Down Among the Dead Men (17 page)

She decided to make for the far end of the room, but hadn't taken a step when her arm was grabbed and gripped.

Geraint's words were clear this time. “Where ya going, bitch?”

Her worst fear.

“Let go of me. You're hurting.”

“What gives?”

“Nothing gives for you, Geraint. If you don't let go of me, I'll scream.”

“Be my guest.” He was grinning at the prospect. He had horrible teeth.

But his grip on her arm had loosened and she jerked free and spilled pineapple juice down his trousers. She dropped the glass and left him swearing. In panic, she weaved between dancers without even looking to see who they were.

“Ella?”

“Oh my God!”

Face to face with Tom.

This wasn't remotely what she'd planned.

He said, “It is you. I saw you from a distance and thought I must be mistaken.”

All she could manage was a stupid twitchy grin.

“How did you hear about this?”

“One of the class.”

“And you thought . . . ?”

She tried to make light of it. “Just for a laugh.”

“A laugh?” He rubbed his chin, struggling for words. “It's not . . . I'm supposed to be . . . Did any of the others . . . ?”

“I'm here on my own.”

He looked at the phone in her hand. “But you've been texting.”

She bit her lip and said nothing.

“You have, haven't you?”

She nodded. “They won't come. They're too scared. Please don't send me home.”

He placed his hand in the small of her back and steered her to a dark corner of the room where some of the easels were stacked. “The thing is,” he said when they were as private as it was possible to be in that crowded room, “it's a get-together for the artists and some other adult friends of ours. If I'd wanted you here—”

“You'd have invited me,” she said. She'd never stood so close to him before. They were practically touching. She felt a tingling sensation inside.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Ferdie brought me pineapple juice.”

“Are you sure no one gave you wine?”

“I know the flavour of pineapple, silly.”

“Where is it now?”

“I dropped the glass.”

“You don't look right. Are you feeling okay?”

“Sure.” She wanted to say she was feeling better than okay. The warmth inside was coursing through her and her head felt kind of weird, but pleasantly weird.

“Have you taken something?”

She stared blankly at him and couldn't stop her lips curving a little.

“Ella, concentrate.”

There wasn't anything better to say than, “It's a free world.”

“You have. Your eyes are huge. What have you taken?”

“One teeny-weeny relaxer, that's all.”

“Christ almighty. Are you hot?”

She giggled. “Hot—you bet I am.” On the impulse she raised her hands to his face to pull him closer. She felt incredibly confident. “How hot are you?”

He grasped her wrists and held them. So you want to play hard to get, she thought. She thrust her chest forward, but he swung her round and steered her between the dancers and towards the door. “You need to cool down. What was it—Ecstasy?”

She nodded. She didn't mind Tom being masterful with her. He could take her anywhere he liked.

Outside, the night air was pleasantly cool. Tom had his arm around her shoulders and was walking her across the yard towards the house. She was laughing to herself. Jem and the others would wet themselves if they knew what was happening to her.

“How many did you take?”

“Only one. That's enough.”

“Do you have any more?”

“Why? Would you like one?”

“I'm serious. It's dangerous stuff. How do you feel now? Are you any cooler?”

“Where are we going?”

“Ella, did you hear what I asked?”

“This is nice, you looking after me.”

“How did you get here?”

“Taxi.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Phone.” His schoolteacher voice.

She handed it to him.

They'd reached the house. He helped her up a couple of steps into a kitchen with a huge old-fashioned metal sink. Still with his arm around her, he moved her towards it and ran the cold water. It gushed and splashed.

“I'm not sick,” she said.

“You need to cool down. You get too hot after taking E and it can kill you. Lean forward.”

He splashed water against her face and neck. The shock was extreme at first, but she enjoyed the feel of his hands on her cheeks and neck. She didn't mind her make-up being ruined. Her hair was getting quite wet as well. He filled a glass with water and ordered her to drink.

She obeyed because it was Tom. She wouldn't have drunk frigging water for anyone else.

He handed her a towel and she dabbed her face. “What do I look like?”

“You don't look normal, I can tell you that.”

