{"product_id":"cop-to-corpse-isbn-9781616952297","title":"Cop to Corpse","description":"“Next to Jane Austen, Peter Lovesey is the writer the tourist board of Bath, England, extols most proudly . . . The enduring draw of the Peter Diamond books derives both from the beguiling Bath cityscape and the brusque character of Diamond himself.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePC Harry Trasker is the third policeman in the Bath area to be shot dead in less than twelve weeks. The assassinations are the work of a sniper who seems to be everywhere and nowhere at once, always a step ahead.The younger detectives od their best with what little evidence he leaves, but they're no match for this murderer and his merciless agenda. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond is assigned to the case, he begins to find curious connections between the dead officers after talking to their widows. But then a chilling encounter with the killer leaves Diamond in the lurch and the sniper in the wind. Things get even more complicated when the evidence starts to suggest that the killer might be one of Britain's finest--a theory unpopular among Diamond's colleagues. Can Diamond manage to capture an elusive and increasingly dangerous killer while keeping his team from losing faith in him?\u003cb\u003eCrime Writers' Association Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement Recipient \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e Mystery Writers of America 2018 Grandmaster\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eCop to Corpse\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeadly Pleasures Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e’s Best Mystery-Crime Novels of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Witty and engaging.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Next to Jane Austen, Peter Lovesey is the writer the tourist board of Bath, England, extols most proudly . . . The enduring draw of the Peter Diamond books derives both from the beguiling Bath cityscape and the brusque character of Diamond himself.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“One of [Peter Lovesey's] best . . . If you’re not already a fan of Lovesey and Diamond, start here.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eGlobe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Nail-biting . . . Lovesey leavens the suspense with Diamond’s trademark gallows humor, and closes with one of his cleverest solutions.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The 12th book in the tremendously entertaining Peter Diamond series, and there isn’t a clunker in the bunch.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Lovesey] is still at the top of his game.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Laced with the surprises . . . [Lovesey has] earned the right to innovate in his genre, and he pushes narrative boundaries and pulls it off. No one is better at mixing puzzle and procedural.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Open Letters Monthly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nobody but Lovesey could thump out a gritty procedural yet instill Bath with so much charm and history that readers will have to put it on their bucket lists.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“Well-crafted.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You want a novel written by a master of his craft . . . You want Peter Lovesey’s latest Peter Diamond investigation, \u003ci\u003eCop to Corpse\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eShots Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eCop to Corpse\u003c\/i\u003e is a great introduction to a memorable cop and his talented crew.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHuntington News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for The Peter Diamond series\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Peter Diamond is impatient, belligerent, cunning, insightful, foul, laugh-out-loud funny . . . A superb series.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Louise Penny\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m jealous of everyone discovering Lovesey and Diamond for the first time—you have a wonderful backlist to catch up on. Me, all I can do is wait for the next book.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Sara Paretsky\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What'll it be today? A knotty puzzle mystery? A fast-paced police procedural? Something more high-toned, with a bit of wit? With the British author Peter Lovesey, there's no need to make those agonizing decisions, because his books have it all.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Mr. Lovesey's narrative is swift, but he takes time out for local color and abundant humor, the latter springing from the book's quirky characters . . . Lovesey is a wizard at mixing character-driven comedy with realistic-to-grim suspense. And in a writing career spanning four decades, he has created a stylish and varied body of work.