Down Among the Dead Men (12 page)

“In short, you're pleading pressure of work?”

Hen's lips tightened. “I'm telling you how it was, not excusing myself.”

Georgina puffed herself up for one of her pious outpourings. “We've all worked under extreme pressure, DCI Mallin. It's part of our job as police officers.”

Hen didn't bother to answer.

“You took no action. You didn't even get in touch with Jocelyn.”

“I said.”

“A few quiet words to see what it amounted to?”

The relentless censure was getting to Hen. She crushed the cigar butt into an ashtray. “For Christ's sake, I don't go in for quiet words. It was all or nothing and I did nothing.”

“You didn't tip off your brother?”

“I told you how things are between us. He's so heavy-handed he would have turned a small coincidence into World War Three.”

Georgina was quickly onto that. “A small coincidence? How can you dismiss it so lightly—your niece linked to a murder?”

“Maybe because I'm dealing in murder on a regular basis. And this was little more than speculation.”

“It's nothing of the sort. There's a warrant out for her now. She must have heard about the DNA match and made herself scarce.”

“Is that any surprise?” Hen said. “Most of Sussex seems to know I'm being hung out to dry. Joss will have heard.”

“It isn't in the papers, is it?”

“Might as well be. The police service leaks like a sieve.”

“There's no need to be cynical.”

“It's well-known.”

This was descending into a slinging match. Hen still had some spirit and Georgina was wading in as if she sensed blood. “I won't take that sort of talk from any officer. We're trusted by the public to enforce the law and be worthy of that trust. If we can't take pride in the way we conduct ourselves, we lose all respect.”

“I don't know about pride,” Hen said. “I'm content to do the job as well as I can, but I don't kid myself there's glory in it. There's more shit than respect.”

“Please!”

“I said at the beginning I messed up. You've got your views about policing. I've got mine. What else do you want to hear from me?”

“I haven't heard a single ‘ma'am,'” Georgina said. “That would be a start.”

Diamond's flesh prickled.

Hen rose to it, as he knew she would. “God help us. Is that what you mean by respect? There was I thinking you were a fellow human being come to listen to my grubby little story when the truth is that you only came to hear me call you ma'am, and I missed all those opportunities. Well, I can put that right, ma'am, ma'am, ma'am, ma'am—”

“Hen!”

She stopped.

Diamond couldn't let her destroy herself in front of him. “Get a grip.”

She seemed to have frozen, her mouth half open, eyes red-lidded.

“This isn't helping you or us,” he said. “You asked what we want to hear from you and I'll tell you. We need to know how you acted at each stage and why: the Rigden murder investigation, the arrest and trial of Danny Stapleton, and the DNA report that brought Joss into the reckoning. We want to understand each decision you took and test it against the evidence.” He kept his eyes locked with Hen's. If Georgina objected to him interrupting, she could take it up later.

Hen said, “Flipped my lid. Pressure.” She breathed in, clutched her hands and faced Georgina. “If you looked at my personal file, I'm sure you'll have seen that. A hothead. Sorry for what I said. Truly . . . ma'am.”

Georgina was a beached whale. She, too, had lost it, but in another sense. Diamond was in charge now. He'd switched direction, offered Hen the chance to talk about something other than the mess she was in.

And it worked. She became the professional again, in control of her emotions, but speaking exclusively to him. “The problem is that we couldn't find a motive. Rigden had no enemies.”

He nodded. “We read the file.”

“You know, then. Everyone in the village liked him. We tried hard to find someone who would say a word against him. No one would.”

“To me,” Diamond said, “this doesn't look like a village murder. The gunshot and the disposal in a stolen car is a professional at work.”

“That's how I saw it. But the idea that everyone's favourite gardener had any link with organised crime was beyond belief. We searched the house minutely, went through his papers, his address book, everything. Didn't even find an unwashed dish. He lived frugally, but cleanly. No one else had entered the cottage in weeks. He wasn't murdered there, that's for sure.”

This was more like old times, the two of them trading theories. “And you got nothing useful from Danny Stapleton?”

“He claimed he'd never heard of Rigden.”

“He would, wouldn't he? But Danny is a professional car thief. He knew the local villains, obviously.”

Hen shrugged. “So did we. Never got a sniff of a connection, from Danny or our usual informants.”

“The body in the car: Was it clothed?”

“Same clothes he wore for his garden work. Sweatshirt and jeans. Socks, but no shoes. I expect you saw the autopsy report. Apart from the head wound, which was gross, no other marks of any significance. Nothing under the fingernails except garden dirt. He didn't fight for his life.”

Diamond turned in his chair. “Anything you wanted to ask, ma'am?”

The tide was still out for Georgina. “You carry on.”

