Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

Everyone took up strategic positions. Officers with submachine-guns crouched and took aim in the shingle below the level of the huts, watched from behind a stout wooden groyne by the others, including Diamond and Weather.

Diamond told a senior man they didn't want the suspect killed and was informed they were using soft-point rounds.

Through a loudhailer the occupant of the hut was told that armed police were outside. He was instructed to come out, hands on head.

There was no response.

Two more warnings were given. Then the order came to force an entry. A distraction device, some kind of thunderflash, was lobbed behind the hut and went off with a terrific report.

Instantly four men armed with sub-machine-guns dashed to the hut from either side. The only way in was through the front and it wouldn't take much. The wooden door was half-rotten through years of exposure to salt spray. A burst of gunfire shot away the hinges.

The door fell outwards and hit the paving stones. It had not been locked.

But no one was inside.

The anticlimax silenced everyone. There was that feeling of sheepishness – not unknown to Diamond – when the long arm of the law has reached out and missed.

Finally the man in charge said, 'Stupid bloody dogs.'

'Back to it, lads,' some other officer said. 'There's a million more fucking huts.'

The man at Diamond's side said, 'Which genius gave us this tip-off?'

Diamond said nothing, and Stormy stayed silent as well.

Interestingly the dogs were still straining at their leashes to return to the empty hut. The handlers had a problem getting them back to work.

'I know it's obvious no one is in there,' Diamond told Stormy, 'but I want a closer look.'

They stepped up to the hut and over the bits of timber that had been the door. There were definite signs of recent occupation. Just inside the doorway was a folded sleeping bag. Also a torch, a cut loaf and a carton containing canned food and beer. An A to Zof West Sussex and a copy of the Sunday Express – last week's edition. He picked up the torch and switched it on. 'What do you make of that, Dave?'

Stormy bent closer to the area of flooring caught in the beam of light.

Diamond told him, 'That's what excited the dogs.'

'Stormy wetted his finger and touched the dark patch. 'You're right. It's blood.'

After the forensic team and SOCOs arrived there was the usual hiatus. Clearly someone or some animal had shed blood in the beach hut, but it was a mystery where they had gone. The sniffer dogs took no interest in any of the other huts, or the changing rooms, toilets or cafe higher up the beach. With nothing else to detain them, the armed response team packed up and drove away.

'Looks like the Arabs got to him first,' Stormy said.

'Killed him, you mean? For blabbing?'

He nodded. 'Those guys don't take prisoners. Did you ever see Lawrence of Arabia?'

'If he's dead, I don't know where they left him.'

'Buried him on the beach, I expect. It wouldn't take long.’

'Wouldn't be long before he was found, either. Plenty of people come along here walking their dogs, even at this time of year, and when a dog gets a whiff of blood… And how would the Arabs have found him here?'

'They're smart operators, Peter. They escaped from the Dorchester under the noses of one of these hotshot teams of ninjas, so it's not beyond them to track Dixon-Bligh to his hideout.'

'Unless.'

'Unless what?'

'Unless this is a totally unrelated incident. Remember it was a hunch that brought us here.'

'Let's say a brainwave.'

Diamond sniffed. 'We can hope so.'

They sat on a wooden beam facing the band of grey sea and the misty outline of the Isle of Wight. Nearer to them, gulls and sandpipers in their hundreds had colonised the wet sand.

'I hope this smackhead isn't dead,' Stormy said. 'I want him put on trial.'

'Be better off dead when I catch up with him,' Diamond muttered.

'You don't want to foul up your career for a scumbag like that.'

'Watch me.'

'That's precisely why you and I are sidelined.'

From behind them a uniformed PC called Diamond over to where the incident tapes kept any onlookers out of the sterile area. 'Gentleman here wants a word, sir. He appears to know something.'

The informant was a tall, elderly man with a white moustache. He was wearing a windcheater and brown corduroys tucked into green Wellingtons. His red setter started forward and licked the back of Diamond's hand.

'Something to tell me, sir?'

'Seeing all the activity here I wondered if it's anything to do with that fellow they found on the beach yesterday.'

'What fellow?'

'Couldn't tell you who he was. I was walking the dog as usual and saw what happened. Some windsurfers spotted him half in, half out of the water at damned near high tide. Blood all over his shirt, but no wound that I could see. He was obviously in a bad way. Out to the world. They took him off in an ambulance.'

'Where would they have taken him?'

'Casualty, I expect. Chichester has the nearest A & E Department.'

'If my client were to make a voluntary statement about his movements on the day in question,'Joe Florida's solicitor said, 'and if he proved to your satisfaction that he had no part in the matter under investigation, would you be willing to set aside any possible prosecution on matters of a lower tariff?'

'No deals,' McGarvie told him.

'In that case, he has nothing else to say.'

Keith Halliwell leaned towards his SIO and whispered something.

McGarvie gave a petulant click of the tongue and sat back in his chair, raking both hands through his hair. Finally he said, 'If you were talking about something that happened outside our jurisdiction – we're from another force, Avon and Somerset, you understand – my colleague and I wouldn't' – he sighed, hating this – 'wouldn't necessarily be under an obligation to investigate.'

'He needs a stronger assurance than that.'

'Are you saying that after all this he remembers what he was doing on February the twenty-third?'

Joe Florida pointed to the tape recorder mounted on the wall. 'Turn that fucker off, and I'll tell you.'

'Typical breakdown in communications,' Diamond grumbled on the drive to Chichester. 'If someone is brought into hospital with blood all over him and no explanation, it's a police matter. The local CID must have been out at that beach looking for evidence. Why didn't we hear about it?'

'Because we were with Gina's lot,' Stormy pointed out. 'They're not exactly the local plod.'

Thanks to Stormy's driving they reached St Richard's Hospital inside half an hour. The doctor in Accident &Emergency took them into an office at once. A stethoscope hung from his neck and he fingered the sound-receiver as he spoke. 'Yes, I was on duty yesterday when the man was brought in from West Wittering. From the contents of his pocket he was called Edward Dixon-Bligh, but he hasn't been formally identified yet'

'So he's dead?'

'On arrival.'

'Do you know the cause?'

'Loss of blood.'

'But where from?'

'His mouth. This is hard to believe, but someone cut out his tongue.'

The next afternoon Diamond, back in Bath, was summoned to the top-floor suite known as the Eagle's Nest. Curtis McGarvie was there already, seated in the armchair closest to Georgina's desk. He had a half-empty mug of coffee in his fist, revealing he'd been there some time. And he was sitting at an uncomfortable angle with his knees pointing at Diamond, presumably to line himself up with the inquisition.

Georgina cleared her throat. 'Thank you for coming, Peter.' The greeting had a faintiy pejorative edge, and the follow-up confirmed it. 'If you were expecting a pat on the back, think again. Just because the Yard are treating you like some footballer who scored the winning goal, it doesn't excuse your conduct here. You defied my explicit instruction to stay out of the investigation into your wife's death.'