“Buried, do you think?”
“At the airfield? Doubtful. It’s hard to tell how anyone would have had time to do it.”
“Will Legat, who spent the night there,” Paloma said.
“I can’t see it. As Legat pointed out to me, he doesn’t have a spade.”
“If Nicol was murdered, there are two other theories. Number one: the body was taken away in one of the trucks the riggers use. And two: Sabine’s motorhome was parked there until late.”
“You already told me your suspicions about that.”
“It was the last vehicle to leave.”
“Could you get a forensics team to search the motorhome for traces of blood? There must have been some.”
“We’d need a warrant and I haven’t got a strong enough case to apply for one.”
“I suppose the same applies to the riggers’ trucks? Oh dear. You’re really up against it. If one of those trucks was used, the finger points to Fergus, surely?”
“But no one has come up with a motive. Nicol had only been in the job a couple of days, which is why we know so little about him.”
“You don’t have much on the other missing man.”
“Dave Tudor? That’s because he vanished four years ago. Memories fade.”
Paloma had a suggestion. “I wonder if Nicol’s fate was settled by something as basic as a fight over work duties? He objects to being given all the heavy work just because he’s the new man. Fergus can’t allow his authority to be challenged.”
He nodded. “Could be as simple as that.”
“They all carry tools that could be used as weapons, don’t they?”
“I heard you,” he said, starting to feel an overload of information. “Here comes the coffee.”
When it was poured, he added, “You’re so patient with me. This conversation hasn’t been most ladies’ idea of a nice meal out.”
She laughed. “Most ladies would consider it a treat to hear a top detective analyse a case in progress.”
“Well, this lady brought some good things to the table.”
“I knew you’d like the tortelloni.”
17
Candida stepped on deck next morning with the idea of calling at the marina office to collect the mail. A fine, clear morning, the sheet of water still as a mirror except for some ducks patterning the surface as they glided closer, making their case for an early feed. She had Bart in her arms. He could walk perfectly well but needed help getting from the narrowboat on to the wooden jetty. Generally it was quiet at this time of day. Not this morning.
On the far side, some men in black were grouped on the plank walkway bordering the perimeter. They were staring down at the water and she recognised one of them, the only one wearing a suit. Overweight and overbearing in the way he stood with arms folded, the detective, Peter Diamond, wasn’t directing the action, but he wanted no one to doubt that he was the senior man.
She now saw that two of the others were in wetsuits and holding masks and snorkels and a moment later there was a disturbance in the water in front of them and a diver surfaced. He held up a traffic cone, emptied the water from it and slung it on to a heap of finds on the walkway. There was some amusement that Candida couldn’t hear.
She wasn’t at all amused. Heart thumping, she set Bart on his feet, held his hand and marched along the jetty past her neighbours’ boats towards the end and then around the water’s edge to where the unwelcome visitors had set up. She came straight to the point with Diamond. “You’re wasting your time, you know.”
“Morning, Candida, and morning, Bart,” he said as if he had been expecting them. “You could be right, but it’s one of those jobs that has to be done. The underwater search unit are busy people and I’m lucky to get them when I can. The lady in the office knows what’s going on.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Don’t worry, I was the soul of discretion. Your name wasn’t mentioned and neither was Fergus’s. I told her we’re looking for things of interest that might have been dumped here. A place like this could be irresistible to ne’er-do-wells wanting to get rid of incriminating objects.”
Bart headed for the mud-covered rubbish. Candida dashed after him and scooped him up. “No, you don’t.” He let out yells of protest until distracted by the sight of the man in the water. Peace was restored.
“He must have noticed the little scooter in the heap,” Diamond said. “It might clean up and be usable. None of this stuff is of any interest to me and you’re welcome to help yourself, but I wouldn’t let him touch anything yet. The water’s not the purest.”
The man making the search pulled the mask over his face and submerged again. He was linked by a safety line to one of the others on the walkway.
“They tell me it’s deeper than it looks,” Diamond said. “There could be a crashed aircraft in here for all I know.”
Candida said nothing.
“It’s going to take days. These guys will tell you there’s nil visibility. They’re groping through the muck at the bottom and stirring it up as they go. It’s not a job I’d do myself.”
She didn’t even look at him while he was speaking. She was watching the movement of the yellow line in the water.
“I expected them to start on your side where the boats are moored,” Diamond went on. “All kinds of stuff could be trapped under the jetty or between the boats. But they have their own way of working. They want to check the stretch of open water first.”
Candida shook her head at the folly of it all. Presently she let Bart down and took out her phone. She put it to her ear, turned and walked off, speaking quietly, with Bart close behind.
Diamond had followed them closely along the duck-board walk and when she pocketed the phone she heard him call out, “Tipping off Fergus?”
On the point of denial, she thought better of it and said over her shoulder, “This is our home. He has a right to know.”
“No argument with that. Is he on his way?”
“He’s filming.”
“Of course, he is. The key grip. He’ll come as soon as he can. Does he drive? I suppose he has to, in that job. They all drive the trucks from time to time.”
“He has a motorbike,” she called back.
“Useful.”
Inside himself, Diamond was less laidback than he was showing. A motorcycle was something he hadn’t factored in. “Does he ever have the use of the trucks overnight?”
“They belong to Gripmasters,” Candida said without answering the question.
“I don’t suppose they’d mind if he borrowed one.”
She turned to glare at him.
“Say if he had a removal job to do, like picking up a piece of second-hand furniture. They wouldn’t need to know, would they?”
“We don’t need furniture. The boat was furnished when we moved in. We can hardly move as it is.”
“Bart’s things, I meant,” he said. “High chair, playpen, cot. A baby needs extras you can’t cart home on the back of a motorbike.”
“They were delivered,” she said. “They weren’t secondhand. I don’t want my child using things someone else has thrown out. And he won’t be given that filthy scooter or anything else from the scrap heap.” She’d come as far as the marina office and she went in, leaving Diamond outside to ponder that parting shot. The term “scrap heap” couldn’t have been intended to strike at his insecurity, but it did. It went deep.
He returned to the search party and checked the heap for any new finds. “Is there any way you can speed this up?” he asked the dive supervisor. “You’ve got two others in their wetsuits doing nothing.”
“Are you telling me my job, sir?”