Down Among the Dead Men

22

When Diamond returned to the art room and asked to speak to Ella, he was told apologetically by Tom Standforth that she wasn’t there.

‘I was told she was in today.’

‘That was earlier.’

‘Is she allowed to leave midway through the morning?’

‘Uh-oh,’ one of the class said. ‘Someone else goes missing.’

‘It’s not funny,’ Jem said, swinging around in her chair. ‘Mel could be dead for all we know.’

‘He’s talking about Ella.’

Standforth said to the class in general, ‘Cool it, people. Did Ella tell anyone where she was going?’

Silence.

‘You could try the yard,’ he said to Diamond. ‘That’s where her project is. It was too large to assemble in here.’

‘And too smelly,’ Jem added, to general amusement.

Asked for directions, Standforth gave some and added, ‘Look for the big black construction. You can’t miss it.’

Diamond’s law decreed that whenever those last four words were used he was doomed to lose his way. Downstairs at the back of the main building he found a yard where the bins were kept and surplus desks and chairs had been left to take their chance with the elements. It wasn’t promising until, against expectation, he saw that for once he’d picked the right route. Rising above the school furniture was a strange creation in the form of a scaled-down mansion with gables and turrets mostly covered in foliage. The onion-shaped cupola at the top of the main tower must have been more than fifteen feet above ground. In outline the whole thing was so dark that it was like a silhouette, undeniably creepy.

On getting closer, he saw that the entire structure was a rickety collection of lobster pots and creels piled on top of each other and lashed together with nylon rope. The cupola was formed from two beehive-shaped pots joined at the base. A creative imagination beyond his own had envisioned this. True, it smelt strongly of bad fish and was better appreciated out of doors, but as a concept based on limited materials it spoke eloquently for its designer. Pity she wasn’t around to be congratulated.

He circled this amazing artefact and examined it from several angles. If this was the result of Tom Standforth’s teaching, the young man deserved the head’s high opinion of him. Yet here it stood in a scrapyard among rubbish bins and unwanted furniture.

He was about to leave when he noticed a movement. A black cat was inside, among the lobster pots, preening itself. Seeing him, it gave a plaintive cry that anyone except a cat owner might interpret as distress. Raffles sometimes got attention the same way. The thought of his own cat touched a sympathetic chord in Diamond and he crouched and offered his hand to nuzzle against.

‘Leave her alone,’ a voice behind him said. ‘She likes it in there.’

He stood up and turned. ‘Would you be Ella?’

She was in her own clothes rather than the school uniform worn by the junior kids, a black dress cut low to display more cleavage than a seventeen-year-old is entitled to possess and worn over baggy black trousers. Untidy dark hair. Eye shadow, probably in defiance of school rules. This young lady didn’t strike him as the sort who would pay much attention to rules. She ignored his question.

‘If you are Ella, I heard you created this,’ Diamond went on. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Are you, like, visiting the school?’

‘I work for the police.’ He could have been a window-cleaner, the offhand way he spoke. ‘Where did you get all the pots?’

‘Fishermen.’

‘You went to the beach?’

‘Loads of them are lying about broken. Pots, not fishermen. They’re, like, only too pleased to get shot of them.’

‘Your idea — building this wonderful thing?’

Flattery is a sure persuader. She started telling him about her work of art. ‘It wasn’t planned. I talked to those guys and learned some cool stuff about pots, like they have eyes, did you know?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘Where the poor old lobsters go in, soft or hard eyes, depending if it’s net or wire. If it was me, I’d call them mouths, but the fishermen don’t. I had this thought about doing a sculpture, making a statement about emptiness. Have you heard of de Chirico?’

He shook his head again.

She didn’t need any prompting. She was away. ‘Doesn’t matter. When I stacked them on top of each other, the different types, old-fashioned beehives and boxes, some on end and some flat — well, D-shaped — they stopped being lobster pots, right? I thought what I was producing was shaping up to be an abstract, but then, like, this structure starts to appear and I talk to Tom and he agrees with me it could be a building with towers and I’m away. Do you think the seaweed works?’

