Down Among the Dead Men

by Peter Lovesey

  Diamond jerked forward, almost spilling the tea. “Which school?”

  “Priory Park.”

  “Miss Du Barry? You and Miss Du Barry are lovers?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve been to the school and met her. I didn’t have an inkling of this. Didn’t suspect it for a moment.”

  “She’s brilliant at keeping things to herself,” she said. “In London when we talked about my difficulties finding a teaching post, she never once mentioned that she was a school head, so when she came out with this I was dumbfounded. Nothing I knew about her seemed to suggest she was in the same profession as me, but it was true. She kept her personal and professional lives completely apart. Her plan, she said, was to offer me a teaching position to start in September. There was a vacancy on the staff and how would I feel about teaching art?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I was speechless. I knew almost nothing about the subject, but Olivia seemed to believe it was not only possible, but a breeze, to use her word. She said when an opportunity came she would find me a post teaching maths. Art was the one subject any experienced teacher could cope with because it’s so individual. Each student has to develop her own creativity. The teacher is there mainly to encourage and inspire, not to work through a curriculum as you do in most other subjects. I could take them round galleries or look at images on the internet and teach them about the theory of composition, which is closely related to maths.”

  “The golden mean,” Diamond said with all the authority of a man who had lasted one hour in a life class.

  “Exactly. She showed me a syllabus and persuaded me I could handle it. In short, I agreed to take it on—the worst professional decision I ever made. You can’t bluff your way through, you really can’t.”

  “Did the other teachers know you were living with the head?” Hen asked.

  “Absolutely not. Olivia didn’t want anyone to find out, so we travelled to school separately. She drove in and I took the bus. It’s only a short ride. I was introduced as a new member of staff from London and no one questioned me. I’m quite a private person anyway and others seem to respect that.”

  “Facing a class must have been an ordeal.”

  “Any teacher fills in for absent colleagues from time to time, so it wasn’t terrifying. I tried my best. I believed, and still do, that one can analyse the structure of a picture in geometrical terms, but it failed to excite the students. The ones who choose art are more interested in flouting the rules rather than observing them. I was trying to constrain them while they wanted to take risks and break out.”

  “Did you have trouble keeping discipline?” Hen asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s not that sort of school. There were a few mischief-makers, but there always are. I can handle them. My difficulty was that I had no confidence in myself as a teacher of the subject. In desperation I decided to join a recreational art group to experience practical art.”

  “Tom’s group?”

  “Yes, I made enquiries and heard that they were the best. The Saturday mornings fitted in nicely with my teaching. So I came to Fortiman House. The standard was depressingly high. They’re professional artists, some of them, and I was just a beginner, but several gave me tips. Tom was particularly generous with his advice.”

  “Did Miss Du Barry know what you were up to?”

  “I had no reason to be secretive. She thought it sensible. I didn’t have transport, so she gave me a lift in and left me at the gate. Later, one of the others who also lived in Bosham—a nice woman called Drusilla—took over the ferrying.”

  “I’ve met Drusilla,” Diamond said. “I did a session with the artists myself.”

  Hen gave him a disbelieving frown and then turned back to Miss Gibbon. “Did it help you at the school?”

  “Helped my confidence, a bit. I was hanging on, hoping a position would arise in the maths department. Two whole years went by. I kept saying to Olivia that I felt a fraud, but she insisted I was a success and they’d get through their exams. Most of them did in the first year, but no thanks to me. It was down to their own talent.”

  “What went wrong, then?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Our relationship. A silly, embarrassing thing was blown up out of all proportion. She asked me to get a tattoo. I’m not a tattoo person. I don’t care for them.”

  “What kind of tattoo?” Hen asked.

  “Her name between a red rose and a heart.”

  “Olivia?”

  “All of it—Olivia Du Barry.”

  “The full moniker. Where was it to go?”

  Miss Gibbon blushed deeply again. “My lower back. She said once it was done I would never see it unless I used a mirror. She made an issue of it. She told me if I was unwilling to have her name tattooed on my flesh it must be because I didn’t intend to stay with her. It wasn’t that. And it wasn’t the pain of having it done. What upset me was that it was like being branded, being marked as her possession. She said if I couldn’t do that simple thing to please her, I was selfish. She kept on about it.”

  “Did she offer to have your name tattooed on her own butt?”

  “It was never suggested.”

  “Does she have tattoos?”

  “No. And what’s more, she won’t allow any of the Priory Park students to have them. One girl came in with a tiny heart design on her face and was asked to leave.”

  “Double standards.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I didn’t say so.”

  “You were right to stand firm,” Hen said. “You didn’t get the tattoo, I hope?”

