Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

‘You did the right thing.’ Wigfull was thinking as he spoke that he’d done the wrong thing in letting the pie woman go.

‘What will happen now?’

‘I’ll find out which of our officers answered your call and speak to them. We heard of another sighting as well. It begins to look as if our man is behaving erratically.’

‘Either that, or he’s a Trot.’

‘A what?’

‘A Trotskyist. The universities are full of left-wing people trying to change the world.’

The world had moved on a bit, since Trotsky, but Wigfull had a rough idea what was meant and shared the sentiment. He still thought Mrs Swithin a dependable witness.

Just to be certain, he returned a couple of the overnight phone calls about the cavalier. More sightings. Rupert Hope must have been wandering about Lansdown for days drawing attention to himself through minor misdemeanours. Probably not as a left wing protest, but drunk, drugged, or unwell.

Why, then, hadn’t the officers on patrol picked him up?

Smoothly, he transferred his own failing onto others. Picked up the phone and asked to have the occurrence file checked. Someone ought to face the music. It turned out that the same two officers had responded to both calls.

Peter Diamond drove back from the golf club thinking dark thoughts about the Lansdown Society. If, as they claimed, they monitored everything that happened on the hill they may well have heard or seen something suspicious connected with the burial of the body. And as guardians of the terrain – vigilantes, whatever they said to the contrary – they might conceivably be suspects. The whole point about vigilantes was that they took the law into their own hands. What if they’d found some undesirable flouting their rules and killed her, maybe by accident? They’d have been well placed to find a burial site.

The substantial fly in the ointment was Georgina.

Diamond had never shirked a confrontation. Noting that the ACC’s Mercedes was parked in her reserved space outside, putting her on the premises, he went upstairs to her eyrie. The traffic light entrance system was showing green.

‘Troubles, Peter?’ she said when she saw him.

‘Not really, ma’am. I just want your advice.’

‘That must be a first.’

‘About the Lansdown Society.’

Her voice took on a defensive note. ‘What about it?’

‘I was told you’re a member.’

‘That’s right. I do have a life outside the police.’

‘They seem to think it’s because you’re in the police that you’re one of them.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘Sir Colin Tipping and Major Swithin. They said Jamie Fleming was the police member before you.’

‘That is true, but I want to make it clear, Peter, that I didn’t join in my official capacity. I happen to support the conservation of the countryside. I don’t want to see any more building on Lansdown. It’s a protected site, which in reality means nothing unless people like me with some influence guarantee its integrity. I know why you’ve raised this. It’s the skeleton, isn’t it?’

‘Right, ma’am. The society keeps abreast of what’s happening on the down. I was hoping they might know something.’

‘And do they?’

‘Not the two gents I saw this morning.’

‘They’re the most likely to know. They’ve been members from the beginning. When was your victim buried?’

‘Some time after 1987, when the tree was blown down.’

‘Ah well.’ She spread her hands. ‘The society wasn’t formed until 1993.’

‘Yes, but we don’t know which year she was buried. We have a ten-year time frame.’

‘If Colin and Reggie say they can’t help, it’s no good coming to me. I didn’t join until three years ago.’

Colin and Reggie. He had to be careful here. A conflict of loyalties was looming. ‘The other founder member is Mrs White, the magistrate.’

Georgina was losing patience. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Peter.’

‘I was about to say I might have a word with her as well – unless you would like to approach her yourself.’

She folded her arms and gave a defiant tilt to the most eloquent bosom in Bath. ‘Is this your only line of enquiry? I can’t see it being very productive.’

‘It looked more promising when I started.’ He got bolder. ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you seem a close-knit society.’

‘Perhaps we don’t have anything to tell you.’

‘It’s no easy matter when your victim is dry bones and no one remembers anything.’

‘So this is your only line of enquiry.’

‘I’m speaking to the press this afternoon. We’ll see if memor -ies are jogged when the papers get onto the story.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She lowered her chest by at least two inches. ‘Are you taking advice from John Wigfull, our new media relations manager? He could probably get some headlines for you.’

‘I’ve discussed it with him.’

‘He was extremely impressive at interview. He’s well up on all the latest techniques.’

‘I’m sure. About Mrs White…’

‘Well?’ The low slung chest became just a memory.

‘There’s no need for you to do anything, ma’am. I’ll speak to her myself.’

He left while he had the opportunity.

To his credit, John Wigfull had marshalled most of the local press and some of the nationals as well. Poster-size photos of the site and the skeleton in its grave formed a backdrop for Diamond’s statement. Press-kits stuffed with pictures were handed to everyone.

After outlining the facts and responding to questions, Diamond did more interviews for local TV and radio, stressing repeatedly that the team were waiting to be contacted by anyone with a memory of anything suspicious going on near the fallen tree ten to twenty years ago.

Much of the questioning was about the missing skull. Did he expect to find it?

He admitted that he didn’t. The crime scene team had sifted all the loose earth for more evidence and found nothing apart from the metal zip. It was clear that the skull was elsewhere.

One TV reporter pressed him to speculate on whether the killer had removed the head to prevent identification.

He knew better than to go down that road. ‘We don’t know yet how she died. Murder is a possibility, but we can’t discount a fatal accident on the road not far up the slope. Whoever buried her didn’t want the body discovered. That much is clear.’

‘Are you saying someone ran her over and tried to dispose of the body?’

‘That’s one interpretation.’

‘And decapitated her? In the accident, or after?’

He was trying so hard to stay cool. ‘All we’ve got is a headless skeleton. How could I possibly know?’

‘Do you think the head is buried somewhere else?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind.’ Long experience had taught him how to steer an interview to a close. ‘I’ve told you all I know at this juncture. With your help, we’ll carry the investigation a stage further.’

Wigfull was fishing for compliments afterwards. ‘I thought it went rather well. These events work so much better with good visuals like the posters.’

‘Let’s see what results we get,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ve done press statements with dartboards as a background and still made the front page of the News of the World . Thanks, anyway. You did your job.’

Ingeborg rushed in, bursting to tell them something.

‘Someone phoned in already?’ Diamond said. ‘That is a result.’

Self-congratulation started spreading over Wigfull’s features.

‘No, guv,’ Ingeborg said. ‘This has nothing to do with the press conference. A body has been found. The thing is, it’s Lansdown again.’