Peter Lovesey - Stagestruck

Her sigh could be heard down the phone. ‘I’m in two minds, guv. He’s far from silent, but he gives nothing away. I’m sure he’s an excellent chairman of the trustees because he’s so discreet. Personally I find him charming and affable and I think he truly cares about the theatre. But his decision to employ Clarion was a disaster. All of this mayhem was triggered by him and I suspect there’s more he hasn’t told us.’

‘Like sacking Kate? ’

‘Well, yes.’

‘How did you wheedle that out of him?’

‘I traded.’

‘Traded what?’

‘I made some suggestive remark about Shearman and Kate and he obviously didn’t know what they get up to in wardrobe. He was shocked into telling me she’d already been dismissed.’

‘Why hadn’t he told us before now?’

‘He didn’t want the theatre’s reputation damaged any more than it has been already.’

‘Shearman didn’t tell us anything about the sacking either.’

‘Well, he’s been exploiting it, hasn’t he?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Encouraging Kate to think that by cosying up to him she’ll get a reprieve. Small chance. Melmot runs the show and Shearman has hardly any influence with him at all.’

For Diamond, this was a new angle on the goings-on in wardrobe. ‘So you think Kate is pulling him to save her job?’

‘I’d put it another way. Shearman is cynically taking advantage.’

‘I thought it was straightforward sex.’

‘A typically male assumption, if I may say so.’

Sharp, he thought. He wouldn’t get into a debate with Ingeborg about that. ‘Nice work with Melmot, anyway. Things are making more sense. Are you working late?’

‘That’s what you asked us to do.’ There was a definite note of dissent, unusual for Ingeborg. He expected it from the likes of Leaman and even Halliwell on occasions, but not Inge.

‘I’ll get back as soon as I can.’ If Inge was unhappy, he could imagine there was serious murmuring in the ranks. He understood why. Most of the interviews had been got through and put on file by now. The team was marking time, waiting for fresh orders but knowing he was an hour’s drive away. No doubt they were thinking of what they were missing on a Friday evening. He needed to convey his own belief that this was the calm before the storm.

Difficult, down the phone from Salisbury. When he’d started on this trip he’d expected to question Kate in Warminster and be back in Bath by early evening.

He pocketed the mobile and stepped up to the desk again and reminded them who he was and asked if he could see Kate now. He was told firmly to wait with everyone else. He asked how long that was likely to be and they said they weren’t in a position to say.

More marking time. He wasn’t good at it. Not that Friday night clubbing held any appeal for a man his age; he just wanted to make better use of the time.

But an idea was coming to him. It wouldn’t be the ideal solution. Better than sitting around here for a couple of hours.

When Rogers returned with the coffee and sandwiches, Diamond said, ‘They’re busy here. I’ve seen a couple of serious cases brought in while you were getting these.’

‘It’s Friday evening, guv. It’s expected in casualty.’

‘Could be a long one, I’m thinking.’

‘Me, too.’

He took a sip of the coffee. ‘This is welcome.’

‘Good.’

‘There’s someone I wouldn’t mind seeing while I’m over here. Lives at Wilton. That isn’t far from Salisbury, is it?’

‘Not far at all.’ A twitch of Rogers’ lips showed his immediate assumption: that Diamond had a woman friend.

‘It’s not police business,’ Diamond said. ‘I’d be leaving you in charge for an hour or so. Would you mind? You could phone me if there’s a problem.’

‘I’ll still be here. I don’t have my bike with me.’

‘No violence,’ Diamond kept repeating aloud while skirting Salisbury on the road to Wilton. The next hour would test him. The anger simmering for days was already threatening to boil over. He’d last felt pressure like this after Steph wasmurdered. Brute force had always lurked within him and he knew the signs, shallow breathing, gritted teeth, flexed muscles. Then the red mist came down and he was danger ous. No, he must keep reminding himself of the purpose of meeting Flakey White: to find out for certain what had hap pened when he was a child. Only by getting to the truth of it could he hope to remove the block his brain had put up and give himself the possibility of closure.

This was it: truth time.

He’d thought about phoning White to let him know he was coming. In most situations it was the civilised way to behave.

Turning up unannounced after dark wasn’t a good start. But in this case, surprise was essential. If White were tipped off that someone he’d once abused was coming, he’d quit the house, or refuse to come to the door.

As it was, there was no guarantee he’d be at home and no certainty he’d be willing to say anything. He could clam up or deny all knowledge of the abuse. The meeting was one extremely demanding obstacle course.

But it had to be attempted.

Without Sergeant Rogers in the passenger seat, Diamond navigated for himself. Part of his brain, at least, was com pelled to function normally. The map showed he didn’t need to drive into the city centre and he was helped by Wilton appearing regularly on the signboards. At a roundabout he swung left and past the huge arched entrance gate to Wilton House, ancestral home of the Earls of Pembroke, not a bad neighbourhood for a jailbird to end up in.

Obliged to stop at some traffic lights where the road narrowed for the village, he studied the map again and worked out where White lived. A right turn brought him into North Street. Forest Close was off to the left.

The house was a squat, stone structure with the look of a converted farm building, single storied with a tiled roof much covered in moss. Crucially, the lights were on inside, behind Venetian blinds.

Determined to stay calm, he took a deep breath, rang the bell and waited. He was relieved to hear movements inside.

The door opened a short way, on a chain. He couldn’t see much of the person inside.

‘Mr White?’

‘Yes.’ The voice was tentative, unwelcoming.

‘My name is Peter Diamond and you were once my art teacher.’ He’d been debating with himself how to begin. This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was a senior policeman.

‘Oh.’

‘It’s late to be calling, I know.’

It must have taken several seconds for Diamond’s first words to register. Without any more being said, White released the door chain and opened it fully. He was wearing a peaked eye shade. White haired and thin-faced, he had worry lines etched deeply. He was shorter than Diamond remembered, dressed in a thin cardigan, corduroys and carpet slippers. His shoulders sagged. ‘Do come in,’ he said.

Then he held out his hand.

There is only so much you can anticipate. The handshake was a pitfall Diamond hadn’t foreseen. Visiting the old paedophile was one thing. Touching his flesh was another. To refuse would expose the disgust Diamond was trying to conceal. He told himself it was only a formality, quickly over. How many hands have I shaken in my lifetime? How many of them were hands that had thieved, assaulted or even committed murder? A fair number.

He reached out and felt White’s palm against his own, limp, bony, lukewarm. After drawing away he couldn’t stop himself rubbing his hand against his hip to cleanse it of the contact.

White didn’t appear to notice. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

‘Please don’t,’ Diamond told him, civil to a fault. ‘I had some not long ago. I was visiting the hospital. That’s how I was in the area.’