  “I almost did, just to end the friction between us. In fact, I got to the point of enquiring about tattooists in Chichester. Our relationship was under such a strain that I thought about getting the wretched thing done in secret and”—she gave an embarrassed cough—“letting Olivia find it. The sense of relief would have been wonderful. One Saturday on the way home in the car I asked Drusilla—who seems to know everything—if there was a reliable tattoo artist she knew. For some reason this amused her and she asked what I was planning and it was a critical moment. I needed desperately to confide in someone other than Olivia, so I told Drusilla all about my relationship and my reluctance to get the tattooing done. To my surprise, she pulled the car over and stopped at the side of the road and said I’d be mad to go through with it. She’d known Olivia when she was at school and her name wasn’t Du Barry. It was Dewberry. She was plain Olive Dewberry then.”

  Diamond could scarcely hold back the laughter. Olive Dewberry—he loved it. But he couldn’t risk upsetting this solemn woman at the climax of her story. Miss Gibbon hadn’t paused. She was very wound up.

  “She’d started calling herself Olivia Du Barry after she won the big prize on the national lottery. That was where her wealth came from. I’d been led to think it was inherited and the Du Barrys were an old Sussex family. I’d been completely taken in and she wanted me permanently labelled with this false name—as if it confirmed her status.”

  “Did you take it up with her?” Hen said.

  “Certainly I did. I was more angry than I can say. The hypocrisy didn’t seem to register with her. She didn’t deny any of it. She called me vile names I can’t repeat and turned the whole thing round and accused me of latching onto her because she had money and position. It was deeply wounding. She told me to leave at once, and I said I had no intention of staying. I gathered my things, only the things I’d bought myself. I left behind all the clothes and presents she’d given me. I filled the one suitcase I’d arrived with and walked out without saying goodbye.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I took the bus to Chichester. I thought of returning to London, but I had nowhere to stay. At times like this you need the help of friends. I thought about trying to contact Drusilla, but it was awkward. She’d
been shocked to learn that I was lesbian. You don’t need antennae to tell you when somebody disapproves. I’m not sure how she would have reacted if I’d asked her to let me stay with her. Instead I thought of the one person who had shown me kindness throughout—Tom Standforth. I got on the phone and blurted out to Tom that I was homeless and could he possibly put me up for the night at Fortiman House. He didn’t hesitate. He came to collect me from the bus station. He must have seen my pitiful state at once because he said I was to stay there as long as I wished. I spent the first night in a spare room in the main house and the next day he showed me this cottage and said his father owned it and asked if I’d like to live here while I got myself together again. It’s ideal for me. I just wanted some time out from the world. He brought over fresh bedding and food and cleaned the main rooms and he’s made sure I’ve lacked for nothing ever since. I can’t speak of him too highly.”

  “You wanted nobody else to know where you were?” Hen said.

  “It was a breakdown, or whatever they call it these days—post-traumatic stress. My emotions had been shattered. Even speech was difficult for me. I needed time to shut out the world and rest up. I stayed indoors for weeks. Only in the past few days have I ventured outside for a walk around the lake.”

  “In a beanie hat,” Diamond said.

  “You saw me?”

  “A long way off.”

  “I’m much better than I was. If you thought I was living here illegally, I promise you I’m not. Tom will vouch for that. He’s visited me every day and got shopping in for me.”

  “Seen anyone else?” Diamond asked. He slipped the question in casually, as if it had just occurred to him, but the answer mattered hugely.

  “How would I? It’s private here.”

  “I was thinking of one of the Priory Park students who may have come here looking for you on the night the artists had their party.”

  “Looking for me?” Her face was a study in disbelief.

  Diamond nodded, willing her, almost begging her, to break through the black cloud of uncertainty that hung over them.

  “Who on earth are you talking about?”

  “Mel.”

  “Melanie Mason, the quiet one?” She widened her eyes. “What would she want from me?”

  “You may not know it, but Mel was troubled that you’d left the school so suddenly, and when she discovered you’re officially a missing person she decided to try and find you. She learned that you’d been one of the Fortiman House art group and there’s reason to believe she came here that evening in search of more information. She didn’t return home and she hasn’t been seen since.”

  She clutched at her hair. “That’s dreadful. I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

  “Believe me, it’s true. She came to the police station to see what was being done to find you. I spoke to her myself. Are you certain she didn’t come here?”

  “How would she know I was staying in the cottage? I heard nothing. No, that isn’t correct. The sounds from the party carried a long way. I could hear the beat of the music on this side of the wall. And some time after midnight they let off some fireworks. Several loud bangs woke me up. I hate sudden noise.”

  “Fireworks?” Diamond exchanged a shocked glance with Hen. “We weren’t told they had fireworks. The party was over before midnight.”

  Hen asked her, “Could it have been shooting you heard? Did it go on for long?”

  “No, it was soon over. Two or three loud bangs.”

  “Gunfire must be a possibility.”

  “Oh, don’t say that. This is deeply disturbing—and so much more so if Melanie came here looking for me. Please God, tell me nothing dreadful has happened.”

  33

  Diamond tried phoning once more. And had to stop himself from flinging down the phone and kicking it.

  Dave Albison was still not taking calls. The recovery operation at sea must have been under way for three hours or more. No sense in thinking these guys on a gruesome mission would be using phones.

