Few of Garth’s ritzy customers knew what Diamond knew: that the watercress man had once been a guest of Her Majesty and had drawn up his business plan in Erlestoke Prison while doing time for armed robbery. All credit to him for turning his life around. And even more for remaining loyal. Since going straight he had stayed in touch with his former associates.
Diamond caught Garth’s eye over the head of a little old lady buying soup. There was a swift glance left and right to see if any other police were about. The customer said something about the scarcity of watercress soup in all the other shops and then it was Diamond’s turn.
“Good to see you doing so well, Garth.”
“It’s ticking over, Mr. D.” For brand identity, the watercress man dressed entirely in green, which happened to be no different from his last prison uniform. “What will you have today?”
“I might sample the ice cream, but I’d also like some help.”
“Have you ever tried it?”
“Your help?”
“The ice cream. You’ll like it.”
“No, that’s new to me. How much?”
“A small tub? To you, one fifty.”
“I’ll take one. And a small tub of help.”
“That’ll cost you more, depending what you want.”
“I want to find Larry Lincoln.”
Garth’s face creased as if he’d been struck. “You surprise me.”
“Why?”
“No one goes looking for Larry. He comes looking for them.”
“Where does he hang out these days?”
Garth indulged in some displacement activity, rearranging the day lotions and face cleansers.
“Larry Lincoln,” Diamond said, to get his attention again.
“Keep your voice down, Mr. D. You never know who might be listening.”
“Would you rather I talked about liver fluke disease and how you get it?”
“Oh Christ.” Garth slid aside the glass lid of his small fridge and took out a tub. “All of mine is cultivated cress, guaranteed clean, not wild. He’s not in trouble, is he? I wouldn’t want him to get the idea I shopped him.”
“It’s a routine enquiry.”
“Like you always say.”
“The main man is someone else,” Diamond said. “Larry is just a bit player. I wouldn’t worry if I were you, but this may ease your mind.” He placed two twenty-pound notes on the counter.
Garth eyed them as if they were liver fluke worms invading his stall.
“And here’s another to pay for the ice cream.”
Garth took it and picked up the others. “If I were you, I’d go for a drink in the Shot Fox about eleven.”
Diamond nodded his thanks. “Do you by any chance have a plastic spoon to go with this?”
He took it to one of the benches in Kingsmead Square and decided he’d made a mistake. The soup would have been a better choice on this raw April morning. The bench was metal and was rapidly lowering his body temperature before he even started on the ice cream. He took out his mobile and pressed a number.
“Me.”
Keith Halliwell’s voice said, “I know it’s you, guv. You came up on the display.”
“Is this a good moment?”
“Good as any. I’m between houses.”
“Anything to report?”
“It’s freezing here.”
“I know that.”
“Some of the neighbours spoke to her occasionally, called her Jess or Jessie without finding out her full name. She’d been there over a year. She was just the latest in a long line of housekeepers. They didn’t last long, most of them. The situation wasn’t what they were used to, being so isolated, and Cyril was always on the scrounge. They liked him at first but it wore off when he asked for money; I suppose to fund his betting. He wasn’t their paymaster, you see. Their wage was paid by the trust.”
“Have you been to the cottage?”
“I had a look through the windows. It’s empty now. Hilary must have finished. There are signs of a bonfire in the garden, just ashes.”
“Not human, I hope.”
The Shot Fox was a shabby pub in a side street off the Upper Bristol Road, near the river. Diamond had last been in there when it was called something else. To his knowledge it had changed names twice since then. The new identity might not last long. The board outside, with its image of a dead fox hanging from a wire by its rear legs, wasn’t much of an invitation to go in.
Diamond thought at first he was the only living soul inside. He stood for some minutes before a youthful barman rose by stages behind the bar: head, shoulders, then full torso.
“Sorry, mate. I was down the cellar changing a keg. What’ll you have?”
“Actually I’m working.” He showed his warrant card. “Does Larry Lincoln come in at all these days?”
The barman tensed at the name and then said, “I wouldn’t know.”
“You mean you know but you wouldn’t care to say.”
“I do three days a week, that’s all.”
“I wasn’t asking about your employment, but as you’ve brought it up I hope you’re fully taxed and insured. What’s your name?”
“Steve. I don’t know every customer that comes in, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You said a lot more with your body language when I spoke Larry’s name. It’s obvious you know who he is, so stop wriggling and give me a straight answer. He drinks here lunchtimes, right?”
“Not every day,” Steve-if that was his real name-said.
Diamond pulled out a stool and perched on it. “I’ll wait for him. What bitters do you have? Draw me a half of Directors. And then I’ll be watching you, just so you aren’t tempted to use a phone.”
The trail had better not go cold here. Cyril Hardstaff had become central to the crimes under investigation and if he was really being pursued by Larry Lincoln, his situation had been desperate enough to fuel a major crime.
Steve the barman had filled the glass and taken the money and was a picture of unease, biting his thumbnail. When someone else came in, he twitched like a horse under attack from flies.
The newcomer wasn’t Lincoln. He didn’t buy a drink or say anything. He was carrying a metal case the size and shape of a rifle. Without as much as a glance, he crossed the bar, opened a door and was heard mounting a staircase.
“What’s upstairs?” Diamond asked.
“Function room,” Steve said.
“Has someone booked it?”
“Dunno.”
“Yes, you do. Is that where Larry is?”
Steve didn’t answer. Voices were already coming from the room above.
Diamond moved at speed towards the stairs and mounted them. Two men were inside. The one who had just arrived had removed his leather jacket and revealed forearms so tattooed that they looked like sleeves. He had opened his case and taken a polished wooden shaft from it. The other was bending over a snooker table, practising shots.
Diamond said, “Larry?”
Without straightening up, the man at the table said, “If you need to ask, you shouldn’t be here. This is a private room.”
“Turn round, Larry. You’re helping the police.”
“Fuck that,” Larry said, but he did make a slow turn to face Diamond and scrutinise him through eyes that had less expression than the cue ball. “I know your face. CID, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“You got nothing on me. I’m clean.”
“It’s not about you,” Diamond said.
Larry turned to the tattooed man. “Why don’t you get yourself a sandwich, Jules? We won’t be long.”
Jules left the room to do as he was told.
Diamond said, “I’m interested in an elderly man called Cyril Hardstaff.”
“What of him?”
“He got into difficulties. Owed a lot of money.”