Down Among the Dead Men

by Peter Lovesey

  “Rigid inflatable boat. Yes, I’m right. And it’s anchored in some way.”

  “Out here? Strange.”

  “Can’t see anyone aboard.”

  “Give them a blast on the horn.”

  “When we get closer.”

  A few minutes later, Jim Bentley sounded the horn.

  Nothing came back.

  “Be like that,” he said.

  “They won’t have a horn,” Hallows said.

  “They could wave.”

  “They’re lying low, shagging, I expect. Thought they were all alone in the ocean and we show up, giving them the fright of their lives.”

  “It’s early in the day for that. Seriously, I’m wondering if they’re in trouble, engine failure or something.”

  “They’d be waving to you by now if they are.”

  “Not much sign of life. Suppose the guy has had a heart attack.”

  “Serve him bloody right for being at it so early in the morning,” Norman said.

  “I’m going closer, just to be sure.”

  Hallows sighed. He wasn’t going to get the game done. He stirred himself, got up and watched as they drew alongside the anchored inflatable gently bobbing with the waves. No one was aboard.

  “The Mary Celeste,” he said. “Another unsolved mystery of the sea.”

  They both stared down into the empty boat. It was larger than most inflatables, with an inboard diesel that powered an outboard motor. The anchor chain looked sturdy.

  “Should we do something?”

  “Like what? Send up flares? A Mayday call? I wouldn’t mind betting there’s a perfectly good explanation for this.”

  “Get a GPS reading. That’s the least we can do.”

  Hallows saw the sense of that. He checked their position with the phone, picked up a pen and made a note of the co-ordinates on the back of his hand.

  “You know what?” Bentley said. “There’s another line in the water as well as the anchor. See the red cord on the far side?”

  “Where?”

  “Going over the tube. From here it looks like part of the structure, but it’s a line on a reel fixed to the hull.”

  “I see it now.”

  “I reckon someone’s doing a dive and that’s his safety line.”

  “You could be right. What’s the point of doing a dive out here, I wonder?”

  “Something of interest below us, like a wreck. Divers make a thing of seeking out old wrecks. There are hundreds along the coast.”

  “Treasure hunting, you mean?”

  “Not really. Just knowing there’s something down there to explore.”

  “Dangerous, doing it alone.”

  “Bloody stupid, if you ask me. Do you think he’s all right?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Let’s wait and see, just to be sure he’s okay. He’ll be coming up shortly. They don’t stay down all that long, even with breathing equipment.”

  “If you want,” Hallows said. “But I think we should give him space, move off a bit. He could get a panic attack if he spots the bottom of our boat alongside his.”

  Bentley started up again and took the cruiser some thirty metres south of the inflatable, still within hailing distance. “Something to tell the ladies, eh, how we did the decent thing and made sure a diver was safe?”

  “I suppose.”

  “We could fish while we’re waiting.”

  “It had better not be that long.” Hallows sank into the cushions, took out the phone again and went back to playing solitaire.

  Several more minutes passed.

  “He’s up. I can see his head,” Bentley said.

  Hallows joined him again.

  Masked and hooded, the diver took a couple of overarm strokes towards the inflatable and flopped his arms over the near side. He had his back to the cabin cruiser.

  “He hasn’t seen us.”

  “He looks okay. I’ll give him a shout.” Hallows cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Are you all right?”

  Now the diver turned his head and lifted the mask and they could see the pink oval of his face. After staring for a moment, he raised a thumb.

  “He’s fine. Well in control.”

  They watched as the diver hauled himself over the side and into the boat. It was quite an effort with the cylinders he had on his back and he was no lightweight.

  “Go in closer,” Hallows said. “I’d like to know what’s down there.”

  The diver was reeling in the line. He seemed to have finished for the day.

  Bentley took them closer. In this calm sea it was a safe manoeuvre.

  Hallows took a souvenir picture. In the spirit of boating people across all oceans, he called out, “Anything of interest down there?”

  The diver turned his head and called back, “Bugger off. I’m busy.”

  “Suit yourself, mate,” Hallows answered. “There’s gratitude,” he said to his friend. “We stop to make sure he’s all right and he tells us to bugger off. I was about to offer him some coffee from my flask. Full steam ahead, skipper.”

