Down Among the Dead Men (21 page)

“At Tom's?” He was all ears.

And Jem was doing what she did best, sharing inside information. “Fortiman House, where he lives. Didn't anyone tell you? Every Saturday we go to his studio and join a group of professional artists he knows. It's so cool. You can see the studio on his website if you want.”

“He has his own website?”

“He's an artist, so it's how he sells his work. In the studio—which is awesome—we get to see what his artist friends are doing and join in. They're so creative and they don't seem to mind us being there.”

“Where's this?”

“Out Boxgrove way. I take my car and some of the others come with me. Anyway, I was telling you about Mel. She's a law unto herself, the only one who ever wanted to talk about the Gibbon. She told us she was missing and her picture was online and we found it on our smartphones. But none of us dreamed Mel would go to the police. Did she find out something she didn't tell us?”

“Doesn't seem likely,” he said. “She came to us for news, out of concern. What happens at these sessions at the house?”

“Art. I mean real, kosher art. It's a lot better than school. The first time there were only three of us: me, Ella and Naseem, but now anyone from our class can go. Sometimes there's a model and sometimes it's still life or we do landscape and stuff in the grounds. The garden is really big.”

“And Tom owns all this?”

A shake of the head. “His dad Ferdie is the owner. He has a business growing orchids.” She laughed. “The first time we mistook him for the gardener.”

“Does Mel enjoy going there as much as the rest of you?”

“She wouldn't come if she didn't. It's not compulsory. Secretly she may be shocked by some of the artists. She's working class and hasn't been about like most of us. They're a bit kooky, some of them, but what do you expect? And she hasn't had to draw a nude model like we did the first week. When I say a model, I mean a man.”

“You don't get that at school.”

“Oh my God, no. The head would have a blue fit. She doesn't know about the life drawing and we're not telling her.”

“When you say some of them are kooky, what do you mean exactly?”

“A bit kooky. They're not, like, out of their heads. They're artists, about ten of them, all ages. One is Charcoal Charlotte and by the end of the session she looks like she's been down a mine. There's a vicar they call the Bish and a creepy guy with starey eyes who paints with knives. Get the picture?”

“You're doing well.”

“It's a good laugh actually. Ella could tell you more.”

“Who's Ella? You mentioned her just now.”

“My best mate. She's a goth and she's up for anything.”

“Another friend of Mel's, then?”

“Sure.”

“Is Ella in today?”

“She is, but she's not at her best. She had yesterday off school and she's not saying why.”

“But you know?”

Her small mouth twitched into a smile.

“You have your suspicions?”

“I'm not grassing on my best friend.”

It's a little late for that, he thought. “Is Ella likely to open up with me?”

“With a cop? No way.”

21

G
eorgina, white-faced and shaking, said she needed a strong coffee, so they found their way to the canteen, known in this aspiring school as the dining room.

“That woman! You could have warned me.”

“I thought I did,” Diamond said. “Was it hard work?”

“Extremely.”

“Did you tell her your theory about Miss Gibbon seducing the girl?”

“Please.” There was a prim intake of breath. “There are children in this school.”

He was tempted, but he made no comment.

Georgina glanced about her and decided it was safe to continue. “Yes, I was very frank and she hadn't even heard me out before she was telling me I had a mind like a sewer and how dare I sully the reputation of the school she'd worked so hard to lift to new levels.”

“What did you say to that?”

“To be truthful, Peter, one of my red mists came up and I'm not sure what I did say. I meant to remind her of that biblical text that says that if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us, but it may have come out as something more personal.”

“I bet you gave back as good as you got.”

“She treated me as if I was one of her pupils, and I wasn't having it.”

“Good for you. Did anything useful come out of it?”

“Not really. I was hoping she'd say more about Miss Gibbon and her sexuality, but she refused to discuss her. I suppose it's understandable. A teacher who takes advantage of her position doesn't reflect well on the school. I think the phrase you used about Miss Du Barry was that she's well-guarded, and I can endorse that now.”

“Most head teachers are.”

Georgina puffed out her chest. “People in positions of trust need to be discreet. I—of all people—can appreciate that. We're privy to sensitive information. However, as one top woman speaking to another, I felt entitled to a frank exchange and I didn't get it.”

“Disappointing.”

“Very.”

“But you didn't have much to exchange.”

She shot him a fierce look. “You'd better explain yourself.”

“Well, if you don't mind me saying so, your information isn't of much interest to Miss Du Barry. You need to trade something.”

