The Vault (6 page)

Superintendent, you're a connoisseur. You picked out the pearl of this little exhibition. It's the only Blake I possess. He produced an enormous amount, but much of his work was engraving, and I only go in for watercolours. Mine is one of the best private collections in the country and I want to share it with people."

"Great art belongs to the world."

"My sentiments exactly. We could get on well, you and I," said Sturr. "So what's your real opinion. Off the record, aren't our streets more dangerous than they used to be?"

Whatever he privately believed, Diamond was not admitting it to this man, fellow connoisseur or not. "It's swings and roundabouts," he said. "If you're talking about streets, the chance of being killed by a car was higher when we were kids than it is today."

"Don't give me that. There are far more cars on the road."

"Far fewer deaths, though. If you don't believe me, check it out."

"Are you responsible for traffic?"

"No, sir. I investigate murder, when it happens."

"And how often is that?"

"Often enough to keep me in employment."

"Are you working on a case right now?"

Diamond smiled. "No, I'm looking at pictures."

"You can't be all that busy, if they let you have an evening off." Councillor Sturr had not got elected for being tactful.

"I'm working on a case from a long way back," said Diamond, "when the world was supposed to be a safer place." He was not known for his tact either. And this had not been an evening off.

eight

THAT NIGHT, IN THE privacy of their suite at the Royal Crescent Hotel, Joe Dougan came clean with Donna.

"Want to see something special?"

Donna had just showered and changed into her nightdress. Her eyes, usually so expressionless, widened and sparkled. "Why, have you brought a friend?" she teased him, loosening her hair. Then she noticed he was holding out a book, one of many he had carried away in triumph from Hay-on-Wye the previous week.

"Jeez, Joe, it's bedtime."

"You don't have to read it."

She had no desire to handle a book so old that its binding was turning to a reddish powder. "What is it?"

"The
Poetical Works of John
Milton."

"Terrific."

Ignoring the sarcasm, he said, "Yes, I happen to agree with you. It is terrific."

An argument at bedtime is not conducive to sleep or anything else. In a change of tone, Donna asked, "Is it the first edition?"

"Lord, no. A Milton first edition would be more than our joint savings, and that's if you could find one. No, this little baby dates from 1810. Dr Johnson's edition."

"Uhuh?"

"I got it for twenty pounds."

"Are you sure you didn't get rooked? It's not in very good condition."

"Showing signs of use, I'd say," said Joe, undeterred.

"Don't you have a clean copy of Milton back home?"

"I have three. The point about this one is ... Well, I guess I should have told you before now. Take a look."

Donna said. "If you don't mind, Joe, I'd rather not. I don't want to wash my hands again."

He sighed. "I'll hold it for you." With an air of ceremony, he held it for Donna to see. The front cover was a greyish board. In the top right-hand corner, someone had inscribed in ink that had faded almost to yellow:

M.W.G.

5, Abbey Churchyard,

Bath.

Donna took a quick look and got into their vast four-poster bed.

Joe asked, "What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think you found a book from five. Abbey Churchyard, the house we were looking for. Didn't you tell me it used to be some kind of library?"

"This is not a library book, Donna. Take a look at these initials." He held it close again.

"M.W.G. ?"

"Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. I believe this is Mary Shelley's personal copy of Milton's poems."

After an interval Donna said, "If it belonged to Mary Shelley, how come she didn't write M.S. on the front?"

"Godwin was her name when she first lived in the house in 1816. She and Shelley didn't marry until the end of the year."

Donna was not convinced yet. "So you think these letters must be her initials?"

"Honey, they are hers. She was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin and this was her address when she wrote Frankenstein. That's not all. At the front of
Frankenstein
is a quote from John Milton's
Paradise Lost.
In her preface she mentions Milton with admiration. So we know she possessed a copy and this is the one, her personal copy of Milton."

Donna still didn't have any inclination to handle the book Mary Shelley had possessed. "You found this at Hay and recognized the address?"

"That's what I'm telling you. The find of a lifetime. The shop people had no idea. But I have the John Hopkins University edition of Mary's letters back home and that address stood out for me."

"Incredible," murmured Donna. "You remember the house where she was living in 1816 and you forget our wedding anniversary."

"Once," Joe pointed out. "Once in twenty-four years."

"You'd better remember next year."

"Will you let me finish? Like I was telling you, when we came to Bath I wanted to see the house for myself."

"Why didn't you tell me about the book until now?"

