The Vault (5 page)

"Was there a man in her life?"

"At least four."

"They would have been questioned," said Diamond. "There should still be statements on file. Did they publish a picture?"

"Yes, in black and white. She was dark, apparently. Large eyes. Reminded me a bit of that girl who played
Tess."

"Nastassja Kinski? No wonder she was popular." Up to now, he had only the image of the skull in the vault with its earth-filled eye-sockets.

"Is that helpful?" Ingeborg asked.

Wary of her agenda, he played it down. "One thing you'd learn if you ever joined CID is that the most promising leads aren't always the right ones."

"If it is her, when do you expect to announce it?"

"You want to scoop the others?"

"It's my job."

"There are tests—once I finally get a pathologist to the scene. We're unlikely to get an identification for some days. Dental records may help. I can't see us going public on a named individual until we're sure. You'd be unwise to rush into print yet."

"So what shall I write—that you haven't yet linked this with the disappearance of Violet Turner, who worked in the Roman Baths and disappeared in 1983?"

He almost snarled, "Don't bait me." As he was saying it, he spotted Jim Middleton striding across the yard. "Stay in touch," he heard himself tell her unnecessarily as he got up, but it softened the last remark.

He caught up with Middleton in the corridor. "What happened?"

The pathologist swung around. "Jesus Christ, Peter, you shouldn't creep up on people like that. I nearly dropped my guts-bag."

"We expected you at two."

"Sorry, old friend. The gearbox went on my Ultimate Driving Machine."

"You could have phoned."

"What with? I don't carry one of those ghastly mobiles."

Diamond didn't pursue it. "This way. It's down in the vault."

"Where the hands were found?"

"Yes." He escorted Middleton down to the vault.

"My word," said the pathologist as he shook open the protective overall he was handed, "you've got major earthworks here. Is the skull where you found it?"

"Exactly as it was. We brushed away some of the earth around it, that's all."

"And no doubt brushed away the hairs I'll be hoping to find." He stepped into the overall and zipped it up. "Hair is durable. It often remains after other tissues have decomposed. No, I won't complain. Let me help you with that." He grabbed the back of the garment Diamond was struggling with and hauled it up to shoulder height. "Don't they make an XXL?"

They put on overshoes and walked over to the skull. Diamond said, "The Scene of Crime team say she's female."

"I wouldn't disagree with that." Middleton took a torch from his bag and bent over the skull. "No hair that I can see." He tapped the cranium lightly with his gloved knuckle and stroked its surface with something like affection. Then, against all the rules, he burrowed with his fingers, took a grip and plucked the entire thing from the earth and placed it on the level above. "And where were the hands found?"

"Some distance off. Over there, between two flagstones."

Middleton flicked off some earth, pressed the skull backwards and opened the jaw. "Because, you see, the evidence suggests that the hands and the skull are not related."

He felt himself blush scarlet. "Get away."

"Have you noticed the colour? I know it's difficult under these lights, but I'd call this brownish-yellow. Caramel, shall we say? The hand bones I saw were paler, whitish in colour."

"They were in concrete. They weren't stained by the soil," Diamond pointed out.

"Fair enough. What clinches it for me are the teeth." Middleton worked the jaw again, and for an instant the skull looked animated, seeming to enjoy Diamond's confusion. "Several molars missing, but no dental work. Unusual in a modern adult."

"True."

"Now run your fingers gently over the cranium, like this."

Diamond did as instructed.

Middleton turned to face him, smiling. "I know it's not so obvious through latex, but do you feel the coarseness of the surface texture? I mean you can see the cracks in places. This is deterioration I would expect after many, many years of seasonal changes in temperature. Heat-waves, frosts. And I'm not talking ten or fifteen years, Peter." He bent closer, pressing the torch almost to the bone. "It looks to me as if petrification is well under way, meaning that this little lady is turning into a fossil. She was dead a few centuries before the owner of the hand was born. You don't want me on this job. You want an anthropologist."

