Diamond knew from the schedule which way to walk. George Spode, the director, had finished filming Swift’s reckless descent of the ribbon of steps and today he was shooting a safer scene, her ride along the footpath at the top of Beechen Cliff — which is no cliff at all in any understanding of the term, but a tree-clad slope with a path along the top that was once a promenade known to Jane Austen. Today it provides the leafy backdrop to the railway station visible from many parts of Bath.
They left the park and stepped out for the part of the hillside once landscaped with beech trees and long since overtaken by nature in the form of brambles and rogue sycamores and ash. The filming was going on at a point where the footpath widened into a glade. This was a helpful time to arrive. The camera wasn’t rolling. The director and the camera supervisor were deep in discussion. Sabine, bored by the delay, was seated side-saddle on the stationary Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle well known to Swift fans.
Diamond turned to Gilbert, “Pull yourself together, man. You’re drooling.”
“It’s not the woman, guv. It’s the bike.”
“Get closer, then. This is our chance to check the tyres. I’ll move Sabine to a safe distance while you do the biz.”
“But Wolfgang isn’t here yet.”
“You don’t need him. You’re the bike man of the team. That’s why we brought you.” Without waiting for a response he stepped over to Sabine. “Between takes, are you? I need a few minutes of your time.”
She said, “I’m working.”
“So am I, Sabine. So am I.”
“It’s not convenient.”
“It’s your duty to assist me,” he said as imperiously as if he were the head of television drama. “I’ll square it with George. We can talk in your motorhome if you’d prefer to be questioned in private.”
“You can’t stop the shoot.”
“Watch me.” He held up a hand as if he was halting traffic.
She slid off the bike. She believed him now. “All right, let’s go under the trees where we won’t be overheard. But I might break off any second.”
As they marched across the glade, Diamond said, “Do you really ride that machine or is it faked?”
“You’ve got a cheek. I’m doing all the takes this morning. I’d do the stunts as well, given the chance, but they won’t let me. I’m too valuable to risk.”
“The bike is one of the props, is it, belonging to the company? Do you ever get to borrow it?”
“What for?”
“Joyriding.”
“I’ve been known to have a spin,” she said with a smirk. Turning, she spotted Paul Gilbert on his knees beside the motorcycle and her tone changed abruptly. “What the fuck is he up to?”
“Relax, he’s one of mine, checking the make and index numbers of the tyres. There was a bike at the crime scene where Greg Deans was attacked.”
The coquettishness switched off. She was seriously alarmed. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that?”
“Why should I?” Diamond said. “You got on famously with Greg, didn’t you?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.”
“We had our differences. He was a prick, as everyone knows. We were never on the best of terms, but I had to work with the man.” She was increasingly distracted by what Gilbert was doing. “What’s he up to?”
“I told you. He’s admiring the bike, I expect. He rides a moped himself. We all have our dreams.”
“He seems to be signalling to you.”
Diamond looked across to where the young DC was now standing with both thumbs raised. Evidently the tyres were Michelin of a type that matched the cast Wolfgang had taken. “Is that the only bike used in the filming?”
“No. That one is mine and the stuntwoman uses her own. They’re identical, both Harleys.”
And fitted with similar tyres. He’d suspected this. “Where’s the other one?”
“Don’t ask me. Talk to the Bugg. She’s somewhere around.”
He stared at the cluster of people near the director: the camera crew, the sound men, Fergus with his riggers. He couldn’t see Ann Bugg among them. He started walking in that direction.
“Is that it, then?” Sabine called after him. “Have you finished with me?”
He flapped a hand in confirmation. He had not gone a step more when he heard the rasp and roar of a motorbike starting up. Not Sabine’s, which still stood out in the middle on its kickstand. The sound was coming from higher up, where the vans were parked.
Almost immediately, this second bike was in sight and heading their way at speed along the footpath, headlight on, the rider bent low. It reached the open area and seemed to be coming straight for Diamond. Using skills learned on the rugby field, he stepped aside, but the bike veered off the path as well. Bouncing over the uneven turf, it hurtled towards him. Escape would be impossible now if the rider intended to run him down.
That didn’t happen. The intent must have been to avoid going near the film crew and take the widest route possible, which happened to be where Sabine and Diamond were. The bike swerved to avoid them and skidded. The rider put one foot to the ground for balance and sent up more dust and dirt. Diamond felt the whoosh of air and was deafened by the sound of the machine coming lethally close. Then he watched the back wheel kick up a spray of mud and grass as the bike speeded towards the steps of Jacob’s Ladder.
His angry but pointless reaction was to shout, “Maniac.”
The motorbike wove off the grass verge and rejoined the footpath. No question now: the course was set straight for the steepest descent, bumping all the way down the perilous steps to Calton Road and Wellsway.
A mix of exhaust fumes and crushed wild garlic hung in the air.
He turned to Sabine. “Was that the stuntwoman?”
She nodded. “She must be mad. We did some filming yesterday on the steps, but that was an easy stretch. It’s a death trap.”
Then he heard another explosion of sound and yelled, “No!”
Paul Gilbert had started Sabine’s bike and was in motion, bumping over the turf, getting up speed, set to pursue Ann Bugg down Jacob’s Ladder.
Diamond couldn’t stop him. His shouting wasn’t heard above the engine’s roar. Gilbert, dressed in his day clothes and without a helmet, opened up, shot towards the first steps and dropped out of sight.
Sabine said, “She knows what she’s doing. He doesn’t. He’ll never catch her unless they both fall off.”
Diamond didn’t need telling. It was an act of extraordinary bravery and total lunacy. He started shaking.
26
It was a good thing Keith Halliwell had his nerves under control. He reported a grade-one emergency command to stop and arrest a blonde female suspect riding a Harley-Davidson in the Wellsway area without a crash helmet, possibly pursued by a male rider, also on a Harley and helmetless, who was a police officer in plain clothes.
Still in shock, Diamond faced two of the film crew who had rushed over for an explanation. “I only know what I saw, the same as you,” he told them, “except I saw it too close for comfort.”
All he would say in answer to other questions was that police patrols had been alerted and he’d share any information he got.
By degrees he pulled himself together enough to act more like the senior professional. His concern about Paul Gilbert may have become less obvious, yet hadn’t lessened in the least.
Filming was abandoned for the day and the star of the show had already retired to her mansion on wheels when a short familiar figure in a forensic suit and carrying a large bag hobbled from the direction of the parked vehicles. “Bit bloody late, Wolfgang,” Diamond said, giving vent to his fractured emotions. “Both motorbikes have gone.”