The Stone Wife
- Автор: Ловси Питер
- Серия: Peter Diamond #14
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Sphere
- ISBN: 978-0-7515-5405-2
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «The Stone Wife». Краткое содержание книги:
‘You’re right. He was a Chaucer expert and he worked it out. And so did the British Museum and the bidders from New York and Tokyo. You’ve done well, John. I can’t wait to get started.’ He turned towards his office, his brain still reeling from the overdose of information. A long car journey with the anorak of the team would be quite an ordeal.
But Leaman hadn’t finished. ‘I hope it’s all right with you. I thought we might need some expert help tomorrow.’
‘You’re an expert yourself. Is that necessary?’
‘I don’t know the place at all. I called the Bridgwater museum and they’re providing a local history person to show us round.’
‘What did you tell them — that we’re the Bath murder squad?’
‘No, I thought that would put them off. I said we’re writers researching Chaucer.’
‘Couldn’t you think of anything better than that?’
‘We do have to write stuff.’
Writers. Marvellous as he was at absorbing information, John Leaman hadn’t a creative thought in his head.
9
‘Known to the police’ is a badge of honour to certain people. They are the Teflon-coated tyrants behind most organised crime in the major cities. They preside over law-breaking on an industrial scale without ever getting blood on their hands.
So Ingeborg had little difficulty targeting Nathan Hazael as the most likely supplier of the gun that had killed John Gildersleeve. This sinister individual was notorious in Bristol, ruthless, feared by the entire criminal fraternity — and just about untouchable. He occupied a unique position in the city, overseeing multiple scams, hold-ups and thefts enacted under threat of death, but impossible to trace to him personally. He was protected by layers of insulation: at the lowest level, thugs; at the highest, lawyers. And between, an army of hitmen, con artists, pimps and protection racketeers held in thrall by blackmail, old scores and threats.
Most professional criminals in Britain do not own firearms. For a ‘hard job’ they approach people like Hazael and rent by the day and the going rate is high. The trick is not to fire the things. There is a good rebate on a gun that was used merely as a threat. The science of ballistics and the difficulty in recovering used ammunition means that after a weapon has been discharged it becomes identifiable and loses almost all of its value. Most ‘hot’ guns are broken up or buried.
Getting under Hazael’s radar was the challenge. Ingeborg believed she’d worked out a way to do it. She’d done her research, read everything on file, checked the man and his associates, familiarised herself with his methods. The precious snippet of information she had seized on wasn’t in the police records at all. It was something she had found in a local arts magazine.
She knew she had to act on the discovery and she had thought of a way to do it. But of course there was a risk.
She needed to make a judgement about one of her oldest friends. Get this wrong and she could walk into a death trap. You can spend years being completely open with someone, sharing the ups and downs of life, but in the last analysis can you depend on them? She wasn’t going into this blindly. She knew Sylvie May was loyal and wouldn’t willingly betray her. This was a mate who stood by you, who wouldn’t allow anyone to get away with a mean-spirited remark. Given the opportunity, she would defend you to the death. But that same fighting spirit that made Sylvie who she was also made her a loose cannon. She never gave a moment’s forethought to what she was about to say. She was out with the response before she’d thought it through. Emotion ruled her, and that was the danger.
Yet she was uniquely placed to help.
She was the editor-in-chief of a popular weekly that covered the arts and entertainment in the southwest. There had been a time ten or so years ago when Ingeborg was freelancing as a journalist and Sylvie was the showbiz editor of a national daily and the two had helped each other to unearth the real stories behind the guff put out by the PR agencies. If you wanted the truth about some celeb’s secret dealings or latest conquest, Sylvie or Inge would have discovered it. They knew where the action was and time and again they came up with scoops any other journalist would have pawned her iPad to get.
Heart-stopping as it was, the risk of confiding in Sylvie couldn’t outweigh the opportunity. Ingeborg got in touch and fixed a meeting.
Any hope she might have had of a discreet tête-à-tête was quickly dashed. Sylvie’s tête was emerald green in corkscrew curls. Against the backdrop of the scrubbed-brick walls in Flinty Red, the small restaurant on Bristol’s Cotham Hill, the look was startling. Before they went to their table Sylvie loudly demanded a hug that had everyone else in the restaurant turning to see the two noisy women who had arrived. This wasn’t going to plan.
Sylvie was a regular here and wanted everyone to know. She hugged the manager and the waiter. ‘They do the most amazing wine-tastings,’ she told Ingeborg. ‘I can never remember the name of anything I try, so I have to keep coming back. All the reds are superb. For starters let’s plump for something Spanish and then we can think about France or Italy for the white.’
Was this the worst mistake of Ingeborg’s career? Today of all days she needed a clear head.
Sylvie had moved on to the lunch menu. ‘You haven’t gone veggie or anything? You were never predictable. I want you to try the braised octopus with harissa, coriander and potato.’
‘Don’t I get a choice?’
‘Trust me.’
After they’d ordered, Sylvie pitched her voice at a more normal level, which was a blessing, because she was straight into her journalistic Q&A mode. ‘You got made up to sergeant, I hear. How’s the detective business going?’
Questions like this were to be expected. Ingeborg would normally be relaxed about them. She was clear in her mind how much she could safely say. The danger was that girl-talk loosens the tongue and that was without the assistance of alcohol. ‘Good and bad days. You get them in any job, don’t you? I wouldn’t go back to being a hack.’
‘And how do Bath CID take to a sassy blonde telling them Colonel Mustard did it with the candlestick in the library?’
‘They’re fine. Some are more serious-minded than others, but you need people like that. Policing isn’t one big laugh.’
‘And the boss?’
‘He’s good.’
‘Yes, but what’s he like? What makes him tick?’
‘Now you’re asking.’ She could picture Diamond’s horrified reaction if he ever discovered his personal qualities were the small talk in a public restaurant. ‘He brings out the best in the team. A good brain, which is essential. You think you can predict how he’ll handle any situation because he’s a seasoned cop, and then suddenly he’ll surprise you. I’ve never known anyone quite like him. He plays up to his image of being all fingers and thumbs and at war with technology, but I suspect he could build his own spacecraft and fly it to the moon if needed.’
‘Sounds like you’re a secret admirer.’
Ingeborg smiled. ‘Give me a break, Syl. He’s at least twenty years older than me. But if I wanted to bank on someone to save my life, I’d pick Peter Diamond every time.’
‘I bet he fancies you, whatever age he is.’
‘There you go. Don’t you ever stop working? He’s in a relationship with a smart lady who understands him better than I ever will.’ Ingeborg paused while the wine was poured, and told herself she really must go on with this. ‘And now that I’ve given you the rundown on my professional life, how’s yours? Thriving, by the look of you.’
Sylvie flicked the curls into motion again. ‘It’s cut-throat, as always. Changes of owner, bosses who can barely speak a word of English. We’re like one of those premiership football clubs, easy prey to foreign oligarchs. They hire and fire at will, and you can never be sure who’ll be sitting in the chair when you walk into the boardroom.’