“That’s the polite name for it. For pity’s sake, you remember! To get her story she enrolled in my language school, pretending to be a bona fide student. It was a shabby trick. I don’t think anyone disputed that.”
Diamond shrugged. “The scam you were working was more shabby than anything she got up to.”
“Scam?”
“Oh, come on. Enrolling young Iraqis on so-called English courses all through the summer when everyone knew Saddam was about to go to war.”
He said casually, “Fair enough. Some of them were dodging military service. Some of them were genuine students.”
“Some could have been spies. You know very well that ninety percent of them signed on to get the piece of paper saying they were full-time students. For you, they were all fee-payers, all profit.”
“You call it a scam, but it’s been going on for years in plenty of colleges I could name,” Mountjoy shifted ground. “They sign them up for fifteen hours a week of tuition knowing they won’t see them again. And it isn’t just students from Middle Eastern countries. Something like seventy-five different countries issue visas on the basis of that piece of paper. I’m not defending it. I’m just saying I don’t know why she hit on me.”
“Because you were here in Bath where she lived,” said Diamond. “And because of the timing. Saddam invaded Kuwait in August. Britt Strand was a smart journalist. She saw the Gulf War coming. An expose of your college could be sold to the tabloids as a national scandal, a private college providing a cover for potential spies.”
“It would have finished me. Well, it did, as events turned out,” said Mountjoy. “The trial wasn’t just about the killing of Britt Strand, it was the unfolding of all this school-for-spies nonsense.”
“Go on,” said Diamond. “Tell me you didn’t get a fair trial. The fact remains that you were with Britt Strand on the night she died. She’d been stringing you along, playing the Swedish au pair when in fact she’d been living in this country for years and spoke the language well enough to make her living as a journalist. She totally deceived you. She was gathering information. She’d got to your files. She had photocopies of enrollment forms and correspondence and class registers and attendance summaries and God knows what else. She was about to blow your reputation apart. I can’t think of a stronger motive for murder.”
“But I didn’t kill her.”
Diamond refused to concede anything. “You and I know that you have a history of violence to women. Your ex-girlfriend, your wife. If any of that had been admitted as evidence-”
“You knew it,” Mountjoy broke in. “It colored your perception of the case.”
“Yes, and I had another advantage over the jury,” said Diamond. “I viewed the corpse. I saw the damage you-sorry, let’s say the murderer-inflicted on her. This wasn’t what you’d call a cold-blooded killing. It was committed in anger. She was a mess, John.”
Mountjoy stared up at the sky. A small plane was passing over Bath, too far off to be on surveillance duty. His eyes returned to Diamond. “Are you refusing to look at the case again?”
“Why ask me to look at it?” said Diamond. “Surely I’m the last person to ask.”
Mountjoy was adamant. “No. You did the work. You have files on the case. Records of interviews. Lists of suspects.”
“Which suspects? There was only you.”
“You’ve made my point for me,” said Mountjoy. “You didn’t look for anyone else.”
Diamond sighed, “How long did the jury take to reach a verdict? Ten minutes, or fifteen?”
He seemed not to have heard. “If anyone can find the killer, you can.”
“So you’re not merely asking me to reverse my conclusion and prove you innocent-you expect me to pin the crime on someone else?”
“It’s the only sure way to get the verdict overturned.”
Diamond couldn’t stop himself smiling at the audacity of the man. “You’re the biggest optimist I’ve ever met. Have you thought what’s in it for me, setting out to prove that I got it all wrong in 1990?”
“You’re straight, or I wouldn’t use you,” said Mountjoy.
Diamond noted the wording: “use,” not “ask.” There was a whopping assumption behind it. “Is there anything you can give me, any single item of fresh evidence, that would alter my opinion of four years ago?”
“No.”
Diamond spread his hands as if that settled matters.
“You’ve got to dig.” Mountjoy followed up the negative answer with passion. “How would I have found anything new, banged up in Albany? Someone killed the woman. Someone is still at liberty, laughing up his sleeve at you. Doesn’t that bug you?” When he received no answer he added, “He must have hated her unless he was a complete nut. She must have had lovers she dropped, professional rivals, people she elbowed out of a job.”
“We looked into that at the time,” Diamond told him.
“Yes, but once you had me as a suspect, did you pursue them with the same energy? The hell you did.”
For a short time the only sound was the movement of water trickling over stones. Mountjoy had offered nothing of substance to support his claim. The solitary thing in his favor was that he had gone to so much trouble to set up this bizarre meeting when common sense decrees that a man on the run lies low.
But with a young woman as hostage, he had to be humored. “Suppose I reopen the files, as you want, and still find you responsible for the murder?”
“Then you won’t be any good at your job,” said Mount-joy, his eyes widening, catching a gleam from the gray October sky.
“How long do you hope to remain at liberty? Whatever happens, you can’t expect us to suspend the search.”
“I can hold out.”
Diamond probed some more. “With the girl as prisoner? What you’re doing now-holding her against her will-is an offense.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I want action from you, Diamond. You’d better report some progress when I see you next. I have a short fuse.”
“I know that. How would I contact you?”
“You won’t. I’ll find you.” He released the kickstand, turned the bike and wheeled it closer to Diamond. “I lived in Bath for longer than you, my friend. I know the backstreets and the byways. No one is going to find Miss Cute-Arse before you deliver.” He leaned down and picked up the spare helmet. “Get weaving.”
He kicked the engine into life, replaced his helmet and zoomed away toward Bath.
Chapter Seven
Not one of the top brass at Manvers Street showed any gratitude.
“Didn’t you find out anything about my daughter?” Tott asked, making it obvious that he saw no further need to grovel for Diamond’s cooperation. He’d snatched a few hours’ sleep, and was quite his old, carping self. “I thought that was the point of this exercise.”
Diamond answered, “I thought the object was to find out Mountjoy’s demands.”
Farr-Jones was quick to follow that with, “And I don’t care for them at all.” He spoke as if Diamond himself had framed the despised demands. “The fellow was justly convicted. We can’t reverse the verdict just because he has an aversion to prison.”
Commander Warrilow, the big cheese from Hampshire, tossed in his two cents’ worth. “We missed a golden opportunity. Diamond has told us nothing except that Johnny Mount-joy is now in possession of a motorbike.”
“And all the kit,” contributed John Wigfull from the far end of the room, not missing a chance to demonstrate his power of observation. “Where would he have got the kit?”
Farr-Jones snapped back, “If he can get out of Albany, he’s perfectly capable of nicking a bike and leathers.”
Little Hitlers, every one, Diamond thought. How does anything ever get decided these days? Maybe on the orders of a bigger Hitler, like me.
Warrilow continued his sniping. “If the press get wind of this, they’ll have a field day. He delivers himself to us on a plate and we let him go.”