‘As the creeper? I’m no expert, but it took me in.’

‘It’s not meant to be a creeper. It’s fungus, tiny fungi hanging from the eaves in a kind of web.’

Fungus or a creeper. Did it really matter? To humour the girl, he nodded sagely. ‘I see it now.’

‘I want it to look right.’

‘It does, believe me.’ Her flow of words had stopped. She needed another confidence boost if he could provide it. ‘So this is your A-level effort, is it?’

‘Extended personal project.’

‘It’s big. Hope you don’t have to send it in to be marked.’

‘We can send images.’

‘When you do the photography try not to get the bins in the shot.’

‘Don’t know about that,’ Ella said. ‘I’m thinking the symbolism is stronger with them in the background.’

‘You’re the artist,’ he said. ‘Is it gothic, this building?’

‘Don’t you recognise it?’

‘Em...’ He didn’t want to be discouraging.

‘Have you heard of The Fall of the House of Usher?’

‘The horror film? Never actually seen it.’

‘It’s a story by Edgar Allan Poe.’

‘I’ve heard of him, but I’m not much of a reader.’

She almost stamped her foot, she was so put out. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about, this must look like a heap of old tat.’

‘Not at all. It’s spectacular. Now you’ve said what it is, I’m lost in admiration.’

He was subjected to a long, penetrating look. ‘Well, now you know what it’s meant to be, the House of Usher, an ancient mansion in a state of decay. Poe says, like, it gives you a feeling of insufferable gloom, right? The walls are bleak and the windows are like vacant eyes. If you know about lobster pots having eyes, there’s an extra layer of meaning. They’re mostly broken, too, so that’s in keeping with the story. But I’ve got a problem. The house is supposed be beside a tarn, a dark, lurid tarn. Do you know what that is?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m pretty ignorant about this kind of stuff.’

‘A lake. In the story, after Roderick’s twin sister Madeline is left for dead and he and his friend bury her in a vault downstairs, she comes alive and terrifies him and they both die and the house collapses into the tarn. I haven’t worked out how to show the tarn.’

‘Tinfoil?’

‘Wouldn’t work.’ But she seemed grateful that he’d tried. ‘How did you know about me and my gothic interest, then?’

‘Stands out a mile, doesn’t it?’ Diamond said and moved on smoothly to what he hoped would be a more productive topic. ‘One thing I was told is you’re the expert on Mr Standforth’s — Tom’s — artist friends.’

‘Someone was having you on. I’ve only met them a couple of times.’

‘Let’s say you know more than the other students.’

‘Why? Why do you say that?’ Her mood had changed. She was wary of a trap.

‘I’m going by what I was told. It could be that the professional artists sense you’re one of them, a rare talent.’

She wasn’t falling for that. She grasped a stepladder and moved it right up to the House of Usher. ‘I can’t stay talking.’

Art had never been one of Diamond’s talents, but thinking on his feet definitely was. ‘What you could do for the tarn,’ he said, ‘is transport the whole thing to some place that has a large pond and position it there, close enough to catch the reflection. Is it possible to move all this?’

‘I’d need a bloody great truck, wouldn’t I?’ She was up the steps and rearranging seaweed.

‘Is that impossible?’

‘For crying out loud, where would I get a flaming truck?’

‘Is there a pond at Tom’s place, Fortiman House?’

‘A pond? You’re joking. It’s more like a lake.’

‘Ideal, then.’

It seemed this possibility hadn’t occurred to Ella. She continued with her task while she considered. ‘I could ask Tom,’ she said finally. ‘He might agree.’

‘Does he own any heavy transport?’

She laughed. ‘Like his little old MG?’

She’d dropped a strip of seaweed. He stooped and handed it up to her. ‘If you have to dismantle the house and reassemble it, the artists might help. Are they there most days?’

‘Saturdays. Now I think about it, they do have quite a large van. His dad grows orchids commercially and it’s used to deliver them, I suppose.’