“And, what, precisely, do you have in mind?”

“She thinks she knows everything that goes on in her school. She doesn't. It's not possible. Next time, you must go in armed with that bit of inside knowledge.”

“Do we have any?”

“We will. We only just arrived here.”

She seemed to understand. “You may be right, Peter. I was so persuaded by my own theory that I failed to see how she would take it.” She ran her fingertip thoughtfully round the rim of her cup. “At least I got rid of some of my pent-up frustration. Perhaps you noticed I haven't been functioning at my best.”

“Haven't you?”

“This fiasco with the head is an example.”

He sensed an embarrassing heart-to-heart coming on. “Maybe you need a round of golf.”

“That isn't likely now,” she said after a wistful sigh. “I rather expected I'd see more of Commander Hahn while we were here, but since that first moonlit walk along West Wittering beach he hasn't got in touch.”

For crying out loud, he thought, she's still smitten with Archie Hahn.

He had a clear memory of the note he'd found among the Rigden papers: “Did all the right things, learned the drill, kept her buttons and shoes clean and never rocked the boat . . . doesn't have a subversive thought in her head.” He could have told Georgina she wouldn't be hearing much more from her old college friend. Good thing, too. What a toe-rag. “If—heaven forbid—anything more damaging should emerge, we can rely on her to miss it altogether.” But this was one bit of knowledge she wasn't going to get, not directly. Against all usual practice, Diamond felt an urge to comfort and protect his boss. It didn't amount to putting an arm around her shoulders, but it was sincere.

The decent thing was to let her down gradually. “I've been frustrated, too.”

“Really?”

“I get the feeling we've been dealt a losing hand.”

“How do you mean?”

“All these missing people. It would suit everyone down here if they stayed missing.” He'd discussed this with Hen, not yet with Georgina.

She blinked. “That can't be true.”

“They're unsolved cases. With all the emphasis on crime figures the murder rate down here would rocket if bodies started being discovered.”

She sat back in her chair with a faraway look as if straining to hear some distant voice.

Diamond said, “When Hen Mallin started to do something about the missing people, she was suspended.”

She reacted as if he'd nudged her in the ribs. “No, no, no. That wasn't why she was suspended.”

“Officially no. Officially she was suspended because an anonymous letter was sent to headquarters. It was received within two weeks of her starting to rock the boat. Isn't that convenient timing? The offence she's charged with—favouring her niece—happened three years before, in 2011.”

There was a pause for thought. “Now that you put it like that . . .” As Georgina's voice trailed away, her look sharpened.

Diamond went on in the same reasonable tone, “With Hen suspended, all the impetus has gone out of the missing persons enquiry. You and I were brought in to deal with the problem over Joss, which is sorted, basically, because Hen admits to it. We're not supposed to make waves about missing persons.”

She gave a nervous, angry sigh. “This is appalling if true. Who would have sent the anonymous letter?”

He spoke as if each word was a pain. “To be really cynical about the whole exercise, it may have been concocted at headquarters.”

“Oh, Peter! That's impossible.”

“I'm thinking they may have known about the misconduct ever since 2011, only because Hen is a good detective they took no action. But when she started agitating about missing persons, she became expendable. She couldn't be gagged, so she had to go.”

Georgina wasn't having it. “I can't accept that. It would show Sussex headquarters in a terrible light.”

“It may not be the whole of headquarters.”

She said as if she was miles away, “I see.”

She didn't see, yet. He left the thought to take root. At some stage she would make the connection with Archie Hahn.

“Meanwhile,” he said, “I've met Miss Gibbon's replacement, a young man called Tom Standforth.”

“A man?”

“A more popular choice with the art students. Their word for him is cool. T-shirt and jeans, hair to his shoulders and his own website.”

“How can that be? I can't imagine Miss Du Barry approving.”

“He seems to have worked his charms on her. He's local, lives with his father at a place called Fortiman House, near Boxgrove.”

“Where's that?”

“About four miles from Slindon.” He snapped his fingers and for a moment his brain was in overdrive. “How do I know that? Yes. One of the gardens Joe Rigden looked after is out there.”

“Not Fortiman House?”

“No, a place belonging to an old lady who was over a hundred. A Mrs. Shah. She's dead now.” He smiled. “It's likely she would be, seven years on.”

“I don't remember hearing anything about this,” Georgina said.

