Free Diamond Dust by Peter Lovesey Page A

suggested.
    At either side, separate from the bandstand, two large stone vases with handles, chipped and stained, but evidently marble, were raised on plinths. Each was protected by a flat stone canopy mounted on pillars and surrounded by a low railing. Along the top of the stonework was an inscription stating that the vases were the gift of Napoleon to the Empress Josephine in 1805, something Diamond had never noticed until now. They were spoils of the Peninsular War, presented to the city by some Bath worthy. The overgrown bushes almost hid them from view, but he could make out the letter 'J' in an Imperial circlet of leaves. It was the kind of detail that fascinated Steph, and forgetting everything for a second, he looked forward to telling her what he had found and bringing her here to see it.
    Caught again. This wasn't the first time. He supposed it was what psychologists referred to as denial.
    He moved back to the spot where Steph had been found. Why had the murderer chosen this location? For one thing, the park was reasonably quiet, even now, in the afternoon, and fairly well screened by trees. If it was right that she had been lured here, her killer could have remained hidden among the bushes, or behind the bandstand, until the last minute, and then approached her, keeping the gun concealed. Since there had been no evidence of a struggle, it was reasonable to assume the weapon had been held to her face and fired twice in a swift, professional action. Most gunmen knew you couldn't be certain a single shot would kill, even at point-blank range. Apparently he (or she, though it was difficult to visualise a female assassin) had quit the scene by the short route to the car park - which was huge, with more than one exit. So that was the special appeal of this location: the certainty of getting away fast. All in all, a well-chosen place.
    The biggest problem must have been persuading Steph to come here.
    For the first time since the murder, he was functioning as a detective. Until now he had been too devastated to think straight. For that reason alone it was right that someone other than he should head the team. Moreover, the official line made sense: having the victim's husband in charge would undermine any prosecution. Fine - so long as McGarvie was a competent, energetic stand-in. But after that farcical interrogation, Diamond's confidence in the man was in tatters. The competence was flawed, the energy misdirected. There was a sense of desperation in what was going on.
    A single crow stalked the lawn, foraging for worms. The bleak look of this scene reinforced the lost opportunities.
    Steph deserved a good investigation.
    No sense in offering advice. Georgina and McGarvie wouldn't listen to a man they were treating as a suspect. No, the only way to get results was to go solo. Throughout their marriage Steph had put up with his cack-handed attempts at all things practical: shelves that fell off the wall, doors that stuck in the winter and let in draughts in the summer, electrical wiring that blew the fuses. She had never directly benefited from the one skill he had: sleuthing. She was entitled to it now. He would find her killer, and to hell with the problems it raised.

    * * *

    His spirits improved. He was putting his career on the line and maybe his life. Bugger that, he thought. This is the right decision. I refuse to be sidelined. She's my wife and no one can make me walk away from her.
    At home that evening he opened a can of lager and dug about in the freezer and cooked himself a satisfying meal of one of Steph's beef casseroles with fresh potatoes and carrots. He watched a repeat of Fatuity Towers on TV and smiled for the first time in weeks.
    Towards midnight, he woke in the armchair and realised he'd dozed off. He'd been dreaming, an anxious, vivid dream of being shot in the leg by an invisible man with a gun. Of limping away and feeling more shots, and dripping blood. The shots fitted the film that was running