Peter Lovesey - Diamond Dust

Feeling better, he applied his mind to other matters. He looked for the hairdressing salon. If you want to find out about a woman without speaking to her husband, try her hairdresser. A shop on the corner called Streakers had an art nouveau design, tastefully done, of running nudes with their hair in curlers. He went in with a gust that blew the showcards off the counter.

One of the stylists put down her scissors and came over. She was the manager, he discovered.

'I was wondering,' he began when he'd shown his warrant card, 'if by any chance you cut the hair of Mrs Weather, the local woman who was shot and found dead by the railway at Woking.' His voice was calm, but he hoped to God he'd struck lucky. There simply wasn't time to do the rounds of all the salons in the area.

'Trish was a client of mine, yes,' the bright-eyed, thirtyish manager told him – and it didn't escape him that she used the 'T' word unprompted. She took him into the staffroom and sent the junior there to sweep the salon floor. 'We couldn't believe it when we heard. She was such a sweet person.'

'You said she was your client. You personally did her hair?'

'I did.'

'For how long?'

'More than a year, once a week. After she left her job in the police she had a regular Friday morning appointment. Personal grooming was important to Trish.' She was eyeing his saturated old mac.

'You got to know the lady well, then? Did she talk about her life?'

She had, quite a bit, he learned. She had been struggling to build up the temping agency. Just when it was starting to take off, a big agency with a chain of branches opened right across the street. They spent a lot in advertising and offered better terms, so her business was hit hard.

The agency didn't interest him at all. 'Did her police work ever come up?'

'Not much.'

'It was a big part of her life. Didn't she talk about the people she worked with?'

She shook her head.

'Did she ever mention someone called Steph, or Stephanie?'

'No.'

Some of the gloss was knocked off his theory.

She told him, 'I got the impression the work was high pressure, but quite satisfying. She missed it after she left. Things got more difficult generally.'

'Not just the business, then?' He was alert to each nuance. 'Her personal life?'

She smoothed her hands down her white tabard. 'If you don't mind, I'd rather not go into that.'

'Why not? She's gone.'

'But Mr Weather hasn't.'

He told her sharply, 'This isn't about being good neighbours, ma'am. It's a murder inquiry. Did she complain about him?'

'No more than other clients do about their husbands. We hear it all. You get them in the chair and they tell you all kinds of confidences.'

He waited, and getting nothing, said, 'So the marriage was under some pressure?'

'I think being at home, Trish had more time in the house, and got rather, well, possessive.'

'And?'

'I felt sorry for Mr Weather, to tell you the truth. You know he slept outside in the van? If you went past in the evening, there was often a light on inside.'

'I didn't know he has a van.'

'When I say "van", I mean a caravan thing, except it wasn't a caravan. You could drive it.'

'A motor home?'

'Yes. That's what I mean. Big enough to live in. It used to be on their drive.'

'It wasn't when I visited. Perhaps he moved it'

'After Trish disappeared he moved back into the house. He must have parked the motor home in some other place. Or sold it.'

'You were saying you felt sorry for him,' he prompted.

'There was one time when she hurt her leg and couldn't come here, so I went to the house to give her the shampoo and blow-dry and I was really surprised to find how feminine everything was, beautifully clean and tidy, and all pink and white with swathed curtains and ballerina pictures on the walls. Dolls and soft toys. A little figure in a crinoline covering the spare toilet roll in the bathroom. There was nothing of him anywhere to be seen.'

'Except in the motor home outside?'

'I didn't go in there. I suppose her feminine side had been cramped by the police job. When she got the opportunity, she went a bit overboard.'

This made sense to him, and he was glad of the insight into Stormy's marriage. It compensated a little for his disappointment at learning nothing of Trish's feelings towards Steph.

'One more favour, and I'll let you get back to your client. Could I see your appointments book for February and March – or are you computerised?'

'No. We're far too busy to learn. Stay here and I'll send in the junior with it.'

With the book in his hands, he flicked back the pages to the months he was interested in. There was obviously a system. Regular bookings were entered by someone in a clear, neat script. The others, arranged a short time ahead, or on the day, bore the signs of being hastily inserted in a variety of styles. He soon located Mrs P. Weather in the tidy hand, each Friday at eleven-thirty. She'd booked for the whole of February and March.

There was something else about the system. As clients arrived for their appointments, a tick was placed beside their names. There were ticks for Trish Weather up to Friday, February the twelfth. For the nineteenth and subsequent Fridays her name was crossed through and other names had been squeezed in above.

He took the book out to the manager and showed her. 'Does this mean she didn't come in after February the twelfth?'

'That's right.'

'Did she cancel?'

'She must have done – or we wouldn't have slotted another client in.'

'In person?'

'I really can't remember that far back.'

'You must have thought about it when you heard she was murdered.'

'They didn't find her for six months. No, I didn't think it mattered. Is it important, then?'

Is it important? he thought. For crying out loud, is it important?

'If she cancelled, would she have called you personally?'

'Any of the staff could have taken the message. It's a matter of who's free to pick up the phone.'

Clearly, she had no memory of speaking to Trish.

'If someone cancels, don't they normally make another appointment?'

'Unless they say they'll get in touch later. If they're ill, somebody might cancel for them.'

'The husband?'

'Anyone.'

'And if you don't hear from the client after that?'

'We don't chase them up, if that's what you mean. If they don't get in touch again, that's the end of it.'

And it was, for Trish Weather, he thought.

He left the salon to walk to the Forester, the local he'd visited before. There was a fair chance that by this time, eleven-thirty, Stormy would be installed there.

The downpour was so heavy by now that everyone else was sheltering in shopfronts and under awnings. Peter Diamond strode through the rain without caring, his thoughts ten months in the past and a hundred miles away, picturing Steph's meeting with the person who was armed and ready to execute her.

From that day to this the question uppermost in Diamond's mind had been 'Why?' Elusive, maddening, paining, it had always been the key. He'd been certain he would find Steph's killer when he understood. He'd not wavered, tortuous as the route had been.

Finally, he knew.

The motive wasn't rage or passion or revenge or greed. It wasn't malice. It was more appalling than any of those: a decision made in cold blood and carried out impassively. Steph had died for no better reason than that she had made a phone call that – unknown to her – undermined a killer's alibi.

He understood enough about the tunnel vision of the murdering mind to know that her life, her individuality, the precious, warm, vital person she was, had not come into the reckoning. She was a risk, so she was eliminated.