Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

‘The other lecturers respected him. He wasn’t big on socialising, but that was who he was, a quiet guy, maybe a shade too serious for their taste.’

‘And outside the university?’

‘The same, really. He got on with the neighbours without living in their pockets. People in local shops said he was honest and easy to deal with. He didn’t give out much. Some guys don’t. That’s life.’

‘No close friends?’

‘Not all that close. Currently he wasn’t in a relationship. There seem to have been a couple of girlfriends in the past. He didn’t ever live with anyone.’

‘Can’t hold that against him.’

‘We checked his bank statements. Nothing unusual there. Not even a small overdraft. He spent his money mainly on books, DVDs and theatre visits. He could make a bottle of wine last almost a week.’

‘I could murder someone like that,’ Diamond said.

‘Yeah, maybe he was too good for this world.’

‘I’m sure you must have checked his computer.’

‘Same thing. The downloaded stuff is heavy on history. The emails are mainly to other historians about topics he was researching. He also kept in touch with his parents that way. Got on well with them and was generous with money at Christmas and birthdays. All in all, no trouble to anyone.’

They’d reached the cemetery gate. Diamond stopped the car and switched off. ‘You know, it’s possible he was just unlucky.’

‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Septimus scratched his head. ‘How would we ever find out?’

‘We have to.’ Diamond got out and looked up at the ornate Romanesque façade of the gateway. ‘Now show me where you found the blanket.’

They passed through an entrance door to the right of the main gates. ‘A gatekeeper could live in here, no problem,’ Septimus said as he stepped into the section with the stone seats.

‘Where did you find the blanket?’

‘Under here.’ He indicated the seat to their right.

‘What sort of blanket?’

‘Deep red, made of some synthetic material. We didn’t open it out for fear of losing particle evidence. It stayed folded. I’d say it was large and not too clean.’

‘He wasn’t too clean himself. You think he nicked it from a car?’

‘My best suggestion. The fabric was dry, you see. He hadn’t found it lying in the open. And he was seen trying car doors.’

‘When did it go to the lab?’

‘Day before yesterday, when you were in London.’

‘What about the other items? You mentioned a water bottle and some food wrappers.’

‘We bagged them all up and sent them for examination.’

‘Someone was using this as a base for sure, but we can’t take anything for granted. Let me know when you get the lab report.’ He tried to imagine stretching out on the stone surface. ‘Not the most comfortable bed.’

‘Cold, too, these late summer nights,’ Septimus said. ‘We’re two hundred metres above sea level.’

Diamond stepped outside the gatehouse thinking how many more gravestones were revealed than when he’d first come here. They were still close-packed, strangely angled and in disrepair, but the gothic look of crosses and angels poking up from the undergrowth had gone. He wasn’t sure which view was the more eerie. ‘It can’t be more than thirty yards to where the body was found. I’m going to pace it out.’

He didn’t count the steps. His mind was with a terrified Rupert late at night, hounded by his killer, dodging between the graves. Or had it worked out differently: Rupert approaching the lodge, crossing the graveyard and being ambushed, like that scene in David Lean’s film of Great Expectations when Magwitch the convict appears from nowhere?

The crime scene tape had been removed. You wouldn’t have known where the body had lain unless you guessed from the state of the ground, trodden to mud by hundreds of footsteps. The only other indication was on the adjacent grave, a faint blue circle enclosing the suspicious bloodstain. He looked at each of the surrounding graves. In the next row was a granite sarcophagus, an ugly grey block a man could easily have crouched behind.

‘What’s your reading of it, Septimus? Was he chased here, or was the killer waiting?’

‘I don’t think he was chased. He was hit on the back of the skull. If you’re running from someone and they catch you, you turn and defend yourself. I say he walked into a trap and was hit from behind.’

‘My feeling, too.’

From above them came a guttural croaking, the caw of a black bird perched on the octagonal balustrade of the tower.

‘Carrion crow,’ Septimus said.

‘More bones than carrion here.’

‘I wouldn’t spend a night in this place if you paid me.’

Back in the incident room he discovered Ingeborg in seventh heaven. ‘I called my drill officer and told him I’d like a transfer to the cavalry and he promised to do what he could.’

‘Cool,’ Diamond said, straight-faced.

‘Yes, and in no time at all I had a call back to say they have a vacancy in Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard of Horse.’

‘Even cooler, then.’

‘What’s more, they’re doing an event on Saturday at Farleigh Hungerford and they want me on parade.’

‘A bit quick, isn’t it?’

‘Someone pulled out through illness. I have to report for practice tonight. Isn’t that neat?’

‘Neat, indeed.’ He didn’t add that she ought to remember why she was doing this. Her joy in being asked to take part was obvious, but she was a professional, too, and he could rely on her to function as a detective. ‘Farleigh Hungerford. There isn’t much there, is there?’

She said in a crushing tone, ‘Farleigh Castle, guv. The scene of a major event in the Civil War. These two half-brothers, Sir Edward Hungerford and John, were on opposing sides. John was the royalist and he held the castle and used it as a garrison. Then some time in 1644 when the royalists were at a low point, Edward made his comeback and secured the place for the roundheads.’

‘And you’ll be re-enacting this?’

‘I’m not sure about that. Apparently the castle was taken without bloodshed.’

‘What a letdown. That’s no help to you lot.’

‘Well, yes. People want to see some action, so we’ll take a few liberties with history.’

‘Do you have a horse?’

‘They’re providing one for me – with battlefield experience.’

More than you have, he thought. ‘And the uniform?’

‘Blue doublet and red sash. I even get to wear the cavalier hat.’

‘I’d like a picture of that.’

He stepped into his office and closed the door. Ingeborg’s elation was in sharp contrast to his own mood since returning from the cemetery. His confidence was draining away. He couldn’t fault Ingeborg or Septimus or Paul Gilbert. They were bright, energetic young officers, committed to the assignments he’d given them. The entire team was among the keenest he’d ever led. Even John Leaman was a beaver with hyperactivity syndrome. And Keith Halliwell had taken a bullet, he was so loyal and brave. How, then, could such an array of talent have failed to produce a single credible suspect? He’d expected by now to have names in the frame and there wasn’t one. Not even a strong motive had emerged. Something was seriously at fault with the investigation and he blamed himself. The process they’d followed had been logical and thorough. He couldn’t think of any lead they’d failed to pursue. At one stage he’d been ready to point the finger in the direction of London, towards some faceless assassin sent by the vice barons, but wise heads like Louis Voss and Vikki had disabused him of that and he was forced to agree with them. These were West Country crimes requiring a West Country solution.