Peter Lovesey: Diamond Dust

'I intend to,' McGarvie said, stressing the first word. 'Otherwise not much came up in the search. Do you know if your wife normally carried a bag of some kind?'

A bag? He meant a handbag. Of course she carried a handbag. 'Black leather, quite large, with a shoulder strap and zip. Didn't you find it?'

'Nothing so far. Maybe you could look around the house and see if it's gone for certain.'

'I'll do it now.'

'No rush.'

'I said I'll do it now.'

'Okay. And I'd like to come to your place tomorrow and talk to you.'

'I'll come to the nick.'

'No, I'd prefer to visit your home, if you don't mind. That way, I'll get a better sense of your wife.'

He would have done the same. 'All right.'

'Is nine too early? If you can find a recent photo, we'll need to appeal for witnesses. Have you been bothered by the press at all?'

'Told them to bugger off.'

'If it happens again, tell them we're calling a press conference for midday tomorrow. Should get them off your back.'

'Thanks. Do you want me there?'

'No need at this stage. Is anyone with you? Friends or family?'

'I'm alone.'

'Would you like-?'

'It's my choice.'

He searched for that handbag without any confidence that it would turn up. Steph always took it with her if she went out. Just as he expected, it wasn't in the house -which raised a question. If the killer had picked it up, what was his reason?

Would a hitman walk off with his victim's handbag after firing the fatal shot? Unlikely.

It raised the possibility that the hitman theory was wrong, and that Steph had been shot by a thief.

He stood in the living room with head bowed, hands pressed to his face, pondering that one. Had she been killed for a few pounds and some credit cards? That would be even more cruel.

He called the nick and left a message for McGarvie that the bag was not in the house.

During the evening he answered the door twice more to reporters, and told them about McGarvie's press conference. And the phone rang intermittently. The word 'condolences' kept coming up. And 'tragic'. And 'bereavement'. Death has its own jargon.

But he was pleased to get a call from Julie Hargreaves, his former deputy in the Bath murder team – the best he'd ever had. Julie always knew exactly what was going through his mind.

When she'd expressed her sympathy Julie said, 'Let Curtis McGarvie take this on, whatever your heart tells you. He's well up to the job.'

'Have you worked with him?'

'Yes, and he's good without making a big deal out of it'

'Better than me?'

'For this case – yes. You want a result. If you handled it yourself, you'd get one, I'm sure – only for the CPS to throw it out because you're too involved.'

'I've been told that already.'

'But your heart won't accept what your head tells you. You can still play an active part by telling Curtis everything you know.'

'It isn't the same, Julie. I want to roll up my sleeves, make decisions.'

'Why don't you put your energy into giving Steph the kind of send-off she deserves? A lot of people will expect it, you know. She had so many friends.'

'That's for sure.' He paused, letting her comment sink in. "What exactly are you suggesting?'

'Would she have wanted a church funeral?'

'She was a believer.'

'Then I really think you should arrange it at the Abbey.'

'The Abbey? '

'Do your public servant number on the Dean, or whoever decides these things. But insist on having the service the way Steph would have wished.'

'Which is…?'

She caught her breath, as if surprised she had to spell it out. 'The music she liked. Whoever takes the service should be someone who knew her personally. One or two of her family or closest friends should do readings. You, if you can face it.'

'I'd feel a hypocrite. I'm an agnostic if I'm anything, Julie.'

'It doesn't have to be out of the Bible. Well, to be honest, I wasn't thinking of you. But you could speak about her if you felt up to it.'

'I don't think so.'

'You're confident in front of people.'

'Barking out orders to a bunch of coppers, maybe, but not this.'

'Okay, if you want, you could write something about her life and include it with the Order of Service. Then when it's over, you invite people to lunch, or tea, or whatever, at some local hostelry.'

He took all this in before saying, 'You're right, Julie. This is what I should be doing. I'll see to it as soon as the coroner releases…' He didn't complete the sentence.

'One more thing, if I can be really personal,'Julie said.

'What's that?'

'I can only say this because we worked together so long. You're tougher with people than anyone I know, but not so tough as you are on yourself. It wouldn't be the end of civilisation as we know it if, when you're alone, you shed a few tears – for Steph, and for yourself.'

At the low point of the night, before dawn, he remembered, and wept for the first time in over forty years.

He nicked one of the scratches shaving and it bled on his shirt: too little concentration after too little sleep. He'd finally flopped onto the sofa and drifted off for about two hours – only to be roused by the Guardian being shoved through the door. Then he was forced to accept the unthinkable over again.

'You look rough,' McGarvie told him unnecessarily.

'So do you.'

Actually McGarvie was one of those people who always look rough – no bad thing in CID work. Still in his early forties, he was marked by too many late nights and too many whiskies. Under-nourished, pock-marked, with bags under his eyes, he had a voice like the third day of a God-awful cold.

He'd brought Mike James with him, a newish, far-from-comfortable DC who Diamond himself had plucked from the uniformed ranks.

Diamond offered coffee and admitted, when asked, that he hadn't eaten breakfast. He chose not to reveal that he hadn't been able to face food since yesterday.

'So where are we on this?' he asked while they stood in the kitchen watching the kettle. 'What have we got?'

McGarvie hesitated. That 'we' obviously troubled him. 'I've got a hundred and twenty officers on this. Fingertip search. Door-to-door in all the streets nearby. Incident room up and running.'

'What I meant is what have we learned?'

'Forensics take their time. You appreciate that.'

'But you do know certain things – what time she was shot. Ten-twenty.'

'If we're to believe the guy who found her.'

'She was at home in Lower Weston when I left at eight-fifteen.'

'That was one thing I was going to ask.'

'And the Carpenters?' Diamond pressed him.

'Des and Danny appear to be watertight for yesterday morning.'

He shook his head. 'Surprise me.'

'Des was motoring back from Essex and has a credit card voucher for fuel placing him on the M4 at Reading Services at ten-thirty.'

'I'd check the forecourt video if I were you.'

'It's in hand.'

After spooning instant coffee into two mugs Diamond moistened the granules with a dash of milk from a bottle that must have been on the table since yesterday. 'You like it white?'

McGarvie frowned at the lumpen mess. 'Sure.'

Mike James just nodded. He was so ill at ease in the home of his bereaved boss he would have drunk the cat's water if it were handed to him.

'And the other one? Danny?'

'At the gym in Bristol for an hour until ten, signed in, signed out, and vouched for by the staff there, and afterwards went to his solicitor in Clifton.'

'Who of course recorded precisely when he arrived and left? They really wrapped this up.'

'You think they used a hitman?'

'Don't you?'

McGarvie left the question hanging. Diamond poured hot water into the mugs and handed them over. Curds and black granules rose to the surface. McGarvie picked up the spoon and stirred his. They carried them through to the living room. The curtains hadn't been pulled.