Down Among the Dead Men

by Peter Lovesey

  “Like you did at the last prom when you threw up over that boy’s shoes?”

  “Give me a break. That was yonks ago. Wouldn’t it be wicked to crash one of the parties?”

  Nobody spoke. Just because someone says jump in, you don’t want to be the first.

  Finally Jem said, “Like put it on Facebook and get thousands of kids along?”

  “That would be so uncool,” Ella said. “I’m not suggesting we should be mean to Tom. I’m thinking just ourselves. After they’ve had a few drinks they won’t care who turns up.”

  “What would you wear?” Jem said. “Your goth gear?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Count me out,” Naseem said. “This could be so embarrassing.”

  “How about you, Jem?”

  Jem shook her head. “It’s not my scene.”

  “Nor mine,” Mel said.

  “We know that, scrubber,” Jem said quick to deflect any criticism. “Your scene is some greasy-spoon caff in the back streets of Bognor.”

  No one was brave enough to come to Mel’s defence. The put-down, like so many others, seemed to speak for everyone.

  “What a load of wimps,” Ella said. “Haven’t you ever crashed a party before? Sounds like I’m on my own.”

  15

  “That man is capable of anything . . . anything at all,” Georgina said in the car on the drive back to Chichester. She’d been a dormant volcano in the caravan and at last she could send out sparks. “I was watching him the whole time, those eyes like chips of ice. I wouldn’t put it past him to be holding his daughter in some secret hideout.”

  “Interesting thought,” Diamond said.

  “Yes, but don’t run away with the idea that this is for her sake. It’s all about himself, always has been, as far as I can see. He couldn’t deal with her teenage rebellion or her poor choice of husband. The only way to get control of the mess she was in was to fund the divorce, pay the debts, buy her back and make her dependent on him. So he sacrificed his home and his bank balance and thought he’d fixed the problem and now he’s threatened with a worse scandal than ever.”

  “So he locks her away and claims she’s missing?”

  “Or removes her from the scene altogether.”

  Diamond blinked. “Kills her, you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “His own daughter?”

  “To me, he’s a man at the end of his tether, single-minded, humourless, driven and dangerous. He has the means. That van is stuffed with lethal material, including a gun.” Georgina’s eruption was in full flow.

  “It comes down to pest control?” Diamond said.

  She had to pause and think about that. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Don’t you agree?”

  In truth, he was never going to agree. There were dangers in pinning a case on eyes like chips of ice and a job killing things. He couldn’t rule out Barry Mallin as a potential perpetrator, but better evidence was needed. “It would be unusual for a parent to kill their own daughter or son. The reverse happens more often.”

  “All right, wise guy. You heard my assessment. What did you make of him?” she asked.

  Diamond gave an oblique answer. He wasn’t trading in character assassination. “Difficult to see him as Hen Mallin’s brother.”

  “There’s a resemblance in the face,” Georgina said. “Something about the mouth and jaw.”

  “But not in the way they deal with a crisis.”

  He left it at that. He saw no point in discussing what the man might or might not have done. The potential for a serious crime was there, but no more needed to be said at this stage.

  Fortunately Georgina went off on a different tack. “I’m glad I left the bulk of the questioning to you. You covered most of what I would have asked. In fact, I can’t think of anything you missed.”

  “That’s all right, then.”

  Satisfied, she rubbed her hands. She almost clapped. “We’re a team that gets things done, Peter. Two interviews already, Henrietta Mallin and her brother, and both went rather well, with me setting the agenda, so to speak, and you following up on the detail. If people see us as Miss Nice and Mr. Nasty, so be it. That’s a well-tried method of interrogation.”

  She meant good cop bad cop. Miss Nice and Mr. Nasty was another nugget to tuck away.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “More fact-finding. We mustn’t lose sight of our main objective.”

  “Which is?”

  She blinked, shocked that he needed to ask. “To discover the full extent of Henrietta Mallin’s misconduct.”

  “She already confessed.”

  “True, but I don’t take everything she says at face value. There could be more to come out.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t forget she headed the original investigation into the Rigden murder. She charged Danny Stapleton and he was convicted. Was she aware at the time that her niece was involved?”

  “The DNA result was four years after that.”

  “Ah.” Georgina raised a cautionary finger. “But what if she knew from the beginning about Joss and chose to shield her, chose even to pin the blame on Stapleton when she knew Joss was up to her ears in guilt?”

  “Are you suggesting Joss murdered Rigden?”

  “He was killed with a gun, we know that. And the girl knew where to get hold of one. Her own father keeps one in his van.”

  “Is this part of our brief, to re-investigate Rigden’s murder?”

  She reddened and raised her chin. “We’re charged with examining DCI Mallin’s conduct, and I take that to mean the way she led the murder enquiry as well as what happened later. It’s inevitable that we look at the case again. And if we reveal a miscarriage of justice, so be it.”

  “That’s a far bigger job than I thought we were here for. We’ll need to go over it in much more detail with Hen.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep calling her by that ridiculous nickname, as if she’s one of us.”

