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  ‘The gents isn’t that way,’ his well-meaning adviser called out. ‘It’s the other direction.’

  Diamond didn’t answer. He was back on the sniper’s trail.

  By the time he’d made it through the corridors to the main exit, his conscience had been touched by small examples of members of the public behaving as one should do in hospitals, disinfecting their hands before entering the wards, sitting in waiting areas without complaining and holding doors open for a man on crutches. Before phoning for a taxi, he called at the reception desk and asked them to inform the radiology unit that Peter Diamond would not, after all, require X-rays. Then he was off before anyone tried to stop him.

  Keith Halliwell was open-mouthed. ‘Guv, what on earth?’

  The taxi had put Diamond down at the foot of the eighteenth century flight of steps in Walcot street. He made quite a performance of positioning the crutches and getting himself out of the back seat. ‘Have you got a tenner on you? I can’t manage these and reach my wallet at the same time.’

  Halliwell shared a long-suffering look with the driver and settled the fare.

  Diamond said, ‘Don’t let me forget.’

  Halliwell let that pass. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Tell you later. This is urgent. Have any of the people in the Paragon house been allowed out yet?’

  Halliwell nodded. ‘We’d already detained them for a couple of hours. They weren’t best pleased.’

  ‘They wanted to leave?’

  ‘It’s natural. When you’re treated like a caged beast you want your freedom.’

  ‘Did they all go out?’

  ‘Not together, but yes.’

  ‘The blonde, the old couple and the civil servant? Anyone check where they were going?’

  ‘Not our business. Actually, the old people said something about going for a coffee.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘While you were breaking the news to Mrs. Tasker. We’d already questioned them all and turned their flats upside down. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Tell me this, Keith: is there anything to suggest that Willis, the civil servant, rides a motorbike? While we were inside his place, did you notice leathers anywhere, or a helmet?’

  ‘He’s a car owner.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop him having a bike as well.’

  Halliwell frowned as he cast his mind back. ‘I didn’t see any of the gear, but then I wasn’t looking for it. I was interested in a gun.’

  ‘Is he back yet?’

  ‘Don’t know. I can check with the guy on the door.’ Halliwell had a personal radio attached to his belt. ‘Still out somewhere,’ he presently reported.

  ‘I want to know the minute he gets back.’

  Diamond demanded and was given an update on the investigation. It was now beyond dispute that the sniper had fired the fatal shot from the overgrown garden in the Paragon. Every resident living close enough to have witnessed the shooting had been questioned. The bullet found in the drain and the single cartridge case from the garden had gone to be ballistically tested and compared with the ammunition used in the previous shootings. Although damaged and compressed, the fragments were believed by firearms officers to be from a.45 round used with the Heckler and Koch G36 rifle, the type of weapon they carried themselves.

  ‘Which tells us something, if true,’ Halliwell added. ‘But are we any closer to catching this guy?’

  ‘Only an hour ago we were as close as it gets. He ran me down and left me like this,’ Diamond said, and told his story.

  Halliwell made the right sympathetic sounds. ‘Nothing else you could have done, guv.’

  ‘That isn’t the view of Supergull. He reckons if he’d been there he’d have spotted the make of the bike, got the license number and a detailed description of the suspect.’

  ‘Yeah, the colour of his eyes, size of his collar.’

  ‘And which aftershave he uses. Then he’d have stretched his arms, got airborne and chased the sniper all the way down the valley and wrestled him off the bike and pinched him.’

  ‘Why wasn’t Gull with you?’

  ‘He stayed in line, obeying orders.’

  ‘Orders from a chief inspector?’

  ‘He’s more of a team player than I am. I wanted to see the tree the sniper used for target practice. This guy is good, Keith. He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘They have these holographic sights, guv. You see a little red spot instead of crosshairs. You can’t miss.’

  ‘Three parallel lines. That’s class, holograph or not.’

  ‘The shooting of Harry Tasker told us that. A moving target, side on.’

  The crutches were getting uncomfortable. Diamond perched himself on the bowl of the Ladymead fountain and propped them against one of the pink granite columns. ‘Sitting in the hospital I was going over stuff in my mind. Are we a hundred per cent sure that Willis is in the clear?’

  ‘This guy has really got to you,’ Halliwell said. ‘His guns are locked up at Devizes.’

