Showstopper, page 5
Gilbert managed to find words. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m entitled to ask the same question,” an educated voice answered, “allowing that I was here first and didn’t send you an invitation. Quiet, Caesar.”
Caesar heard and cut the growling.
“If you want to be friends with us, show him the back of your hand. The back, not the palm. Not the fingers, absolutely not the fingers. When he’s caught a whiff of you, he’ll calm down.”
Gilbert was doubtful, but it mattered awfully to humour the dog’s owner. He extended his right hand to within a yard of what he judged as the limit of the rope.
Panting mightily, but without more barking or growling, Caesar stood again and strained to reach him. Gilbert withdrew his hand and swayed back.
“Steady,” the man said—and he was speaking to Gilbert, not the dog. “It’s not good to show fear. Once he’s pressed his wet nose to your skin, he’ll be your friend for life. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Paul Gilbert.” This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was with the police. “What breed is it?”
“I can’t tell you. There’s some Great Dane for sure and some Rhodesian ridgeback and I suspect a dash of Pyrenean mountain dog gives him the shaggy look. The united nations in a pooch. I acquired him two years ago from some unfortunate whose wife delivered an ultimatum: dog or divorce. He’s interested in you. A few inches closer and we’ll have some peace.”
There was such certainty in the instruction that Gilbert believed it. He plucked up the courage to reach out again.
Another urgent reminder. “Fingers tucked in.”
He made a fist, offered the back of his hand and felt the touch of damp—and not only from the nose. A warm, slobbery lick completed the inspection.
Exactly as promised, the huge dog became docile, returned to its owner and squatted beside him. Crisis over.
“If you’re looking for a place to doss down, I suggest you try the officers’ rest room upstairs,” the man said. “Every room is draughty, but that’s got the best views.”
“I’m not here to doss down.”
“Why disturb us, in that case?”
“I heard the barking and came in to see if the dog was in trouble.”
“How civil. I’m sure he appreciates your concern.”
“You live here?” Gilbert asked.
“A temporary guest. I don’t stay anywhere for long. Tomorrow we’ll head down the hill into Aquae Sulis for what’s left of the tourist season.”
“Have you been to Bath before?”
“Every summer for at least ten years. I come here for the history, the architecture, the civilised living and, best of all, the coins that drop into my tin mug.”
“You’re a traveller?”
“On the whole, I prefer gentleman of the road. I’ve been called everything from crusty to scrounger. Governments do their best to demonise us because we’re a comment on their failed policies. Like the polar bear, I’m one of an endangered species.”
Now that his eyes were getting used to the poor light, Gilbert could see the evidence of what he’d heard: a vintage coach-built pram to his left heaped high with objects useful to a tramp, like a folded groundsheet, frying pan and billycan. Yet the man talked as if this was the Athenaeum Club.
Gilbert asked how long he had been living like this.
“I lose track. I’m a Londoner originally. My business went into liquidation soon after the collapse of Lehman Brothers. We were starved of finance. How long ago was that?”
“I’m not sure,” Gilbert said.
“There you are. You’re halfway to throwing off the shackles like me and finding freedom beyond the reach of broadband.”
“No chance.”
“You could become a free spirit. ‘Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere.’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
A tramp quoting Shakespeare. Gilbert was lost for words.
“How are your feet?” the gentleman of the road asked. “You need healthy feet and a sturdy pair of boots. What are you wearing—trainers? They’ll soon get holes.”
“I’m trying to tell you I’m not a traveller,” Gilbert said. “I’m just visiting the airfield.”
“Out for an afternoon walk?”
“Something like that.”
There was a pause for thought.
“Are you about to tell me I’m trespassing on Air Ministry property?”
“I believe the land is privately owned now.”
“That’s all right, then. The owners won’t begrudge me resting up for a few days. They must have taken a fat fee from the television people.”
Gilbert’s interest quickened. He might have found a witness. “Were you here while they were filming?”
“I was very accommodating. I waited for them to finish before I moved in. I’ve stayed here often, you see. I always try for a roof over my head at night, be it an empty house, garden shed or barn. And I leave the place as I found it. Point of honour.”
“Did you watch the TV people at work?”
“Why should I? There are better ways of spending one’s time.”
“Such as?”
“Foraging for nature’s bounty.”
“Mushrooms?”
“Much more. Nuts, berries, edible plants of many varieties. Wounded pheasants I put out of their misery. Eggs, when I can find them.” He winked. “The occasional past-its-sell-by from the bins at the back of Tesco.”
Now that he had someone to listen to him, the man wouldn’t stop talking. Let it flow, Gilbert decided. Humour him and he may come out with the information I want. “What does Caesar live on? He wouldn’t enjoy that stuff.”
“Don’t have any concerns about him. When he’s hungry, he puts on his dog-at-death’s-door performance, lying flat on the ground with his tongue hanging out and ribs showing and people arrive with tins of dog food. There’s a brand called Cesar and they think it’s amusing to bring him his own signature product. I could get jealous. I’m getting a permanent stoop from carrying his supplies.”