“Don't want to look normal. I'm a goth.”

“When are you expected home?”

“Some time tomorrow. Sleepover.” She giggled. “They don't know who with.”

He removed his arm from her and she swayed or the kitchen swayed. She wasn't sure which.

“Ella,” he said, “you need to lie down. This can last some hours.” He steadied her and moved her out of the kitchen and across a hallway to another room.

“Are we going to bed?” she asked.

He didn't answer. Deeds are better than words, she thought as he led her across a carpeted floor to a huge sofa. They were in a sitting room bigger than any she'd seen before. She sank among the cushions. He lifted her legs, so that she was fully stretched out.

A kiss would be a start, she thought.

Instead, he fetched some kind of throw and draped it over her.

“Have a sleep now. I'll look in later.”

18

“W
hy do you want to speak to this vicar?”

Georgina was back and letting Diamond know she was still on top of the job. She'd caught him emerging from the breakfast area after a full English and he'd been rash enough to say he'd like to interview the Reverend Conybeare.

The big detective picked his words carefully. “He had more to say about Joe Rigden than anyone else. I was reading his statement last night. Went through it line by line. Hen Mallin interviewed him herself.”

“And?”

“I'm not sure she asked the right questions.”

Her eyes were the size of the two fried eggs he'd just consumed. “Oh my word. Are you thinking she may have held back?”

“Soft-pedalled . . . possibly.”

The “possibly” made no impression on Georgina. She didn't deal in uncertainties. “Because she already knew her niece was involved in the murder? That's appalling.”

“I'm not a hundred per cent on this.”

“But you have your suspicions? Peter, you're absolutely right. We have a duty to look at this again. I'll join you.”

He'd guessed she would want to be in on the act. He said at once, “Both of us taking this on might not be the best use of our resources. We really ought to step up the hunt for Jocelyn.”

She was unimpressed and flapped her hand to show it. “That's all in hand. She's already on the PNC as locate-and-trace. Everyone has been informed—all the social agencies and car patrols, sea ports and airports.”

“So we're led to understand.”

Her antennae twitched—or at least her eyebrows did.

“The search is being co-ordinated from here,” Diamond added, “from Chichester CID. Don't you think we ought to make sure there hasn't been soft-pedalling over this as well? Remember who was in charge.”

She caught her breath and mouthed the words, “DCI Mallin.”

“And they're still her team.”

If a sky rocket had shot from Georgina's lips it wouldn't have given a louder whoosh. “That's unthinkable.”

He raised his eyebrows and said nothing and encouraged her to think the unthinkable.

“I'm taking an executive decision,” she said eventually. “We shall divide our resources.”

And that was how Peter Diamond had the use of the police car for the morning.

“Slindon,” he told the driver. “Do you know it?”

“I do, sir. I was brought up there.”

“I'm calling on the vicar.”

“That will be the rector.”

“If you say so.”

“Or the priest. Anglican or Catholic?”

“Two churches, are there?”

“The Catholics have always been strong in the village, even when it was dangerous for them. I'm going back in history, you understand. They had a secret chapel in the roof of a house at one time. Anyone looking for places to hide in Slindon is onto a good thing. Tunnels, priest's holes, they're two a penny.”

Diamond lodged that in his memory. Missing people weren't necessarily dead people. They could be in hiding. “It must be the rector.”

“No problem. I'll take you to the rectory.”

“The Reverend Conybeare.”

“He's not the rector.”

“Then perhaps after all I want the priest.”

“His name isn't Conybeare either. And he doesn't live in Slindon.”

Why was nothing ever simple? “The man I want to see definitely lives here.”

At Diamond's suggestion, the driver contacted Chichester police over the radio. The confusion ended. The Reverend Conybeare was a retired cleric from Dorset who lived in Baycombe Lane.

A postcard-pretty cottage with thatched roof, roses and a low doorway with a marked leftward tilt. The elderly man who opened the door had no tilt, but he was short enough to use the entrance without stooping, which made him not much over five foot. He was in a blue clerical shirt.

Diamond explained who he was and why he was calling.

“You'd better come in, then, Mr. Detective,” Conybeare said. “Mind your head.”