"You know me, Donna. I like storing up surprises. I was hoping to show you the house first and then let you share my pleasure at finding the book. It was a body blow to discover number five was gone. Well, I thought it was until I found my way down into the cellar today. That made it all real."

"You already told me," said Donna, unable to suppress a yawn.

"It was the cellar to number five, no question."

"Fine. Are you going to wash your hands before you get into bed with me?"

"Okay, okay." He put down the book and padded into the bathroom.

Later, in bed and with the light out, he chuckled and said, "They thought I was a medical examiner. They were expecting the medical examiner down there to look at a skull they found under the floor."

"Let's change the subject," Donna suggested.

"They ought to know there would be bones down there. It's built on a churchyard."

"Can't you talk about something cheerful if you must talk? You know I'm nervous in this old-fashioned bed. I'm going to get nightmares listening to you."

"Sorry." He pondered a moment, then said, "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"See some shops."

"Good thinking. Let's do that."

Donna turned over and faced him. "The shoes over here are pretty. And good value."

Joe's mind was not on shoes. "There was a time when booksellers had their own little stickers that they fixed inside the covers of books they stocked. There's one in that copy of Milton, a neat little oval with the name and address: O. Heath, Rare Books, Union Passage, Bath. Just out of interest, I'd like to see if Mr O. Heath is still in trade."

"Joe," said Donna in a flat tone.

"Honey?"

"That isn't shopping."

NEXT MORNING, Diamond was in the Assistant Chief Constable's office explaining to Georgina why he did not expect quick results from the Roman Baths. "We found this skull, as you know, ma'am, but it turns out to be medieval. Probably it was there from the original churchyard and got disturbed when they were digging for foundations."

"For the present buildings?"

"No. For the houses that were there before. They were knocked down in the eighteen-nineties. This vault is part of the original construction."

"I see. But the other remains you found—the hand bones— are modern?"

Diamond was unwilling to say so. "God knows when they were hacked off. Bones are difficult to date. I've been trying to get an estimate from forensic. They're estimating between ten and twenty-five years ago."

"Can't they be more precise?"

"They're still doing tests."

"When you say 'hacked off'... ?"

"They mean it was crudely done, ma'am, using an axe or the edge of a spade."

Georgina stood up and stared out of the window. "So what's your theory?"

"Obviously the rest of the body is somewhere else. The hands were removed because the killer thought the victim might be identified from fingerprints."

"Fingerprints?" The word was pitched high in disbelief.

"You and I know the world has moved on, ma'am, but did the killer? This was up to twenty years ago, before DNA testing came in. People thought fingerprints were the only giveaway."

"Fair point," conceded the ACC. "So where is the rest of the body? Not in the cellar, you think?"

"We dug to a depth of four feet," Diamond said heavily, as if he personally had done all the spade-work. "The job is almost done. No, there wouldn't be much point in dismembering the body and then burying the bits in the same place."

"So where's the rest of it?"

"It could be part of the view you're looking out on."

The ACC took a moment to work this out. "You mean absorbed into a building?" She fingered her white collar. "One hears these gruesome stories. It's possible, I suppose. But in Bath?"

"In Bristol, if that upsets you less."

Georgina's back was registering all the tensions between top brass and brassy copper. "If this was the intention, why go to all the trouble of burying the hands in the vault?"

Having started this hare, Diamond had to run with it. "The risk. He's stuck with a body that he has to get into a truckload of hardcore, or whatever, out in the open, on a building site. Anyone might spot something and switch off the machinery."

"So he removes the hands."

"And the head, probably."

"But the skull you found was ancient."

"I'm not saying the real head is buried in the vault. He could have taken it to some other place, carried it out in a holdall. I may be wrong, ma'am, but the picture I have is of two blokes working on the Roman Baths extension. They fall out for some reason. There's violence and one is killed, possibly in the vault where they keep their tools. The survivor has to dispose of the body. He's scared by what he has done, but after a bit he realises he's well-placed to get away with this."

Miss Dallymore turned to face him. "You make it sound plausible, Peter."

"I've had time to think, ma'am."

"What are our chances of catching up with him?"

"Pretty remote, to be honest. If we knew the victim, it would be a start. I doubt if we ever will. Builders' employment records are sketchy, to say the least."

"What's your advice, then?"

"Keep it on file, but scale it down."

"You can't see us progressing much more with this one?"

Diamond nodded.

