A Death in Diamonds

Darbishire mentally consulted his notes. The current tenants were academics of some sort, who had been pleasant but largely unhelpful as witnesses. According to their statements at the time, they saw nothing of the goings-on at number 44, but one of them claimed to have heard a motorbike roaring away in the distance after the so-called gunshot, which enhanced the theory of a backfire.

Darbishire knocked on their door, but nobody answered.

He had arrived at Cresswell Place with one set of questions and found himself going away with a completely different set. What was wrong with William Pinder, if anything? Who, or what, were the Gregsons, and why were they prepared to live in a dangerously damp house while they pretended to look after a non-existent baby? Had he been worrying about the wrong witnesses anyway? Who, underneath it all, were the ‘bastards’ at number 22?

What had Gina Fonteyn and Dino Perez got themselves into?

Chapter 13

The following day, as soon as it could be arranged, Darbishire was back at Cresswell Place armed with warrants, several burly constables and a ram to break down doors if necessary.

It was necessary, because neither door at numbers 22 and 23 was answered. Both houses turned out to be deserted. Inside, number 23 smelled powerfully of drains and mould. It had officially sat empty since the Hallidays left a month ago, exactly as Mrs Pinder suggested. Number 22, by contrast, was unnaturally neat and tidy. Its paperwork was superficially in order, but the department at King’s College where the academics who rented it supposedly worked had never heard of them, and they had somehow managed to live in the place for several weeks without leaving a single fingerprint.

There was one minor consolation: Mrs Pinder was reluctantly persuaded to let them into her home at number 42. The team did a thorough search, but found no evidence of a gun having been discharged. Nor was there any sign that any of the slightly shabby walls had recently been redecorated. Darbishire took the opportunity to venture out into the yard at the back, whereupon a dog in the yard of number 41 instantly set up a cannonade of furious barking. The same dog, as the saying went, who had curiously done nothing in the night-time. Darbishire made a mental note.

Sergeant Woolgar was highly impressed with this turn of events, which only showed how much he knew. Young Chief Inspector Venables, on the other hand – now happily reinstalled behind his desk – gave Darbishire a chuckle and an ironic salute.

‘I hear the mews was a busted flush. Commiserations, George. Drink later?’

After work, the two men left the station at Lucan Place, and headed for a pub near Cadogan Square that Venables claimed to favour. It was a strange little interlude. The star of Kensington and Chelsea was perfectly friendly, but after five minutes on the subject of his recent absence, Darbishire still couldn’t really tell whether to commiserate with him on needing to take a walking trip for health reasons, or congratulate him on a nice little holiday.

He had assumed Venables wanted to tease him about his ‘busted flush’ this morning, but instead, the chief inspector chatted about Fulham’s recent track record in the Second Division and his concerns about the effect of rock and roll on the youth of today, especially young women.

‘I’ve been looking at footage of Elvis Presley. The bobby-soxers lose their minds, you know. They’ve even been known to . . .’ he lowered his voice ‘. . . lose control of their bladders. God help us all when he comes to Britain.’

Darbishire’s girls were four and seven, so he wasn’t unduly worried. He found the new music foot-tapping enough, but he preferred the big band sound for dancing. Still, he was making a mental note to look out for footage of one of those concerts when Venables put down his empty pint glass, stood up and said he needed to be somewhere. It was hardly worth coming this far for that odd, disjointed chat. They said goodbye outside the pub and Darbishire headed west, for home, thinking of his sweet little girls.

Perhaps it was because he wasn’t paying proper attention that the sudden hand on his shoulder came as such a shock. He turned round, tensed for a fight. None came, but the hand remained firm and exerted a lot of pressure considering the diminutive size of the man applying it.

Darbishire’s new companion looked determinedly ordinary. A pale face under a brown trilby, a standard mackintosh, soft-soled brown shoes. He swung Darbishire around, heading south.

‘Let’s keep moving, old man. Easier that way.’