The Last Detective (17 page)

'You and Mrs Jackman were alone, then?'

An uneasy laugh came down the line. 'True, only she wasn't acting up like she had the night before. She was curiously different toward me. Kind of friendly, but in no way suggestive. She drove me to the Assembly Rooms for the opening ceremonies and stayed with me the whole of the afternoon - which must have been insufferably boring for her. The exhibition, I mean. I photographed almost every item. To give Greg his due - it was a terrific show.'

'Did you have much conversation?'

'Sure.'

'Did you learn anything of interest about Mrs Jackman, her problems, her plans?'

'Sorry,' said Junker. 'We kept off personal matters. After my experience the previous night, I figured it was safer to stick with the nineteenth-century novel.'

'Did you meet anyone? Any of her friends, for instance?'

'A couple of guys from the English Department who wanted to talk to me about a piece I wrote for
The Times
Literary Supplement
a while back, that was all.'

'Nobody who knew Mrs Jackman?'

'Plenty who recognized her. She must have signed her autograph a dozen times. I don't think she met anyone she already knew. She told me her friends weren't the book-reading sort.'

'That was probably true.' Diamond continued to fish for unconsidered suspects. 'Did you mention the letters to anyone?'

'No way. Greg and I had agreed to say nothing about them to a living soul. In the academic world, you keep a hot property like that under wraps until you're one hundred per cent certain.'

Diamond continued to probe as Junker continued his account of the day, but the story that emerged was substantially the same as he had got from Jackman: the pub meal after the exhibition had closed for the day. The decision to retire early. Next day, a quiet morning with the Sunday papers in another pub.

'Just you and Professor Jackman?'

'Yes. The lady was still in bed, or so I understood.'

'Then this was the first Opportunity Jackman had of speaking to you alone since the episode on Friday evening?'

'Correct.'

'Did he refer to it?'

'Briefly. He tried to make some kind of apology and I said it wasn't necessary. He said Gerry had these unpredictable phases. I shrugged it off with some chauvinistic remark about women in general. That was all. We returned to the house after lunch, and pretty soon after, it was time to leave. Gerry was downstairs to wish me goodbye. She acted normally, we shook hands chastely and that was the last I saw of her. Greg drove me to the station in time to catch the London train. Next morning I was due to visit with a professor at University College.'

'Dalrymple.'

'You're well informed. Actually, I had to cancel. When I booked my flight to Paris I didn't realize how far out of town Heathrow is. There was no way I could fit in Edgar Dalrymple and catch my flight.'Junker paused. 'You want to know about my meeting in Paris with Greg?'

'If you please.'

'It won't take long. I went out for a meal Monday and when I got back I was amazed to see him standing in the lobby of my hotel. He told me the Jane Austen letters were missing and asked if it was possible that I'd taken them by mistake. You can imagine how I felt. It was obvious what he was thinking. I hadn't disguised my envy when those letters had dropped into his lap. Now it looked like I'd abused his hospitality by stealing them. Mr Diamond, I assure you that I hadn't - and there's no way I could have taken them in error. We searched my things together. My luggage, my room, everything. I believe I convinced him finally that I didn't have them. He said Gerry must have taken them out of spite. No one else knew about them. I had to agree with him. I said maybe she resented the fact that another woman had given nim this unique present. It could help to explain why she'd behaved so oddly at the time.'

'What did he think of your theory?'

'Not much. He said these histrionic scenes were pretty common. I guess he was more concerned about recovering those letters than trying to analyse his wife's behaviour. We parted in a civilized fashion. He promised to call me if the letters turned up. I said I might see him at breakfast, but in the morning he checked out early. I heard no more from him.'

By means of sign language, Diamond invited Wigfull and Dalton to pass him any questions they might want to put, but they shook their heads. He wound up the conversation and ended the call.

Nobody moved.

'Why the mystery?' said Wigfull after an interval.

'Explain.'

'Mrs Didrikson. Why didn't Jackman tell us it was Dana Didrikson who supplied him with the letters?'

'Are you looking for an answer,' said Diamond, 'or do I sense that you have it ready?'

Wigfull spread his hands to show how obvious his conclusion was. 'He's shielding her. He knows she killed his wife and he's shielding her.'

'Not too successfully,' commented Diamond.

'He expected it to come out, but he didn't wish to point the finger.'

'Why not?'

'Because he doesn't really blame her. He thinks she deserves to get away with it. It's not impossible that he loves the woman.'