He told Hen, “You seem to have covered every angle except one.”

“What's that?”

“What we're here about.”

“Joss?”

“She may know something. We need to track her down. We've got to.”

“I understand.”

“Is her mother about?”

“Died when Joss was twelve. Brain tumour. It explains a lot about what happened after.”

“Did your brother find another partner?”

She gave a nod. “Cherry. I've never met her. From what I hear, she's the quiet sort, a carbon copy of Jane, the first wife. Fits in with whatever Barry decides. He likes his women submissive.”

“Is he local?”

“Midhurst, a half-hour's drive away. You want their phone number? There's a Rolodex on the bookcase beside you. “Look under Mallin.”

He made a note of it. Also under Mallin he found a card inscribed
My Mobile
, followed by the number, which he took down, unseen by Georgina. “And if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, we'll be back to some of the people you interviewed.”

“Rather you than me,” she said. “The folk round here who employ gardeners think they're God's gift, most of them.”

“I'm sparing no one, Hen. It may seem like a cold case, but there are high stakes here: a lifer who may be innocent and a damn good detective whose career is on the line.”

They left soon after. Georgina muttered something to Hen about hearing from them in due course and Diamond winked.

Hen widened her eyes a fraction.

On the walk back, Georgina said nothing until they'd gone more than halfway to the hotel. Finally she spoke. “I suppose I ought to thank you, Peter.”

“What for?”

“Taking over when it all became too heated. She's a difficult woman. I don't have a shred of sympathy with her.”

“She lost her rag. She was out of order.”

“I'm glad you agree. You called her ‘Hen' more than once, I noticed, almost as if you knew her.”

“Relaxed the mode of address, that's all. Sometimes it gets results.”

She gave him a sharp look.

“At the end,” she said, “you called her a damn good detective. That's more than I would have done.”

“She was in a state,” he said.

“So was I, by then.”

“But no one needs to say you're a damn good detective.”

She tilted her head and gave a sniff of satisfaction.

He moved smoothly on. “So you didn't mind me picking up the baton? I hope I didn't say anything you weren't about to say.”

“I was coming round to asking questions about the Rigden murder just as you did, but her offensive outburst put me off my stroke.” She looked away, across the street. “All in all, you covered for me rather well.”

“Thanks. I'm concerned about the niece.”

“Avoiding arrest, you mean?”

“It could be worse.”

“In what way?”

“I didn't say anything to DI Mallin when she was talking about the glut of missing persons almost certainly murdered. Joss is missing.”

13

P
eter Diamond phoned Hen Mallin from his room in the hotel while Georgina was taking an afternoon nap.

“Me again.”

“Peter, are you alone?”

“She's on a siesta.”

“You're joking.”

“She's totally stressed out.”

“She is?”

“A rare admission of frailty. She tells me the minimum. I wish there'd been some way of tipping you off about the visit.”

“Did I look as if I'd seen a ghost? I was reeling and rocking.”

“You were fine.”

“Until I let rip. What a dumbo.”

“You aren't. She got what was coming. She's like that about rank. It comes from insecurity.”

“And she's your assistant chief constable?”

“Almost as long as I remember. You didn't meet her ten years ago when we worked together on that body on the beach case. She was away on a cruise.”

“A cruise? Siestas and cruises. Not a bad life.”

“It means I get a break sometimes.”

“How the hell do you cope?”

“We understand each other. I'm not easy to get on with either. Georgina has a good side I see occasionally.”

“She thinks I let down the whole of womankind. I saw it in her eyes.”

“Failing to investigate your niece? Women are allowed to show compassion.”

“Don't tell me. Tell your boss. Oh, forget it. She's right. I screwed up. What do they call it, favouring your family?”

“Nepotism.”

“Right on. I admit it. Nepotist of the year. I don't deserve to stay in the job. Didn't I say it loud and clear to Dallymore?”

“You did—but something was missing.”

“What was that?”

“A little ‘ma'am' at the end.”

They both laughed.

Hen's voice improved. She wasn't back to her boisterous best, and might never be, but she made a try. “Peter, my old cock sparrow, I don't know how you worked it, but I'm chuffed to have you on board.”

He let the “old cock sparrow” wash over him. “You can credit Georgina, not me. I tried to wriggle out of it—but then I didn't know you were the officer under suspension. Do you know who fingered you?”

“No.”

“Could it have been Montacute, who is now doing your job?”

“Too obvious.”

“Why—don't you get on with him?”

“He's a moaner, but he doesn't want me out of it. He might be forced to make decisions of his own.”

“Got to be someone with an agenda. Are the others loyal?”

