Down Among the Dead Men

by Peter Lovesey

  “He was introducing me to some of the artists. Geraint, the one with the serial killer face. If you get a chance, take a look at his collection of knives, all laid out on the bench beside him. I said his work was fantastic and he called me a bloody liar, the only words he spoke.”

  “Charming!”

  “So who did you start up a conversation with?” Ella said as if she’d been socialising all morning.

  “No one in particular,” Jem said. “One looks like a vicar. I heard Tom call him Bish.”

  “A bishop?”

  “I expect it’s a joke.”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  It was Ferdie, pushing a bag of compost in a wheelbarrow. Now that they knew he was Tom’s dad and the owner of the house, he would get more respect.

  He stopped to speak. “Will you be coming every week, then?”

  “No. Some others will get a turn next Saturday. Tom says three at a time is best.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “In our A level group? Twelve.”

  “That’s not many. And will you become better artists by coming here?”

  “Tom reckons,” Jem said.

  “Seeing how real artists work is a big help,” Ella said.

  “You’re real, aren’t you? You look real to me.”

  “You wouldn’t call us artists if you saw our stuff,” Jem said.

  Ferdie wagged a grimy finger. “Never undersell yourselves. From what I’ve seen of the art world, there are no rules about how it has to look. It’s more about persuading people your product is special, and you won’t persuade anybody if you talk like that.”

  “We have to persuade Tom and an external examiner.”

  “No problem. It’s a matter of confidence. Those artists in there have got it. They believe in themselves.”

  “Be nice if some of that rubs off on us,” Ella said.

  “It’s not for me to interfere,” Ferdie said, “but I don’t see why you have to take turns to visit here. You could take your drawing boards outside and draw the scenery. If the weather’s bad you could do interiors in the house.”

  “I don’t know if Tom would agree,” Jem said.

  “Never mind Tom. Would you find it useful?”

  “Incredibly useful.” Jem was beginning to think they had an ally in Ferdie.

  “I’ll put a word in,” he said before wheeling his barrow away.

  The girls returned for the afternoon session feeling more relaxed about life drawing, a state of affairs that didn’t last. Tom announced that Davy the model would take up a new pose. Davy disrobed and stepped up with a wobble and a grunt and some minutes were spent deciding what was required. He was turned left and right and finally square on to the girls with legs astride and his member quivering.

  “Okay for everybody?” Tom asked.

  The girls were incapable of speech.

  “Couldn’t he do something different with the arms?” Drusilla said. “It’s too Neanderthal from here.”

  “Try it with hands on hips,” Tom said to Davy.

  More movement. More embarrassment.

  Drusilla shook her head. “That’s camp.”

  “Hands clasped behind your back.”

  “That’s one of the royals on a visit.”

  Each adjustment brought an extra disturbance to Davy’s person and to the trio from Priory Park School.

  Finally arms folded got the nod from Drusilla and everyone else.

  4

  The whole class were invited to the next Saturday session at Fortiman House. Mel and two others, Anita and Gail, were to have their turn in the studio with the artists. The rest would work on landscape outside.

  Jem said to Ella, “I’d give a lot to see Mel’s face when Davy strips off.”

  “She knows what to expect. We told her.”

  “Yeah, but you know Mel. Remember how she fainted when the condom was passed round in that sex lesson?”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “And we’re not going to let her forget it.”

  Mel was an open goal for teasing. Her father had been a humble workman—a “hole-in-the-road” man, as Jem had categorised him. The fact that he’d been killed when his drill had hit an electric cable hadn’t met with much sympathy from her schoolmates. In the eyes of the group people who worked outdoors knew they were taking risks. Mel’s mother had married again—to a bricklayer—and they never attended parents’ evenings.

  On this fine, clear morning, it was warm enough for Jem and Ella to set up their easels on the lawn in front of the house.

  “Are you doing the whole building?” Ella asked.

  “No.”

  “It’d take too long, wouldn’t it? I was thinking of making sketches of bits of it, like those weird chimneys.”

  “Good idea.”

  “So what are you going to draw?”

  “Tom’s MG.”

  They worked steadily until the mid-morning break, when Mel and the others emerged from the studio. Tea and coffee were being served from the kitchen at the back of the house.

  “So?” Jem said when they’d managed to corner Mel.

  “So what?”

  “Come off it, Orphan Annie. You know what we’re dying to hear about. What did you think of Davy?”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “The model, dorkbrain.”

  “There isn’t a model. We’re doing still life, a big Chinese vase and some drapes.”

  “Really? What a letdown.”

  “Not for me. I’m enjoying myself. It’s amazing how everyone in there is dealing with it. Tom lets us move about and talk to the artists and they’re really friendly—well, most of them are.”

  “Except Geraint?”

  “The man with the knives? He’s a bit strange, yes, and he goes at the canvas like he’s paintballing. A dollop of red carried right across the room and hit the woman opposite on the cheek. She wasn’t pleased. I don’t think he said sorry.”