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Next to Jane Austen, Peter Lovesey is the writer the tourist board of Bath, England, extols most proudly . . . The enduring draw of the Peter Diamond books derives both from the beguiling Bath cityscape and the brusque character of Diamond himself.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003c\/b\u003ePeter Lovesey is the author of more than thirty highly praised mystery novels. He has been awarded the CWA Gold and Silver Daggers, the Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement, the \u003ci\u003eStrand Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards, and many other honors. He lives in West Sussex, England.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHero to zero.\u003cbr\u003eCop to corpse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne minute PC Harry Tasker is strolling up Walcot Street, Bath,\u003cbr\u003eon foot patrol. The next he is shot through the head. No scream,\u003cbr\u003eno struggle, no last words. He is picked off, felled, dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shooting activates an alarm over one of the shops nearby,\u003cbr\u003ean ear-splitting ring certain to wake everyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNormally at this time on a Sunday morning – around 4 a.m. – the\u003cbr\u003estreets of Bath are silent. The nightclubs close officially at three.\u003cbr\u003eThe last of the revellers have dispersed. PC Tasker was on his way\u003cbr\u003eback to the police station after checking that Club XL was quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis body lies in a bow shape under the light of a street lamp on\u003cbr\u003ethe flagstone pavement, a small puddle of blood forming under\u003cbr\u003ethe head. His chequered cap is upturned nearby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarry Tasker is the third police officer murdered in Avon and\u003cbr\u003eSomerset in twelve weeks. The others, like him, were shot while\u003cbr\u003eon foot patrol. A huge operation to identify the sniper has come\u003cbr\u003eto nothing. All the police know for certain is that the victims were\u003cbr\u003eshot by someone using a high velocity assault rifle that fires 5.56\u003cbr\u003ex 45mm cartridges. The killings and the hunt for the so-called\u003cbr\u003eSomerset Sniper have been splashed in headlines across the nation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody else is on the street at this hour. This is the pattern.\u003cbr\u003eThe killing is done at night. The victims are discovered eventually\u003cbr\u003eby some early riser, a milkman, a dog owner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut today there is a difference. In a flat above one of the shops\u003cbr\u003ein Walcot Street, a hand grabs a phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 999 call is taken at the communications centre in Portishead,\u003cbr\u003elogged at 4.09 a.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Which service do you need: police, fire or ambulance?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Ambulance, for sure. And police. There’s a guy lying in the street\u003cbr\u003ehere. I heard this sound like a gunshot a minute ago and looked\u003cbr\u003eout and there he was. He’s not moving. I think he’s a policeman.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother police officer. The operator is trained to assess critical\u003cbr\u003einformation and act on it calmly, yet even she takes a sharp breath.\u003cbr\u003e‘Where are you speaking from?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe caller gives the address and his name and in the emergency\u003cbr\u003eroom the location is flashed on screen. An all-units call. Within\u003cbr\u003eminutes all available response cars and an ambulance are heading\u003cbr\u003efor the stretch of Walcot Street near Beehive Yard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA new shooting is terrible news, but the speed of this alert gives\u003cbr\u003ethe police the best chance yet of detaining the sniper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalcot Street was created by the Romans. It is believed to have\u003cbr\u003eformed a small section of the Fosse Way, the unswerving road that\u003cbr\u003elinked the west country to the Midlands. It runs north to south\u003cbr\u003efor a third of a mile, parallel to the River Avon, from St Swithin’s\u003cbr\u003eChurch – where Jane Austen’s parents were married in 1764 – to St\u003cbr\u003eMichael’s, where it morphs into Northgate Street. Located outside\u003cbr\u003ethe old city walls, Walcot was once a village independent of Bath\u003cbr\u003eand still has the feel of a place apart. It was always the city’s lumber\u003cbr\u003eroom, housing, in its time, tram sheds, a flea market, slaughterhouses,\u003cbr\u003ea foundry, a women’s prison and an isolation hospital for\u003cbr\u003evenereal diseases. Now it goes in for shops of character and variable\u003cbr\u003echarm such as Jack and Danny’s Fancy Dress Hire; Bath Sewing\u003cbr\u003eMachine Service; Yummy House; Bath Aqua Theatre of Glass; and\u003cbr\u003eAppy Daze, Bath’s Premium Hemporium.