A DAY as discouraging as this should have ended with a couple of beers. Instead, he found himself in the Victoria Gallery looking at a carafe of water. He was seated at a long table between the Head of CID Operations, John Wigfull, and a woman with a wheezy chest. It was five to seven and the meeting of the PCCG was shortly to begin.

Diamond casually asked Wigfull, "Have you, em, had an invitation from Georgina?"

"Georgina?"

"Dallymore."

"The new ACC." Wigfull blinked nervously several times. "No. Have you?"

"I expect she's doing it alphabetically," Diamond said. "It's an 'At Home'. Thursday. I suppose I'll turn up."

An extraordinary stillness came over Wigfull.

Diamond said, "I won't have any evenings to myself at this rate."

Eventually Wigfull managed to think of a comeback. "Heard about your skull."

"Oh, yes?"

"Couldn't they estimate the time of death, then?"

"I knew it was old."

"But not prehistoric?"

"Prehistoric, my arse."

"How old is it, then?"

"Medieval, Middleton says."

"Oh—a mere five hundred years or so?"

Diamond turned his back and introduced himself to the wheezing woman. She said she was from Victim Support and he told her she couldn't have chosen a more suitable person to sit beside. She eyed him warily.

The meeting got under way. As the senior policeman present, he was forced to defend the latest crime figures. Violent crime was on the increase, and Councillor Sturr, across the table, wanted an explanation. "I'm a forthright man, Superintendent, and I don't mind telling you these figures are deplorable. We employ you to keep our streets safe, and look at the result. It's getting steadily worse."

Diamond was tempted to give the forthright man a forthright riposte, but this was not the occasion. "If you're worried about the streets, Councillor," he said in as measured a way as he could at the end of a trying day, "you need not be. Most of this increase is domestic violence."

"Is that supposed to be good news?"

"It's my answer to your concern about our streets. They're relatively safe."

"Our homes aren't."

"They never were. Someone in your family is more likely to attack you than a stranger."

"What a world we live in now."

"The figures are rising because people are reporting it more, thanks to the better climate of opinion."

The last phrase was totally misunderstood by one of the delegates, who interrupted to say he was sure Mr Diamond was right about global warming. He had noticed riots always happened on hot summer nights.

The aptly-named Councillor Sturr returned to the attack. The name was familiar; he was a millionaire who had made his money out of stone-cleaning, washing the fronts of old buildings, a profitable business in Bath. He was probably still under forty, slim, in a tailored grey suit, with brown eyes that missed nothing, and dark hair slicked back. He was always in the local press, giving away the prizes at flower shows and school speech days. This combative stuff was another side to the man. "So what are you saying, Mr Diamond? That this increase is down to people attacking each other in the privacy of their own homes?"

"Not entirely, but broadly, it's true."

"Weasel words, Superintendent."

"Yours, sir, or mine?"

Diamond heard Wigfull's sharp intake of breath.

The Councillor bulldozed some more. "Look here, I was brought up in Bath. I know this city as well as anyone sitting around this table, and I tell you it's turned into a dangerous place. What with drugs and beggars and barmy people who ought to be locked up, it's no wonder these figures are so shocking. When I was a boy it was safe for kids to go out to play on a warm evening like this. Now, I think twice about going out myself."

Diamond nodded, as if to confirm the dismal truth. "You're speaking of the nineteen-sixties, I would guess."

"I was born in 1963, the year sexual intercourse began, according to Philip Larkin's silly poem—but my parents didn't think much of Larkin or the so-called sexual freedom and nor did most of the people of Bath. Flower power, hippies, the Beatles and all that nonsense. The revolution came late to Bath. The buildings here were covered in grime in those days, but it was a clean place to live in. Law-abiding and safe."

"Safe?" said Diamond.

He nodded. "I could go out playing on summer evenings and my parents knew I would come to no harm."

"They let you play outside?"

"Yes, indeed. In those days nobody had ever heard of the dreadful things that happen to children now."