  “What did Tom do?”

  “Didn’t seem to notice. I think he admires Geraint’s work.”

  “Did he tell you to look at it, then?”

  Mel nodded. “To me, it looked a mess. I couldn’t see it had anything to do with the vase. I didn’t say so to Tom. He thinks I’m too careful anyway. He says I’ve got to break out, whatever that means. Like, there’s a guy in there drawing cartoons of us all.”

  “Manny,” Ella said. “He’s fun. Have you spoken to him yet?”

  Mel shook her head. “You know me. I find it difficult going up to people.”

  “Tom’s got a point,” Jem said, winking at Ella. “You’ve got to break out.”

  “He was talking about my art.”

  “Are you working in charcoal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try smudging. That ought to please him.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “I mean really make a dog’s dinner of it, don’t just blur the lines. Go for it like that woman who gets black all over her face and clothes. Charcoal Charlotte. He’ll say you’ve found your inner genius.”

  Ella butted in. “Yeah, and he might say she’s taking the piss and doesn’t deserve to be doing A level art.”

  “Bet you he doesn’t,” Jem said. “That’s the kind of thing the Gibbon would’ve said—not in those exact words, but the message would be the same.”

  The mention of their former teacher triggered Mel into saying, “Hey, did you know there’s a missing persons bureau and Miss Gibbon is on it? I found her on the website. It gives a date in July when she was last seen.”

  “Never! . . . Really?”

  “Honest. There’s a picture of her, quite a nice one actually.”

  Ella and Jem had both started navigating their smartphones and, sure en
ough, there was an official police website showing a photo of Miss Gibbon in a pink top against a background of fruit blossom.

  “Almost human,” Ella said.

  “What a handle,” Jem said, reading on. “Constance Gloria Gibbon. Thirty-nine? That’s a laugh. She was closer to forty, in my opinion. Who would have reported her missing, do you think? The head?”

  “She must have family. Does it say?”

  “Just some number to call. That’ll be the police.”

  “What if they find her?” Jem said, eyes popping at the thought. “We could lose Tom.”

  “She’ll be in no state to teach again,” Ella said. “Not right away. She’ll need time to get over it. She wouldn’t come back before we’ve all left.”

  “We can hope,” Jem said.

  Any more talk about Miss Gibbon had to be put on hold because one of the other artists joined them. “Right,” she said in a business-like way. “I’m Anastasia. Are you young ladies actually finding this helpful, joining in with us?”

  All three made positive sounds.

  Anastasia was clearly the woman who had been hit by Geraint’s blob of paint, because there was quite a smear of red to the left side of her face, even though she’d wiped most of it away. Good thing her clothes had escaped, because they were of designer quality, a blue and white striped top, tight-fitting jeans and calf-length light brown boots. “The reason I asked is that if it were me looking at all the different styles, I’d just be confused.”

  “It’s what we’re supposed to do for our exam,” Jem said. “Studying different ways of dealing with a subject.”

  “And responding in our own way,” Ella chimed in.

  “Good for you,” Anastasia said. “In my day everyone tried to draw like Holbein and of course we couldn’t and got deeply depressed. The way art is taught now is so much better for one’s self-confidence.”

  “It is if you get a good teacher,” Jem said. “Tom took over this term and we’re improving in leaps and bounds.”

  “He’s a charmer, for sure,” Anastasia said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but he gives amazing parties.”

  “Why shouldn’t you say it?” Mel asked.

  “Because they’re not the kinds of parties schoolgirls attend.”

  “We’re students, not schoolgirls,” Ella said. “We could be at sixth form college. We’ll all be eighteen next year.”

  “My dear, I can see you’re wonderfully mature. In fact, I wouldn’t have dreamed you were still at school if Tom hadn’t mentioned the fact.”

  “What do you get up to at these parties?” Jem said.

  Anastasia had turned so red that the paint mark barely registered. “Oh, dear, I’m getting into deep water here. Maybe modern schoolgirls—sorry, students—do attend such events, but I doubt whether your headmistress would encourage it. Tom might find himself out of a job.”

  “Are they, like, orgies?”

  Anastasia laughed. “If they were, I’d stay away. No, we’re artists. All we do is let our hair down, so to speak.”

  “Smoking pot?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Listen, I’m not saying any more and I’m going to ask you, please, to forget everything I said under pain of death. And now I see them returning to the studio.” She turned about and moved off as if she’d disturbed a swarm of bees.

  “That’s something Tom’s been keeping to himself,” Jem said to the others.

  “Probably quite innocent,” Mel said. “A poker school or something.”

  “Strip poker?” Ella said.

  “Not much joy in that when they see models stripping off for them every other week,” Jem said. “You’d better get back to the studio, Mel. They’re definitely going in. Oh, and Mel.”

  “Yes?”

  “See if you can find out when the next party is.”