Reasonable as this appeared, Georgina was having some difficulty with it. Clearly something else was on her mind. She eyed Diamond thoughtfully. "I believe I'm correct in saying that there's some media interest in this one."

Diamond started to say, "I'm not aware of any..." Then stopped and started again. "Do you mean a woman called Ingeborg Smith?"

"I was thinking of her, yes."

"She's independent. What do they call it? Freelance."

"So I understand. A bright young woman."

"You've met her, ma'am?"

The ACC coloured noticeably. "I joined the Bath Camerata recently. Ingeborg Smith is a member."

Now Diamond reddened. "A club?"

"A choir, actually. Singing is a pastime of mine. The Camerata are very good. I don't know if my voice will be up to their standard, but that's beside the point. Miss Smith is a very accomplished alto. Over coffee the other evening she surprised me by mentioning this case. To give her credit, she declared her interest right away. She quite properly thought it right to state that she knows all about the police activity in the vault. She seemed to think she had passed you some vital information. Naturally, I made no comment."

Illuminating as this was about the ACC's private recreations, it came to Diamond like a low punch. He knew Ingeborg was a sharp mover. He had not anticipated this. Stiffly he commented, "The information may have seemed useful at the time, ma'am, but events have moved on."

"I see."

"This was before we eliminated that old skull from our inquiry. Miss Smith had a theory about a missing woman."

"She seems anxious to be of use."

And how, thought Diamond. "Did she tell you she wants to join the police?"

"Really? No, she didn't say so."

"I expect she's saving it up. Better not say I tipped you off, ma'am."

"Right you are."

"She'd be an asset by the sound of it."

"Do you think so?"

"To the police choir, anyway." Diamond took a half-step in the direction of the door. "If that's all, ma'am?"

"There is one other thing," said the ACC, as if she had just thought of it. "You made a strong impression last night at the PCCG, I was informed."

"PCC ... ? Ah, yes."

"You put the crime statistics into perspective very neatly."

"Did I?"

"But if I were you, I should soft-pedal with Councillor Sturr at future meetings. He's a powerful man in the community."

"Did you say 'future meetings'?" Diamond felt a pulse throb in his forehead: the old hypertension. Surely that meeting had been a one-off. The way he'd been dragooned into going, simply because he'd happened to walk up a corridor at the wrong moment, had not suggested it was a permanent arrangement.

"Absolutely. From all I hear, you represented us admirably. I can't think of anyone better equipped to do the job."

He reeled out of that office in no doubt who had lumbered him. John Wigfull. Who else could have taken back tales of the meeting? Between Ingeborg Smith and Wigfull, he would have to watch his back in future.

IN A shop at the lower end of Milsom Street, Donna was trying on pink high-heeled shoes with the dinkiest little bows you ever saw. They were adorable, only they pinched. The assistant went off to look for something similar in a wider fitting and while Donna massaged her toes and wondered if she could put up with the discomfort, Joe suggested meeting later for coffee in a French place they had discovered the morning before. Donna didn't reply. For just such a situation as this, Joe had collected an address card from the cafe. He wrote 11.30 across the top, placed it beside Donna's bag and left unobtrusively.

He found Union Passage without difficulty. It was one of those narrow walkways that add so much interest to the older English towns. Too bad that O. Heath no longer had a bookstore there.

He made enquiries in a couple of shops and they said they had no recollection of a secondhand bookshop in Union Passage, unless he meant a charity shop.

"No, no, this was a regular bookstore dealing in rare antiquarian books," Joe said for the second time.

And now he was in luck, because one of the customers, a tall, white-bearded man, said, "Excuse me, but if you're speaking of Mr Heath, he retired a long time ago. It must be ten years, at least. The business closed down altogether, which was a pity, because it was a smashing little shop, an absolute treasure house for book-lovers."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"Mr Heath? He's still about. I see him in the library sometimes, elderly now, but very upright still. I can't tell you where he lives."

"Maybe the library can. Where is it?" Persistence was one of Joe's virtues, though some would argue that it was the other thing. He looked at his watch. Donna would still be testing the endurance of the shoeshop staff.

The library assistant he spoke with said they weren't allowed to pass on addresses, but it was quite possible that the information he wanted was on the shelves. Her eyes slid sideways, towards the section where the phone directories were. Why the British never said what they meant in simple words, Joe had never fathomed. But the information was helpful. The only O. Heath listed in Bath lived in Queen Square. He didn't need to ask for directions. He had his pictorial map. It would just be a short walk.