  ‘Never mind the guns. What about the man himself? Does he have an alibi? No. He lives above the garden the shot was fired from.’

  ‘None of them in the house have an alibi. They were all at home overnight. Any one of them could have gone down to the end of the garden and pulled the trigger.’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I don’t see the old couple or the dizzy blonde knowing which end of a gun to hold. Willis does.’

  ‘If it’s him, he’s got front,’ Halliwell said. ‘He didn’t exactly go out of his way to please us.’

  ‘He’s smart enough to know where to hide a rifle from a search party. Who’s to say he doesn’t have one he keeps at home?’

  ‘Unlicensed?’

  A nod.

  ‘The sniper used a military assault rifle for the killings in Wells and Radstock.’

  ‘Does that make any difference?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of weapon they use in rifle clubs. It’s illegal.’

  ‘We’re not dealing with an amateur, Keith. If he wanted to get hold of a military weapon, he’d find a dealer.’

  ‘Is this a hunch, guv, or something stronger?’

  ‘Call it an informed guess. Check with the DVLC to see if he owns a motorbike.’

  ‘As well as the car, you mean? Now?’

  Halliwell was treated to one of Diamond’s looks.

  But the call to Swansea proved negative.

  Diamond swore, sighed and shook his head.

  ‘I know we’ve got Willis in the frame,’ Halliwell said, ‘but shouldn’t we widen this?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘What if the killer wasn’t living in the house. He sneaks in the evening before, breaks into the basement and passes the night there.’

  ‘Sneaks in through the front door?’

  ‘When someone else is coming or going, using the entry system. If, say, the Murphys had a visitor who was leaving, all it needs is for the killer to choose his moment and slip through the open door.’

  ‘Okay, an outsider is a possibility. Is there any evidence of someone having hidden in the basement flat?’

  ‘Nothing obvious.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting an overnight bag and a toothbrush. It’s a dusty flat that’s been empty some time. Forensics can tell if someone went through.’

  ‘Most of Manvers Street went through this morning, guv. Well, that’s an exaggeration. Ken Lockton and Sergeant Stillman and the armed response team. That’s a lot of disturbance. The scene-of-crime team spent a couple of hours taking samples. They promised to let us know.’

  ‘Forensics.’ Diamond rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Did they manage to work out the sequence of events in the garden?’

  ‘Before the shooting?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘We all assume the sniper was still in the garden when Lockton and Stillman turned up.’

  ‘How soon did they get there?’

  ‘Around 4:40 A.M.’

  �
��The 999 call was 4:09. Heck of a long time for the killer to be still at the scene.’

  ‘The theory is that he meant to leave immediately after firing the shot and something went wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like his escape plan. Maybe he hadn’t bargained for the shop alarm going off and waking people. Or it could be as simple as the basement door shutting behind him. He’d be stuck there until someone came.’

  ‘He’d break a window or go over the wall. None of this chimes in with what we know about the sniper. He’s a planner. He leaves nothing to chance.’

  ‘Chance can bugger up the best of plans, guv.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Diamond looked down at his injured leg. ‘Go on, then. He remains in the garden for some reason yet to be revealed. What happens next?’

  ‘He hears Lockton and Stillman coming and decides to hide.’

  ‘Leaving his rifle propped against the railing? That’s another eccentric action. Wouldn’t he hide the gun as well?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Me, too. Is it left there deliberately as a distraction? They spot the gun and go towards it, thinking he’s long gone.’

  ‘That’s what they thought according to Sergeant Stillman.’

  ‘But in reality he’s still in the garden.’

  ‘Or the house.’

  ‘And after Stillman has left, the sniper picks up the gun and clobbers Ken Lockton from behind with the butt and makes his escape. Presumably the motorbike was parked somewhere near. What’s that side street opposite the Paragon?’

  ‘Hay Hill.’

  ‘That’s where I’d keep the bike for a swift getaway. Up the top to Lansdown Road and you’re laughing. You wouldn’t meet any of the response vehicles coming to the scene. We need to know, regardless of whether it belonged to Willis. Check the houses in Hay Hill and see if anyone saw a bike parked there overnight.’

  While Halliwell went off, Diamond fingered his leg. There was swelling around the ankle and soreness, if not acute pain. His ribs hurt, too. Maybe he should have waited for those X-rays.