  The waiting was hell to endure.

  The shadows of early evening were spreading across the neglected garden as he left Holly Blue Cottage with Hen. He’d counted on hearing something by now.

  “Is it back to Chichester?” Hen asked.

  It was not. “I want to take a look next door. I’m curious about those voices you heard. Were they male or female?”

  “Both, I thought. Whoever it was has gone by now. It’s so quiet you can hear the snails saying their prayers.”

  He gave her a look. “Where did that come from?”

  “My grandma. She had some quaint expressions. If you want to go trespassing I’ll collect the torch from my car.” Which sounded like another of Grandma’s sayings.

  Left alone, he assessed his fitness for the task. If he was ever going to crack this case, it would be tonight. The back of his head felt sore, but he was steadier on his feet now. And his brain was sharper than it had been all day. He needed to steel himself for horrible discoveries. Things said and things noticed were coming together and making sense, and none of it was good.

  His phone buzzed. He tugged it out.

  “Yes?”

  “It took longer than we thought.” Albison at last. “The wind got up. A real blast. The seagulls were flying backwards.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Pagham.”

  “Well?”

  “We managed to bring two up. They’d be the most recent.”

  He took a sharp, short breath. “And?”

  “Female, both of them. And both with bullet wounds. One is almost certainly the missing schoolgirl. She’s wearing the motorcycle jacket in the description, purple and black, with reflective panels.”

  A stark, pitiless statement from a bearer of bad news who in fairness had no reason to feel pity.

  Diamond had been hit by a wrecking ball. The last hope that Mel had somehow survived was dashed.

  Cruel.

  A huge lump came to his throat. He wanted to give vent to his sorrow, but this wasn’t the moment and Albison’s wouldn’t be a sympathetic ear. “And the other?”

  “Older. In her twenties. A redhead. Slim build. Silver ring on her right hand. Black leather jacket and trousers. The killer must have been so confident they would never be found that he left them in the clothes they had when they were shot.”

  The second body was almost certainly Joss. The silver ring had been mentioned by her mother. The age, build and hair colour were right. Devastating for those troubled parents. And for Hen.

  “So the plan is to take them to the mortuary now and see how many more we can bring up tomorrow.” Albison made it sound like baggage handling. But who could blame him? On a job as horrific as this you have to find some way of insulating yourself from personal reactions that would overwhelm anyone else. “Do you want calls about all the others as we find them?”

  The words hadn’t penetrated Diamond’s jangling brain.

  “The others,” Albison repeated. “The bodies.”

  Mentally, he put himself on autopilot. “DI Montacute will need to know. Best report to him as you go along. These are the two I wanted to know about.”

  Mel and Joss. The two he least wanted to know about. The grieving, the long sleepless nights of self-doubt, lay ahead.

  He pocketed the phone. Hen was already through the gate on her way back, jaunty and confident as she habitually was. In his present emotional state it wouldn’t be right to blurt out the bad news. He would find a way of telling her before the day was out.

  “How’s your head now?” she asked him. “Jesus Christ, you’re looking groggy again. Don’t you think we should call it a day and get you back to the hotel?”

  “I’m better than I look.” He was lying, but so what?

  “Men have been saying that to me all
my adult life and it just ain’t true. What is it you expect to find here?”

  He ignored the question. “Let’s get to it, Hen.” Stepping out briskly to leave no doubt that he was fit again, he took the route around the cottage and along the well-trodden path towards the connecting door in the high brick wall. Tom must have come this way regularly to deliver supplies to Miss Gibbon. Where the grass grew sparsely in the shadow of the wall, it was wise to watch for the mushroom hazards. A repeat of yesterday’s slip-up wouldn’t be clever.

  “Did you make a meal of those mushrooms you collected?” he asked.

  “I did—and very tasty they were in a two-egg omelette.”

  “You said you’d be checking them for safety.”

  “Of course. Chucked out a couple of liberties. They’re really abundant in this garden.”

  “Liberties?”

  “Liberty caps. In my state of stress I don’t need that sort of trip, thank you.”

  They’d reached the door. He turned to face her.

  “When you say ‘trip’ you don’t mean slipping over like I did the other day.”

  “Correct, my innocent. ‘Trip’ as in psychedelic experience. The liberty cap is the good old magic shroom beloved by hippies.”

  Diamond said a simple, “Ha,”—but he might as well have said “Eureka!” The mystery he’d been wrestling with for days was solved. Surrounding them on the shadowy ground were clusters of the delicate helmet-shaped fungi on long stalks.

  Within his recent memory freshly picked hallucinogenic mushrooms had been openly on sale, although their psychoactive constituents were deemed class A drugs under the Misuse of Drugs Act. The police had a thankless task deciding whether they had been “dried or altered by the hand of man” and were therefore illegal. But in 2005 the act had been tightened to include fresh mushrooms of the liberty cap variety. In the eyes of the law they were as dangerous as heroin and cocaine.