It was in the form of a journal. Not so much a diary as an outpouring of arrogance that left no doubt that the writer had committed a series of murders.
To think that by this morning, Pellegrini had been absolved of all guilt-at least, in Diamond’s estimation. That heart-warming touch of fingers at the bedside, linking the two men in their grief as widowers, was now exposed as a cruel con.
The big detective was close to tears. Tears of rage more than regret.
Needing yet more time to collect himself, he finally left the café and moved like a sleepwalker up Manvers Street and across the square to Abbey Churchyard, the place where he’d found consolation before at critical moments of his life. He wasn’t drawn there by religion, but the need for some kind of therapy.
On the west front of the Abbey were carved a number of figures attached to twin stone ladders. The founder from five hundred years ago, Bishop Oliver King, had dreamed of angels ascending to heaven and his vision had been immortalised this way. An assorted host by any criteria, the angels had been sculpted in different centuries, the lowest and most dilapidated in the sixteenth century, the next pair as recently as 1960 and the top ones from 1900. But the replacements were based on the originals. And as sometimes happened in medieval church architecture, a touch of humour had crept in. At odds with the iconography, certain of the angels were clearly descending the ladders head first.
Diamond’s sympathies were wholly with these misfits trying to come down against the flow. How they would pass the aspiring ones just below them was anyone’s guess. Maybe before they bumped heads they would be persuaded to turn and resume the climb. Or would they tell the high-flyers that heaven wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and the only way was down?
The dilemma spoke to his troubled brain in times of personal crisis and never failed to lift his spirits.
Sure, the latest twist in the investigation had wrong-footed him, but he was still clinging to the ladder. He’d find a way to move on. He always did.
Back in the CID office, he didn’t immediately speak to Ingeborg and Keith. Bath’s criminal fraternity provided unending challenges. They stole cars and burgled and dealt drugs every day of the year. Enquiring into serious crimes ought not to be thought of as a displacement activity, but that was how it worked for him today. He had earnest discussions with John Leaman and Paul Gilbert about their caseloads. Another hour passed before he asked his two closest colleagues to step into his office.
“I owe you both an apology,” he said after making sure the door was closed. “You said this morning there was only one possible killer and I disagreed. I doubted if murder had been done at all. How wrong I was.” He slapped down the sheets he’d collected from Alex. “Take a look. This is the decrypted version of the file you found on Pellegrini’s hard disk, Inge. It’s chilling.”
Ingeborg picked up the first page.
Another one goes tonight.
This time I’m ahead of myself so this isn’t a to-do list. Everything is in place, as they say. But being methodical I want something on record to look at when it’s all over. You’re on your own in this game, so any debriefing is with myself.
The only thing left is to make sure I get the timing right. I’m going for 2 a.m. when he’ll be sleeping soundly, guaranteed. Get gloved up, let myself in, do the necessary and get out without leaving any trace. The police have no idea and I’m not doing them any favours.
He’ll rest in peace and so will I, with the difference that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning.
She looked up with eyes that had stared into the abyss.
Halliwell had been sitting close enough to Ingeborg to have read it at the same time. “The calculation behind it. You said it, guv. It’s chilling.”
“How much more is there?” Ingeborg asked.
“Pages and pages,” Diamond told her.
“Why has he written it down?”
“He addresses that later.” He sifted through and handed her another page.
This isn’t a compulsion. I’m not psychotic. I can stop at any time. And when I do, the world won’t be any the wiser, which will be a personal success. I keep this record of my ordered state of mind at every stage so I can look back at each episode and recall exactly why it was necessary to put an end to a life and how I dealt with it. Of course there are glitches sometimes. I think back to the first and cringe at how naïve I was. Fortunately no one noticed except me.
Right now I’m thinking another one may be beckoning, but not in the near future, not before I’ve taken time to make all the arrangements. Good preparation is the key.
“What an ego. Is there any pity at all for his victims?”
“None that I’ve seen.” He reached for the pages and leafed through them. “The nearest he comes to it is this, but it’s hardly pity.” He handed over another sheet.
I was thinking today about the first two. I’m not stony-hearted but I’ve made it a rule never to mention names or dates in these occasional jottings. I’m not going to forget who I helped on their way. If I ever DO forget, it will be time to stop. No, I remember every one, some with more regret than others.
There are times when I wish I could share my experience with someone else, but it can’t happen. If ever I’m feeling isolated, I can glance through these notes and take stock of myself and how I handled matters. It’s not as if I’m lonely. There’s this area of my life that is private, that’s all.
“Bloody hypocrite,” she said, “talking about regret.”
“It’s all about self-congratulation,” Halliwell said. He’d looked higher up the sheet and read aloud:
Today I’m rather pleased with myself. A situation has arisen giving me the chance to insure my secrets against discovery. It’s the conjuror’s trick of misdirection, simple, but effective. The nice thing is that I am uniquely placed to pull this off. I’ve baited the trap and we’ll see if it works. No worry if it doesn’t.
“Do you think he wanted this to be found?” Ingeborg said.
“Not while he was alive,” Diamond said. “It’s meant to be a voice from the grave. If there’s a theme running through all this, it’s the knowledge that he wants recognition for his brilliance and knows he can’t get it in his lifetime.”
“Give me a break,” Ingeborg said.
“But in all his careful planning he didn’t expect to become an accident victim on life support. That undermined him.”
“No, guv,” she said. “He could have had the accident and got away with it. What undermined him was you illegally entering his workshop and finding the printout of the Internet forum on murder.”
He summoned the faintest of smiles. “True, I suppose.”
Ingeborg was already thinking ahead. “When he comes out of the coma, he won’t expect us to know any of this. If we handle it right, we’ll get a proper confession. This stuff is hot, but it doesn’t name any names, unless there’s something I haven’t seen yet.”
“He comes close to it here.” He pointed to another section:
A lot has happened since I last put anything in the diary. How events move on. Memo to myself: must do better in keeping the record updated. If I leave it too late, there’s no point really.
What can I say about the last one? He was an overdue train that needed taking into the terminus (he’d appreciate that). After his wife went, he found life increasingly difficult. He had vague suspicions certain people were taking advantage, but he was in no condition to stop them. I did him a service, ending his journey.
“That’s got to be Max,” Ingeborg said.
“I agree,” he said, “but we still don’t know for sure who all the victims are.”