Peter Lovesey: Diamond Dust

'She was my sister and I'd say it again.' Then she softened enough to ask, 'How will you manage? Do you want us to come down?'

Like the plague. 'No need.'

'We'll have to come anyway for the funeral. When is it?'

'She only died this morning.'

'So you don't have it arranged?'

'No.'

'You'll tell us the minute it's fixed?'

'I'll be in touch.'

The prospect of a funeral hadn't fully entered his mind until now. Steph's funeral, for pity's sake.

Unreal.

He spent the next hour making more calls to family and friends, and there were repeated offers of help. Genuine offers, too. Steph had been held in high regard – no, lovedwas the word. Her friends wanted to rally round for her sake. He was under no illusion that they had any strong affection for him. Politely he turned down all the offers, saying he would cope.

Then he called the nick and asked Halliwell what had been happening.

'We found two bullets, guv. Used a metal detector, like you said. They've been taken away by forensics. One of them is in fair shape. The other was a bit flattened, as if something drove over it.'

'Christ. How about cartridges?'

'No. I suppose a revolver was used.'

'We shouldn't suppose anything yet. You probably heard I'm off the case.'

A tactful pause. 'Yes, guv. DCI McGarvie has taken over.'

'He knows about the Carpenters, I hope?'

'Everything. I'm sure of that.'

'Not quite everything. After the case ended, I had some aggro from a woman outside the law courts. She was screaming about me sending down her Jake, so I guess she was the girlfriend.'

'You think she could have done this?'

'I don't know, but McGarvie ought to be told. She was hyper.'

'I'll tell him.'

'And make sure he checks the Carpenter brothers -where they were this morning.'

'That's in hand, guv.'

'Right. You'll keep me in the picture, Keith.' It was more of an order than a request.

He put down the phone, and this time left it down. The urge to keep talking to people, shutting out the silence in the house, was strong. But the pain had to be faced. A number of times in his career he'd knocked on someone's door to tell them a loved one had been killed – the duty every cop dreads. He thought he'd understood something of the way those people had felt. How wide of the mark he was. You lose your grip on reality.

He was an alien in a spacesuit exploring Planet Earth. All his senses were blunted. He looked out through a glass visor. He heard things only when he made huge efforts to listen.

Georgina had been right to take him off the case. He admitted it now. He was in no state to investigate anything. The incentive was there, but he wasn't capable of making himself a cup of tea, let alone running a murder inquiry.

He sat at the kitchen table with his hands propping up his chin, and stared at the chair where Steph sat in the mornings. The Guardian was still there, folded to the crossword page, most of the squares completed in her neat lettering. Beside it, the mail she'd received that morning, a couple of junk items she hadn't bothered to open and a postcard from one of her ex-Brownies, on holiday abroad. She'd kept in touch with many of those little girls of years ago, encouraging them, taking real pride in their successes at school and university. He'd been to more weddings and christenings with Steph than he could remember now.

Those ex-Brownies would see on the TV news that she'd been murdered. For Steph's sake, he thought suddenly, he ought to warn them all. They were family to her. Her kids – and his. Somewhere she kept her own address book. He got up and started opening drawers. She had always kept her things organised, and he soon found it with the stationery. What a task, though. The 'A's alone ran to three pages.

This was what she would have wanted, so he made a start. Even if he didn't get through, he'd give it his best shot.

It was hard, hearing the shock in their voices, and harder listening to the loving things they said about her. Some were former Brownies, some friends she'd made through her work in the charity shops, others she'd kept up with since long before he knew her. So many – and so much love. After some time, he poured himself a brandy, then started another page.

Almost hidden among the 'D's he found the number for Steph's first husband, Edward Dixon-Bligh. Was it worth calling that tosspot? he wondered. He doubted if Dixon-Bligh and Steph had spoken since the divorce. The man had been an officer in the RAF Catering Branch (Diamond had dubbed him the Frying Officer) who had let her down badly at the time when she'd most needed help, after three miscarriages. The last they'd heard, he had swapped his commission for a Michelin star and was managing a restaurant in Guildford, Surrey, with a partner almost half his age. Still, he had a right to be told.

Waiting with the phone pressed to his ear, he recalled something Steph had once told him about her ex-husband that seemed to sum the man up. They had once rented a beach hut on the south coast and after the rental expired he'd kept a key. He'd go down to the beach for years after and if no one was using the hut he'd open it and brew some tea and sit there all afternoon, an overgrown cuckoo in the nest.

It turned out that he was no longer at the private number they had in the book. He'd moved into central London. That seemed a good enough excuse to forget him, but out of loyalty to Steph he tried directory enquiries. He was glad of the chance to leave an answer-phone message.

He abandoned this phone marathon when the people he called started telling him they'd heard already on the evening news. Outside, it was dark and he was only up to the 'G's. He drew the curtains.

What would Steph have wanted next? It was weird, but he almost heard her say in her calm voice, 'Tidy my things, Pete.' She would hate to leave disorder. Against all logic he went upstairs and emptied the basket where she put her clothes for washing. Picked her nightdress off the pillow and for a moment held it against his face and got a faint smell of her and said, 'Oh, Steph.' Brought the clothes down and loaded the machine. Went back upstairs and stripped the bed. Tightened the lid on a pot of foundation cream she'd left on her dressing table.

He said in a whisper, 'Is that better?' and then shook his head at his own stupidity.

He heard a car draw up outside and someone coming to the door, so he went downstairs and opened it.

A camera flashed.

The press.

He said to the woman on his doorstep, 'Shove off, will you. Leave me alone. There's no comment. There won't be any comment.' And slammed the door.

The phone rang.

He snatched it up, ready to give them a blasting.

'Curtis McGarvie here.'

'Oh.'

'First, I want to tell you how sorry I am.'

'Thanks.'

'And any number of people asked me to pass on their sympathy and support. Everyone is gutted. You can be sure we won't rest until we've caught this jerk. Do you mind if I talk about it?'

'Feel free.'

'The bullets are with forensics. They'll check them against their database and tell us the class of weapon. I've asked them to give it top priority. Some kind of handgun was used, obviously, and I'm assuming it was a revolver.'

'Why?'

'There'd have been cartridges lying around if a self-loading pistol was used.'

'Not if the killer was careful.'

'Picked up the cartridges, you mean?' McGarvie was silent, absorbing the point. 'Well, there weren't any, I promise you.'

'The striker pin marks the cartridge differently with each gun,' Diamond said with the confidence of the weapons training he did in his time with the Met. 'Important to ballistics. A professional would know that. He might well decide not to leave them there to be found. I think we should keep an open mind about the weapon.'