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first police car powers up the street, blues and twos going.\u003cbr\u003eBy now some local people in nightclothes are grouped around\u003cbr\u003ethe body. Two officers fling open their car doors and dash over to\u003cbr\u003etheir shot colleague as more cars arrive from the other direction.\u003cbr\u003eThe ambulance snakes through and the paramedics take over, but\u003cbr\u003eanyone can see Harry Tasker is beyond help. His personal radio,\u003cbr\u003eattached to his tunic, eerily emits someone else’s voice relaying\u003cbr\u003einformation about his shooting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA real voice cuts in: ‘Let’s have some order here. For a start,\u003cbr\u003ewill somebody stop that fucking alarm.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKen Lockton is the senior man at the scene and must direct\u003cbr\u003ethe operation. ‘Senior’ is a contradiction in terms. Inspector\u003cbr\u003eLockton is not yet thirty, came quickly through the ranks and\u003cbr\u003epassed his promotion exam at the end of last year. He wouldn’t\u003cbr\u003ebe the first choice to deal with a major incident, or the second,\u003cbr\u003eor even the tenth, but he’s the man on duty. As the uniformed\u003cbr\u003einspector lowest in the pecking order he gets more night shifts\u003cbr\u003ethan anyone else. He knew Harry Tasker well and is shocked by\u003cbr\u003ethe killing, yet can’t let that affect his handling of the incident.\u003cbr\u003eLockton knows he must suppress all emotion, lead by example,\u003cbr\u003eand set the right procedures in motion. Inside him, every pulse\u003cbr\u003eis throbbing, and not just because another policeman has been\u003cbr\u003eshot. His strap-brown eyes are wide, eager. He doesn’t mind anyone\u003cbr\u003eknowing he’s a career man, a high flyer aiming for executive\u003cbr\u003erank. This is a thumping great chance for glory, the best chance\u003cbr\u003eanyone has had to bag the sniper. And he hasn’t got long. As\u003cbr\u003esoon as Headquarters get their act together they will send some\u003cbr\u003ehotshot detective to take over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe men available to Lockton aren’t exactly the A team. Like\u003cbr\u003ehim, they happen to be on the night shift, almost at the end of\u003cbr\u003eit, ready for sleep, stumbling bleary-eyed out of patrol cars and\u003cbr\u003eminibuses uncertain what their duties will be. He must make effective\u003cbr\u003euse of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gets one success. The jangling alarm is silenced.\u003cbr\u003eHe grabs a loud-hailer and begins issuing orders. No one must\u003cbr\u003ebe in any doubt who is in charge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first imperative is to seal the crime scene. A stretch of the\u003cbr\u003estreet for about a hundred yards is closed to traffic by police cars\u003cbr\u003eparked laterally at either end. Cones and police tape reinforce the\u003cbr\u003ecordon. While this is being done, Lockton assesses the location. If\u003cbr\u003ethe sniper is still in the area the local geography will hamper him.\u003cbr\u003eBehind the row of small shops on the side where PC Tasker lies\u003cbr\u003eis the river, deep and steeply banked. Not much chance of escape\u003cbr\u003ethere. On the other side of Walcot Street is a twenty-foot high\u003cbr\u003eretaining wall. Above it, on massive foundations, are the backs of\u003cbr\u003eBladud Buildings and the Paragon, grand terraces from the mideighteenth\u003cbr\u003ecentury sited at the top of a steep escarpment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe armed response team arrives by van. They were sent automatically\u003cbr\u003ewhen the seriousness of the alert was known and they are\u003cbr\u003ehere in their black body armour and bearing their Heckler \u0026amp; Koch\u003cbr\u003eG36 subcarbines. Ken Lockton, glowing with importance, tells the\u003cbr\u003esenior man he wants stop points on all conceivable escape routes\u003cbr\u003efrom the sectioned-off area.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe also has work for his sleep-deprived army of unarmed men\u003cbr\u003eand women. Residents disturbed by the noise and coming to their\u003cbr\u003efront doors will find officers standing guard. They will be told to\u003cbr\u003elock up and stay inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother group is sent to make a search of Beehive Yard, on\u003cbr\u003ethe river side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo Not Cross\u003c\/i\u003e tape is used to enclose the area around the body.