'Do I look like a gun dealer?'

'In your skirt and lipstick? At the risk of being misunderstood, I'd say you've got a very good front. I suppose the weapons are shipped in, up the Channel.'

'You're talking through your arse.'

'Can we look in your basement?'

Beach sighed, and dropped the pretence. 'What exactly do you want?'

'I want you to look at that calendar and tell me who bought automatic handguns in the month of February.'

'I wasn't dealing then. Honest to God. I'd only just moved in. You can't start a business from nothing.'

Diamond reached for the calendar again. 'There are letters here I recognise. DC on the twelfth, and again on the fifteenth. Would that be Danny Carpenter?'

Wayne passed a hand nervously through the shingled hair. 'Listen, you don't move into someone else's manor without a by-your-leave. I had to square it with the local chiefs, or I wouldn't last five minutes. On the days you're talking about, I wasn't dealing. I was making arrangements.'

'Dressed like this?'

He glared. 'I might be different, but I'm not stupid.'

'What brought you to Bristol?'

'I have to make a living. London was too hot to start up again. This is the next best.'