‘You’re invited to the Hop Pole after the service,’ a man who seemed to be family told the police group. ‘It’s on the Upper Bristol Road, quite close to the house.’
‘We know it, thanks,’ Diamond said. In some ways, he thought, a couple of strong drinks before a funeral wouldn’t come amiss. This would be the first he’d attended since Steph had died. He’d felt numb that day. The main service had been in the Abbey, a large affair with almost four hundred in attendance. The close family had been driven here for the committal.
This would not be easy to get through.
The hearse glided through the cemetery towards the entrance followed by a red Fiat Panda. Everyone stood respectfully while the undertaker and his team attended to the coffin. Emma emerged from the Panda in a black trouser suit with a blue shirt. She’d been driven by Betty, the neighbour Diamond had met on his second visit to the house. Actually, Betty looked more like the principal mourner, in a long fur-trimmed coat, black tights and a hat large enough for everyone to shelter under if it rained. They followed the coffin into the chapel.
Apparently Harry had not been religious. The last rites were overseen by a dapper little man Diamond recognised and couldn’t place who admitted in his opening remarks that he’d never met ‘our much lamented friend,’ which sounded like a contradiction in terms. On hearing the voice Diamond remembered arresting the man the previous summer for selling fake Rolex watches outside the Roman Baths. It seemed he had a second career officiating at non-religious committals.
Someone had prepared a short account of Harry’s life that the watch salesman read out in a suitably uplifting voice. He reminded the mourners that Harry had met the love of his life, Emma, while they were both serving in the police. There was a lot about the selfless dedication of the force that was gratifying to hear. Better still from Diamond’s point of view, the tribute went on to say how much Harry had enjoyed his fishing. Surely some of those present would make the connection when the music started.
At the front with her large-hatted neighbour, Emma controlled her emotions. She wasn’t the sort to break down and weep. Hands clasped in front of her, she gazed steadily ahead.
‘And now we have a few moments for quiet reflection on Harry’s life before we take leave of him.’ In a lapse of decorum, the salesman turned his arm to glance at his watch.
The genuine article? You bet it is, Diamond thought.
He couldn’t help noticing that the salesman had a CD in his other hand. Had he forgotten to hand it to whoever managed the music? He could see the man’s eyes widen as he sensed his mistake. In the nick of time he stepped to one side and passed the disk to the undertaker.
After a silence that threatened to go on too long, the curtains started to close around the coffin and the first chords of music filled the chapel.
But the tune didn’t sound right.
‘Lazy bones,’ came Satchmo’s voice.
They’d got the wrong track.
Heads turned. People shifted awkwardly in the pews. The music stopped and the curtains went into reverse.
Finally, ‘Gone Fishing’ took over.
Keeping watch on Emma’s house was more of a challenge than Keith Halliwell had anticipated. The small terrace stood at a right angle to the Upper Bristol Road and the only approach was a narrow passage along the front with a six-foot wall along the left side. Anyone standing there would be as obvious as a bull on a bowling green. The unmarked police car had slotted into a space across the road, but the view from there was side-on.
‘Better split up and keep radio contact,’ he told the other two. ‘I suggest you take the far end of the terrace, Inge. As for you, Paul, find a vantage point somewhere on the gasworks side, at the back.’
‘Do we have any idea who to expect?’ Paul Gilbert said.
Ingeborg rolled her eyes. ‘If you don’t, I do. Why do you think you and I were chosen for this?’
Paul stayed silent, not caring to reveal his ignorance.
‘Be ready for anyone,’ Halliwell said. ‘Soon as they show up and seem interested in the place, we radio each other.’
‘Do we let them break in?’
He nodded. ‘Grab them in the act.’
‘I thought the first duty of a police officer is to prevent crime taking place,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Not this time, kiddo.’
They split up.
Halliwell looked at his watch. Down at Haycombe, the funeral would be under way. He preferred doing this.
A blur of heavy vehicles moved past the window, some of them rocking the car. As one of the main arteries into Bath, this was not the ideal residential area. There was an army recruitment place and a fitness centre, the Hop Pole pub and an Argos with its own car park. Further along on the north side was Victoria Park, with its play area, but a line of tall conifers behind wire fencing blocked out the light where the car was parked.
Halliwell guessed anyone planning a break-in was likely to approach the terrace from the south, using Midland Road. He made sure his radio was switched on. He’d give the others a few more minutes to take up positions before getting in contact.
Two joggers approached from the Bath direction and passed the terrace without a sideways glance.
Halliwell spoke into the phone. ‘All set?’
‘I’m in place,’ Ingeborg answered.
‘Me, too,’ Paul said.
‘Anyone suspicious, sing out.’
The radio went quiet again. More HGVs thundered past. Halliwell wished he could have had a pound for each minute he’d spent on police duty waiting for something to happen. He’d buy an Aston Martin on the proceeds.
His phone beeped.
‘Yes?’
‘How’s it going?’ Diamond, straight to it, as always.
‘Nothing happened yet, guv. How’s it with you?’
‘Funeral’s over. We’re outside looking at the flowers right now. Then we move off to the Hop Pole.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘It’s tough at the top. Stay sharp and be gentle.’
Confused by the last remark, Halliwell pocketed the phone and heard what he took to be another lorry coming close, but it wasn’t. This was a motorcycle, a powerful machine, coming to a stop in a space a couple of parked cars away. The rider, in black leathers and dark helmet, lowered the kickstand, swung his leg over and pulled up the visor to check the road. Then he crossed, heading straight for Onega Terrace.
‘Stand by,’ Halliwell said into his radio. ‘Guy on a motorbike just arrived. Heading your way on foot.’
In all that gear, the figure could have been anyone of average height and build. Definitely male, Halliwell decided. He watched the approach to the access path, saw the motorcyclist stop in front of Emma’s house. The gardens were so short that there was not much chance of privacy for the residents. It was easy to see the interiors through the bay windows unless there were blinds or curtains in place. Equally, anyone inside would notice a visitor approaching.
Sometimes you get a feeling whether a house is inhabited or not. It’s an instinct cultivated by door-to-door salesmen and burglars. The motorcyclist, whatever his purpose, seemed to have made up his mind. He didn’t break in. He didn’t need to. He lifted the doormat, looked underneath and picked something up.
‘Give me strength, you couldn’t make it up,’ Halliwell said to himself as the visitor put the key in the door and gained entry. ‘Why are people so bloody obvious? A police family, too.’
The others had to be informed, and fast. He said into the radio, ‘She keeps a spare key under the mat. He’s found it and gone inside.’
‘What do we do now?’ Ingeborg asked. ‘Is that technically a break-in?’
Technically, it wasn’t. In theory the intruder could be there by invitation, a friend or family member, but there wasn’t time to analyse the situation. ‘We close off the exits at front and back. Get as near as you can without being obvious and stop him when he comes out.’ Halliwell left the car and crossed the road. He would cover the obvious escape route, the end of the access path. Ingeborg would be at the far end and Paul would take the back door.