‘And you only go there Saturdays, you say?’

‘Except when they have a party, and they wouldn’t want to help with my project on party nights.’

‘Do they all get drunk, then?’

‘No worse than the average party. There’s wine and fruit juice if you want it, pineapple or...’ She had stopped in mid-sentence, making it all too clear that she’d given away more than she intended. She added limply, ‘The drinks are handed out free. I was told, anyway.’

He didn’t miss an opening like that. ‘And I was told you’ve been to one of the parties.’

She gripped the ladder with both hands. ‘Who said that — Jem?’

‘In fact, no. I talked to Jem earlier and she didn’t mention parties. But you’ve been to one, haven’t you?’

‘What if I have? It’s no big deal.’

‘I knew if anyone was bold enough, it would be you. Are they wild, these parties? Soft drinks don’t sound all that wicked.’

‘They’re not. There’s dancing in the studio, but it’s not what I’d call a rave. They’re middle-aged, most of them. The music is crap. There’s a vicar and some ladies older than my parents. More your age, really.’

‘Thanks. I must see if I can get invited. When were you there?’

‘Night before last.’

The same night Mel had disappeared. This, surely, was critical. Keep the girl talking and find out all you can.

‘As recently as that? Did any of your friends go with you?’

She made a sound of scorn. ‘No chance. They’re a bunch of scaredy-cats.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘Positive.’

‘I bet they all wanted to know about it, though.’

She nodded. ‘Isn’t that typical?’

‘How do you know you were the only one of your class there? That happens to have been the night Melanie went missing.’

‘Mel wasn’t there.’

‘Can you swear to that?’

‘You don’t know her, or you wouldn’t even ask. She’s not into parties.’

‘Unlike you.’

‘I’m up for anything funky. It’s just a shame it was a let-down.’

‘Not funky?’

‘I didn’t let the others know it was a turn-off when I texted them.’

‘You texted them from the party?’

‘Naturally. Crashing it was a top result and I wanted everyone to know.’

‘All of them, including Mel? Did you get a message back?’

‘From Mel? No.’

‘Going by what you just said, she didn’t miss much. Did anyone spot you as a gatecrasher?’

‘Tom, obviously, and he was OK with it.’ She appeared to decide enough had been said about the party. ‘Can we talk about something else? I’m getting bored with this.’

‘Do you have any idea where Mel might be?’

She shook her head. ‘What a dumb question. I’d have told someone by now, wouldn’t I? And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’

‘She hasn’t texted you?’

‘She hasn’t texted anyone for two days.’

‘Each hour that passes makes it more likely she’s in real trouble. You’d help me if you knew anything, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course. I want you to find her.’

He believed her. For all the posturing, she had integrity.

Back in the art room, he was keen to question Tom Standforth about the party.

The young teacher was on the defensive straight away. ‘Who’s been talking? Ella, I suppose.’

‘I was thinking that as Ella turned up uninvited, Mel may have had the same idea.’

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘You’re not suggesting I have anything to do with Mel’s disappearance?’

‘Asking, not suggesting.’

‘Well, she most certainly wasn’t there. I wasn’t pleased when Ella gatecrashed. The parties are for my adult friends. We don’t need schoolgirls barging in.’

Students, he thought, but didn’t voice the thought. ‘She didn’t seem all that impressed.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘That the parties might suit someone my age. Cheeky.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not angling for an invitation, but it would be useful to meet your artist friends. Will they be at Fortiman House tomorrow, being Saturday?’

Tom frowned. ‘I don’t know why you need to meet them.’

‘We’re following up all the contacts Mel has made recently. She comes to your Saturday sessions, so she must have met the artists.’

‘They’re not kidnappers.’

‘Did I say they were?’

‘They wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police.’

‘No one ever does. What time do you get under way?’

He seemed to accept the inevitable. ‘Eleven.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t ask what they smoke.’

‘I had the feeling those schoolgirls were running rings round me,’ he confessed to Georgina back at the hotel.

‘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.’