  He spotted a familiar, lanky figure folding and unfolding his arms, trying to appear important.

  ‘Mr. Polehampton.’

  The early bird of the Serial Crimes Unit turned, saw who had spoken and came over. He eyed the crutches and made no comment.

  ‘You’ve been here a few hours now,’ Diamond said. ‘Is the crime scene still under your control?’

  Polehampton gave a cautious nod.

  ‘I expect you’ve got to know the area pretty well.’

  Another nod.

  ‘Have you sussed out the shops?’

  ‘I know what’s there, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Polehampton said.

  ‘Good. All I can see from here are places that sell sofas, sewing machines and bikes. There’s a charity shop and a couple of eating places. What’s up the street beyond the night club?’

  ‘A stationer’s, more eating places, a fancy dress shop.’

  ‘Nothing so useful as a pharmacy?’

  ‘Further along, maybe.’

  ‘You’re not certain?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Better ask one of the locals, hadn’t you? Then nip along there and get me some extra strong painkillers. I’ll take over your job.’

  7

  Call me Ishtar.

  Why? It’s as good a way of starting a blog as I can think of. Shades of Moby Dick. But this isn’t about whaling, or seafaring, or moby, or dick. Correction. I guess a moby is sure to come into it if that’s what you call your mobile phone. As for a dick, just wait and see.

  Ishtar is the name I’ve chosen for myself, not wanting the world to know who I really am. She is the Babylonian goddess of love and war. A weird combination, you’re thinking, but everyone needs to be loved and most of us are willing to fight for it.

  This is the start of something that may soon develop into a story of scandal, fraud and possibly more. Can’t say where it will lead because the action has only just started. Three of us are going undercover. We’re well placed to get at the truth, better placed than the police.

  If we’re right in our suspicions, the story needs exposure, which is why I’ve chosen to post my blog this way, through a worldwide network that reveals sensitive information while protecting the identities of the main players, not least myself. Whistleblowers and human rights activists use this facility in confidence of remaining anonymous. The thing I find funniest is that the system is so brilliant that it’s also used by so-called intelligence agencies across the world to give out information while covering their sources, yet they can’t unravel it to unmask other users. How is this done? As I understand it, everything I write will be bounced around such a network of relays run by volunteers that it will be totally impossible for you or anyone else to track me down to my steamy little lair, so don’t even think about trying.

  Got that?

  Let’s go.

  My profile

  Whoops — I have to be careful here or my mask will be ripped off even before I begin. I can tell you safely and truly I’m female and between twenty and thirty and passably good looking, enough to have had the lovers I’ve wanted, three when I was still at school, starting with the French assistant, the seriously yummy Monsieur F, who set the bar high for those who came after. Coming up to my exams, just turned fifteen, I was seriously poor at languages, piss-poor, my father said at a parents’ evening, and it takes a lot for him to use words like that, so my form teacher arranged extra tuition and the extra wasn’t what she or Daddy (who was paying) intended. I learned a lot I didn’t know about masculine and feminine. It included French oral, but without words, and, believe me, I experienced the present perfect, but still failed my GCSE. Monsieur F left suddenly after only one term and after that I had to be content with spotty sixth formers who had none of his finesse and knew nothing about irregular verbs or irregular anything.

  What else? I did pass enough exams to scrape into a university in the west of England — got to be mysterious about which one — and ended up wiser and poorer, twenty grand in debt and with a respectable degree that got me no job at all. The best thing I did at uni was learn to drive because after a few months attending the job centre I took over Daddy’s old Renault Clio (we’re all Francophiles, my family, in different ways) and started work with a florist, delivering flower arrangements, and that’s what I do. BA (Hons), flower deliverer. Sally, my boss, the owner of the shop, says we cater for every occasion from the cradle to the grave. Cradle to the grave, womb to the tomb, erection to the resurrection, depend on me to arrive smiling with your red carnations.

  The job leaves me plenty of scope for other diversions, if only I had the funds to enjoy them. I earn a little extra cash in hand from teaching the piano, a skill I didn’t mention that comes easily to me. I’ve got my own flat in a part of town where I’m unlikely to bump into a rich stockbroker. Living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom. Just enough, until I find a way to break into the Pimms and polo set and meet the multi-millionaire.

