Bloodhounds (30 page)

"Well, he certainly took it seriously," said Julie. "He got up and went to the door, saying he had to go somewhere to look for these forms. I was getting suspicious and said I'd go with him. In the corridor outside, he suddenly started running. He bolted up a fire escape to the roof, and I followed. There was one hell of a chase up there, and it ended on the rugby club stand."

"With one of the best tackles all season."

"Maybe," she said with a smile, "but I twisted my ankle doing it, and ..."

"The trainer was a long time coming on."

"You said it, Mr. Diamond."

After the ordeal on the roof, Julie was more than entitled to go off duty, but she insisted on being present when Bert Jones was interviewed. There was much that she still wanted to know.

Jones sat with arms folded in the interview room, his facial expression saying "I'll see you in hell first." Diamond impassively went through the preliminaries of a recorded interview. He had seen this kind of posturing so often before from suspects.'

"Let's start with your name. Most people know you as Bert, but it's Gilbert Jones, isn't it?"

A nod.

"You signed up for the Bloodhounds—four years ago, was it?—as Gilbert."

Another nod.

"Why?"

Jones frowned and said sullenly, "Why what?"

"Why Gilbert? Why not Bert?"

No response.

"It's not such a dumb question," Diamond told him. "I want to understand your motive in all this. You're smart. You know enough about people's perceptions to see that the likes of Mrs. Wycherley and Mr. Motion would be more impressed with a Gilbert than a mere Bert. Right?"

"If you say so."

"No. I'm asking you."

Jones hesitated. "All right, some places I'm known as Bert, some Gilbert. That isn't a crime, is it?"

"Right. You work in—what do you call it?—sports administration. Some people think a man who goes around in a tracksuit and trainers all day can't have a serious thought in his head. Just a jock. Just a Bert, anyway. Put on a jacket and tie and call yourself Gilbert, and they'd see you in a different light. The truth is that you're quite an intellectual. You read a lot. James Bond, isn't it?"

Reddening suddenly, Jones thrust a finger across the table at Diamond. "Don't talk down to me."

"That's what I'm saying," Diamond cheerfully pointed out. "You're entitled to respect. You had to get a qualification for the job you do, right?"

"Three years' training and a diploma," said Jones.

"Where did you do it?"

"Loughborough."

"The best—and bloody hard work."

Jones eyed the big detective, uncertain now whether his achievements were being mocked.

Diamond stared back. He was convinced that the source of this man's behavior was a grudge, a deep conviction that the world undervalued him. "Headwork," he stressed. "I don't say there isn't a physical element—of course there is—but there's a damn sight more bookwork and study than any outsider appreciates, right?"

No response except a twitch of the mouth that seemed to signal assent.

"You're an expert on Ian Fleming's work. An authority," Diamond said without a flicker of condescension. "You went along to the Bloodhounds as Gilbert Jones, ready to talk about Fleming, and something went seriously wrong, because you only lasted a couple of weeks. I have a suspicion why. I've met these people, full of self-importance. Something was said about you, or your background, or the books you read, that turned you right off the Bloodhounds and left you feeling bitter. It doesn't matter what."

Jones was spurred into saying, "It matters to me."

"What was it, then? What did they say?"

His face creased at the mention of it. This was an open wound. And it was still hurting. "They called them blood-and-thunder thrillers. Ignorant bastards. They as good as told me I was wasting my time and theirs by talking about them. What do they know about it? Far better people than them appreciate Fleming—President Kennedy, Kingsley Amis. I still shake when I think about it. Those books changed the face of the spy story. The research was terrific. The attention to detail. Just because something is a worldwide success, it doesn't mean it's pulp. Agatha Christie sells in millions, but the Bloodhounds were willing to talk about her."

"Was that really what this was about—Fleming's reputation?" Diamond asked. "Or was it yours that was being rubbished?"

A muscle twitched in Jones's neck. "They knew nothing about me. I didn't tell them what my job is."

"It was even more of a slapdown, then. They judged you personally, by your voice, your manner ..."

"It wasn't a slapdown. They chose to ignore me once they knew I admired Fleming and no one else."

"So you quit after three weeks?"

"Should have quit after one."

"And then forgot the whole thing until an opportunity came to
get
revenge?"

Jones wouldn't accept that. "No. I didn't forget."

Of course he hadn't forgotten. The wound had festered for years. "Then you met Shirley-Ann Miller, who moved in with you. Like you, she's a reader of crime stories."

"She reads everything."

"So you had James Bond in common. She decided to join the Bloodhounds."

"Off her own bat," Jones was keen to make clear. "I didn't put her up to it."

"You didn't?" Diamond glanced at Julie; the lie hadn't escaped her. Shirley-Ann had told them herself that Bert brought home a brochure from the Leisure Center and pointed out the existence of the Bloodhounds, knowing how much she enjoyed detective stories. It was a side issue, and Diamond chose not to pursue it. Even if Shirley-Ann had been used, she wasn't an accessory in these crimes.

