head. 'I would have remembered if she'd said anything. People often do, and I like to know about their lives. But I never ask if they don't want to say. I don't believe in being nosy.'
'Are you sure she didn't tell you something and ask you to keep it.to yourself? - because if she did, it's got to come out now. You don't have to spare my feelings, Jan. I need to find her killer before someone else is murdered.'
'And I'd tell you if there was anything to tell, but there isn't'
He believed her.
The phone was beeping and the cat mewing when he came through his front door. He ignored the phone, but Raffles got fed. Then he heated some baked beans, cut the stale end off a loaf and made toast, topped with tinned tomatoes and a fried egg that smelt fishy. Looked at the post without troubling to open anything. The solicitor, the bank, the funeral director. They could wait. In less than twenty minutes he was out again, driving to Bristol.
He called at two pubs in the old market area and asked for John Seville, an informer he'd known and used a few times. No snout is totally reliable, but Seville was better than most. The problem was that nobody had seen him since the Carpenter trial. Bernie Hescott, hunched over a Guinness in the Rummer, was definitely second best.
'Haven't clapped eyes on him in weeks. I wouldn't like to think what happened. He was too yappy for his own good, I reckon.'
'Maybe you can help.' Diamond showed the top edge of a twenty-pound note, and then let it slide back into his top pocket. 'You heard what happened to my wife?'
'It was in all the papers, wasn't it?' said Bernie, a twitchy, under-nourished ex-con in a Bristol Rovers shirt. 'Wouldn't wish that on anyone.'
'It was done by a pro.'
'You think so?'
'I was going to ask John Seville if he'd heard a whisper about a hitman.'
'Was you? Well, he's not around.'
Diamond fingered the note in his pocket. 'I could ask you, couldn't I?'
Bernie shrugged and took a sip.
'Who do the Carpenters use - their own men, or someone down from London?'
'What - for a contract?'
'Yes.'
'Job like that - I'm talking theory now - she was gunned down in broad daylight, I heard - job like that doesn't look like a local lad. There's no one I can think of in Bristol.'
Diamond took the folded banknote from his pocket and placed it on the table with his hand over it. 'I could show appreciation, Bernie, if you put out some feelers.'
'Bloody dangerous.'
'You can't help me, then?'
'It'll cost you.'
'This is personal. It's worth it' He took his hand off the banknote and revealed a crisp new fifty. He lifted it and the twenty was underneath. He returned the fifty to his pocket and slid the twenty across the table. 'I'll be in again Friday or Saturday.'
He drove up College Road to Clifton, looking for the house where Danny Carpenter lived. Back in the early nineteenth century when the city had been infested with cholera, the affluent Clifton residents instructed their servants to leave blankets and clothes halfway down the hill for the poor wretches in Bristol, and the place still has a determination not to be contaminated by the noxious life below Whiteladies Road. Danny's residence was on the Down, in one of the best positions in the city, with views along the Gorge to the Suspension Bridge. Old stone pillars at the entrance with griffins aloft gave promise of a gracious house. In fact, the original building at the end of the curved drive had been demolished at the time when architects went starry-eyed over steel and concrete. To Diamond's eye the replacement was an ugly pile of lemon-coloured, flat-roofed blocks. Even so, its location and scale represented money.
Before he got out, the security lights came on. A dog barked. A large bark. No need, really, to touch the bell push, but he did, and was rewarded with the first bars of Danny Boy.
The door opened a fraction and a snarling muzzle was thrust through.
Diamond took a step back. Someone swore, and hauled the dog
'Are you sure she didn't tell you something and ask you to keep it.to yourself? - because if she did, it's got to come out now. You don't have to spare my feelings, Jan. I need to find her killer before someone else is murdered.'
'And I'd tell you if there was anything to tell, but there isn't'
He believed her.
The phone was beeping and the cat mewing when he came through his front door. He ignored the phone, but Raffles got fed. Then he heated some baked beans, cut the stale end off a loaf and made toast, topped with tinned tomatoes and a fried egg that smelt fishy. Looked at the post without troubling to open anything. The solicitor, the bank, the funeral director. They could wait. In less than twenty minutes he was out again, driving to Bristol.
He called at two pubs in the old market area and asked for John Seville, an informer he'd known and used a few times. No snout is totally reliable, but Seville was better than most. The problem was that nobody had seen him since the Carpenter trial. Bernie Hescott, hunched over a Guinness in the Rummer, was definitely second best.
'Haven't clapped eyes on him in weeks. I wouldn't like to think what happened. He was too yappy for his own good, I reckon.'
'Maybe you can help.' Diamond showed the top edge of a twenty-pound note, and then let it slide back into his top pocket. 'You heard what happened to my wife?'
'It was in all the papers, wasn't it?' said Bernie, a twitchy, under-nourished ex-con in a Bristol Rovers shirt. 'Wouldn't wish that on anyone.'
'It was done by a pro.'
'You think so?'
'I was going to ask John Seville if he'd heard a whisper about a hitman.'
'Was you? Well, he's not around.'
Diamond fingered the note in his pocket. 'I could ask you, couldn't I?'
Bernie shrugged and took a sip.
'Who do the Carpenters use - their own men, or someone down from London?'
'What - for a contract?'
'Yes.'
'Job like that - I'm talking theory now - she was gunned down in broad daylight, I heard - job like that doesn't look like a local lad. There's no one I can think of in Bristol.'
Diamond took the folded banknote from his pocket and placed it on the table with his hand over it. 'I could show appreciation, Bernie, if you put out some feelers.'
'Bloody dangerous.'
'You can't help me, then?'
'It'll cost you.'
'This is personal. It's worth it' He took his hand off the banknote and revealed a crisp new fifty. He lifted it and the twenty was underneath. He returned the fifty to his pocket and slid the twenty across the table. 'I'll be in again Friday or Saturday.'
He drove up College Road to Clifton, looking for the house where Danny Carpenter lived. Back in the early nineteenth century when the city had been infested with cholera, the affluent Clifton residents instructed their servants to leave blankets and clothes halfway down the hill for the poor wretches in Bristol, and the place still has a determination not to be contaminated by the noxious life below Whiteladies Road. Danny's residence was on the Down, in one of the best positions in the city, with views along the Gorge to the Suspension Bridge. Old stone pillars at the entrance with griffins aloft gave promise of a gracious house. In fact, the original building at the end of the curved drive had been demolished at the time when architects went starry-eyed over steel and concrete. To Diamond's eye the replacement was an ugly pile of lemon-coloured, flat-roofed blocks. Even so, its location and scale represented money.
Before he got out, the security lights came on. A dog barked. A large bark. No need, really, to touch the bell push, but he did, and was rewarded with the first bars of Danny Boy.
The door opened a fraction and a snarling muzzle was thrust through.
Diamond took a step back. Someone swore, and hauled the dog
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