  “She’s CID like me,” he said, annoyed with himself for the lapse, but finding it almost impossible to think of his one-time colleague as Henrietta, or DCI Mallin.

  “Her conduct is under scrutiny,” Georgina said. “Let’s try and keep a proper distance, shall we?”

  “As you wish.” His spirits had nosedived. A prolonged investigation would put intolerable strains on this so-called team effort. The prospect of being in Chichester with Georgina for days to come, if not weeks, was about as appealing as gangrene. “We’d better not waste time, then. Shall we call at the nick and get things under way?”

  “You can,” she said.

  “Just me?”

  “I’ll drop you there. I’m going back to the hotel. Important calls to make.”

  He didn’t point out that important calls could be made from anywhere. Any break from Georgina was manna from heaven.

  She insisted on telling him what to do, “setting the agenda,” as she liked to think of it. “Speak to DI Montacute and find out if he was on the Rigden case and who else currently in CID was part of the team.”

  “Okay.”

  “And when you get back to the hotel come directly to my room and tell me everything you found out.”

  After school, Mel didn’t go straight home. She walked down South Street and over the level crossing to where the police station was. Her calm personality could be deceiving. When she had a cause, she pursued it, regardless.

  There was a sergeant behind the desk using a phone.

  Mel waited, silently rehearsing what she would say. The fib about the borrowed book wouldn’t work here. It would sound feeble in a police station.

  “How can I help?”

  “It’s about a missing person.”

  “Okay. Who’s missing?”

 
“I’m from Priory Park School. She was one of our teachers until the summer holiday and then she left suddenly. And now we’ve seen her name on your website, Miss Constance Gibbon.”

  “So she’s already notified as missing? That’ll be the missing persons bureau, you’re talking about. It’s a national website. And what’s your name, young lady?”

  “Melanie Mason.”

  “Is there something you want to tell us about Miss Gibbon?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. We’re worried about her. Well, I am, for one.”

  “Constance Gibbon.” He typed the name in. “Missing since mid-July. Thousands of people go walkabout for all sorts of reasons and most of them turn up later, so I wouldn’t worry unduly about her. Missing children are another matter.”

  “Someone must have reported that she’d gone.”

  “Her family, I expect.” He checked on the computer. “Yes, a sister in Limerick. Long way off. I reckon your Miss Gibbon isn’t answering the phone. Do you know if she was depressed?”

  “She could have been. I can’t say for certain.” Mel stepped up the pressure. “When do you start getting serious about people on that list?”

  “Depends.” He hesitated. “Hang on. There’s someone upstairs dealing with local missing persons. I’ll see if he wants a word. Take a seat.”

  Mel found a chair and did some scrolling. The picture of Miss Gibbon on the missing persons website must have been provided by her family. She didn’t look at all depressed. The photo had been taken in sunshine in a garden somewhere. Difficult to feel sorry for her.

  * * *

  Diamond got out at the police station, showed his pass and went up to the CID room. Montacute had reoccupied Hen’s office and had his feet on the desk. He didn’t remove them.

  “Yes?”

  He had to fight off a huge urge to do a Georgina and pull rank. “Not so busy today, then?”

  “Busy enough. There’s often a lull about this time. How’s your day gone?”

  “We visited your boss.”

  “Ex-boss.”

  “Boss. She isn’t permanently suspended.”

  “Everyone’s saying she might as well be. The high-ups from headquarters have marked her card.”

  “You want to be careful, coming out with stuff like that,” Diamond said. “It can come back and bite you. One thing she mentioned this morning was an investigation into missing persons. Are you part of that?”

  “I had a hand in checking the files and getting the word out to the snouts. But I can’t see it progressing now that Hen is out of it. This was her baby. No one here wants to take on extra work with a senior officer short.”

  “You can’t shelve it.”

  “It ain’t shelved.” Montacute grinned. “It’s on the back burner.”

  “Isn’t this an enquiry spread over several divisions?”

  Montacute stroked his beard as if contemplating how much information to give out. “I’m being realistic. There wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm from the other stations she contacted. To be brutally honest, it’s better for the crime figures if missing persons stay missing.”

  “Ah, the crime figures.”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” Montacute said.

  “Is there a file I can access, to see if Hen had uncovered anything?”

  “I’ve been too busy to look at stuff like that.”

  “Now is a good moment. Can you work the keyboard with your feet up?”

  Montacute glared defiance, but removed his legs from the desk and set about accessing the file. With his attitude, he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in Diamond’s team. Pity he had to be treated with kid gloves, being a key source of information.

  Diamond wheeled a chair behind the desk and sat shoulder to shoulder with the obnoxious man. There was more to this than he’d expected. Hen had contacted the divisions at Eastbourne, Brighton, Hove and Shoreham, Highdown (covering Worthing and Littlehampton), Western (covering Bognor Regis and Selsey) and across the county border, Portsmouth, Fareham, Gosport and Southampton. Mostly she’d dealt with CID officers of her own rank, an informal exchange of emails to see what evidence there was of known criminals registered as missing. Some had written back to say nothing out of the ordinary had been noticed. However, she had received confirmation from several others of higher than average figures and their locations seemed to be significant. They were confined to a stretch of the south coast between Portsmouth and Brighton, under fifty miles.