Gilbert got the interview back on track. “Did the TV crew leave anything behind?”
“Not even a bottle of water. They cleared up everything and took it away in their vans.”
“Were you watching when they packed up?”
“I observed from a distance. I can’t think why you’re interested.”
Gilbert decided he’d better front up. “I’m DC Gilbert, from Bath Police, investigating a missing person, one of the crew from the TV unit. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
“Do you mind telling me?”
“It’s no secret. Everyone calls me Will.”
“But you have a surname?”
“Legat. I’m William Legat, which gets corrupted to Will Leggit. Groan if you like. You won’t be the first. A policeman, you said? I like the police. I like the bed and breakfast you offer wandering men like me, but I doubt whether I can help with your investigation.”
Caesar made a whimpering sound and turned to stare at his owner. Maybe the word “breakfast” had done it.
“You watched them leave, then?” Gilbert pressed on, increasingly hopeful he’d found someone who could help. “What time would this have been?”
“Young man, one of the joys of this mode of existence is that I don’t carry a timepiece.”
“Late in the day?”
“You don’t give up, do you? Of course, it was late. They’re on a budget. They cram as much as possible into the day so that they don’t need to come back tomorrow. They work until the light goes and the poor devils left to do the clearing up are there for an hour or two longer.”
“It was dark?”
“Becoming so. I do remember that the last truck had the headlights on when he drove off.”
“About nine, then,” Gilbert said, more to himself than his informant.
The dog started whimpering, pathetic sounds for an animal his size.
“And now we must deal with more pressing matters,” Will Legat said, and lowered the blanket and reached for a pair of mud-encrusted boots. “Caesar is asking to go outside. All this excitement.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You won’t. We’re very fastidious about such things. How would you like it if I followed you into the bathroom?” He pulled on the boots without troubling to lace them.
Caesar was now at liberty, waiting patiently in the doorway, the rope dangling from his collar and across the floor.
Gilbert had tensed, but the dog had other matters in mind.
Legat got upright more easily than Gilbert had expected and at once it became clear he wasn’t the decrepit old man he’d seemed sitting down. He looked to be in early middle age, broad in back and shoulders, certainly strong enough to manage a large dog.
“How tall are you?” Gilbert asked.
“Six two in my socks, according to my tailor.” A joke. He was in a black shirt frayed at the cuffs and combat trousers fastened with a macho-looking belt with D-rings from which hung two large bunches of rusty keys, a bottle-opener and a jackknife. “Oblige me, if you would, by staying here and guarding my things.”
Would anyone want to steal them? Gilbert mused, and kept the thought to himself. He stood aside, uneasy at having surrendered the initiative, but pleased of a few minutes to work out whether there was anything else a competent investigating officer should ask a witness. He heard the leather boots clump along the corridor and down the steps.
Looking about him, he knew what his boss would do to fill the few minutes. Diamond would inspect the contents of the pram and the rucksack in the far corner, making certain Legat was everything he claimed to be.
Gilbert stepped across and felt the weight of the rucksack. Heavy, for sure. He heard the clank of tins when he moved it. But he lacked the ruthlessness of Peter Diamond. Opening it would be an invasion of privacy he couldn’t justify to himself. Will Legat wasn’t under suspicion. Their exchange of background information was off to a good start. He wanted the man to feel confident with him.
He was about to put the rucksack back when he noticed a black leather pouch on the floor underneath. Several other odd items were scattered in the corner, two six-inch spanners, some lengths of yellow Kevlar tether, a coil of string and a carabiner used by climbers. He opened the pouch. Inside was another mystery, an encased pulley.
The sound of the boots returning was the cue to drop the backpack.
Caesar was first in, sniffing at Gilbert’s trainers, but in no way threatening.
“That’s better,” Legat said. “He’ll get a proper walk on the airfield later. I would offer you tea, but heating the water takes a while to organise.”
“That’s all right.” Gilbert hesitated before saying, “I happened to notice the heap of spanners and things in the corner. Do they belong to you?”
“Not guilty, officer,” came the answer. “All kinds of rubbish gets left in places like this. If you can make use of them, fill your pockets and I’ll look the other way.”
“They look like a workman’s tools.”
“Could be. Could well be.”
“I’m thinking they may have belonged to one of the TV crew.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Legat said with a show of innocence. “What’s there?”
“Spanners, a heavy-duty pulley that I think is called a snatch block, a carabiner used by climbers. They’re things a scaffolder would have with him. The missing man is a rigger. He builds scaffolding.”
“Ah, yes, your missing man,” Legat said. “You were starting to lose me. Are you thinking these objects belonged to him?”
“I spoke to some of his workmates and saw what they had hanging from their belts.”
“You’re making more sense now. If he wanted to quit his job, he’d discard the tools of his trade. They’re such a giveaway, aren’t they?”
Gilbert was sure some evasion was in play. “Would you mind showing me the belt you’re wearing?”