\u003cbr\u003eLater a crime scene tent will be erected. The police surgeon is\u003cbr\u003ealready examining the body, a necessary formality. He’s a local\u003cbr\u003eGP. The forensic pathologist will follow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 999 call originated from a flat above a charity shop and\u003cbr\u003eLockton goes in with a female officer to question the informant,\u003cbr\u003ea first year undergraduate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePonytail, glasses, pale, spotty face and a wisp of beard fit the\u003cbr\u003estudent stereotype. The young guy, who gives his name as Damon\u003cbr\u003eRichards, is in a black dressing gown. The questioning is sharp\u003cbr\u003econsidering that he raised the alert. Lockton knows that people\u003cbr\u003ewho call the emergency number are not always public-spirited.\u003cbr\u003eThey may well be implicated in what happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Take me through it. You heard gunfire, right? Where were\u003cbr\u003eyou – in bed?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Actually, no. I was at my desk, studying. If I wake early, that’s\u003cbr\u003ewhat I do. I had a book open and I was making notes.’ He is tiresomely\u003cbr\u003eslow of speech.\u003cbr\u003e‘What woke you – a noise?’\u003cbr\u003e‘If you really want to know, I needed a pee. Then I was awake, so\u003cbr\u003eI started to work. Ten or twenty minutes after, I heard the shooting.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Where were you when you heard it?’\u003cbr\u003e‘I told you. At my desk. Over there by the window.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe room is typical of early nineteenth century Bath houses,\u003cbr\u003ehigh-ceilinged, corniced, spacious. And typical of the twentyfirst\u003cbr\u003ecentury, it is in use as a bedsit, crammed with self-assembly\u003cbr\u003efurniture. The desk is hard against the sash window and books\u003cbr\u003eare stacked on it. One book is open and there is a notepad\u003cbr\u003ebeside it.\u003cbr\u003e‘With the curtain drawn?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Yes. I heard the gunfire and didn’t know what it was so I pulled\u003cbr\u003eback the curtain and saw the guy lying there. He wasn’t moving.\u003cbr\u003eThat’s when I phoned. I didn’t go out to him because I was scared,\u003cbr\u003eto be honest. Is he dead?’\u003cbr\u003e‘You heard more than one shot?’\u003cbr\u003e‘I think so.’\u003cbr\u003e‘What do you mean – “think so”? You’d know if there was more\u003cbr\u003ethan one.’\u003cbr\u003e‘There could have been an echo.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Do you have any sense of where the shooting came from? Was\u003cbr\u003eit close?’\u003cbr\u003e‘It sounded bloody close to me. Other people must have heard it.’\u003cbr\u003e‘The difference is that you were already awake. Was the gunfire\u003cbr\u003efrom out in the street, would you say?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Well, obviously.’\u003cbr\u003e‘As distinct from one of these houses?’\u003cbr\u003e‘I get you. I couldn’t say that. How could I tell?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Do you remember if there was a vehicle nearby?’\u003cbr\u003e‘There are some parking spaces that get filled up quickly. Otherwise\u003cbr\u003eit’s double yellow lines all the way.’\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m not talking about parked cars, for God’s sake. Did you hear\u003cbr\u003eanything after the shots, like a car or a motorbike moving off?’\u003cbr\u003e‘I don’t remember any. I could be wrong. I was in shock, to be\u003cbr\u003ehonest.’\u003cbr\u003e‘You keep saying “to be honest”. You’d better be honest with me,\u003cbr\u003eyoung man. We’ll need a written statement from you. Everything\u003cbr\u003eyou remember.’ Lockton nods to the constable and leaves her to\u003cbr\u003estart the paperwork.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is still before 4.30 a.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReinforcements are arriving all the time. Lockton knows he\u003cbr\u003ecould find himself replaced any minute as the Senior Investigating\u003cbr\u003eOfficer. He needs to make his opportunity count, and soon. He\u003cbr\u003emoved over to where the police surgeon has now stepped back\u003cbr\u003efrom the body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shooting fits the pattern of the previous attacks. The entry\u003cbr\u003ewound is above the right ear. The bullet must have fragmented\u003cbr\u003einside the skull, shattering much of the opposite side of the head.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not a sight you want to linger over.