Peter Lovesey: Diamond Dust

The eyes confirmed it, even if the voice was silent.

'By killing her, you kept your trump card, the chance to mislead everyone about the date of your own wife's death. You waited another two weeks before reporting that Trish was missing. And ever since, you've been doing your damnedest to lay false trails, insisting on calling her Patsy, putting in the frame every villain we ever crossed, sending me every bloody way but here. I took you for a friend and you're a bloody Judas, the worst enemy I could have had.'

The man had nothing to say. His eyes were opaque. He seemed indifferent, passive. But it was a trick.

Abruptly his two hands reached up and smashed down on Diamond's wrist, wrenching it away from the shirt. He stood, wheeled around and made a dash for a door at the back.

Diamond's reaction was slower than it should have been, partly because of where he was seated. The table tipped over and the glasses crashed as he shoved them aside and stepped out. Unfortunately he blundered into a bar-stool and stumbled to his knees. The door had slammed before he was on his feet again.

He charged across and yanked it open. He was looking out at the car park, and Stormy Weather was already climbing into the passenger seat of a white motor home driven by the woman in the blue dress. He must have given her the order to wait with the engine running.

Diamond sprinted.

The vehicle had revved and powered away before he made a grab for the door. He grasped the handle and had his right arm tugged almost out of its socket. Acting on impulse and anger alone, he held on, taking huge strides beside the cab, and jerked the door fully open.

A mistake.

He was staring at imminent death, into the muzzle of a gun. Stormy Weather, eyes wild with panic, took aim.

The bullet hit Diamond like a sledgehammer and he fell backwards and knew no more.

'Peter.'

'Mm?'

'How are you doing?'

'Steph?' He tried to rise and felt a searing pain in his chest.

'Stay still, love. Don't fight it.'

'Fight what?'

'You can relax. The job's done. You're a brave man.'

'Is it really you, Steph?'

No answer.

'Am I dead?'

'Not dead. You'll survive this time, lucky you.'

'Love you, too.'

'You, too… You, too… You, too…'

She was fading and another voice, not Steph's, was saying, 'He's coming round, I think.'

He succeeded in opening his eyes and was conscious of someone above him. Devastated, he saw she was not Steph, but a much younger woman in nurse's uniform. He asked, 'Where did she go?'

'Who do you mean?'

'Steph was here.'

'You must have heard Sister speaking.'

'Her sister went back to Liverpool. Where am I?'

'Kingston Hospital. Listen, you're a little woozy from the injection, and you will be for some time to come, but you're going to be all right, as Sister was trying to tell you.'

'Hospital?'

'You were shot in the shoulder. Don't try to move it. The back of your head hit the ground hard, but there doesn't seem to be any damage to the skull. You've got visitors, by the way.'

'Steph?'

'Who's this Steph you keep on about?' She spoke to someone else. 'He's still bosky, poor bloke. Maybe it's better if he rests for a while.'

When he came round again, he was clearer in the head, and sadder. The visitors were seated by the bed. They were a youngish man whose face he couldn't put a name to, and another he'd never seen in his life.

'Bowers. Billy Bowers,' the first man said when it was obvious Diamond was at a loss.' Woking CID, investigating the death of Patricia Weather. Remember?'

'Now I do.'

'And this is Sergeant Sims. He was on the search party, but I don't think you met him that day. How are you feeling?'

'Sore.'

'Clear-headed?'

'Better than I was. I expect you want to know who shot me.'

'Dave Weather. He's in custody.'

He flexed and gave himself a stab of pain. 'You nicked him? Brilliant!'

'Thanks to the tip-off we got from your friend DI Hargreaves.'

He was talking about Julie. What did Julie know about it? With an effort, Diamond recollected his last conversation with her. He'd told her on the phone he was going after Stormy.

'Pity we didn't collar him before he shot you. If only you'd told us-'

'If I'd told you, I wouldn't have been allowed within a mile of him.'

'You've got a point there,' Bowers admitted with a grin. 'We had the tactical firearms unit waiting outside the house. When the shot was fired in the pub car park, they got round fast. Those motor homes aren't built for easy getaways.'

'Was there a shoot-out?'

'No, they gave themselves up. We'll release the woman without charge later on, but Weather won't be joining her. He thinks we know the lot, and of course we don't – yet. What I need is your account of what happened.'

Later in the day, he was seen by a doctor who told him the bullet had ripped through the deltoid muscle and pierced the scapula. There was some splintering of the bone and he would be kept overnight for some more 'hoovering' under anaesthetic. Apart from the scar, there would be no permanent damage.

'You're lucky.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Or were you looking for early retirement?'

'A living death? No thanks.'

Keith Halliwell came to visit later in the day, a call Diamond appreciated. He brought with him a bottle of malt whisky and a Get Well card signed by everyone on the Bath murder squad.

'You should have been in the incident room when the news came through, guv. Mr McGarvie's face had to be seen to be believed. Not only did he screw up, but you got your man and Bill Bowers gets the collar. He's not a happy bunny.'

'If I could move my arm I'd wipe away a tear, Keith.'

'All I can say is it's lucky for Weather he isn't in our nick. What a weasel, cosying up to you when he'd murdered your wife. How could he do that?'

'It suited him nicely, Keith. When I first offered to work with him he back-pedalled a little, but after he thought about it, being with me he was beautifully placed to foul up the works. Any time another suspect was in the frame, whether it was Joe Florida or Wayne Beach or Dixon-Bligh, he said just enough to point the finger their way.'

'You must hate the man.'

'Hate is too good a word.'

'At least you got satisfaction.'

Later, after Halliwell was gone, he thought about that word 'satisfaction'. In earlier times a duellist was said to demand satisfaction for some offence. There had been none in catching Weather, nor would there be when he was sent down for life. It had mattered that he was caught. The law of the land would be upheld.

Satisfaction?

No.

Yet he felt less gloomy than he had at the lowest point. He would never admit to anyone that he believed in the supernatural. The words he'd attributed to Steph when he was lying in the hospital bed must have been spoken by one of the nursing staff. Must have. He'd been drowsy from some pain killer, hadn't he?

At the time, he'd believed every word.

Well, someone sounding very like Steph had said the job was done. He was comforted by that, whatever the explanation. In this savage world any comfort is worth holding onto.