Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

'So what's the problem, Peter? He's well capable of murder.'

'I can't see the logic in it. If he hated my guts – and he probably did – then why not murder me? People like Florida live by a simple, brutal code, Dave. They demand, and they get. If they don't get, they give, and what they give is violence. We're not dealing with a chess grand master here. I don't see Joe Florida scheming and plotting in jail for years thinking when I get out I'll murder the wives of the coppers who banged me up, and that'll really make them suffer.'

'He'd rather kill us?'

'Of course – if he still bears a grievance. And I'm not convinced he had a reason to hate you when all you did was sit beside Blaize in the interviews.'

'I was alone with him a lot.'

'Doing what? You didn't get physical with him?'

Stormy grinned. 'Me – with Joe Florida?'

'I meant restrain him.'

'I know what you meant. He asked me things, how long I'd been on the force, if I was married, had kids. You know me by now. I can go on a bit.'

'He actually asked if you were married?'

'Yes.'

'And you told him?'

'I was trying to seem laid-back.'

'What was he after – a smoke?'

'I wouldn't have given him one. No, I thought at the time he was softening me up for something. It was scary, to be honest.'

'Softening you up for what?'

'He could see I was new in the job. He had this aura of evil. You must have sensed it, same as me.'

'What are you saying, Dave? That he psyched you out? That you did something out of order?'

Stormy was quiet for a time. Finally he sighed and said, 'I've never mentioned this to anyone.'

Diamond waited.

'He asked me to make a phone call for him, letting his girlfriend know he was nicked.'

'And did you?'

'Of course not.'

'But you promised Florida you'd do it?'

'Kind of.'

'Either you did or you didn't.'

He shrugged. 'I did, then.'

'And you think he remembers?' Diamond said in disbelief.

'I remember – and I wasn't sitting in the Scrubs staring at the walls. Things can get out of proportion, Peter.'

Diamond took a short swig of beer. 'Even if you're right, and he held a grudge as long as this, I still say he'd take it out on you, not your wife.'

About eleven, they made up an extra bed in the spare room. 'What's the agenda tomorrow?' Stormy asked.

'A trip to Guildford.'

'What for?'

'My wife's first husband, Dixon-Bligh, used to have a restaurant there. McGarvie says he's holed up somewhere, and I want to know why.'

'He's the one who could have been mentioned in the diary?'

'Right. "T" for Ted.'

'You think he's gone back to Guildford?'

'I wouldn't rule it out, but if he's covered his tracks, as the Met seem to think, we're not going to find him that easily. We've got to go at him by a different route. I want to trace his ex-partner in the business – if possible.'

'Who is he?'

'She, actually.'

'A woman.' Stormy twitched as a dire thought struck him. 'What if he killed her?'

Diamond had thought of this a long time before. He remarked as if recalling some ancient mystery, 'It would be helpful to know.'

Stormy was still grappling with the implications. 'But there's no link between Dixon-Bligh and my wife's murder.'

'None that we know of – yet.'

After some ninety miles of Diamond's ultra-cautious driving they reached Guildford well past coffee-time and had to go looking for a place that would serve them. 'To settle my shattered nerves,' he muttered. 'I don't like the motorways.'

'You should have told me,' Stormy said. 'I could have walked in front with a red flag. We'd still have got here in the same time.'

'Cheeky sod.'

The first place they looked into after the cafe was a secondhand bookship. Diamond, better for the intake of caffeine, explained his thinking. There was always a shelf near the door of out-of-date guides, yearbooks and catalogues. He picked off a 1998 restaurant guide and found the address of Dixon-Bligh's former establishment, the Top of the Town. 'See if this gets your juices going, Dave. "'The welcome is warm, the cooking classy at this easy-to-miss haven towards the top of the High Street. Edward Dixon-Bligh recently took over after a career of catering for the top brass in Royal Air Force establishments across the world. The menu reflects his international pedigree, with chowders, cassoulets and pestos, terrine of pork knuckle with foie gras, cinnamon-spiced quail with cardomom rice and fine green beans and pan-fried salmon with sarladaise potato and horseradish cappuccino sauce. Desserts include Thai coconut with exotic fruit sorbets. A fine cellar, mainly French and New World, is expertly managed by Dixon-Bligh'spartner, Fiona Appleby, who is pleased to advise."'

'It's probably a McDonald's now,' Stormy said.

'Can't get more international than that.'

But it was no longer in business as a restaurant. They found a body-piercing studio where the Top of the Town had been. A window filled with tattoo-patterns and pieces of metal designed to be inserted into flesh. The shaven-headed, leather-clad receptionist almost fell off her stool when the two middle-aged detectives walked in. She thought their generation wasn't privy to the charms of pierced nipples and navels.

Diamond confirmed the impression. He explained he was only interested in the former owners.

'Them? They blew out of here ages ago. They split up, didn't they?'

'What do you do with the mail?'

'It stopped coming.'

'They must have left a forwarding address.'

'The woman has a cottage at Puttenham. We used to send stuff there.'

'Is that far?'

'Take the A31 on the Hog's Back. You'll see the sign.

It's about three miles.'

'Do you have a note of the address?'

'I remember it. Duckpond Cottage.'

'And you think she's still there?'

'Don't bank on it, mister. Are they in trouble, then?'

'It's just an enquiry. Why do you ask?'

"Cos you look like the police.'

'It's personal.'

Stormy said with a beam across his tomato-red face, 'You can't tell a book by its cover.'

Out at Puttenham they found Duckpond Cottage on its own at the end of a rutted track that Diamond refused to drive along. The place wasn't a picture-postcard cottage. It was built, probably in the nineteen-sixties, of reconstituted stone slabs that had acquired patches of green mould. But efforts had been made with the garden and the paintwork was recent. No one answered when they rang the doorbell. 'Par for the course,' Stormy said.

Through the letter box a few items of mail were visible inside.

Everyone in a village is supposed to know everyone else's business. At the nearest house a small, elderly man in a cap was standing in his doorway before they reached it.

'Who are you, then?' he piped up.

'Enquiring about your neighbour, Miss Appleby. Does she still live at Duckpond Cottage?'

'Why – has she gone missing?' He was more interested in asking questions than answering them.

It seemed she hadn't moved away.

'You're not from the council, about the drainage? Shocking, the state of that lane.'

'She doesn't appear to be at home.'

'Gone away, hasn't she?' Now there was a note of certainty in the voice, even if it ended as yet another question.

'Did she tell you?'

'I may be old, but my eyes are all right. I saw you prowling around, didn't I?'

'You did.'

'She hasn't been at home for the past three weeks.'

'As long as that?'

'Easily.'

Diamond was not entirely convinced. 'We looked through the letter box. I wouldn't say there's three weeks' junk mail on the carpet.'

'That's because someone comes in.'

'Really? Who's that – a cleaner?'