Diamond's surprise at this confident analysis was surpassed only by his disbelief that it should have come from Wigfull, the plant from headquarters. He didn't object to anyone on the squad going for broke with some blinding theory .. . but
Wigfull.
He could only assume it was a rush to the head, a momentary loss of concentration, and he actually warmed to the man for showing that he was human. 'John, I'd like to hear more. What could her motive be?'

'Infatuation.'

Diamond glanced towards Dalton, who was preserving a statuesque neutrality.

'It's the classic set-up,' Wigfull said in support of his theory. 'She's a single parent, not too well-off, working her butt off to keep her kid in a private school. Jackman is the white knight, the fearless, good-looking fellow who rescued the boy from the jaws of death. She finds out he's a professor, loaded, with a big house and a wife who is not only making his life a misery, but actually tried to kill him. Dana sees him as the solution to all her problems if he'll ditch the wife. Inconveniently, he won't. He's so chivalrous, so loyal a husband, that he hasn't any plans for a divorce. So . . .' He climaxed his argument by drawing an extended finger across his throat, not a mime that fitted the facts, but sufficient to make the point.

'We'd better talk to her,' said Diamond, reserving judgement.

'Would you like to leave it to me?' Wigfull asked.

Diamond grinned. It wasn't a generous grin.

HARSH WORDS WERE SPOKEN IN Diamond's BMW when he missed a vital turning because Wigfull, navigating, was too late in pointing it out. Wigfull said in mitigation that Mrs Didrikson's address (which they had got from the phone book) happened to be situated between Widcombe and Lyncombe in the section of the map that lay along the centrefold and was not quite aligned after a repair with adhesive tape. In spite of the difficulties, he was confident of finding another way through. Diamond, sensitive to the charge that he was a cack-handed map-restorer, shifted the attack by commenting that the road Wigfull had got them into had not been built for the modern automobile. He'd never liked these hills south of the city, their pitted roads lined by uncompromising stone walls ten or fifteen feet high, overhung with dreary evergreens.

Wigfull stayed silent until the next problem arose. Unable to make a U-turn, they were obliged to take a route up a steeply inclined lane with a passage so narrow that it ought to have been designated one-way. As proof that it was not, they met a Post Office van making its way down, and were forced to reverse. At the second try, they got three-quarters of the way up before another vehicle appeared at the top, a red Mini, small, yet sufficient to obstruct the way. In common courtesy, the driver should have given way and backed up. He continued to advance, however, with his headlights on full beam.

'You know what they say in traffic division,' said Diamond. 'Always watch out for the ones wearing hats and driving red cars. This looks a prize specimen.' He stopped the car.

'I'll handle it,' Wigfull volunteered, unfastening his safety belt. The atmosphere was improving in the BMW now that they were united in the face of a common nuisance.

Diamond took a second look at the driver, who had also come to a halt. 'No. Leave him. He's ninety, if he's a day, poor old codger. Probably forgotten how to get into reverse.'

'In that case he shouldn't be on the road.'

Wigfull plainly felt that the sympathy was misdirected. He'd taken plenty of stick; why should some inconsiderate old man get away with it?

'Something tells me to let this one alone, John,' Diamond told him, turning in his seat and starting to back down the hill.

'Bet you wouldn't have done this in London,' Wigfull commented.

'You're right. I've gone soft as a cider apple since I came down here.'

'I hadn't noticed.'

At the foot of the hill, the old man in the Mini revved powerfully and passed them, recklessly removing his hand from the wheel to raise his hat.

'You see?' said Diamond. 'Politeness breeds politeness.'

Their third attempt was successful. They turned right at the top, negotiated two tight turns and found the name of the street chiselled into the wall. High above the street level was a terrace of six small Georgian houses set back from the road, each with its own iron gate. The Didrikson house was the second. Like the others, it was in need of cleaning, stained most heavily below the cornice and sills. They drew up outside and toiled up three sets of stone steps to a front door painted royal blue.

'Someone's in,' Wigfull said.

'Good — I wouldn't want to make this trip too often.'

Their knock was answered by a boy in the grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie of one of the more exclusive schools in the area — presumably the lad Professor Jackman had pulled out of Pulteney Weir.

'Hello, son,' Diamond hailed him. 'Is your mother in?'

This amiable greeting was answered with, 'We don't buy anything at the door.' The boy could have been any age from twelve to fourteen, at that stage of life when the features grow out of proportion and the look on the face expresses resentment at the process - or at the world in general.

'We're from the police,' said Diamond.

'Where's your warrant?'

'What's your name, son?'

'Matthew.'

'Matthew what?'

'Didrikson.'

