‘Meanwhile some squatters found their way in and occupied it.’
‘They would.’
‘Finally a demolition order was made by the council and here we are.’
‘But a ten-foot fence makes me suspicious. There’s more to this than demolition.’
‘Someone must have paid for the perimeter fence.’
‘That’s what I’m saying. Anywhere in Bath is a prime site. Mark my words, Keith — some sharp dealing has been done here.’
‘Speculators?’
‘They like to call themselves developers. And nobody thought to tell the guy in the attic.’
Halliwell had worked with Diamond long enough to treat his deadpan remarks as serious conversation. ‘No one knew he was there. It’s not a proper attic room from what I can see. I’d call it a loft.’
The cherry picker trundled in soon after and took up a position in front of the gaping building. Dr. Higgins in his hard hat stepped into the basket as if he was about to lift off from Cape Canaveral, pressed the right buttons on the control panel and was hydraulically raised to the level of what remained of the roof.
‘Get your stethoscope out, doc,’ Diamond shouted up. ‘We’re all watching.’
There was no response from above, but the diagnosis didn’t take long.
Only after the machine was lowered did Higgins say, ‘There was no call for sarcasm, Peter. It could have been a plastic skeleton put there by students. Didn’t that cross your mind?’
‘Actually, no. Are you satisfied he’s real?’
‘I am now. Real — and well and truly dead.’
‘Job done, then,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ll go up and introduce myself. How does this thing work?’
‘Haven’t you used one before? You’ll need the hard hat.’
‘I’m not going to fall out of the bloody basket.’
‘Health and safety. I’m a doctor, remember.’
‘Ridiculous.’
With so many witnesses, Diamond was forced reluctantly to comply. Being stubborn, he borrowed a white Avon and Somerset helmet from a police motorcyclist and wore it with the visor up and the straps hanging loose.
The advisability of protective headgear was proved at once. His efforts at the controls were cack-handed. There were smiles all round when the basket made a jerky ascent.
He didn’t learn much from his first close look at the skeleton. The figure was well coated in every sense. No doubt it had gathered dust from centuries in the loft, and the latest covering of powdered mortar had spread over that wherever it could settle. Only in a few places did the fabric of the eighteenth-century clothes show through. The skull with its lopsided black wig was at a weird angle, supported by the left shoulder. It was toothless.
As for the chair, it could have been from any period, with sturdy wooden legs, high upholstered back and armrests. There didn’t seem to be any other furniture about, but not much of the loft space was visible. Broken tiles were scattered across the floor.
How does a thing like this happen? Diamond asked himself. ‘I’m just going up into the loft, dear, and I may be some time.’ Heart attack, stroke, overdose? The poor guy had found some privacy here, for sure, but why hadn’t anyone gone looking for him? A missing person must have caused some concern, even a century or more before the police were created.
The big detective gripped the crossbar and leaned as far forward as he dared for a better view. Too far forward.
To his alarm he lost balance and felt himself tipping. His face came within inches of the skull. Only by flexing his legs and hanging on to the bar did he avoid a catastrophic nosedive.
In the middle of this undignified manoeuvre, something flashed.
‘Sonofabitch.’ He knew what it was. Should have expected it. ‘Keith, grab that camera.’
A great picture for the papers, him in his police helmet leaning out of the cherry picker like Narcissus face to face with his reflection, except it was the skeleton. Muttering obscenities, he fiddled with the controls until one swung the boom left and another jerked him savagely to terra firma.
Halliwell had gone in pursuit of the press photographer, but with little chance of success. The age gap was probably twenty years. Presently he returned, panting and apologetic. ‘None of us spotted him on the site, guv. We were all watching you.’
This investigation was off to a bad start.
Little else could be done that afternoon. They ordered scaffolding for the front of the building, but the crew couldn’t start for at least an hour and then it wouldn’t be simple. A platform for access would have to be constructed and a waterproof canopy rigged over the top.
‘This is going to eat into our budget,’ Diamond complained to Halliwell. ‘It’s already a major operation and it isn’t even a crime scene.’
‘It could be.’
‘If it is, it’s a cold case and they don’t come colder than this.’
2
Peter Diamond’s picture was in close-up in every newspaper next morning, his startled face under the police helmet near enough to kiss the skull. The caption-writers had excelled themselves:
And some of the reporting was just as barbed. ‘Veteran detective Peter Diamond...’ Veteran — an insult to a man still in his prime. ‘...commandeered a cherry picker yesterday to interview a suspicious character lurking in the loft of a half-demolished building in Bath and was surprised to find himself face to face with someone older than himself, a complete skeleton in frock coat and breeches seated in an armchair. It is believed from the style of clothes that the unfortunate victim must have been hidden there for up to three hundred years. Because of the dangerous state of the building it was not possible yesterday to remove the skeleton from the loft. “We have no idea of his identity,” a police spokesman said, “and we are unable to speculate on possible causes of death. Detective Superintendent Diamond will issue a statement in due course.”’
Police spokesman, indeed. Total bollocks. No one from the press had come near the police after the snatched photograph.
Social media had gone viral on the story. The picture was all over Facebook and every other interactive site. Something about Diamond’s expression, the staring, drop-jawed alarm in the pudgy, helmeted face, made it a classic.
In his latest workplace, the new CID office in Concorde House, an undistinguished block in Emersons Green on the edge of Bristol, the man himself was under siege. Calls were coming in from press people across the world wanting follow-up interviews. Officially he was unavailable for comment, in meetings all day, dealing with matters of much more importance. In reality he was with Georgina Dallymore, the assistant chief constable, talking about damage limitation.
‘Couldn’t you have sent up someone else in the cherry picker?’ Georgina asked.
‘What difference would that have made? The press would still have got their picture. I can’t understand what the fuss is about.’
‘It’s you, Peter. Your face.’
‘What’s so special about my face? I’m not one of these celebrities they’re always banging on about. The public don’t know who I am.’
‘They do now.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Everyone else does. That’s the point. It’s comical. You’re pop-eyed, like some kid on a rollercoaster.’
‘I was pop-eyed with panic because I nearly fell out of the basket. I barely managed to save myself. None of the papers mention that.’
‘Just as well. It wouldn’t make it any less amusing.’