“Does it matter? I've admitted to all and sundry I fouled up. I don't lose any sleep trying to guess who the whistleblower was.”

“But you are losing sleep. I saw it in your face.”

“Is it as obvious as that? Joss was only eighteen when Rigden was murdered. What was she doing to get her DNA in that bloody car, Peter? And where has she bunked off to, now the heat is on?”

“That's for us to work out.”

“You and Dallymore?”

“With any help we can get from you. Someone has to untangle this mess. We'll manage.”

“Find Joss. I don't care what happens to me.”

“You made that obvious. But I have a sense that your part in all this is going to seem small beer when everything is understood.”

“Commander Hahn may disagree. He'd like to see me roast in hell.”

“Hahn? He's got bigger things to worry about than you. He spooked in case Danny Stapleton sues for wrongful conviction.”

“And he blames me.”

“Get this straight, Hen. You did your job with the investigation. Stapleton was caught with a murdered body in a car he'd stolen. His defence was paper thin. A judge and jury heard the case and convicted him.”

In the pause that followed he could almost hear her brain ticking over. Finally she said, “You're music to my ears, darling. I was feeling lower than a snake's belly this morning. If Dallymore picked you for this mission she can't be all bad. I don't mind calling her ma'am. I'll call her your royal highness if she doesn't send you home.”

He hadn't made this call just to restore Hen's spirits, or his own. “There was something you said this morning about recent cases you were working on.”

“You'll have to remind me. My head was in a whirl.”

“Missing persons. What's that about? Every police authority has missing persons.”

“Sure, and most of them turn up, one way or another, dead or alive. This is serious stuff, Peter, and it's been going on some time. Far too many stay missing. They vanish. No one hears from them again.”

“Who are they?”

“Petty criminals mostly. The sort who mess with the local crime barons. In former times their bodies would be found riddled with bullets in a local quarry or some abandoned house. You expect it with rival gangs. Over recent years it's become more efficient. Plenty of victims still get taken out. We hear the same distress calls from their nearest and dearest. But the bodies aren't found. Death and disposal on an industrial scale.”

“And you were onto it? How far did you get?”

“Nowhere. Well, almost nowhere. I made a start. The first stage as always was to learn as much as we could from informants. The only message coming back is that someone has a foolproof method.”

“Of disposal?”

“A business operation.”

“Murder Inc—in Chichester?”

“Not just Chichester. All along this stretch of the south coast, from Brighton to Portsmouth. Forty miles, give or take.”

“So other forces are onto this?”

“I spoke to my CID oppos in all the main towns. Bloody hard convincing some of them anything is wrong.”

“These were informal contacts?”

“You bet. The top brass are going to take a lot of convincing. When the government judges us by the crime figures and the murder rates are falling, who in his right mind wants to know about killings that have gone unreported? I had to hammer the point home. When we put our information together it was bloody obvious this was too serious to ignore. So who do you think was volunteered to carry the thing forward?”

“You're a glutton for punishment. When did you start?”

“Two weeks before I was suspended.”

“And you say you got almost nowhere?”

“We'd barely started.”

“You must have some theories.”

“The obvious one—being so close to the coast—is that they take the bodies out to sea and dump them overboard. If so, they do it well. I can't find a single instance in the last two years of a murdered corpse being washed up or found floating.”

“Isn't the sea always supposed to give up its dead?”

“That's horseshit. No offence, my love, but it's one of those Biblical sayings that gets misquoted all the time. On the day of reckoning all the people who were ever drowned will come to life—that's what the good book says.”

“Didn't know you were a Bible-basher.”

“I'm not. So many people quoted it at me that I looked it up.”

“But there's an element of truth. Bodies don't stay under water indefinitely.”

“Okay, a submerged body inflates with internal gases after a while and will rise to the surface, but if the disposal man is the professional we think he is he'll surely weigh the things down.”

“Have you talked to pathologists?”

“No help at all. If I could find them a body to slice up they'd give me all sorts of information. The whole point of this brain-teaser is that there ain't no evidence.”

“You've obviously thought of other methods?”

“There's no shortage of ideas. Everyone has a favourite theory, from acid baths to car crushers.”

“Old mineshafts?”

“Not in these parts. Mind, it wouldn't be much trouble to drive the bodies to Wales or Cornwall. Why are you so interested in this?”

“I was thinking if you were getting warm in your enquiries and the people behind this racket got to know, they would have wanted you suspended.”

“But they'd need a line into our investigation and it hasn't even reached the stage of being an investigation.”

He said nothing.

“Peter, that's appalling. Can't I trust my own colleagues? Who would leak it? I work every day with my team. They're solidly behind me.”

“All of them? You said Montacute moans about you.”