"That isn't quite right, Councillor," Diamond said as he marshalled his thoughts. This happened to be a period he knew well from his collection of books on the post-war detectives. "You wouldn't remember a local man called Straffen, who strangled two little girls your own age. Here in Bath in the early fifties, before you were born. And if you weren't aware of him at the time, I'm sure your parents were, and the good people of Bath. He made all the headlines."

Sturr straightened in his chair, as if ready to take issue, but Diamond had more to say.

"Sadly, it's always been a risk sending children out to play." His eyes locked with the Councillor's, slipped away and came back to him. "I get weary of people telling me life was so much safer in the old days."

A silver-haired man lower down the table said, "I remember Straffen. Wasn't he saved from the gallows?"

Diamond nodded. "He was found insane and committed to Broadmoor. Six months later he escaped and killed another child."

The Chairman cleared his throat noisily and asked if anyone else had an observation on the Police Report. Wigfull, ever the ambassador, spoke of the success of Operation Bumblebee, the clampdown on burglary. Another initiative, Operation Vulture, had also helped to reduce crime. Diamond was glad it was Wigfull giving the spiel. Personally, he rued the day when the image-makers had been let in to package police work. They made his job sound like something out of a Batman comic.

Others wanted their say now, and the sooner they spoke up and shut up, the better, Diamond thought. He disliked the self-congratulation that lurked around the table. We are sitting down with senior policemen, so we must be upright citizens.

It all reached a merciful end at 9.45 p.m. He got up to go and found Sturr at his side. The man reeked of aftershave.

"You really shot me down in flames with your child-murderer, Superintendent," he said. "I asked for it. I laid it on a bit thick."

Diamond took this as a peace offering. "You only repeated what most people say. I hear it so often that I like to put the contrary view sometimes. Devil's advocate."

"Have you got a minute to spare?" Sturr gestured to Diamond to follow him.

Irksome as it was to follow a beckoning finger, curiosity prevailed. And there was some satisfaction in seeing John Wigfull taking this in with his cow-like stare.

The next room was in darkness, the building having closed to the public some hours before. Sturr felt for the light-switch and Diamond saw that they were in a small annexe that served as an extra gallery. About twenty pictures were displayed there, white-mounted in silver frames.

"Take your time," said the councillor, as if there was something to be done.

It had to be an inspection of the pictures. Dutifully, Diamond made a circuit, pausing briefly at intervals. Picture galleries were rarely on his itinerary. To his eye, the works on display were pretty similar, brownish and indistinct. In some cases, the artists had left patches unpainted. Was a picture finished if the paper showed through? He dredged deep for something positive to say. "Unusual."

"I thought you wouldn't want to miss these," said Sturr. A charged quality had entered his voice, "They belong to me, you know. Early English watercolours. I loaned them to the city for two months. DeWint, Cotman, Girtin—they're all here. The plums of my collection."

"Must be worth a bomb," Diamond was moved to say.

"You'd be surprised at the prices I paid. I study the art market and look out for bargains. I wanted you to see that I'm not the philistine some people take me for. I have a degree in chemistry. I have a respect for the arts as well."

Diamond thought he had better demonstrate some respect of his own. One of the paintings, at least, had something other than a few wretched sheep huddled under trees. "I like that blueish one with the dark figure moving across the icy background."

"The Blake? Yes, I'm particularly pleased to own that. We have to say 'attributed to...' because it isn't signed and isn't listed in the catalogues of his work. It doesn't even have a title, but I say it's definitely a Blake, and several experts agree with me. The stylistic features are unmistakable. Are you familiar with Blake's work?"

Occasionally, Diamond's grammar school cramming came to his aid.
"The
Tyger?"

"I was speaking of his art," said Sturr. "The fluidity of his line. The power of the images. His figures, whether mythical or human, are instantly recognizable."

Diamond went closer to the picture. "Who's this then?"

"I meant recognizable as the work of Blake."

"Got you." He would still have liked to know what it was about, the tall, shabby, long-haired figure striding through a desolate landscape of snow-covered rocks.

The councillor explained, "Mythological, I'd say. The figure doesn't look entirely human to me. Blake was haunted by visions, of course. Oh, yes, there's no question that he painted it.