Down Among the Dead Men (22 page)

“They probably were.”

“I wouldn't want to be their teacher.”

She smiled. “Don't worry. You'd never get the job.”

“They're smart. They seem to be chattering nineteen to the dozen, but I'm certain what I'm getting isn't the whole story. There's more to come out. They're selective in what they tell me.”

“How do you know?”

“The way they have of shutting me down when I'm getting warm, particularly the goth girl, Ella. Suddenly I'm told not to be boring. She's only seventeen and she's capable of making me feel like a schoolboy.”

“Peter, you should be grateful. Thanks to this assignment of mine, you're getting an education yourself.”

“How, exactly?”

“Into the ways of women. I don't suppose you've ever been exposed to such a line-up of females: the devious schoolgirls; their overbearing headmistress; the highly inflammable Hen Mallin; her downtrodden sister-in-law, Cherry; not to mention me, bossing it over you twenty-four hours a day. And you haven't even started on the artists. It's a wonder you've survived as long as you have.”

23

B
efore visiting Fortiman House next morning, the police car took a route through a wooded area near Boxgrove that even the driver wasn't familiar with. It was so quiet along these back ways that the local wildlife didn't expect to be disturbed. Several pheasants and a rabbit came close to premature death and a territorial fox stood its ground in the middle of the lane until the last seconds.

“The sat nav makes us close,” the driver said without much confidence.

They were looking for the one-time home of the centenarian, Mrs. Shah, who had once employed Joe Rigden as her gardener.

“This has got to be the boundary fence,” Georgina said.

A line of split hazel hurdles extended along the lane. After a short distance the driver braked in front of a low iron gate. Chained to it was a dusty and faded enamel nameplate with the words HOLLY BLUE COTTAGE and a picture of a butterfly. The two detectives got out. Being in such a remote spot, the cottage probably had as much land as the owner would wish to cultivate. Whether you could term it a garden any longer was questionable.

The front was as overgrown as the ancient wood they'd just passed through.

“The one that got away,” Diamond said. “A gardener hasn't been near this place since the old lady died.”

“Sad,” Georgina said.

Between enormous shrubs crying out for a clipping, the cottage came into view, not quite the House of Usher, but showing signs of neglect. Slates were missing from the roof and the windows hadn't been cleaned in a long time.

“Last night I did some checking on the present owner,” Diamond said. “It's a company known as Mombasa Holdings Limited.”

“Exotic,” Georgina said.

“Kenyan Asian, I would guess, like the late Mrs. Shah. Clever people, making money and expanding into property.”

“This doesn't look clever to me. Who'd want to live here, way out in the country?”

“Mrs. Shah did.”

“I don't know how she managed when she was so old.”

“She paid people to come to her, like Joe Rigden.”

“Whoever is here now isn't employing a gardener. Is it inhabited, do you think? Doesn't look like it. You'd think they'd want to collect some rent and make it profitable.”

“Maybe there are plans to develop it.”

“It's remote, Peter.”

“It's not all that way out, just difficult to reach. Five miles from Chichester, probably. We're townies, you and me. Plenty of people like the country way of life.”

“Desolate. I'd pay money not to live here. Do you still want to look round?”

“We made the effort to find it, so why not?”

Georgina seemed to have made up her mind why not. Seven years after Joe Rigden had pulled his last weed, nothing helpful to their investigation would be found here.

Diamond wasn't giving up. Mel's disappearance troubled him and he was leaving no stone unturned. To be certain no one was at home, he tried the doorbell and the knocker. Junk mail had been pushed through the letterbox and was heaped inside.

“No one is going to object if we explore.”

“I expect it looked presentable at one time,” Georgina said. “Joe Rigden wouldn't be happy to see the grass this high and all these thistles.”

“Spinning in his grave. Let's go round the back.”

The ground was sodden after overnight rain. Georgina looked down at her smart brogues. “Do we really need to?”

“There ought to be a garden shed.”

“And what do you hope to discover there? A rusty mower?”

“If someone hasn't nicked it already. Look, here's a path.” By shifting some groundsel with his foot he'd found a moss-covered paved area that skirted the cottage.

He stepped out confidently. Georgina, muttering, followed.