“This?” Legat hitched his thumbs inside the belt and rattled the keys. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It looks like a rigger’s belt.”
“It’s holding up my trousers. What else would I have for keys and things? They weigh a bit. I need something to hang them on.”
“How long have you had it?”
“What do you expect me to produce, a sales receipt?” He sounded like a guilty man.
“Would you unfasten it and let me see?”
“See what, my friend? It’s obvious what it is.”
“I’ve got to insist.”
“Why? What’s this about?”
“It’s about a missing man who may have been a victim of violent crime.”
“No, no, no. That’s out of order. You can’t accuse me of violence. I’m no angel, but I draw the line at injuring anyone.”
“Then you won’t mind handing the belt over for inspection.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’m entitled by law to use reasonable force to search you.”
“You could try. I can’t answer for Caesar if he dislikes what he’s seeing.”
A telling point. Gilbert said, a little lamely, “I can send for reinforcements.”
“You’ll look silly when it turns out that the belt is mine.”
“I don’t suppose anything you’re wearing is owned by you.”
“So? I recycle things other people discard. That’s to be applauded, is it not?”
“I’m not suggesting you stole it,” Gilbert said, to strike a more conciliatory note. “I’d like to get a closer look in case it belonged to the missing man.”
“How can you tell?”
“Well, the heap of items in the corner needs explaining. I’ll get them tested for DNA. But the whole point is that they could have been attached to the belt.”
“If you take it away for testing, what am I going to use to hold up my trousers?”
“What did you have before?”
“String.” Before the word was uttered, Legat clapped his hand to his mouth. It was obvious he’d recently acquired the belt.
Gilbert made a snap decision. “I’ll do a deal with you. You said you were planning to go down to Bath tomorrow. I’ll phone my boss and fix some transport for you. You can travel in style. In return, I’ll need the belt for forensic testing.”
“Transport for me and my dog?”
“Yes.”
“The pram and all my worldly goods?”
“I’ll ask for a van.”
“All right,” Legat said. “Improve the offer and I’ll accept.”
“Improve it? What with?”
“A night in the cells and a fried breakfast.”
6
DIAMOND HAD NEVER seen anything like it. You couldn’t call it a motorhome. This was a two-storey hotel on wheels, twenty of them at least. It was the size of two furniture vans merged into one. How it had been licensed for use on British roads he had no idea. Pink and silver, with more lights mounted on the front than a Rolling Stones concert stage, it screamed swank.
Currently it was parked on private land at Milroy Court, near Trowbridge, the next Swift location.
Beside it, Ingeborg’s Ka looked like a toy. Diamond struggled out and stood shaking his head at opulence on such a scale. He’d told Ingeborg he was looking forward to meeting Sabine San Sebastian because she was one of the few people who had been part of the production from the beginning. Now he was less sure.
“How do we let her know we’re here?” Ingeborg asked. “I can’t see a doorbell.”
“She’ll have spotted us already. Haven’t you noticed the security cameras at each end?”
No one greeted them. The door was halfway along the side of the vehicle, a metre or more above ground level, and there were no steps. Diamond reached up to rap with his knuckles and got no response. He took off a shoe and banged with the leather heel.
A window on their right opened and a face with Asian features looked out. She was clearly not Sabine. “Yes?”
“DS Diamond and Detective Sergeant Smith of Bath Police needing to speak to Miss San Sebastian.”
“Sabine is in gym.”
“Pity about that. Which gym is that, ma’am?”
“Upstairs.”
“Here?” A motorhome with a gym of its own was something else.
“She must finish workout. Legs, calves, abs.”
“We’ll come in and wait.”
“You wait outside.” The window closed.
“Bloody cheek,” Diamond said to Ingeborg. But they didn’t have much choice. The vehicle was a fortress. “Greg Deans told me about the workouts. The company pays for a personal trainer for her. They must have money to burn.”
“I don’t know if you watch the show, guv,” Ingeborg said. “It’s a very active role. She needs to be in shape.”
“Doesn’t do her own stunts, though.”
“I know.”
“What a let-down for her fans,” he said, his mind already made up about this woman. “I’ve never seen anything in the credits about stunt doubles.”
“It’ll be there in the small print.”
“Very small. She’s the star. She states her own terms.” Sensing that his rant had gone far enough, he turned his thoughts to some strategy for the interview. “Everything I hear about Sabine suggests she’s a hard nut to crack. But I was told she’s superstitious and we can play on the jinx thing. It needs to be taken seriously, right?”
Ingeborg raised her thumb.
They waited another twenty minutes before the door of the motorhome slid open and a set of steps unfolded from a hidden section underneath. The minder looked out. “You are police? You have ID?”
Diamond showed his card.
“Sabine say you wait inside while she shower.”
“We can do that.” He mounted the steps.
“Remove shoes.”
When he saw the hand-painted ceramic floor tiles inside, he understood the reason and unlaced. Each tile formed part of a reproduction of an old master painting, a crowded composition of armed Roman soldiers and struggling women against a background of classical architecture.