He'd almost given the game away. He remembered he'd learned about Mrs. Shah while visiting Hen in hospital. “Must have been among the statements I was reading.” And it could have been, so it wasn't an out-and-out lie. “Anyway, young Standforth has a studio of his own and invites other artists there, including some of the Priory Park students.”

“And Miss Du Barry knows about this arrangement?”

“Apparently, yes, but she doesn't know they sometimes have a nude male model.”

“Hm.” She had a gleam in her eye. “That would test her liberal principles.”

“I gather it brings on the drawing by leaps and bounds.”

“I'll take your word for that.” She drank the last of her coffee. “While you were in the art room I was speaking on the phone to DI Montacute. They've gone public with the missing girl. He's holding a press conference about now. It will make the national news and her picture will be all over the local television and newspapers.”

“High time. Is he linking this to Miss Gibbon?”

“Apparently not. There's too long an interval since her disappearance. And the media would be sure to turn it into an abduction story. They like nothing better than teachers going off with their students. Other lines of enquiry might get overlooked.”

“Is he handling it right, do you think?”

She held up a warning finger. “We're not going to interfere.”

“I've met the girl,” he said. “It becomes personal.”

“Don't even think about it. Our brief is to pin down the facts about DCI Mallin and her misconduct.”

“And that involves her niece Joss,” he said, “who has also gone missing.”

“But it isn't our job to find these young women, Peter. We're on a fact-finding mission.”

“We won't get the full facts until Joss is found, and Montacute hasn't given me much confidence so far. He'll be even more distracted now.”

“You're like a dog with a bone.”

“I didn't come here to sit around and do nothing.” He looked at the clock above the door. “Break's over. I must get back to my fact-finding. There's another girl to see—Ella the goth, who knows more than anyone.”

“Ella the what?”

“The goth. It's a cult.”

“You be careful.”

“Oh, I will. They say she takes no prisoners.”

22

W
hen Diamond returned to the art room and asked to speak to Ella, he was told apologetically by Tom Standforth that she wasn't there.

“I was told she was in today.”

“That was earlier.”

“Is she allowed to leave midway through the morning?”

“Uh-oh,” one of the class said. “Someone else goes missing.”

“It's not funny,” Jem said, swinging around in her chair. “Mel could be dead for all we know.”

“He's talking about Ella.”

Standforth said to the class in general, “Cool it, people. Did Ella tell anyone where she was going?”

Silence.

“You could try the yard,” he said to Diamond. “That's where her project is. It was too large to assemble in here.”

“And too smelly,” Jem added, to general amusement.

Asked for directions, Standforth gave some and added, “Look for the big black construction. You can't miss it.”

Diamond's law decreed that whenever those last four words were used he was doomed to lose his way. Downstairs at the back of the main building he found a yard where the bins were kept and surplus desks and chairs had been left to take their chance with the elements. It wasn't promising until, against expectation, he saw that for once he'd picked the right route. Rising above the school furniture was a strange creation in the form of a scaled-down mansion with gables and turrets mostly covered in foliage. The onion-shaped cupola at the top of the main tower must have been more than fifteen feet above ground. In outline the whole thing was so dark that it was like a silhouette, undeniably creepy.

On getting closer, he saw that the entire structure was a rickety collection of lobster pots and creels piled on top of each other and lashed together with nylon rope. The cupola was formed from two beehive-shaped pots joined at the base. A creative imagination beyond his own had envisioned this. True, it smelt strongly of bad fish and was better appreciated out of doors, but as a concept based on limited materials it spoke eloquently for its designer. Pity she wasn't around to be congratulated.

He circled this amazing artefact and examined it from several angles. If this was the result of Tom Standforth's teaching, the young man deserved the head's high opinion of him. Yet here it stood in a scrap yard among rubbish bins and unwanted furniture.

He was about to leave when he noticed a movement. A black cat was inside, among the lobster pots, preening itself. Seeing him, it gave a plaintive cry that anyone except a cat owner might interpret as distress. Raffles sometimes got attention the same way. The thought of his own cat touched a sympathetic chord in Diamond and he crouched and offered his hand to nuzzle against.

“Leave her alone,” a voice behind him said. “She likes it in there.”

He stood up and turned. “Would you be Ella?”

She was in her own clothes rather than the school uniform worn by the junior kids, a black dress cut low to display more cleavage than a seventeen-year-old is entitled to possess and worn over baggy black trousers. Untidy dark hair. Eye shadow, probably in defiance of school rules. This young lady didn't strike him as the sort who would pay much attention to rules. She ignored his question.