The back garden had once been laid to lawn and was now a crop of hay asking to be harvested. A solid-looking trellis and pergola arch showed above the swaying seedheads. Beyond that, a red brick wall about nine feet high marked the end of the garden. And, as if Diamond had ordered it, a dilapidated shed stood in the shadow of the wall, its felt roof torn and gaping.

“If you think I'm going to fight my way through this jungle, you've got another think coming,” Georgina told him. “I'm not dressed for it. I'll see you back at the car—if you're not eaten by a tiger.”

She had a point. It was a struggle and his trousers were sodden before he'd gone more than a few yards. Worse, they snagged on brambles and the thorns got through to his flesh. But he persevered. Up to now, Joe Rigden had been elusive, a vague figure from witness statements and court records. This, at least, was one of his work places. Seeing the inside of the shed and his tools would make some kind of connection.

Thrusting his way through and ignoring the damage to his clothes, the big man presently reached an area where the grass was shorter and less abundant and he could make his way more easily. And now mushrooms or toadstools—he wasn't sure which—appeared underfoot, slippery when crushed. The moist conditions must have encouraged them. So many were there that it was impossible not to trample some. If he hadn't been brought up a townie, he might have foraged for lunch, but he had no idea if they were edible.

He had no difficulty forcing open the padlocked shed door. The wood was rotten and the screws came out like drawing pins from a cork board.

He stepped inside.

Eerie. The first thing he saw was a dark green wax jacket draped over the back of a plastic chair. On the floor was a flask. These items could only have belonged to Rigden. If you ignored the cobwebs and dead leaves, you could kid yourself that the owner had sat there a short time ago drinking tea. Then the sun had come out and he'd stepped outside to do some digging.

No. That couldn't be right. Surely the man wouldn't have padlocked the door if he was still at work. Yet if he'd gone home, why had he left the jacket and flask behind? He was supposed to have been methodical and tidy.

The rest of the contents were predictable: the motor mower, several sets of shears and clippers, saws, trowels, hoes, spades and forks, buckets, a sieve and plastic sacks that probably contained fertiliser or compost. On a low table were the remains of seed packets shredded at the edges by mice.

He lifted the jacket and held it up. These all-weather garments had more pockets than anyone ever needed. Was it too much to hope something of interest might have been left behind? He resisted the urge to start looking. He'd take the thing with him. Time to move on and meet the artists at Fortiman House. A shake of the jacket and a large spider hit the floor and scuttled for shelter.

Outside, Diamond hadn't taken two steps when his heel slipped on some of the fungi he'd already trampled. His feet went from under him and he fell heavily, his backside hitting the ground first.

“That's all I need.”

He wasn't sure whether he'd injured himself, but bar some bruising and the indignity, he would be okay. Rigden's jacket had fallen with the arms crossed as if the owner was saying, “Serve you bloody right.”

“Get real,” he told himself. “He's got no use for it.”

He hauled himself up, grabbed the jacket and stumbled back to the car.

“Look at the state of you,” Georgina said.

“I don't particularly want to.”

“What happened?”

“I tripped over a toadstool.”

“Can't you ever be serious?”

“Actually I slipped.”

“Is that the only suit you have? Didn't I say you should have packed more clothes? You'll need a dry cleaner's now.”

“Don't fuss. I'm all right.”

“I'm not thinking of you. I'm the one turning up at Fortiman House with a scarecrow in tow. Remember who we are.”

“Plainclothes police.”

“Plain doesn't mean scruffy.”

“Artists don't dress up.”

“They're as fashion conscious as anyone else, if not more. And what's that disgusting garment you're carrying?”

His tolerance was being stretched. He explained.

“Keep it away from me, then. It will be home to a million unspeakable things.”

He tossed the jacket in the boot and slammed down the lid. Yesterday's burgeoning sympathy for Georgina was just about used up. He wasn't sorry she chose to sit beside the driver.

On the map, Fortiman House looked extremely close, but to reach it they had to thread their way back through the woods to a busier road.

“Remind me why we're visiting this place,” Georgina said.

He said through his teeth, “To meet the artists, Tom Standforth's friends.”

“But why?”

“Because of the missing schoolgirl, Melanie. She comes to the house on Saturdays to draw, so she'll be known to them. A couple of nights ago there was a party. Her friend Ella gate-crashed it and texted her friends, including Mel, to boast that she was there. It's not impossible Mel was tempted to do the same.”

