“Both?” came the surprised response. “You didn’t tell me there were two.”
“Sabine’s and the stunt bike.”
“I understand now.” A heavy sigh confirmed Wolfgang’s annoyance with himself. “But you might have told me.”
“I didn’t know for sure when I phoned. I deal in certainties, my friend, not speculation.” This was untrue. A detective gets nowhere without speculating. But Diamond felt better for reminding Wolfgang of a piece of crime scene dogma.
Then he noticed that the man’s forensic suit was torn at the shoulder and a flap hung loose above the right knee. There was a grass stain down one leg. “What happened to you?”
“In point of fact, I wasn’t a ‘bit bloody late,’” Wolfgang said. “I was here fifteen minutes before you and your companions. I saw you arrive. You were in too much of a hurry to notice me, even though I waved. If you check your phone, you’ll find a text from me.”
“Saying what?”
“What I’m telling you now. I found a motorcycle parked beside one of the TV vans.”
“That would be the stunt bike.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that. A Harley-Davidson Sportster. I decided the right thing to do was check the tyres and they turned out to be Michelin, of the right size and index numbers. I inked the surface of one and made a paper pressing and I knew at once that it was the machine that left the imprint at the crime scene in the field.”
“You knew from memory?”
“The memory of many hours examining the cast and recording the wear marks. There were some new marks, from more recent use, but the wear pattern was essentially all there, visible to the naked eye.”
“And...?”
“I was so absorbed in my work that I didn’t notice someone creep up behind, grab my throat and throw me to the ground. It was like a commando attack and it was a young woman, if you can believe that.”
“Oh, I believe it, Wolfgang.”
“Before I could do anything about it, she got on the bike, started up and rode off in this direction. I’ve no idea who she was.”
“Ann Bugg, Sabine’s stunt double. She panicked when she saw you with the stunt bike she uses — the same bike she rode to Combe Hay the night she attacked Greg Deans.”
“She was the masked figure in the dash cam footage? She must be extremely strong.”
“Stunt people are, as a rule.” He didn’t add that she was at least as tall as Wolfgang.
“And so violent.”
“She’s desperate. I just hope we can catch her before she does more harm.”
Wolfgang shook his head. “It never occurred to me that the figure on camera was female.”
“She was wearing dark clothing. You said yourself that the camera was pretty basic. I got no sense of scale from it.”
“Fair comment.”
“However,” Diamond said. “I did eventually notice that the hand holding the knife must have been the left. Our masked figure is left-handed.”
Wolfgang closed his eyes, remembering the images. “Damn it, that’s true and I didn’t spot it. So if she hasn’t crashed and killed herself and you arrest her, it will be interesting to find out which is her dominant hand.”
A shout from Halliwell took over. He had his phone to his ear and was striding towards them. “Guv, there’s something coming through. They seem to have found her.”
“Where?”
“Near Radstock on the A367. A patrol car spotted her. She ran out of petrol. The tank must have been almost empty when she started.”
“They were using that bike yesterday.”
“Wait, they’re talking about someone else.”
“Give it to me.” Heart thumping, he grabbed the phone in time to hear through the static that a second person had been found with the female and identified himself as a police officer. “He’s alive, thank God!”
The voice was saying that the officer had caught up with the suspect and made an arrest.
“Is he okay?” Diamond asked.
But the communication was one-way. No one answered his question. The voice at the scene added that they needed transport for the bikes and as soon as it arrived they would bring the two people in.
He returned the phone to Halliwell and asked him to drive them back to Concorde House.
“Won’t they be taking her to Radstock, guv?”
“Yes, and then to Keynsham for questioning.”
“Don’t you want to be there?”
“All in good time. I need to know what Ingeborg and Jean have found out. There’s a bigger fish to fry than Ann Bugg.”
Halliwell wanted to know more, but Diamond asked him to be patient. He’d shown his hand and regretted it too many times before.
“Good news and bad,” Ingeborg said when he asked what progress she’d made. The incident room was already up to speed with the events at Beechen Cliff and Radstock and everyone was in awe of Paul Gilbert.
“Give me the good bit first.”
“Well, Jean has been exchanging emails all morning with the Romanian embassy and your theory that the missing men were all from Romania is confirmed. The name David Tudor sounds to me as Welsh as a male voice choir, but Tudor is also common in Romania as a given name and the surname.”
It made sense to Diamond.
“And Jake Nicol?”
“He was born Iacob Niculescu. Like Greg Deans, he anglicised his name.”
“How did you work that out?”
“Jean did, looking at typical Romanian surnames. They’re listed on the internet if you persevere. The embassy wouldn’t give much away at the start, but when they knew we were trying to trace these men they gave us their birthdates, names of parents, Romanian addresses and so on. They keep good records.”
“That I can believe.”
“And so do our lot. We got the passport details of all three, including photos, and everything matches up with the Swift and Proud files in Stall Street.”
His confidence soared. “Okay, so what’s the bad news?”
“More of a hiccup, I hope,” Ingeborg said. “The embassy sent us photos and the one of Greg doesn’t look much like him, even allowing that it was taken a long time ago. It’s definitely not his red hair, unless he colours it.”
“Ah,” was all he said, but it was a three-beat “ah,” more triumphant than troubled.
“Some sort of filing error, I expect,” she went on. “The nice woman at the embassy promised to double-check everything at their end. Jean sent them his passport picture as well as the company mugshot.”
He thanked them both and moved to John Leaman’s desk. “Do you have the printouts I asked for?”
Leaman picked up a large sealed envelope. “It could all go on your phone if you want, guv.”
“No, thanks. It’s cluttered up with bumf from headquarters. I’m hoping someone will show me how to unsubscribe.”
Before leaving, he made a call to Wolfgang. “This time,” he said, “I’m confident you won’t have a wasted journey.”
He and Halliwell had lunch in Keynsham. He fended off another invitation to open up about his new theory by saying he needed to marshal his thoughts before questioning Ann Bugg. “She’s been living with secrets for a long time and she won’t disclose them lightly. She gave me sweet FA the last time we met, so I want to get my questions right.”
Fortified, they checked in at the police station and asked for Ms. Bugg to be brought up to the interview room. Difficult to tell what effect the wait would have had on her. She could have used the time to prepare a defence, or the nerves may have taken over, leaving her ready to tell all.
“Come in and take a seat, Ann,” he said affably when she was shown in, pale and watchful, wearing a glittery top and skinny jeans that matched Sabine’s. “Bit of a change from last time we spoke, in the kitchen at Milroy Court. You’re under arrest, so we have to do this right. You remember who I am, Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond, and this is Chief Inspector Keith Halliwell.” Halliwell switched on the tape and went through the other formalities.