\u003cbr\u003e‘Nothing I can tell you that isn’t obvious. A single bullet wound.’\u003cbr\u003e‘We think there may have been more than one shot,’ Lockton\u003cbr\u003esays.\u003cbr\u003e‘Have you found other bullets, then?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Not yet. Other priorities. Is there any way of telling the direction\u003cbr\u003eof the shots?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Depends where he was when he was hit. The bullet entered here,\u003cbr\u003equite high up on the right temple, and you can see that most of\u003cbr\u003ethe tissue damage is lower down on the opposite side. That could\u003cbr\u003ebe an angle for you to work with.’\u003cbr\u003e‘You’re talking about the trajectory?’\u003cbr\u003e‘That’s for you to work out. I’m only here to examine the body.’\u003cbr\u003e‘A high velocity bullet?’\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m a doctor, not a gun expert.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKen Lockton goes into deduction mode. ‘It’s unlikely the shooting\u003cbr\u003ewas from ground level, so it’s a good bet he fired from above\u003cbr\u003eus, like a window over one of the shops.’ He’s pleased with that.\u003cbr\u003eCID would approve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘In that case, he would have been walking away from the town\u003cbr\u003ecentre, towards Walcot.’\u003cbr\u003eLockton isn’t sure now. He betrays some of the tension he feels\u003cbr\u003eby chewing his thumbnail. ‘The right side, you say.’\u003cbr\u003e‘You can see for yourself.’\u003cbr\u003eActually he’s seen more than he wants to. He doesn’t need to\u003cbr\u003elook again to know where the bullet entered. He gives a nervous\u003cbr\u003elaugh. ‘His shift was nearly over. He should have been heading the\u003cbr\u003eopposite way, back towards Manvers Street nick.’\u003cbr\u003e‘So?’\u003cbr\u003e‘If you’re right, the killer wasn’t on the shop side. He must\u003cbr\u003ehave been somewhere behind us.’ He turns to look again at that\u003cbr\u003emassive brick rampart along the west side of the street, a far cry\u003cbr\u003efrom the cleaned-up stone structures that grace most of the city.\u003cbr\u003eBlackened by two centuries of pollution, the wall is tall enough\u003cbr\u003eand grim enough to enclose a prison.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA disused Victorian fountain is recessed into the brickwork\u003cbr\u003eunder an arch flanked by granite columns. When the market\u003cbr\u003eacross the street thrived, the trough must have been a place where\u003cbr\u003ethirsty horses were watered after delivering goods. Its modern\u003cbr\u003euse is as a flowerbed – with insufficient cover for a gunman to\u003cbr\u003ecrouch in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m leaving,’ the police surgeon says. ‘I’ve pronounced him\u003cbr\u003edead. There’s nothing more to keep me here.’\u003cbr\u003eLockton is too absorbed to answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeft of the fountain his eyes light on an ancient flight of steps\u003cbr\u003eleading up to Bladud Buildings. Is that where the shot was fired\u003cbr\u003efrom? The gunman could have made his escape up there and be\u003cbr\u003ein a different street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis heart-rate quickening, Lockton crosses for a closer inspection,\u003cbr\u003eruns halfway up the steps and at once discovers a difficulty.\u003cbr\u003eIt is far too narrow. To have fired from a height the sniper needs\u003cbr\u003eto have been at least this far up, but the tall sides mask the view.\u003cbr\u003eYou can’t see the fallen man from here. The sniper would have\u003cbr\u003eneeded to wait for his victim to draw level across the street. The\u003cbr\u003eshooting from the steps didn’t happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCursing, Lockton descends, returns to the middle of the street,\u003cbr\u003estares at that long expanse of wall and gets a better idea. Up to\u003cbr\u003enow he has accepted the structure without fully taking it in. Now\u003cbr\u003ehe can see that the brickwork isn’t entirely solid. At intervals there\u003cbr\u003eare cavities where entire bricks are missing. Maybe they are meant\u003cbr\u003efor drainage. They look like spy-holes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr sniper points.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe holes go in a long way. Beer cans have been stuffed into\u003cbr\u003esome within reach. You could put your whole arm into them. It’s\u003cbr\u003ehard to tell how far back they go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe has assumed up to now that solid earth is behind the wall.\u003cbr\u003eStill thinking about the possibility, he steps back for a longer look\u003cbr\u003eand some way to the right of the fountain notices a door and\u003cbr\u003ewindow spaces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA lock-up. It belongs to a local firm that salvages and retails\u003cbr\u003emasonry and statuary.