Then he spoke to someone who put yet another doubt in his head. “The person you’re looking for may not have gone through an agency. She could have been freelance.”
He stepped into Diamond’s office.
“Guv, I’m wondering if there’s an easier way.”
“What’s that?”
“Going back to the village and knocking on doors.”
“You’re serious?”
“All the hours I’ve spent on this already, I could have driven to Little Langford and back several times over. Cyril was an outgoing guy. The locals must have known him and they probably knew Jessie as well.”
Diamond saw the sense in what his deputy was saying. He, too, doubted whether it was worth spreading the net any wider. Local knowledge might be the key. “You’ll be on your own, I’m afraid. When will you go-tomorrow morning?”
“That’s my plan.”
“Right. Get the local map on your screen,” he said, to demonstrate his computer know-how. “I’ll show you where the cottage is.”
Halliwell grinned. “No need. I can use the satnav.”
“Okay-be like that.”
“If I see Cyril’s niece Hilary is it any use asking her?”
Diamond shook his head. “She’s not local and she doesn’t know Jessie’s surname. Talk to her by all means, but take my advice and don’t offer to move the furniture.”
That evening, Paloma came to the house and gave him a back massage.
“You may need to see a chiropractor,” she said.
“I don’t hold with that sort of thing.”
“You don’t have to do the holding. They hold you. It’s your spine that’s hurting, isn’t it? That’s their speciality. What I’m doing is superficial. It has no lasting effect.”
“Wrong. I’m feeling better by the second.”
“Until you try and sit up. What have you got against chiropractors? Don’t tell me you’d rather suffer than get help.”
“The body cures itself eventually.”
“Why ask me for a massage, then?”
“That’s different. You take away all the stresses of the day. Magic hands. Shall I turn over now?”
“I’m working on your lower back. If you’re looking for some other kind of massage, go to someone else and pay for it.” Her tone softened. “Are you really under stress?”
“Remember the Fortuny gown?”
“How could I forget? That’s my idea of magic. Have you solved the mystery yet?”
“I thought I had.”
“But something isn’t right? Hence the stress?”
“You’ve got it. I’m struggling. Most of my theories are falling apart. I realise I’ve done too much theorising and not enough solid detective work. But it’s like no case I’ve ever worked on. For one thing it’s unofficial. Keith and Ingeborg are helping, but no one else knows what’s going on. And the main suspect is on life support and there’s a shortage of witnesses.”
“Can’t you make it official?”
“Georgina would go spare. The Independent Police Complaints Commission are with us trying to work out whether Pellegrini-he’s my suspect-was injured through a driver error or some other mistake on our part. He’s painted as the victim, you see.”
“If he’s as badly injured as you say, he is a victim.”
“Yes and deserving of all our sympathy-which makes me a right shit for even thinking he’s a killer.”
“I wouldn’t call you that.”
“Plenty of others would. I can’t possibly go public.”
“I can see the difficulty. And you say there are problems with your original theory?”
“Large holes.”
“Do you want to tell me-strictly in confidence?”
He hesitated. He’d often discussed cases with his late wife, Steph, and she’d sometimes pointed him in a fresh direction that made all the difference. By mutual consent, his relationship with Paloma was not so close, leaving space for them to lead independent lives. It came down to trust. She’d already helped with her expert advice about the Fortuny gowns. She’d said “strictly in confidence”-volunteered it-and he believed she meant it.
“It would help to go back to what I know for sure. Thanks to you, I know where the three gowns came from.”
“The house in Cavendish Crescent?”
“Right. And of course I know where they ended up.”
“In your suspect’s workshop? You told me that much.”
“Did I tell you what else I found in that workshop?”
“More garments?” Her fingertips pressed into his flesh at the thought.
“A printout from some online forum on the subject of murder methods.” He felt her interest lessen. “All sorts of so-called clever ways of committing the perfect murder. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but people around him were dying, too many to be normal. On the face of it they were natural deaths, none of them queried by the coroner. Four elderly men he knew because they shared his interest in railways, his own wife and the wife of one of the others-who originally owned the Fortuny gowns. And since then, I’ve learned of yet another. This was a man who used to visit Cavendish Crescent to play Scrabble. That’s seven in a little over two years.”
“That’s a lot, I agree.”
“Too many. But the death certificates tell a different story. One dies of flu, another of an aneurysm, pneumonia, narrowing of the arteries, one has a fall. There’s no pattern. Finding this out has rocked my confidence. Some of them may be innocent deaths. All of them, even. They’re all old people anyway.”
“You’re not convinced?”
“He’s an engineer by training, a clever man. Has he worked out his own way of fooling everyone?”
“Why? Why would he want to kill all these people?”
“I’ve thought long and hard about motive. The theft of the gowns suggests murder for gain, but what did he plan to do with the gowns? Sell them on? I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I,” Paloma said. “They’re works of art, like a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh. Put them on sale and keenos like me will want to know their provenance.”
“Just what I’m thinking. Anyway, he’s not short of money. I suspect they’re trophies, proof of his success. He gets his kicks from killing in some brilliant way he thinks is undetectable. When each death is registered as different from any of the others he’s not going to get found out.”
“What about the doctors?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The doctors named on the death certificates. Is one medic signing them all, by any chance?”
“Good thinking,” he said. “But no, each one is different.”
Paloma was using some kind of oil. She poured more into the palm of her hand. “If this is killing for the sense of achievement, I don’t understand why he takes the risk of stealing things as well. That’s not smart.”
“He’s a collector. I don’t know if I told you his workshop is filled with bits of railway junk that he’s acquired over the years. That’s his hobby-although I’d call it a compulsion really.”
“And you think he’s collecting murders?”
“Possibly. And for each successful killing he keeps a trophy of some kind. It started with cremation urns. He has three of them lined up on a shelf. They’re decorated with pictures of steam engines and the names of the victims.”
“It sounds more like a shrine than a trophy shelf. How did he acquire the pots?”
“I’m not telling it right. His railway club had an arrangement that when each one died his ashes would be scattered somewhere along the track. My suspect took on the job and that’s how he finished up with the empty pots.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean he murdered them, does it?”
“You’re right,” he said. “Keith Halliwell agrees with you. I’ve got doubts myself since we discovered they were signed off as dying naturally and from all these different causes. Have I constructed a murder theory out of nothing? But there’s another twist.”