  The file also had the quotes Chichester CID had gathered from local informants. “Better not put a foot wrong round here, or you’ll not be seen again.” “I don’t know how it’s done, or how much it costs, but I heard if you want to get shot of a stiff it can be arranged.” “Two of my best mates vanished and they weren’t the sort to go without telling anyone.” “It’s bloody efficient, whatever it is. No mess and no traces. Someone’s making a career out of it.”

  Diamond turned to Montacute. “I’d like a printout.”

  “What for?”

  “Just do it. How long have you been here?”

  “Me? In Chichester? I came in 2005.” He tapped the keys and a printer behind them jerked into action.

  “So you were around for the Rigden murder inquiry. Were you on the team?”

  “I was a dogsbody then, knocking on doors and taking statements from rich berks in Slindon who had him as their gardener.”

  “He was well-liked, I heard.”

  “Pillar of the bloody community. Nothing was too much trouble. There was a lot of anger about the murder. I reckon if they’d got their hands on Stapleton, the killer, they’d have strung him up from the nearest tree.”

  “Is there any question he was guilty?”

  “Bang to rights, wasn’t he? Caught in a stolen car with the body trussed up in the boot and two grand stuffed in his clothes.”

  “Were you in on the interviews?”

  Montacute shook his head. “Hen and a DI called Austen did all that.”

  “Is Austen still around?”

  “Retired and died the same year. Surprising how often that happens.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you got long to go?”

  Diamond treated the last remark with the contempt it deserved. This pain in the arse was pushing him to the limit. Exactly why, he couldn’t tell. The guy had no loyalty to Hen. “Is the Rigden investigation still on file?”

  “Must be. If you want that printed out, we’ll need a fresh ream of paper and more ink in the printer.”

  “It’s as large as that?”

  “Took hundreds of man-hours just typing all the statements.”

  “Get it on screen, then.”

  Montacute glared and worked the keyboard with one finger to make clear it was all so much trouble.

  “Now get the printing under way,” Diamond said. “If you do need more paper, we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

  “You want the whole boiling lot?”

  “All of it. Was Stapleton’s story about stealing the car in Littlehampton followed up?”

  “You bet it was. I was one of the mugs sent there to check on it. Couldn’t find one sodding witness to back him up.”

  “Where did you try?”

  The pub where he said he was sitting across the street from the BMW. Can’t remember the name now.”

  “The Steam Packet.”

  A sharp look. “It was, yeah. He was known there. Regular drinker, they said, but no one remembered serving him the evening this was supposed to have happened. Of course he claimed the pub was practically empty that night and the barmaid who served him had left the job. Convenient, eh?”

  “He also said someone in a hood parked the car outside and walked away across the bridge,” Diamond said. “Did you follow that up?”

  Now there was a look of surpri
se. “Have you been there?”

  Diamond nodded.

  “Well, you’ll know there’s nothing over the bridge except some seedy looking boathouses and a yacht club. If the kid in the hood was going to the club, he would have driven there from the other side of the river, wouldn’t he?”

  “Did you make enquiries at the yacht club?”

  “Yep.” He grinned. “If a hoodie turned up there, they’d remember, believe you me. They didn’t. Stapleton’s story didn’t stand up.”

  “Except for the jammer and the key programmer he had with him when he was stopped.”

  Montacute wasn’t impressed. “No one ever said he wasn’t a car thief. Of course he had the tools. He half-inched the BMW from a car park in Arundel with the clear intent of using it to transport the corpse. This was the day before he was nicked.”

  “He’s maintained his innocence ever since.”

  “They all do.”

  The phone on the desk buzzed.

  Montacute rolled his eyes. “It never stops.” He reached for the thing and spoke his name.

  Diamond waited while Montacute listened to the message coming through.

  “Isn’t there anyone else? I’m in conference here.”

  Good name for it.

  “All right, I’ll come,” he said finally. He stood up and told Diamond, “This is all I need. Schoolgirl who thinks her art mistress has done a disappearing act.”

  “Another missing person, then?”

  “It’s hardly one for the serious crimes unit.”

  “Never mind,” Diamond said. “I’ll join you.”

  A constable appeared and showed Mel into a room with a table and wall-mounted recording equipment just like she’d seen on TV when suspects were interviewed. Two plainclothes officers who looked important came in. One was bearded and watchful and the other was large, with a face that looked wrong for a policeman, as if he doubled as a stand-up comedian.

  “Don’t be scared,” the large one said. “It’s more private talking in here than out in the reception area.”

  She was asked her name for the second time and had to supply her address as well. They introduced themselves as Detective Inspector Montacute and Detective Superintendent Diamond. They didn’t seem all that comfortable with each other.