He had entered a field, staying roughly parallel with the road, when there was a rich splash of red in the evening sun as a fox broke from its cover and dashed in front of him only a few yards ahead. The sight uplifted him. He didn’t have the countryman’s contempt for such animals. Anything that survived in the wild by its own efforts would get his support. This one seemed symbolic of the lone adventurer, encouraging him to complete the mission – or so he told himself, preferring not to think about the fox’s reputation for slyness.
He crossed two stiles, still well short of the true site of the infantry action, the valley between Lansdown and Freezing Hill where a counter attack by the royalists had forced Sir William Waller’s army to retreat. The terrain had played a key role in the battle. Fighting up those steep slopes, with little more than drystone walls for cover, must have been hellish. At the end the royalists were in control of Lansdown, but at the cost of the most casualties. It was believed Waller had lost as few as twenty men, with about sixty injured.
The uprooted tree came into view and he quickened his step. Nobody was in sight and the light was fading fast. Higher up the slope, on Lansdown Road, the drivers were using their headlights as they travelled down into Bath for their Saturday night out.
The vast root system was silhouetted like some beached sea creature with tentacles, sinister and monstrous. In its shadow he had difficulty locating the precise place where the bone was buried. He knelt and poked his fingers in to find where the earth was loose. There was a place where both hands sank in easily.
Terrier-like, he scooped out a sizeable hole. This wouldn’t take long.
His fingers touched something solid and bulbous. Definitely one end of the femur. He got a grip and pulled the bone from the hole.
Job done.
He brushed off the dirt. Sorry to disturb you again, my friend, he addressed it in his thoughts. Just finding out if you’re a victim of the real battle.
He stood up again – and froze.
A hand was on his shoulder.
‘For a start, you’re overweight,’ the doctor said.
‘I don’t need you to tell me that.’
‘Quite a bit over for a man your height. How do you exercise?’
‘I lift the odd pint.’
‘It’s not funny, Mr Diamond. You could be killing yourself. Your blood pressure’s too high. Are you regular?’
‘What?’
‘Motions.’
There was no answer.
‘Big jobs,’ the doctor explained.
Peter Diamond said after a crushing pause, ‘Young man, how old are you?’
The doctor twitched. ‘My age isn’t under discussion.’
‘Well, let’s discuss big jobs, seeing that you mentioned them. Mine is a big job. I’m in charge of CID in the city of Bath.’ He’d slipped his thumbs behind his braces – ridiculous for a man without a shirt, so he removed them. ‘My employers are the Police Authority and they insist on this annual medical. And your not-so-big job is to give me the once-over and declare me fit for work. Correct?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Okay, the fitness is not guaranteed.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But let’s get one thing clear. You’re not my doctor. I haven’t come to you for treatment or advice about my bowel movements or my blood pressure or my weight. I just need your signature on that form.’
‘You may see it that way.’
‘Believe me, I know about forms. I spend a large part of my time filling them in and most of them are pointless. I should be catching criminals and you should be looking after people who are sick.’
‘You won’t catch anyone if you’re unfit.’
‘I don’t run after them. Younger men and women do that. Most of my work is done in my head, or on paper. Yes, I’m a few pounds overweight and have been for years. Some of us are built that way. It doesn’t stop me doing my job. So why don’t you sign me off and call in the next guy?’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
This doctor wasn’t completely cowed. ‘Unless you take your state of health more seriously, it may not be just your job you lose.’
Diamond picked up his shirt. ‘Are you telling me I’m ill?’
‘Unfit is a more accurate term.’
‘And we all know what happened to the man who wrote that famous book on jogging.’
‘I wouldn’t suggest you take up jogging, Mr Diamond, not in your present condition. Some sensible eating would be a start.’
‘Don’t go there,’ Diamond warned him.
But the doctor was back on the attack. ‘A brisk walk at least once a day. Do you drive to work?’
‘I live in Weston, over a mile away.’
‘Ideal.’
‘I don’t have the time to walk.’
‘Get up earlier. Do you live alone?’
‘These days, yes.’
‘Then you won’t disturb anyone by setting the alarm.’
‘Didn’t I make myself clear? I don’t need you to tell me how to run my life.’
‘You need somebody, Mr Diamond. That’s my job.’
‘Are you going to sign that certificate?’
‘With misgivings.’ The doctor picked up his pen.
Diamond should have left it there. Instead, he asked, ‘Why didn’t they send the regular man? Hold on, I don’t mean regular in your understanding of the word. The doc we’ve seen for years, about my own age, who I sometimes meet in the Crown & Anchor?’ ‘He died.’
‘Oh.’
‘Heart. He didn’t look after himself.’
Difficult to top that. ‘Well, at least he had warm hands.’
The doctor looked over his half-glasses. ‘Not any more.’
Back with his team, still buttoning his shirt, he said, ‘Passed.’
‘With flying colours?’ Halliwell asked.
‘With misgivings.’
‘Miss who?’
‘He’s not the quack we usually get. Looks fifteen years old, just qualified, out to make an impression.’
‘He didn’t impress you?’
‘That’s putting it mildly. How about you? Have you been in yet?’
‘Next but one.’ An anxious look crossed Halliwell’s features. ‘It’s just pulse and blood pressure, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought, until…’
Halliwell’s eyes were like port-holes. ‘Until what?’
‘He put on the surgical glove.’
‘He’s kidding,’ John Leaman said. ‘Can’t you see the grin?’
Diamond switched to Leaman. ‘So when’s yours?’
‘I’m excused. They gave me a medical at Bramshill when I did the weapons training.’
Diamond rolled his eyes. Typical, somehow, that Leaman should escape. ‘You can hold the fort, then. I need some lunch after what I’ve been through.’
Still nettled by the young doctor, he asked for extra chips with his burger. ‘I just passed my medical,’ he told Cressida in the canteen. ‘While I’m at it, I’ll have an extra spoonful of beans.’
‘Building up your strength?’ she said, smiling.
‘It’s a good principle. In my job, you never know what’s round the next corner.’
‘Could be a nice young lady, Mr D.’
‘I’ll need the strength, then.’
‘If you like I’ll spread the word among the girls that you passed your medical.’
His romantic prospects were fair game. The kitchen girls knew about his friendship with Paloma Kean. What they didn’t know was how much he missed his murdered wife Steph.