  Diamond couldn’t avoid bringing Georgina fully up to speed. Soon after waking at six thirty, he’d checked with Chichester CID and the girl Melanie was still missing after two nights. There was a full-scale alert. The parents were distraught and a family liaison officer was with them at their home trying to see if there was some detail they’d overlooked. The fact that Melanie had visited the police station to enquire about the missing teacher earlier on the day she’d disappeared was a bizarre coincidence no one could understand.

  He waited near the dining room entrance, trying to ignore the tantalising aromas of breakfast. When the boss finally appeared at around eight thirty he put down the paper he was pretending to read and followed her in. She waited to be seated, oblivious that he was behind her until he spoke.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  She turned and frowned. Suspicion, more than pleasure, was her first reaction. “I thought you liked to eat alone.”

  He nodded. “Table talk isn’t one of my strengths, particularly in the morning.”

  Her shoulders twitched. “Don’t feel under any obligation, then. We can ask for separate tables.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Do you have something to discuss?”

  “If that’s all right with you.”

  “A working breakfast? I’m all for that.”

  They were shown to a table by the window. Georgina said she would have toast and coffee. After Diamond had collected a plate heaped with everything on offer at the hotplate, he explained why Melanie’s disappearance needed following up.

  Georgina saw the point. They were charged with examining Hen Mallin’s conduct and if anything at all had governed her recent behaviour it was missing persons: Hen’s niece, Joss, and the series of local criminals she had been investigating and campaigning about. And now there were two people from the local school, a teacher and a student.

  “The teacher went missing during the summer,” Diamond said. “She left the school at short notice and vanished. Nobody knows the reason—or will admit to it, although she wasn’t popular with her classmates.”

  “Did DCI Mallin know about this?”

  “She would have seen the report on the teacher, but she may have decided there was no link to organised crime, like some of the other cases on her radar. You can’t get excited about every missing adult on your patch.”

  Georgina raised the knife she’d been using to butter toast and brandished it between them. “But consider this. What if the teacher—what’s her name?”

  “Miss Gibbon.”

  “What if Miss Gibbon was involved in crime and Mallin overlooked it?”

  “Miss Gibbon a villain? That’s a new angle.�
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  Georgina looked pleased with herself.

  “Not impossible, not impossible by any means,” Diamond said.

  “What did she teach?”

  “Art.”

  “Ha.” Georgina clearly had a poor opinion of art teachers. “If this had come into my in-tray, I’d have been onto it directly. Do we know anything about the company she kept?”

  “Not much. She hasn’t been an active line of enquiry.”

  “That’s got to change. We must speak to the head. Is there any suggestion of the teacher having an unhealthy influence on the girl?”

  “I don’t think it’s been raised.”

  “It should be.”

  “They didn’t go off together, if that’s what you mean.”

  Georgina replaced the knife on the plate, “But you told me the girl came to the police station to ask about Miss Gibbon. That suggests determination. Or devotion.” She glanced left and right, leaned forward and said in little more than a whisper, “Peter, as a man, you may not fully appreciate the intensity some women feel for each other. I’m sorry this has to come up over breakfast, but it must be said. We can’t ignore it.”

  “A lesbian relationship?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Her prudery amused him enough to prolong it a little. “Are you thinking Mel and Miss Gibbon . . . ?”

  “I am.”

  “Mel wanted to find her and now she has and they’re together?”

  “It has to be considered.” As if she urgently needed a break in the conversation, Georgina said, “I’m going to get myself some cereal.” She was up from the table and away.

  Diamond helped himself to a slice of her toast and waited.

  When she returned with a bowl of cornflakes, she said, “We need to know a whole lot more about Miss Gibbon.”

  “I’m not sure who we ask.”

  “The head—obviously.”

  “Miss Du Barry? She’s very guarded.”

  “Leave her to me. I’ll speak to her, woman to woman.” She hesitated. “But I don’t want you present in the room.”

  “That’s all right,” Diamond said. “I’ve met Miss Du Barry anyway. I’ll speak to some of Mel’s fellow students.” He hoped he wasn’t glowing in triumph, but he felt like it. The arrangement was ideal. While those two formidable women went head to head, he’d find out what really went on in this school.

  Georgina couldn’t resist saying, “You see? When you joined me, you looked quite sorry for yourself and now you’re relishing the day ahead. There’s a lot to be said for a working breakfast. We must do it more often.”

  Naseem, an Asian girl, had been sent for and asked to show Diamond to the art room. He tried chatting with her as they went through the corridors, but she gave one-word answers for the most part. He managed to find out that Mr. Standforth was known to the students as Tom. At the mention of Miss Gibbon, Naseem didn’t even speak. She nodded and looked away.