'Well, Matthew Didrikson, do you ever watch
The Bill?'

'Sometimes.'

'You want to pay more attention, then. We don't have warrants unless we're searching a place. We just want to see your mum. I'm asking you again. Is she in?'

'She goes out to work,' said the boy.

'We'll come in and wait.' Diamond stepped forward.

Momentarily the boy blocked the doorway in defiance, then took a step back as Diamond put a huge foot over the doorstep.

Wigfull, behind him, had spotted a movement along the hall. 'Someone's going out the back!' he said.

'Grab them.'

In the first stride of the pursuit, Diamond was stopped by a vicious kick in the groin. As any ex-rugby-player would, he reacted to the swing of the foot by attempting to swerve, with a simultaneous jack-knifing action. The movement would have saved him if he had not acquired so much extra poundage since giving up the game. His agility was unequal to the intention. True, the impact might have been more damaging had Matthew Didrikson been wearing leather rather than rubber. It still felt like being impaled on a heat-seeking missile and savaged by a Rottweiler at the same time. And the boy followed it up by making a diving grab for Diamond's thigh.

Acting on instinct now, Diamond handed him off and pitched forward on to his hands and knees, bellowing in agony. Somewhere behind him, the boy thudded against the wall.

The pain was extreme. Numbness would take over eventually, Diamond promised himself. Could he wait that long?

His eyes were shut tight. Through his groaning he heard Wigfull's, 'Leave it to me.' A superfluous offer.

By degrees, the pain spread and became less intense. Diamond opened his eyes. They watered copiously. Just as well, he told himself grimly, because he doubted whether the organ intended for watering would ever function again. He looked round for the juvenile delinquent who had maimed him. Prudently for his survival, Matthew Didrikson had fled through the front door.

With the help of a table-leg, Diamond succeeded in hauling himself off the floor. In a fair imitation of a Sumo wrestler charging his opponent, he lurched a few steps and found a chair. There he sat, conscious of nothing but the fire below. How long he was there, he neither knew, nor cared.

'You all right, sir?'

He looked up.

The fatuous question came from Wigfull.

'Do I look all right?' Even the vibrations of his own voice gave him pain.

'It was obviously Mrs Didrikson I saw,' Wigfull informed him. 'I didn't catch her, unfortunately. The house backs on to another street. She ran through the yard^and drove off in a black Mercedes. I got the number.'

'So what do you want - a pat on the back?'

'I suppose you don't happen to have a personal radio on you?' Wigfull ventured.

'What would I want with a bloody bat-phone?'

'We could put out a message.'

'There's a phone on the table beside you,' said Diamond. 'Come on, man!' With that, he began to feel marginally better.

Wigfull got through and ensured that the motor patrols would be alerted. 'In that fast car she's probably heading for the motorway,' he said when he had finished. 'They'll pick her up in the next hour with any luck.' He continued to fuel his optimism. 'Well, we're quite a bit further on, funnily enough. The lady does a bunk and confirms herself as the number one suspect, in my book, anyway. She's going to regret this. Look, would you like me to see if I can find some sort of painkiller?'

'The first sensible thing you've said,' Diamond told him.

A short time later, he lowered himself gingerly into the passenger seat of his car. The codeine Wigfull had found in the bathroom was beginning to work. Wigfull closed the door gently on him and walked round to the driver's seat and got in.

Then he gave an embarrassed cough.

What's the matter with him now? Diamond thought.

'The keys.'

'Why didn't you think of it before? Why didn't I, come to that?' Nothing is so awkward as fishing in your pocket when you're seated in a car, or as perilous, when you're sore down there.

It was an effort and a pain, but Diamond prised them out and handed them over and they drove off. He didn't offer to map-read. It was up to Wigfull to remember. They took the two sharp turns and then steered left to the top of the narrow hill that had caused such problems on the way up. Wigfull stopped the car.

'Not again.'

The way down was obstructed.

Diamond started to laugh. It was ridiculous to do so, because every movement gave him a spasm of pain, but he couldn't prevent it. He shook with laughter.

The car halfway down the hill was a stationary black Mercedes - stationary because it had met another vehicle coming up. They were bonnet to bonnet, quite literally. The vehicle the Mercedes had hit was a red Mini with the headlights full on. The driver, familiar in his trilby, had got out and was standing beside the cars examining the damage. There was a figure still seated in the Mercedes.

'Can't be too serious if his lights are still working,' said Wigfull. 'I'll trot down and see.'

Diamond got out and hobbled after him. This was going to be worth the discomfort.