\u003cbr\u003eHis spirits surge.\u003cbr\u003ePadlocks and hasps would be no great problem for a committed\u003cbr\u003eassassin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe orders two pairs of armed officers to force the lock-up door.\u003cbr\u003eThe window spaces would be ideal sniper-points, allowing a clear\u003cbr\u003eview of the street and a human target walking by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOverhead, the police helicopter hovers, more proof of the seriousness\u003cbr\u003eof this operation. This is the biggest moment of Ken\u003cbr\u003eLockton’s career. All of this is under his command, the chopper,\u003cbr\u003ethe cars, the bobbies stepping down from minibuses, the gun team\u003cbr\u003eyelling, ‘Armed police,’ as they storm the lock-up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doors are kicked in and the interior searched by flashlight.\u003cbr\u003eIn a situation as tense as this, violent action is welcomed by the\u003cbr\u003eteam. Inside are large chunks of masonry and statuary harvested\u003cbr\u003efrom old buildings all over Somerset, griffins, dragons and hounds.\u003cbr\u003eSeveral are large enough to hide behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it ends in anticlimax. There’s nothing to show that the lockup\u003cbr\u003ewas entered recently. The team steps out, deflated.\u003cbr\u003e4.40 a.m.\u003cbr\u003eLockton feels the pressure. For all he knows, the sniper could\u003cbr\u003ebe inside one of the shops or flats holding people hostage. Each\u003cbr\u003edwelling will need to be checked, every resident questioned as a\u003cbr\u003epossible witness, but unless something happens quickly this will\u003cbr\u003ehave to be a later phase in the operation, after he hands over\u003cbr\u003eresponsibility. Headquarters have already radioed to say CID are\u003cbr\u003eon their way and will take over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stares at the wall, the sodding great wall. Logically that was\u003cbr\u003ethe side the bullets came from if one penetrated PC Tasker’s right\u003cbr\u003etemple. Or was he facing the other direction for some obscure\u003cbr\u003ereason?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis gaze travels up the rows of blackened bricks. There isn’t\u003cbr\u003eenough daylight to see properly and the height goes well above\u003cbr\u003estreetlamp level. He asks for a flashlight and picks out an iron railing\u003cbr\u003ealong the top. ‘What’s up there, Steve?’ he asks Sergeant Stillman,\u003cbr\u003eone of the patrolling drivers who had answered the all-units call.\u003cbr\u003eThe two were sergeants together for four years. Stillman is worth\u003cbr\u003ehis stripes, but in Lockton’s opinion won’t ever make inspector.\u003cbr\u003eNo officer qualities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Behind the rail? Gardens. They’re all the way along. They belong\u003cbr\u003eto the houses in the terrace.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Gardens?’ Fresh thoughts stampede Lockton’s brain. He can’t\u003cbr\u003esee anything except overhanging foliage from down in the street,\u003cbr\u003ebut he is visualising a gun position.\u003cbr\u003e‘They’ll be roof gardens really. Just a few feet of soil.’\u003cbr\u003e‘How would he get up there?’\u003cbr\u003e‘He wouldn’t, unless he lived in one of the houses. He’d have\u003cbr\u003eto come through someone’s flat.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Drive me up there.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Now?’ Stillman doesn’t appreciate that Lockton wants a personal\u003cbr\u003etriumph out of this.\u003cbr\u003e‘Get the car, for fuck’s sake.’\u003cbr\u003eHe could just as easily run up the steps. It would be quicker.\u003cbr\u003eSergeant Stillman decides this is about power. Ken Lockton is\u003cbr\u003easserting his rank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA silver-haired sergeant is deputed to take over at street level.\u003cbr\u003eWithout another word Sergeant Stillman fetches the car and\u003cbr\u003edoes the short drive as ordered, ignoring the one-way system by\u003cbr\u003eturning at Saracen Street and back down Broad Street to park on\u003cbr\u003ethe front side of the terrace, level with the cast-iron bollards at\u003cbr\u003ethe top of the steps – the same steps Lockton could have used in\u003cbr\u003ehalf the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the right of the steps is Bladud Buildings. The Paragon is\u003cbr\u003eto the left. There’s little difference. It’s all four or five floors high\u003cbr\u003eand Georgian neo-classical in style: entablatures, pediments and\u003cbr\u003ecornices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLockton stands by the car with arms folded, trying to understand\u003cbr\u003ehow this building is grounded on the steep slope. It isn’t easy to\u003cbr\u003evisualise from this side. ‘There have got to be basements,’ he tells\u003cbr\u003eSteve Stillman. ‘The ground floor is going to be above the level\u003cbr\u003eof the garden.