The interior was shadowy, requiring a moment or two for the eyes to adjust. Then some observation—if not detective work—was needed to work out that the tenant had an interest unusual for a man of the cloth. A display cabinet contained a top hat resting on its crown with white gloves displayed on the brim, a pack of playing cards fanned in a perfect arc, silk handkerchiefs, a coil of white rope, a silver revolver and a black wand tipped white at each end. Any uncertainty was dispelled by several posters for magic shows on the wall behind.

“It makes sense if you think about it,” Conybeare said in a world-weary voice suggesting he'd said the same thing many times to visitors. “A major part of my ministry was about miracles.”

“Isn't there a difference?” Diamond said.

This earned a smile. “No magician worthy of the name admits to trickery.”

“I was thinking about the showmanship.”

“Ouch! That's a low blow. You're right, of course. There's no comparison. Shouldn't have made such a profane remark. I'm backsliding in my old age.”

“Well, I hope you have a licence for the handgun.”

“Caught again. I don't.” Without warning, Conybeare opened the cabinet, grabbed the gun, pointed it at his own head and pulled the trigger. There was no report. A spring-loaded flag popped out with the word “BANG” on it.

Diamond tried to look as if he'd fully expected it. “If only they were all like that. Do you give shows?”

“If pressed. But you're not here to see me perform.” Conybeare gestured towards an armchair. “No need to check. It's not a whoopee cushion. I don't do practical jokes.” But could he be believed? This was a playful clergyman.

From the chair Diamond tried to sound a serious note. “After Joe Rigden's violent death in 2007, you were interviewed by the police.”

“I was one of many, I believe.”

“You knew him better than most. At any rate, your statement was longer than anyone else's.”

“That may well be true. I tend to go on a bit.”

“He wasn't your gardener, I understand.”

“I couldn't afford him. I have to do battle with my own little plot, and a battle it is. ‘One is nearer God's heart in a garden . . .' doesn't apply in my case. I'd rather be doing almost anything else.”

“We understand each other, then. I'm no gardener either.”

“Fortunately there's nothing in the scriptures to say we should pull weeds.” He smirked as if he'd just thought of something improper. “On the whole it would have been better if everyone in the Bible had avoided going into gardens. But you asked about Joe. I had a high regard for the man. His violent death was a mystery to us all. He led a good life, from all one could tell.”

“How did you get to meet him?”

“As a local volunteer. There are elderly folk in the village and they appreciate a helping hand with shopping, meals on wheels and so forth. Joe did it from the goodness of his heart. He was a lovely man. He didn't share my faith, but I have to say he was kinder to others than many Christians I could name.”

“What was his religion?”

“He didn't have one. He described himself as a realist. When someone says that to a clergyman it's a bit of a slap in the face.”

“But you still admired him?”

“Couldn't fail to. He was cheerful, honest, reliable, hardworking and mindful of others. He kept most of the Ten Commandments without having to think about them. It was only worshipping God he found impossible.”

“There are plenty like him.”

“Not like Joe. He lived by his principles.”

“It sounds as if you got to know him well. Did he talk much?”

“Not as much as me. We chatted, found our lives overlapped in other ways.”

“Such as?”

“I used to visit several of the properties where he was employed. Garden parties and the like. Being a retired rev, so to speak, I'm on several invitation lists. I was able to admire Joe's handiwork, the stripes the mower made and the state of the flower beds. I'd make a point of complimenting him later.”

“Wasn't he there?”

“At the garden parties? No, in village society, gardeners are classed with hewers of wood and drawers of water.”

“How did he feel about that?”

“He didn't let it bother him. He was a teetotaller, anyway. Parties weren't his scene at all. I suppose he was a throwback to an earlier generation when working men were supposed to know their place and get on with life. Thinking about it, we had that in common as well. For some folk, the clergy are below the salt.”

Diamond didn't go down that avenue. “Did you ever discuss your beliefs with him?”

“On a few occasions. Mostly we agreed to differ. I could tell it was no use trying to convert him.”

“So was he an awkward cuss?”