  Enough of daydreaming. I’m going to tell you about the real stars of this blog, my co-conspirators, Anita and Vicky. They couldn’t be more different.

  Anita

  She’s the funny one, terrific company, with her own quirky way of looking at the world. I wish I could remember one-tenth of the things she comes out with. Only last night she was, like, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, sky-diving is not for you.’ And after a few drinks, ‘I think my head is hosting the Olympic Games.’ Anita is seriously overweight and has no colour sense, but she’s a beautiful mover. Everyone watches her on the dance floor. Oh, and she does amazing things with her eye make-up, like the Egyptian look she’s currently into, using the liner to create black outlines meeting in curves that sweep high up her face. I first met her in the flower shop. She came in for a single freesia stem because she said it was cheaper to have in the bathroom than a can of air-freshener. Like me, she’s single (‘If
you ever see me walking up the aisle, stick your foot out’) and has a well-paid, useful job as the manager of a travel agency. Useful because thanks to Anita the three of us have taken a few cut-price trips to sunny places.

  Now for Vicky.

  She’s the one with a husband. We’ll call him Tim (I have to be careful over names) and she’s always been mysterious about him. I think he’s currently out of work. Whatever, he’s out of the house a lot and seems to prefer his own company, which is why Vicky is able to spend so much time with Anita and me. She’s a true friend, I’m sure of that, but there are no-go areas of her life and Tim is one of them. We don’t ask. Even Anita knows better than to draw her out. Vicky is sweet-natured, a little old-fashioned from her upbringing (her parents were into their forties when they had her), generous, starry-eyed, never been known to tint her hair, but why should she when it’s natural raven-black, straight out of a romantic novel? Yes, she’s a beauty. More than once on our nights out Anita and I have had to rescue Vicky from testosterone-fuelled males. None of us minds being chatted up by the poor hopeful darlings, but as Anita says, you soon get to spot the ones with three pairs of hands. You can be wearing a wedding ring and a crucifix pendant and they still think you’re up for it.

  Vicky has never said so, and I wouldn’t ask, but I know she’d dearly like to have a child. I’ve seen the way she looks at little kids. Why she hasn’t fallen pregnant I don’t know. I hope it isn’t because she or Tim are infertile. Of course it could be that they don’t want to start a family until Tim finds work. Vicky is a school meals assistant and I doubt if it pays much. You wouldn’t know it, but a lot of her clothes are out of the charity shops. Here in this well-heeled city, people’s cast-offs are sometimes as good as you’d find in the best dress shops.

  That’s the three of us, then. We meet a few evenings each week and again at weekends, Friday and Saturday evenings and sometimes Sunday afternoons. Often it’s for nothing more exciting than a couple of drinks, cider mostly, but with Anita in the party we always have a giggle. Last night she was telling us about this customer of hers, a woman obviously in her sixties, all blonde curls and blusher, wanting to book two weeks somewhere in the sun and she’d heard about Ibiza and twenties to thirties holidays. Twenties to thirties? Anita, trying to be tactful, goes, ‘Are you sure you want that sort of holiday? It can be rather demanding.’ The woman answers, ‘That’s up to me, isn’t it? I know what I’m looking for.’ So Anita, being Anita, thinks toy boy. ‘I feel bound to mention that there’s a lot of drinking in Ibiza.’ And the woman goes, ‘I’m all for that. I carry a bottle of water at all times in case of dehydration.’ Which of course makes us scream with laughter. Anita goes, ‘Actually I meant drinking in bars.’ And the woman is like, ‘I wouldn’t be going all the way to Ibiza to waste time in a bar all evening.’ So Anita feels duty-bound to explain, ‘That’s what happens on twenties to thirties holidays. It’s all about making friends, and that’s where it gets done.’ The woman goes, ‘I’m sorry, whatever it is that gets done, I’m not doing it in a public bar. I prefer somewhere more quiet.’ More hoots from Vicky and me. Anita goes, ‘I’m wondering if you’d be better off on a cruise. We have some wonderful cruise brochures.’ The woman is like, ‘God no, I did one of those and it was up the coast of Norway and we froze. The temperature never got into double figures. All the men had cold hands. That’s why this time I definitely want a place in the twenties to thirties.’ Twenty Celsius, Geddit?