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe steps up to one of the entrances and looks at the array\u003cbr\u003eof bell-pushes on the entryphone system. Each terraced house\u003cbr\u003emust have been a sole residence once. Now there are flats on\u003cbr\u003eall floors. Beside each button is the name of the tenant. He\u003cbr\u003etries the lowest.\u003cbr\u003eThrough the grill a weary voice says, ‘Chrissake, what time is this?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Police,’ says Lockton.\u003cbr\u003e‘Fuck off,’ says the voice.\u003cbr\u003e‘That’s what we get for safeguarding the great British public,’\u003cbr\u003eLockton comments to Stillman. ‘We’ll try another place.’\u003cbr\u003eStillman is frowning. ‘It could be him.’\u003cbr\u003e‘I don’t think so. He wouldn’t answer, would he?’\u003cbr\u003eThere was some logic in that.\u003cbr\u003eThey study the bell-system two doors along. Someone has been\u003cbr\u003eefficient here. Each name is typed on white card rather than\u003cbr\u003ehandwritten on odd scraps of paper. ‘Not this one,’ Lockton says.\u003cbr\u003e‘Why not?’ Sergeant Stillman is starting to question Lockton’s\u003cbr\u003edeductive skills. By his own estimation, the house must overlook\u003cbr\u003ethe place where Harry Tasker’s body lies.\u003cbr\u003e‘Because it’s not what I’m looking for, not what the sniper would\u003cbr\u003elook for.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe finds it at the next house, handwritten names for flats 1, 2\u003cbr\u003eand 3 and a blank for the fourth, the lowest. He presses 3.\u003cbr\u003eAfter a long pause, a woman’s voice. ‘Who is this?’\u003cbr\u003e‘The police.’\u003cbr\u003e‘How do I know that?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Look out of your front window. You’ll see our car.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Hang on a mo.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePresently they are admitted to apartment 3 by a young woman\u003cbr\u003ein blue winceyette pyjamas. She rakes a hand through her blonde\u003cbr\u003ehair and tells them it’s early in the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStillman bites back the strong comment he’d like to make after\u003cbr\u003ebeing up all night.\u003cbr\u003eLockton asks who occupies the flat below.\u003cbr\u003e‘Nobody,’ the blonde says. ‘It’s been empty some time, far as\u003cbr\u003eI know.’\u003cbr\u003e‘You haven’t heard any sounds?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Tonight?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Any time.’\u003cbr\u003eA shake of the head. ‘There was a noise like an alarm down in\u003cbr\u003ethe street a short time ago, or I think there was. It woke me. Then\u003cbr\u003eI drifted off again.’\u003cbr\u003e‘How do we get into the basement?’\u003cbr\u003e‘The what? Do you mean the garden flat? The stairs in the hall.’\u003cbr\u003eThe two policemen find their way down. The door is locked.\u003cbr\u003e‘Force it, Steve.’\u003cbr\u003eSergeant Stillman aims a kick at the lock. The door gives at the\u003cbr\u003esecond try. ‘Shouldn’t we get armed assistance?’\u003cbr\u003eLockton doesn’t listen. ‘Give me your torch.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’s already inside, still living his dream of instant fame. The\u003cbr\u003eplace has the smell of long disuse and the lights don’t work. He\u003cbr\u003esenses that the sniper isn’t here. Through what must be the living\u003cbr\u003eroom – though the place is unfurnished – he can see a small\u003cbr\u003esunroom, too poky to call a conservatory. Beyond is the garden,\u003cbr\u003eovergrown, a fine crop of stinging nettles waist-high and bedraggled\u003cbr\u003ewith the overnight dew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe steps through the sunroom and notes that the door isn’t\u003cbr\u003ebolted from inside. Not a huge security risk, but any landlord worthy\u003cbr\u003eof the name would surely take the trouble to secure an empty flat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf nothing else, he’ll get a view of Walcot Street from the end of\u003cbr\u003ethe garden. Parting the nettles, he moves on, following the torch\u003cbr\u003ebeam, and then stops.\u003cbr\u003e‘Jesus.’\u003cbr\u003eAhead, resting against the railing, is an assault rifle.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304969097445,"sku":"NP9781616952297","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616952297.jpg?v=1767724116","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/cop-to-corpse-isbn-9781616952297","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}