"She doesn't know a thing. She has no idea I once went to some of their meetings."

Probably true. "You sat back and waited to hear what she said about these know-it-alls who snubbed you. It was the opportunity you wanted. You decided to have some fun with them."

"Fun?" said Jones, as if it were a foreign word.

"Show them up."

"Right." He preferred that. His actions weren't motivated by humor. He'd been deadly serious.

Diamond underlined the point. "You wanted to show up their tiny minds." This was emphatically the right way to handle Jones. The man craved admiration.

"I saw my chance, and I took it. Specially when she told me the same old gang were still running it. The gay bloke with the ridiculous beard and that old witch, Polly. Shirley-Ann likes telling me things. She sometimes says she could talk for Great Britain. I don't mind. I was riveted. I was given a very accurate account of that first meeting she attended."

"When they agreed to discuss the locked room puzzle?"

"Yes."

"And you decided to act—hit them with a real locked room puzzle, to prove that a James Bond reader was smart enough to frame the lot of them with one of their favorite plots."

"Something like that," agreed Jones, though the irony of what he had done seemed to escape him. This had never at any time been a mere intellectual exercise. It was the revenge of a deeply embittered man. (

"You thought up a way of stealing the Penny Black early one morning when the window cleaners were out in force. Your partner wouldn't suspect anything, because you go jogging in the mornings anyway. This time, you took a ladder and a bucket. You must have visited the museum before then and found the weak link in the security. So you put your ladder to the window, let yourself in, and came out with the stamp. Is that a fair summary?"

Jones said, "I didn't take it for personal gain."

"We're agreed on that," said Diamond amiably. "This was all about proving a point, not making a profit. By this time, you were ready to garnish the plot with the first riddle. You composed it on your computer at work and ran it off on the printer in the evening when no one was about. Correct?"

Jones gave a nod. He was willing, even eager, to claim responsibility for the clever stuff with the stamp and the riddle. Would he be as ready to admit to murder?

"What made you choose Milo as the fall guy, I wonder? Why was he singled out as the one who would be off-loaded with the stolen stamp? Was it something he said at those meetings you attended that caused such offense?"

"He said they were written for people with sick minds."

"That
is
over the top," agreed Diamond, regardless that Jones himself had a mind that was sick
and
over the top. "Practically everyone has read Bond. I have. What did he mean?"

Julie murmured, "The violence."

Diamond said, "It's all very tame by today's standards, isn't it?"

"I doubt if Milo Motion has read anything written in the last thirty years," said Jones.

"So you took your revenge on Milo?"

"Yes, and you don't know how it was done."

"Don't I?" said Diamond, his own ego challenged. "Don't I?"

"Let's hear it, then," Jones sneered.

He heard it from Diamond, point for point. The extra padlock from Foxton's. The switch while Milo was aboard the boat, enabling Jones to unlock it later.

The deflating of Gilbert Jones was satisfying to behold. "All right, you worked it out," he eventually conceded, "but not one of them could."

"I'm sure you're right. Your planning can't be faulted. It would have been a perfect crime if Sid Towers hadn't got curious and driven out to the boatyard just as you were replacing the original padlock."

Jones didn't deny it. He said, "I didn't mean to kill him. I mean, I hit him from behind, but I only wanted to make my getaway. He hadn't seen me. If he'd survived, you would have been none the wiser."

"And Rupert?" said Diamond, leaping ahead. "Why was he killed? He hadn't insulted your brainpower. He wasn't even a member when you joined the Bloodhounds."

This was the crux of it. Sid's death may not have been planned, but Rupert's was. Stringing a man from a bridge isn't accidental.

Jones was silent for some time. Then he shook his head. "You've got to see it my way. You were closing in. I was worried. It was only a matter of time before you got round to me unless I did something dramatic to put you off. I'd be up for manslaughter at the very least. Maybe murder. I needed someone to take the heat off me. First I thought of Jessica Shaw. She's clever. Clever enough to have written the riddles. And she was holding a party at the art gallery. I decided a message on the window would get some attention. If nothing else, it would create a distraction."

"And buy time?"

"Well, yes. But I needed someone else to be blamed for writing up the graffiti. Rupert Darby."

"Why Rupert? He hadn't even crossed your path."

"That's exactly the point," said Jones with the pitiless logic that had sentenced Rupert to death. "He was a stranger to me."

"You marked him with the paint spray," said Diamond. "You'd never met him, but he was easy to recognize with the beret."

"And it struck me then that Darby was a better choice than Jessica. And if he committed suicide, or appeared to—"

"You mean, if you were to murder him."

Jones didn't balk at the mention of murder. It was secondary to his plan. His locked room crime was the proof of his brilliance in the face of the Bloodhounds, the police, his workmates, all the people who had ever slighted him. It had to remain undetected, regardless of the consequences. The killing of two hapless men had been incidental. What mattered was that he succeeded. Murderers of his kind are rare, but they exist; they lose all sense of proportion and nothing is allowed to thwart them.