  Tom Standforth appeared nervous when Diamond said he was a police officer. Tall, in his twenties, with quite a mane of loose black hair, the teacher crossed his arms defensively.

  “It’s about the missing student, Melanie Mason.”

  “Mel?” Standforth said—and it was clear from the pitch of his voice that Melanie hadn’t been foremost in his thoughts. “Oh, Mel.” His arms relaxed and returned to his sides. “Yes, I’ve already been asked. She hasn’t been in for a couple of days.”

  “She hasn’t been home,” Diamond said. “Her parents are very worried. We all are.”

  “Sure—and so are we. She’s a sweet girl and a talented artist, too.”

  “Does she have close friends?”

  He glanced around the room. About a dozen students were present. “These are the girls who know her best. You met Naseem. And there’s Jem.”

  “Jemima,” a girl standing by the window said, “Jemima Hennessy.”

  Diamond was getting the message that no one here was keen to assist the police. Jemima was already looking out of the window again.

  Speaking to the class in general, Tom Standforth said, “Has anyone heard from Mel—a text, or an email?”

  Nobody answered.

  Diamond said to them all, “Would you expect her to get in touch?”

  The only response was a slight nod from Naseem.

  This was hard work. He couldn’t be certain if they were holding back information, or simply didn’t know. From the direction of the looks being exchanged, one thing was clear: there was a dominant personality in this class.

  He turned to the teacher. “I’d like to speak to Jemima in private. Is there anywhere we could go?”

  “The stock room.”

  Some sounds that could have been subdued giggles were heard, but not from Jemima.

  Standforth said “Jem?”

  The girl said, “I can’t tell him anything. I don’t know where she is.”

  “But you can give me some background,” Diamond said. “I know very little about her. You’d like to help your friend, wouldn’t you? I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t taking her disappearance seriously.”

  Difficult to refuse. Without a word, Jem moved to the front and through the stock room door.

  Standforth told the rest of them to go back to what they had been doing.

  Among the easels, blank canvases and stacks of paper of various colours and sizes, Diamond found two stools. Jem’s feet didn’t reach the floor. Short as she was, she looked unlikely to be pushed around.

  “We’re better off here.” Diamond said. “It’s not a good situation when all your classmates are listening, not to mention the teacher. I’m hoping you can give me some pointers as to why your friend is missing.”

  “No,” she said.

  Not a good start.

  “Can’t?” he said. “Or won’t?”

  “Take your pick. It comes to the same thing.”

  He wasn’t going to be shut down by a schoolgirl. “Well, I’ll tell you something instead. Mel came to see us at the police station the day she disappeared. I spoke to her myself. She wanted to know if we had any news of Miss Gibbon, who used to teach here.”

  Jem’s eyebrows arched. Resolved as she was to give nothing away, she’d been ambushed. “Miss Gibbon?”

  “The lady is on the missing persons’ index.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then maybe you know why Mel wanted information. She was deeply concerned.”

  Now she was frowning. “She said nothing to any of us.”

  “Yep,” Diamond said, ramping up the ill-feeling. “I got the impression she was acting alone.”

  “She’s like that, telling nobody. You never know where you are with Mel.” Now that what amounted almost to a betrayal had sunk in, Jem’s tongue loosened. “The rest of us don’t want the Gibbon back. She can stay missing as long as she likes. We’re far better off with Tom. He’s nice. We all look forward to art now instead of dreading it. He hasn’t been here long and he’s got us doing all kinds of really cool stuff.”

  “Quite a change from Miss Gibbon, then.”

  She nodded. “He’s an ace teacher. Even Mel will tell you that. She’s doing a gorgeous mosaic with bits of glass from the beach for her extended personal project. We’ve all raised our game with Tom. All we ever did with the Gibbon was boring old perspective, more like geometry than art.”

  “Did you give her a bad time? Not you, personally. The class, I mean.”

  “She kept order.”

  “But was it stressful?”

  “For her, or for us?”

  “Her.”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  Jem shook her head. “We were so pleased to see the back of her that we didn’t give a toss as long as she
stayed away for keeps. It was, like, only a couple of days ago we found out she was a missing person.” She remembered something and gave a gasp. “And it was Mel who found her name on the website. Thinking back, she kept going on about why the Gibbon left so suddenly without getting a leaving present. Then we were out at Tom’s one day—”

  “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.”