“What an existence,” Gilbert said.
“It’s vile, and it’s more widespread in Britain than you think. Nobody knows how many for sure. More than six thousand, anyway.”
“How can anyone put a figure on it?” Leaman said.
“Reported cases.”
“And how many are not reported?”
“Leave it,” Diamond said. “Back to work, people.”
Gilbert remained, obviously with something else to say. “I did as you asked, guv, called in at John Moore Sports this morning.”
“Anything helpful?”
“They were shocked to hear he was dead. All the staff seemed to know him and he was well liked, chatty and cheerful.”
“Especially with the women, no doubt,” Diamond said.
“Nobody said.”
“I did. Tony Pinto would score in a nunnery. I’m asking if you heard anything of use to us.”
“They said he’d set himself up as a personal trainer.”
“Nice work if you can get it. He was doing the same in prison, and now he gets to visit rich people in their homes. They work up a sweat on the bike and he tells them to keep pedalling.”
“Spinning, guv.”
Diamond missed the point and Gilbert didn’t enlighten him.
“Did you find out who he trained?”
“One of their main customers. Very rich. Buys only the best kit. She couldn’t speak highly enough of him.”
“As a trainer, you mean?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Name?”
“Olga something. Russian.”
A feature of recent times in Bath was the influx of oil-rich billionaires who had bought properties, but a Russian community had thrived here for over fifty years. The devout had their own Orthodox church in Alexandra Road. How many of the ultra-rich attended church was an open question, but clearly they patronised the sports shop.
“What’s her address?”
28
Sydney Place makes up the two front sides of the hexagon of handsome terraces bordering Sydney Gardens, a green sanctuary in the heart of the city. The entire area was a concept of Thomas Baldwin, who had already designed some of the city’s big-hitting attractions, the Pump Room, Great Pulteney Street, the Guildhall and the Colonnade. Sadly for Baldwin, the pleasure garden became a source of pain when he was found to have overreached his finances and was sacked as city architect, hounded into bankruptcy by a ruthless rival, John Palmer, who replaced him.
Only the first twelve houses of Sydney Place are Baldwin’s. To anyone who knows his story they stand as a monument to a flawed visionary.
“Mostly flats,” DC Paul Gilbert said prosaically after glancing at one of the door entry panels they passed.
“But what an outlook,” Diamond said.
“I’m surprised at a Russian billionaire living in a flat.”
“Unlikely. He’ll have bought one of these houses outright. Possibly the ones each side as well.”
Gilbert never could tell when his boss was kidding. “Why would he do that?”
“Security. Money on that scale brings its own problems and one of them is that you have to watch your back. Everyone knows that, Russians especially.”
“How would he get rid of all those tenants?”
“How did he get to be a billionaire?”
They had phoned ahead and were admitted by a man dressed like a servant in a Chekhov play, in a pale-blue high-buttoned, loose-fitting linen suit tied at the waist. But the room they were shown into was English through and through, pure Jane Austen, the sort of place that would have earned orgasmic shrieks from the furniture expert on the Antiques Roadshow. Sheraton, Chippendale and Hepplewhite jostled for attention — chairs, armchairs, a reading stand, secretaire, card tables and even the corner piece known as a whatnot. “Mrs. Ivanova will join you for tea in a few minutes, unless you prefer a sherry,” they were told in good English. “She is getting ready.”
“Ready for us?” Gilbert said when the man had gone.
“For afternoon tea. We’d better sit down.” There was no shortage of chairs. Sitting on any of them seemed uncouth, but Diamond had never had any problem being uncouth. Besides, he needed to sit. He was trying to manage without the crutches, using only a stick.
Gilbert remained standing, awed by the surroundings. He was simply begging to be wound up a little.
“Are your hands clean?”
Gilbert spread his palms.
“Turn them over.” Diamond winced at what he saw. “God help us, Paul. You could grow radishes under those fingernails. Better hide them under your napkin.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You’ll be given one, Irish linen, nicely ironed and folded. Do you know how to use it?”
A worried shake of the head.
“You take it by one corner, shake it open, spread it over your lap and treat it with respect. Don’t even think about using it to wipe your nose or your grubby fingers. You may have seen people tucking one under their collar. That isn’t done at teatime. Wait to be served and don’t drop any crumbs. One small square of sandwich only, which you don’t lift open to see what’s inside. Watch our hostess and make sure she bites into hers before you lift yours to your mouth. Take small bites and make it last. All things considered, you might do best to leave it on your plate.”
“Are you sending me up, guv?”
“What do you think? Shall I tell you how to hold the teacup?”
The exchange was cut short by a large woman entering with three builders’-size mugs and a packet of biscuits on a tin tray. Not a napkin in sight. She was in a loud pink sweatsuit and white trainers.
Another servant, anyone would have assumed.
Just in case she wasn’t, Diamond got up and Gilbert dipped his head respectfully.
“Please to sit. I am Olga Ivanova. You like Hobnobs?” Blonde, quick to smile, she handed the packet to Gilbert, who almost dropped it when he realised this was the lady of the house. “Take some and pass on.”
There was mischief in that smile, but also some nervousness and maybe pain as well.
The manservant glided in with the sugar and glided out again.
“So,” Olga said when they were all seated, “policemen come to my house. In Russia, this is not good. We have saying: When police come calling, get out chequebook. If cheque is no use, get out vodka. If vodka is no use, get out.” She shook with laughter and then, seeing the blank faces, frowned and added, “Does not translate well, I think.”
“You’re not in trouble, ma’am,” Diamond said. “We’re hoping you can help us with an enquiry.”
“Call me Olga please. I do not like this ‘ma’am.’”
“Olga it is, then. We were told you have a personal trainer.”
“I do not think so.”
“A fitness expert who gives advice.”
She shook her head.
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure. He is not here this week, last week. No phone call. No message. I think I do not have trainer anymore.”
“But you had one before?”
“Of course. My gorgeous Tony, three times in week. I don’t know what happens. I pay him well, each time cash in hand. Now nothing.”
“Tony Pinto?”
“You know?”
“I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead.”
Olga clapped her hand to her mouth and turned paler than the ceiling. There was no question she was shocked.
“We found his body at the bottom of a stone quarry last week.”
A gasp. “That is why he stop coming?”
There was an opening for black humour here, but Diamond could see Olga’s eyes reddening and welling up, so he just nodded.
“Someone push?”
“We’re investigating, trying to find out.”