“If you are Ella, I heard you created this,” Diamond went on. “I'm impressed.”

“Are you, like, visiting the school?”

“I work for the police.” He could have been a window-cleaner, the off-hand way he spoke. “Where did you get all the pots?”

“Fishermen.”

“You went to the beach?”

“Loads of them are lying about broken. Pots, not fishermen. They're, like, only too pleased to get shot of them.”

“Your idea—building this wonderful thing?”

Flattery is a sure persuader. She started telling him about her work of art. “It wasn't planned. I talked to those guys and learned some cool stuff about pots, like they have eyes, did you know?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Where the poor old lobsters go in, soft or hard eyes, depending if it's net or wire. If it was me, I'd call them mouths, but the fishermen don't. I had this thought about doing a sculpture, making a statement about emptiness. Have you heard of de Chirico?”

He shook his head again.

She didn't need any prompting. She was away. “Doesn't matter. When I stacked them on top of each other, the different types, old-fashioned beehives and boxes, some on end and some flat—well, D-shaped—they stopped being lobster pots, right? I thought what I was producing was shaping up to be an abstract, but then, like, this structure starts to appear and I talk to Tom and he agrees with me it could be a building with towers and I'm away. Do you think the seaweed works?”

“As the creeper? I'm no expert, but it took me in.”

“It's not meant to be a creeper. It's fungus, tiny fungi hanging from the eaves in a kind of web.”

Fungus or a creeper. Did it really matter? To humour the girl, he nodded sagely. “I see it now.”

“I want it to look right.”

“It does, believe me.” Her flow of words had stopped. She needed another confidence boost if he could provide it. “So this is your A level effort, is it?”

“Extended personal project.”

“It's big. Hope you don't have to send it in to be marked.”

“We can send images.”

“When you do the photography try not to get the bins in the shot.”

“Don't know about that,” Ella said. “I'm thinking the symbolism is stronger with them in the background.”

“You're the artist,” he said. “Is it gothic, this building?”

“Don't you recognise it?”

“Em . . .” He didn't want to be discouraging.

“Have you heard of The Fall of the House of Usher?”

“The horror film? Never actually seen it.”

“It's a story by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“I've heard of him, but I'm not much of a reader.”

She almost stamped her foot, she was so put out. “If you don't know what I'm talking about, this must look like a heap of old tat.”

“Not at all. It's spectacular. Now you've said what it is, I'm lost in admiration.”

He was subjected to a long, penetrating look. “Well, now you know what it's meant to be, the House of Usher, an ancient mansion in a state of decay. Poe says, like, it gives you a feeling of insufferable gloom, right? The walls are bleak and the windows are like vacant eyes. If you know about lobster pots having eyes, there's an extra layer of meaning. They're mostly broken, too, so that's in keeping with the story. But I've got a problem. The house is supposed to be beside a tarn, a dark, lurid tarn. Do you know what that is?”

He shook his head. “I'm pretty ignorant about this kind of stuff.”

“A lake. In the story, after Roderick's twin sister Madeline is left for dead and he and his friend bury her in a vault downstairs, she comes alive and terrifies him and they both die and the house collapses into the tarn. I haven't worked out how to show the tarn.”

“Tinfoil?”

“Wouldn't work.” But she seemed grateful that he'd tried. “How did you know about me and my gothic interest, then?”

“Stands out a mile, doesn't it?” Diamond said and moved on smoothly to what he hoped would be a more productive topic. “One thing I was told is you're the expert on Mr. Standforth's—Tom's—artist friends.”

“Someone was having you on. I've only met them a couple of times.”

“Let's say you know more than the other students.”

“Why? Why do you say that?” Her mood had changed. She was wary of a trap.

“I'm going by what I was told. It could be that the professional artists sense you're one of them, a rare talent.”

She wasn't falling for that. She grasped a stepladder and moved it right up to the House of Usher. “I can't stay talking.”

Art had never been one of Diamond's talents, but thinking on his feet definitely was. “What you could do for the tarn,” he said, “is transport the whole thing to some place that has a large pond and position it there, close enough to catch the reflection. Is it possible to move all this?”

“I'd need a bloody great truck, wouldn't I?” She was up the steps and rearranging seaweed.

“Is that impossible?”

“For crying out loud, where would I get a flaming truck?”

“Is there a pond at Tom's place, Fortiman House?”