“Heat of the moment. We have a mutual disrespect. You know yourself CID isn't a love-in. But if there isn't loyalty, there's nothing.”

“Civilian staff?”

“They're okay. They don't get involved in office politics.”

“The only one I've met so far is Pat Gomez.”

“Pat who?”

“Gomez. She showed us upstairs and made the tea.”

“I know who you mean. She's only been in the job six months. She knows nothing about my faux pas of three years ago.”

“You were in consultation with other stations. Can you trust all of them?”

“They're senior detectives.”

“So?”

A gasp came down the line. But there was amusement in her tone when she said, “Peter Diamond, you're a rabid old cynic.”

“Tell me about it. Will Montacute have taken over from you as convenor of this unofficial group?”

“Nobody tells me anything. They seem to be under instructions to treat me as the enemy now.”

“Has it occurred to you that the villains could have won and your missing persons project might be kicked into the long grass? You were the prime mover. Is anyone else as keen as you to push on with this?”

She didn't seem to have an answer.

“Every chief constable wants falling crime figures,” he went on. “Meet our targets, let the public think they're safer now than they ever were. You were threatening to spoil all that, uncovering lots of extra murders. Am I such a cynic?”

Hen gave a little murmur of impatience. “Listen, matey, I appreciate your interest in my missing persons crusade, but right now I'd prefer you to concentrate on the case in hand—my runaway niece.”

“You want me to prove Joss had nothing to do with the body in that car?”

“That would be the perfect outcome.”

“I can't promise anything, Hen.”

After the call ended, he thought about what had been said and it didn't hang together. Hen preferred to think there was no connection between what she called her crusade and her suspension. But three years had gone by since she had chosen to ignore the DNA evidence that Joss was involved. She'd insisted she'd confided in nobody when Joss's name came up. Why had her dereliction of duty been raised at this particular time if it didn't have something to do with the stirring she was doing? She trusted her close colleagues in Chichester and couldn't face the realisation that one of them had betrayed her.

Trust is the mother of deceit.

Georgina knocked on the door and said she was ready to go again.

“Did you get some shut-eye?”

She glared. “I wasn't sleeping. I was deciding what to do next.”

“Did you reach a conclusion?”

“I did. First, I want to get your impressions of DI Mallin.”

Difficult. This sounded like a trap. Georgina was no fool. She'd noticed him calling Hen by her first name. She could have used some of her siesta time to put a call through to headquarters and check whether their careers had overlapped. He didn't want to be stood down. “My impressions? Mostly favourable,” he said. “At least she admits she was in the wrong.”

“She couldn't do much else.”

“She could have spun some story and fudged the issue. Pressure of work. Unfamiliarity with the Rigden case. She held her hand up and I can't fault her for that. It simplifies our task.”

“And . . . ?”

“Do you want me to go on analysing her motives?”

“That's what I asked.”

“She's obviously under strain. The outburst towards the end.”

“More than an outburst. A personal attack,” Georgina said. “I'm not used to being spoken to like that. I was temporarily lost for words.”

“Yes, I hope you didn't mind me taking over.”

“You called her ‘Hen.' What was that about?” She wouldn't let it go.

This time he was ready with his explanation. “I heard it from you. Down by the canal yesterday, when you told me who we're investigating, you spoke her full name—Henrietta.”

“Did I? It seems a long time ago.”

“I once knew a Henrietta and called her Hen. The name sprang to my lips at the moment I needed to get this lady's attention. It seemed to do the trick.”

She said without much gratitude, “Yes, you brought her to her senses. She made some sort of apology, I think. It's all a blur now.”

The blur was good news. Georgina wasn't often vague in her recollections. “If she'd spoken to me in that way,” he said, “it wouldn't have been just a blur. It would have been a red mist. You were gracious.”

“Was I?” she said in an interested tone, keen to hear more.

“I was proud of you. Can't recall exactly what you said, but I was grateful. Gave me the chance to move on and ask her some questions about the problems with the Rigden murder investigation.”

“I do have a memory of that.”

Better get back to the script then, he thought. “And after that I asked about her missing niece.”

“Yes, and the family background. The mother who died young and the domineering father.”

“Brother Barry.”

“He sounds unpleasant. Do you think DI Mallin is in awe of him?”

“Hard to say.” He couldn't imagine Hen being in awe of anyone, but it wouldn't have been wise to say so.

Georgina wasn't the sort to be in awe either. “We'd better go to Midhurst and meet this ogre.”

Their police chauffeur took them over the South Downs along a winding route through farmland and forest. Georgina had spoken on the phone to Barry's second wife, who had wanted to know if there was news of Joss and sounded genuinely distressed that there was none. She'd suggested they came at once. Barry would be there soon.