“Did you question Ella about that?”

“She claims Mel isn't a partygoer and wasn't there.”

“But you think she could be mistaken—or lying?”

“I ask myself is it just a coincidence that Mel disappeared on the night of the party? She rides a scooter. She could have got there quickly.”

“All right. I suppose it's worth looking into. I can only think of one set of people less reliable than schoolgirls and that's artists. Kidnapping might be someone's idiotic idea of performance art.”

The Standforth property was in a far better state than Holly Blue Cottage. The grounds appeared well managed and the house they drove up to must have been one of the grandest in the district. Unseen by his superior seated in the front, Diamond rubbed his muddy shoes against the backs of his trousers.

Other cars and vans in a variety of makes and conditions from a rusty Renault to a brand-new Lamborghini were already parked in front of the house. The police vehicle drew up beside the red MG Ella had mentioned and the first person they saw was its owner. Diamond suspected he had been waiting for them.

“You will respect the reason my friends are here?” Tom Standforth said as he escorted them to the barn that doubled as his studio. “These sessions are meant to be laid-back and some of them can get a little touchy if they feel their space is invaded.”

Georgina was quick to answer. “Don't think of us as invaders. We're used to mingling with strangers, aren't we, Peter?”

“It's our job,” he said, his toes curling. Mingling with strangers? Like at a cocktail party? Pity he couldn't have thought of some alternative mission for Georgina.

“I must apologise for the state of my colleague's clothes,” she said to Standforth. “We had a diversion involving a trek through a quagmire.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

The studio was abuzz with people chatting over coffee. Three of the Prior Park schoolgirls glanced across and immediately went into a huddle. Ella, Jem and Naseem were alert for every twist in this drama.

“There's no need for an announcement,” Georgina told Tom Standforth.

“Sorry, you've lost me.”

“To explain who we are and why we're here. I dare say they'll find out soon enough.”

“I wasn't aiming to say anything. I'd rather keep it low key.”

“So would we.”

“In fact,” the young man said, “I'm wondering if you'd like to join us.”

“We intend to,” Georgina said. “We'll introduce ourselves as we go round.”

“That isn't what I mean. Would you like to do some drawing?”

“Actually put pencil to paper? Oh my word, I hadn't thought of that. I suppose we could appear to be sketching. In fact it might be rather a clever move. Peter, what do you say to that?”

He was speechless. They hadn't come here to make fools of themselves.

“In which case,” Georgina said, “we need drawing materials.”

“Not a problem,” Standforth said. “Help yourselves to coffee and I'll fix it.”

“I can't draw,” Diamond said after their host had moved off.

She was without pity. “Anyone can make marks on paper. That's all it is. Go to any gallery and you'll see aimless scribbles passed off as masterpieces. Art is ninety-nine per cent bluffing.”

“Are you any good at it?”

“As a matter of fact, I won the art prize at school. I'd offer to show you the basics, but we'd better split up when it starts, don't you think?”

“I need a strong coffee.”

All too soon, Standforth clapped his hands and addressed everyone. “Let's start the first session, shall we? You'll be pleased to hear Davy is back with us today.”

“Who's Davy?” Diamond asked, jumpy as frying popcorn.

“How would I know?” Georgina said.

The floor squeaked to the sound of easels and stools being dragged into position. Two of the men pushed a low wooden stand into the centre.

“What's that for?”

“The dais,” Georgina informed her colleague from the depth of her experience. “To support the arrangement.”

“What of?”

“Come, on, Peter, this is art. Still life. The usual thing is a bowl of fruit or a potted plant. Personally, I prefer apples or oranges. They're easier to copy.”

Standforth handed them drawing boards with large sheets of paper clipped to them. “I recommend charcoal if you haven't done much before. Take as much as you like from the box on the table at the end. And help yourselves to easels. Back of the room.”

“Do we really need easels?” Diamond asked his boss.

She was implacable. “Thank you for offering. Place mine next to the gentleman with the clerical collar.”

The easels were heavy and paint-spattered. By the time he'd manoeuvred one to where Georgina wanted it, a circle was forming. He noticed some people weren't bothering with easels at all. They perched on high stools or at a lower level astride donkey stools. A tall black man in a Rasta hat was standing with a sketchbook. One of the stools would do for Diamond.