“A pond? You're joking. It's more like a lake.”

“Ideal, then.”

It seemed this possibility hadn't occurred to Ella. She continued with her task while she considered. “I could ask Tom,” she said finally. “He might agree.”

“Does he own any heavy transport?”

She laughed. “Like his little old MG?”

She'd dropped a strip of seaweed. He stooped and handed it up to her. “If you have to dismantle the house and reassemble it, the artists might help. Are they there most days?”

“Saturdays. Now I think about it, they do have quite a large van. His dad grows orchids commercially and it's used to deliver them, I suppose.”

“And you only go there Saturdays, you say?”

“Except when they have a party, and they wouldn't want to help with my project on party nights.”

“Do they all get drunk, then?”

“No worse than the average party. There's wine and fruit juice if you want it, pineapple or . . .” She had stopped in mid-sentence, making it all too clear that she'd given away more than she intended. She added limply, “The drinks are handed out free. I was told, anyway.”

He didn't miss an opening like that. “And I was told you've been to one of the parties.”

She gripped the ladder with both hands. “Who said that—Jem?”

“In fact, no. I talked to Jem earlier and she didn't mention parties. But you've been to one, haven't you?”

“What if I have? It's no big deal.”

“I knew if anyone was bold enough, it would be you. Are they wild, these parties? Soft drinks don't sound all that wicked.”

“They're not. There's dancing in the studio, but it's not what I'd call a rave. They're middle-aged, most of them. The music is crap. There's a vicar and some ladies older than my parents. More your age, really.”

“Thanks. I must see if I can get invited. When were you there?”

“Night before last.”

The same night Mel had disappeared. This, surely, was critical. Keep the girl talking and find out all you can.

“As recently as that? Did any of your friends go with you?”

She made a sound of scorn. “No chance. They're a bunch of scaredy-cats.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Positive.”

“I bet they all wanted to know about it, though.”

She nodded. “Isn't that typical?”

“How do you know you were the only one of your class there? That happens to have been the night Melanie went missing.”

“Mel wasn't there.”

“Can you swear to that?”

“You don't know her, or you wouldn't even ask. She's not into parties.”

“Unlike you.”

“I'm up for anything funky. It's just a shame it was a let-down.”

“Not funky?”

“I didn't let the others know it was a turn-off when I texted them.”

“You texted them from the party?”

“Naturally. Crashing it was a top result and I wanted everyone to know.”

“All of them, including Mel? Did you get a message back?”

“From Mel? No.”

“Going by what you just said, she didn't miss much. Did anyone spot you as a gate-crasher?”

“Tom, obviously, and he was okay with it.” She appeared to decide enough had been said about the party. “Can we talk about something else? I'm getting bored with this.”

“Do you have any idea where Mel might be?”

She shook her head. “What a dumb question. I'd have told someone by now, wouldn't I? And now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do.”

“She hasn't texted you?”

“She hasn't texted anyone for two days.”

“Each hour that passes makes it more likely she's in real trouble. You'd help me if you knew anything, wouldn't you?”

“Of course. I want you to find her.”

He believed her. For all the posturing, she had integrity.

Back in the art room, he was keen to question Tom Standforth about the party.

The young teacher was on the defensive straight away. “Who's been talking? Ella, I suppose.”

“I was thinking that as Ella turned up uninvited, Mel may have had the same idea.”

“Hold on,” he said. “You're not suggesting I have anything to do with Mel's disappearance?”

“Asking, not suggesting.”

“Well, she most certainly wasn't there. I wasn't pleased when Ella gate-crashed. The parties are for my adult friends. We don't need schoolgirls barging in.”

Students, he thought, but didn't voice the thought. “She didn't seem all that impressed.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That the parties might suit someone my age. Cheeky.” He grinned. “I'm not angling for an invitation, but it would be useful to meet your artist friends. Will they be at Fortiman House tomorrow, being Saturday?”

Tom frowned. “I don't know why you need to meet them.”

“We're following up all the contacts Mel has made recently. She comes to your Saturday sessions, so she must have met the artists.”

“They're not kidnappers.”

“Did I say they were?”

“They wouldn't appreciate being questioned by the police.”

“No one ever does. What time do you get under way?”

He seemed to accept the inevitable. “Eleven.”

“Don't worry. I won't ask what they smoke.”

“I had the feeling those schoolgirls were running rings round me,” he confessed to Georgina back at the hotel.