After a pause, Conybeare said, “That's rather cynical if I may say so.”

“You'll have to make allowance,” Diamond said. “I'm trying hard to think why anyone murdered such a saintly man.”

“It's a mystery to me, too.”

“Sometimes upright men antagonise others without meaning to.”

“Sadly, that is true.”

“You said he knew his place and got on with life. Was that because he felt inferior to the gentry, if I can call them that?”

“You mean the upper crust of the village? Inferior? Certainly not. He'd laugh about their vanities, just as I do.”

“But not to their faces?”

“He didn't go out of his way to be offensive.”

“If pressed—say if one of them accused him of doing shoddy work—would he stand up for himself?”

“Absolutely. He lived by his principles and defended them without fear or favour.”

“Did he have friends?”

“I'm not sure “friends” is the word I would use. People liked him, but he kept them at a distance. He wasn't ever seen in the pub in the days we had one and he didn't join things other than the volunteer group, who functioned mainly as individuals. You might think the horticultural society would have appealed, but Joe wasn't a member.”

“I expect he'd had enough of horticulture, doing it all day. Did he have a hobby, as you do?”

“The magic?” He laughed. “That's peculiar to me and Joe thought it peculiar, too. In fact, he called it trickery. As a joke I once snapped my fingers and produced a bunch of flowers. Flowers for a gardener, get it? They're a paper effect, packed very small, and spring open. He wasn't at all amused. He threw them aside like a piece of waste. He liked his world to be solid and real.”

“Both feet on the ground?”

“Constantly. Well, he may have propped them up of an evening. He worked hard in the day and liked to relax quietly at home.”

“I was reading your original statement and it seems you were one of the last to speak to him.”

“Was I?”

Patiently, Diamond spelt out the facts. “Chichester police stopped a car on the Tuesday evening and found it contained Joe Rigden's body and it was estimated he'd been shot some time in the previous twenty-four hours. He gave you a lift into Chichester, on Sunday, September twenty-third.”

“He was always doing good turns like that.”

“You attended morning service at the cathedral while he spent the time shopping. Do you still recall it?”

“I do. An excellent sermon on the raising of the widow's son.”

“I meant the drive in the car, in particular what was said.”

“Have a heart, superintendent. This was seven years ago.”

“But you remember the sermon.”

“It was the sixteenth Sunday after Trinity. The second lesson is always St Luke on the widow's son. I've preached on it many times.”

Diamond was beginning to wish Georgina had taken over this interview. “You told DCI Mallin there was a difference of opinion in the car.”

“That must be true, then. DCI Mallin—yes, a lady. I remember her questions and very sharp they were. She interviewed me here and gave me the cue to fire my trick gun, just as you did. Good at her job. Firm, but friendly.”

“I'm asking about Joe Rigden.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What was this difference of opinion you had? It isn't clear from the statement.”

His expression changed. “I'm sorry. It was a private conversation, of no conceivable relevance to your investigation. It did neither of us much credit and I prefer to remember Joe in a more positive light.”

“I'm sorry too, but this was the last conversation he's known for certain to have had with anyone. I need to know his state of mind.”

“He wasn't suicidal, if that's what you're thinking.”

“You're withholding information, sir. You may think it has no bearing, but I need to hear it.”

Conybeare gave an impatient sigh. “If you must know, we had words about the sermon I'd heard, a theological matter, so you see it's of no interest to you at all.”

“The miracle of a man raised from the dead?”

“Yes, I told you. Now can we move on?”

“What was the issue?”

“Really, this is too much.”

Diamond was firm with him. “It's not enough.”

Another sigh. “If you must know, it was our old debate about magic. Joe said there was sure to have been a rational explanation for Our Lord bringing the man back to life—the usual thing one gets from disbelievers about people being pronounced dead and then resuscitated. I begged to differ, as I was bound to. I said this was only one of a number of miracles and I accepted it as fact, just as I accepted the feeding of the five thousand. He said as an amateur conjurer I ought to know a clever illusionist can do almost anything. He'd seen a man on television make the Statue of Liberty disappear. I insisted there was a difference between magic and miracles and he got very angry.”