A couple of constables handcuffed Jones and got him upright.
Diamond put out a hand to help Julie up, and she hesitated. He asked if she was all right, and she said she'd injured an ankle, and hadn't wanted to take any risks, so she hadn't attempted to bring Jones down herself. They'd been lying there for over an hour.
"I don't know how you managed it," Diamond said without thinking that his surprised tone might give offense. "He's a fitness expert."
"I've done my training, same as you or anyone else," Julie said. "I know how to restrain a man."
"A bodybuilder?"
"My instructor said you grab his arm before he grabs yours."
"Did he, indeed!"
"Did she."
"Right," he said in a dazed way. "Right, Julie."
They used Diamond's car to drive back to Manvers Street. Marlowe traveled with them, giving an occasional whimper; he'd spent too long cooped up in the other car.
Julie explained what had happened when she had gone to interview Bert Jones in his office on the first floor. "He didn't seem troubled that I was there-not at first, anyway. I asked him about his movements the previous evening, and he said he'd been working late at the Center on some paperwork, ordering equipment. It sounded reasonable. I asked if anyone else could confirm what time he left, and he said it was after midnight and he'd been alone in the building. He often worked late. He had an arrangement with the security staff to let himself out. Then I asked if he used the computer to order his equipment, and immediately I could tell he didn't like the question. It wasn't unreasonable; the screen was sitting on his desk between us. He came over all aggressive, asking what the hell it mattered whether he'd been using the computer or sitting with his feet on the desk. I tried to explain what I was getting at with my question."
"You'd better explain to me," said Diamond.
"Some computers log the time and date when they're in use. We could have looked it up and seen on the screen that he clocked off at midnight, and that would have provided proof of his statement. Just as good as a witness. He said this computer didn't have a function like that. It was obvious there was something he wanted to hide, so I probed a little more. I asked to see duplicates of the order forms he'd been preparing. He tried to stall me. I insisted it was important. I had him worried, even if I wasn't sure why."
"You were on to him," said Diamond. "I reckon the riddles were printed on the Sports Center equipment. We could have compared the typefaces."
"Well, he certainly took it seriously," said Julie. "He got up and went to the door, saying he had to go somewhere to look for these forms. I was getting suspicious and said I'd go with him. In the corridor outside, he suddenly started running. He bolted up a fire escape to the roof, and I followed. There was one hell of a chase up there, and it ended on the rugby club stand."
"With one of the best tackles all season."
"Maybe," she said with a smile, "but I twisted my ankle doing it, and…"
"The trainer was a long time coming on."
"You said it, Mr. Diamond."
After the ordeal on the roof, Julie was more than entitled to go off duty, but she insisted on being present when Bert Jones was interviewed. There was much that she still wanted to know.
Jones sat with arms folded in the interview room, his facial expression saying "I'll see you in hell first." Diamond impassively went through the preliminaries of a recorded interview. He had seen this kind of posturing so often before from suspects.'
"Let's start with your name. Most people know you as Bert, but it's Gilbert Jones, isn't it?"
A nod.
"You signed up for the Bloodhounds-four years ago, was it? — as Gilbert."
Another nod.
"Why?"
Jones frowned and said sullenly, "Why what?"
"Why Gilbert? Why not Bert?"
No response.
"It's not such a dumb question," Diamond told him. "I want to understand your motive in all this. You're smart. You know enough about people's perceptions to see that the likes of Mrs. Wycherley and Mr. Motion would be more impressed with a Gilbert than a mere Bert. Right?"
"If you say so."
"No. I'm asking you."
Jones hesitated. "All right, some places I'm known as Bert, some Gilbert. That isn't a crime, is it?"
"Right. You work in-what do you call it? — sports administration. Some people think a man who goes around in a tracksuit and trainers all day can't have a serious thought in his head. Just a jock. Just a Bert, anyway. Put on a jacket and tie and call yourself Gilbert, and they'd see you in a different light. The truth is that you're quite an intellectual. You read a lot. James Bond, isn't it?"
Reddening suddenly, Jones thrust a finger across the table at Diamond. "Don't talk down to me."
"That's what I'm saying," Diamond cheerfully pointed out. "You're entitled to respect. You had to get a qualification for the job you do, right?"
"Three years' training and a diploma," said Jones.
"Where did you do it?"
"Loughborough."
"The best-and bloody hard work."
Jones eyed the big detective, uncertain now whether his achievements were being mocked.
Diamond stared back. He was convinced that the source of this man's behavior was a grudge, a deep conviction that the world undervalued him. "Headwork," he stressed. "I don't say there isn't a physical element-of course there is-but there's a damn sight more bookwork and study than any outsider appreciates, right?"
No response except a twitch of the mouth that seemed to signal assent.
"You're an expert on Ian Fleming's work. An authority," Diamond said without a flicker of condescension. "You went along to the Bloodhounds as Gilbert Jones, ready to talk about Fleming, and something went seriously wrong, because you only lasted a couple of weeks. I have a suspicion why. I've met these people, full of self-importance. Something was said about you, or your background, or the books you read, that turned you right off the Bloodhounds and left you feeling bitter. It doesn't matter what."
Jones was spurred into saying, "It matters to me."
"What was it, then? What did they say?"
His face creased at the mention of it. This was an open wound. And it was still hurting. "They called them blood-and-thunder thrillers. Ignorant bastards. They as good as told me I was wasting my time and theirs by talking about them. What do they know about it? Far better people than them appreciate Fleming-President Kennedy, Kingsley Amis. I still shake when I think about it. Those books changed the face of the spy story. The research was terrific. The attention to detail. Just because something is a worldwide success, it doesn't mean it's pulp. Agatha Christie sells in millions, but the Bloodhounds were willing to talk about her."
"Was that really what this was about-Fleming's reputation?" Diamond asked. "Or was it yours that was being rubbished?"
A muscle twitched in Jones's neck. "They knew nothing about me. I didn't tell them what my job is."
"It was even more of a slapdown, then. They judged you personally, by your voice, your manner…"
"It wasn't a slapdown. They chose to ignore me once they knew I admired Fleming and no one else."
"So you quit after three weeks?"
"Should have quit after one."
"And then forgot the whole thing until an opportunity came to get revenge?"
Jones wouldn't accept that. "No. I didn't forget."
Of course he hadn't forgotten. The wound had festered for years. "Then you met Shirley-Ann Miller, who moved in with you. Like you, she's a reader of crime stories."
"She reads everything."
"So you had James Bond in common. She decided to join the Bloodhounds."
"Off her own bat," Jones was keen to make clear. "I didn't put her up to it."
"You didn't?" Diamond glanced at Julie; the lie hadn't escaped her. Shirley-Ann had told them herself that Bert brought home a brochure from the Leisure Center and pointed out the existence of the Bloodhounds, knowing how much she enjoyed detective stories. It was a side issue, and Diamond chose not to pursue it. Even if Shirley-Ann had been used, she wasn't an accessory in these crimes.