‘He wasn’t suicidal, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You’re withholding information, sir. You may think it has no bearing, but I need to hear it.’
Conybeare gave an impatient sigh. ‘If you must know, we had words about the sermon I’d heard, a theological matter, so you see it’s of no interest to you at all.’
‘The miracle of a man raised from the dead?’
‘Yes, I told you. Now can we move on?’
‘What was the issue?’
‘Really, this is too much.’
Diamond was firm with him. ‘It’s not enough.’
Another sigh. ‘If you must know, it was our old debate about magic. Joe said there was sure to have been a rational explanation for Our Lord bringing the man back to life — the usual thing one gets from disbelievers about people being pronounced dead and then resuscitated. I begged to differ, as I was bound to. I said this was only one of a number of miracles and I accepted it as fact, just as I accepted the feeding of the five thousand. He said as an amateur conjurer I ought to know a clever illusionist can do almost anything. He’d seen a man on television make the Statue of Liberty disappear. I insisted there was a difference between magic and miracles and he got very angry.’
‘He got angry? I would have thought you had more right to be angry.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘I was, to be truthful.’
‘He was winding you up.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. The concept of miracles unsettled him. He liked to believe everything had a rational explanation.’
‘It sounds as if he was irrational, letting it get to him.’
‘Sometimes it seemed like that. He told me — not for the first time — how much he disapproved of my hobby. He referred to it as conjuring, not magic, as I do. It was almost as if the word magic was too upsetting to speak aloud. I knew it was a sensitive point. I’m sorry our last conversation turned out the way it did.’
‘Was there anything else on his mind, do you suppose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, maybe he was under threat.’
‘From whoever shot him? I hadn’t thought of that. All I can say is that he didn’t seem himself at all.’
‘Did you part as friends?’
Conybeare sighed. ‘With less grace than I would have wished. I could tell he was troubled and I thought it was my fault. I thanked him for the lift and that was the last I ever saw of him.’
‘You said you knew several of the people he worked for. Were there any who treated him shabbily?’
‘If there were, he would never have told me. He was discreet.’
‘Any with a reputation for violence?’
‘You’re clutching at straws now, aren’t you? I don’t deal in tittle-tattle any more than Joe did, never have.’
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘No, I can’t think of anyone who would have wished him harm.’
This was getting nowhere. A different approach was wanted. ‘Put yourself in my position,’ Diamond said. ‘Here was a good man who apparently worked hard and gave no offence to anyone, yet was murdered and his killer was never found.’
‘I understood a man was put on trial,’ Conybeare said.
‘Convicted as an accessory after the fact. He isn’t thought to have committed the murder. The killer may still be living here as one of your neighbours.’
‘Oh, I very much doubt it. People here are convinced it was an outsider, a professional criminal, some armed robber who was challenged by Joe at one of the large properties where he worked. It would have been typical of Joe to face up to an armed man. His sense of justice quite outweighed the caution most of us would exercise in such a situation. The robber shot him and drove off with his body to cover up the crime. We don’t lose any sleep thinking we’re going to be murdered by one of our own.’
19
After the trip to Slindon, Diamond decided to visit Hen. Her black mood when he’d phoned the previous evening had been all too apparent. His efforts to shake her out of it hadn’t made any difference. A face to face meeting — without Georgina looking on — might get a better result.
Up there on the third floor of her apartment block, he was surprised to find the morning’s mail sticking out of the letterbox. He rang the bell and got no answer. Shame, he thought, but maybe it’s a good sign if she’s gone out.
Then he noticed some freshly splintered wood close to the latch. The door had been forced. At a push it swung open.
A chill spread through him.
Inside the small flat, he called her name.
Nobody answered.
The curtains were still drawn in the living room. There was no obvious sign of a burglary. His heart pounding, he stepped to a door at the end and crossed a small passage to the bedroom.
Drawn curtains again. He reached for the light switch.
Hen wasn’t there. The duvet was half off the bed. On the bedside cupboard were an empty bottle of vodka, a glass tumbler and a used blister pack that had contained prescription capsules. He snatched it up.
Temazepam.
‘Hen, what have you done?’ he said aloud. ‘Crazy.’
On his way out he was met by a woman with shopping bags.
She said, ‘Did you want Hen? I live next door.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was taken off in an ambulance in the middle of the night. They had to break in. It woke us all up. She’s been awfully down, poor darling. I think she lost her job.’
‘Where will they have taken her?’
‘St Richard’s. That’s the nearest.’
‘Is that Chichester?’
‘It’s the main hospital. Off Spitalfields Lane.’
‘I’ll find it.’
He’d sent the police driver on his way, but he stopped a taxi in the Hornet and was at A&E reception inside ten minutes.
His ID didn’t get him any favours. The receptionist confirmed that Hen had been brought in as an emergency during the night and he was told to wait with all the others.
Things have to be serious when the medics bar the police from going in.
With his own blood pressure rising to dangerous levels, he took his place in a crowded seating area among people in various states of unease and distress. A half hour soon passed. At one point his phone went and he got disapproving looks. He went outside with it and saw that the call was from Georgina. He wasn’t ready to talk to his supremo about what Hen may or may not have done, so he switched off and returned to the waiting area.
He’d never understood why people topped themselves. Even in his darkest crisis after Steph’s death, he’d not contemplated that way out. But you can’t get inside people’s minds. Depression is an illness. It’s futile to judge.
A new face was now behind the reception desk, so he had another try at explaining why he was there. He was told firmly to return to his seat. Twenty more palm-sweating minutes went by before his name was called.
‘Are you Henrietta Mallin’s partner?’
‘Partner? No. I don’t think she has a partner.’
‘Next of kin?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you here?’
Fair question, but he took it as an attack and snapped back, ‘I keep telling you people. She’s a police officer and so am I.’ He brandished his ID again. ‘I’m also a friend. I know her personally, is that good enough?’
She held up a finger. ‘We’re all under pressure here, sir. Let’s not give way to it. Henrietta has been admitted. She’s had some treatment and she’s no longer critical, but she needs time here to recover. She’s waiting for a bed now. You can go through and see her if you wish.’
Of course he wished. He’d been waiting almost an hour.
As he turned from the desk he heard the nurse say, ‘She’s probably sedated and if she isn’t she’ll seem that way.’