  * * *

  Back in the studio, Mel took a tissue and started smearing the charcoal she had so carefully outlined before the break. Jem had been right. At once the picture had a freer look. She rubbed a few of the lines away completely and was pleased to see that they hadn’t been needed. When she stood back, her brain filled in the missing bits.

  “What’s happening here?” a voice said in her ear.

  Tom.

  “I’m trying something different.”

  “It’s good. Go for it, Mel. You can use a rubber to lighten some areas if you want, but add some more charcoal first.”

  He moved on.

  She was pleased to get approval, but she felt disloyal to Miss Gibbon. All those exercises in perspective must have had some purpose. Her own sense of order had rather welcomed the analytical approach. The idea that there was a golden mean, an aesthetically pleasing formula for designing a picture, had given her something to aspire to. Last year hadn’t been a total waste of time, as the others believed.

  If, as now seemed inevitable, she “broke out” and disregarded those principles, she felt a strong urge not to disregard Miss Gibbon herself. The others seemed happy to dismiss her from their minds. They’d never had much respect for her. “Almost human,” Ella had said about the online photo. The knowledge that their former teacher was on the missing persons list didn’t trouble them. Their only concern was whether she’d be traced and get her old job back.

  Mel had decided she, at least, would make an effort to find out more.

  Now was an opportunity.

  Tom was still on her side of the room giving advice to Gail, one of the other A level girls. He’d have to edge past Mel to return to his own easel because Anastasia had built a barricade with two donkey stools to separate herself from Geraint. No one liked to get close when he was wielding the knife.

  “Tom, mind if I ask something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “When you took over from Miss Gibbon, did you get a chance to talk to her?”

  He shook his head. “She left suddenly during the summer break.”

  “I was hoping you might have learned what her plans were, like where she was going next. We didn’t give her a goodbye present or thank her for teaching us or anything.”

  “She’s on your conscience?”

  “In a way.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about her. From all I heard, she was rather a private person. She may have decided she needs a break from teaching, a sabbatical. You might laugh at this, but teaching a lively group of students can be really demanding. Doesn’t the school have a forwarding address?”

  “I don’t think so. Miss Gibbon is officially a missing person.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve seen her picture on the police website.”

  “That’s really disturbing. I hadn’t heard.” Shaking his head, he moved on.

  Out on the lawn, Jem had completed three good pastel drawings of Tom’s MG by mid-afternoon. She didn’t feel like starting another or indeed anything else, so she went for a stroll instead. The grounds weren’t vast or particularly beautiful, but there were some wonderful old trees. She found a kitchen garden at the back and a swimming pool with a tiled surround and two larger than life black and gold masked figures in bronze with spectacular headgear and cassock-like garments.

  Across another stretch of lawn she spotted Ferdie with his wheelbarrow emerging from a walled garden. He was coming in her direction, so she waited to speak. He seemed surprised when she gave a friendly, “Hi. Is that where you grow the orchids?”

  A slow smile of recognition dawned. “Didn’t recognise you for a moment.” He grounded the barrow. “Yes, I’d offer to show you round, but they’re in controlled conditions.”

  “Humidity and stuff?”

  He smiled. “That’s about right. Some of them are extremely delicate. How’s the art coming along, young lady? Going to show me? I’ve been handling compost but I w
on’t touch.”

  She opened her sketchbook and showed the pastel drawings of the MG.

  “Ha, the passion wagon. You’ve caught it perfectly. Tom will approve, I guarantee.”

  “D’you reckon?” she said. “He’ll be like, ‘You’ve spent too much time getting a likeness when you should have made it more dynamic.’”

  “Like a streak of red to show it doing a ton on the motorway? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer it just as you’ve drawn it.”

  Jem had no thought of calling him old-fashioned. “If I’d had my head straight when I got here this morning, I could have drawn those amazing figures near the pool, or their reflections in the water, which would have been even better.”

  “You like them? I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “They’re awesome. They set it off incredibly.” Without pause she added, “Is that where Tom holds his parties?”

  “Someone been telling you about the parties, have they?” Ferdie said.

  “One of the artists mentioned them as if they’re rather special.”

  “Not all that special, unless I missed something. Just a social get-together for his art friends. In the summer they gather round the pool and he has some loud music going. Or they sometimes hold it by the lake.”

  “You’ve got a lake?”

  “We call it that. Others might describe it as a pond. You should take a stroll down there. It would make a nice picture. Of course in cold weather they use the studio for the parties.”

  “They’re all year round, are they?”

  “Night of the full moon.”

  “Go on.”

  He grinned. “I kid you not.”

  “Cool. D’you think I might get an invite?”

  “I can’t speak for my son, but I doubt it.”

  “Why? Do they, like, get up to something illegal?”

  He laughed. “No, no, no. Not on my property. Any nonsense of that sort and I’d ban the lot of them.”

  5

  Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable in Bath, was unusually tense, gripping the edge of her desk with both hands as if she meant to heave it over and use it as a barricade when the enemy burst in. “Shut the door, would you? This is for your ears only.”