Down Among the Dead Men

23

Before visiting Fortiman House next morning, the police car took a route through a wooded area near Boxgrove that even the driver wasn’t familiar with. It was so quiet along these back ways that the local wildlife didn’t expect to be disturbed. Several pheasants and a rabbit came close to premature death and a territorial fox stood its ground in the middle of the lane until the last seconds.

‘The sat nav makes us close,’ the driver said without much confidence.

They were looking for the one-time home of the centenarian, Mrs Shah, who had once employed Joe Rigden as her gardener.

‘This has got to be the boundary fence,’ Georgina said.

A line of split hazel hurdles extended along the lane. After a short distance the driver braked in front of a low iron gate. Chained to it was a dusty and faded enamel nameplate with the words HOLLY BLUE COTTAGE and a picture of a butterfly. The two detectives got out. Being in such a remote spot, the cottage probably had as much land as the owner would wish to cultivate. Whether you could term it a garden any longer was questionable.

The front was as overgrown as the ancient wood they’d just passed through.

‘The one that got away,’ Diamond said. ‘A gardener hasn’t been near this place since the old lady died.’

‘Sad,’ Georgina said.

Between enormous shrubs crying out for a clipping, the cottage came into view, not quite the House of Usher, but showing signs of neglect. Slates were missing from the roof and the windows hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.

‘Last night I did some checking on the present owner,’ Diamond said. ‘It’s a company known as Mombasa Holdings Limited.’

‘Exotic,’ Georgina said.

‘Kenyan Asian, I would guess, like the late Mrs Shah. Clever people, making money and expanding into property.’

‘This doesn’t look clever to me. Who’d want to live here, way out in the country?’

‘Mrs Shah did.’

‘I don’t know how she managed when she was so old.’

‘She paid people to come to her, like Joe Rigden.’

‘Whoever is here now isn’t employing a gardener. Is it inhabited, do you think? Doesn’t look like it. You’d think they’d want to collect some rent and make it profitable.’

‘Maybe there are plans to develop it.’

‘It’s remote, Peter.’

‘It’s not all that way out, just difficult to reach. Five miles from Chichester, probably. We’re townies, you and me. Plenty of people like the country way of life.’

‘Desolate. I’d pay money not to live here. Do you still want to look round?’

‘We made the effort to find it, so why not?’

Georgina seemed to have made up her mind why not. Seven years after Joe Rigden had pulled his last weed, nothing helpful to their investigation would be found here.

Diamond wasn’t giving up. Mel’s disappearance troubled him and he was leaving no stone unturned. To be certain no one was at home, he tried the doorbell and the knocker. Junk mail had been pushed through the letterbox and was heaped inside.

‘No one is going to object if we explore.’

‘I expect it looked presentable at one time,’ Georgina said. ‘Joe Rigden wouldn’t be happy to see the grass this high and all these thistles.’

‘Spinning in his grave. Let’s go round the back.’

The ground was sodden after overnight rain. Georgina looked down at her smart brogues. ‘Do we really need to?’

‘There ought to be a garden shed.’

‘And what do you hope to discover there? A rusty mower?’

‘If someone hasn’t nicked it already. Look, here’s a path.’ By shifting some groundsel with his foot he’d found a moss-covered paved area that skirted the cottage.

He stepped out confidently. Georgina, muttering, followed.

The back garden had once been laid to lawn and was now a crop of hay asking to be harvested. A solid-looking trellis and pergola arch showed above the swaying seedheads. Beyond that, a red brick wall about nine feet high marked the end of the garden. And, as if Diamond had ordered it, a dilapidated shed stood in the shadow of the wall, its felt roof torn and gaping.

‘If you think I’m going to fight my way through this jungle, you’ve got another think coming,’ Georgina told him. ‘I’m not dressed for it. I’ll see you back at the car — if you’re not eaten by a tiger.’

She had a point. It was a struggle and his trousers were sodden before he’d gone more than a few yards. Worse, they snagged on brambles and the thorns got through to his flesh. But he persevered. Up to now, Joe Rigden had been elusive, a vague figure from witness statements and court records. This, at least, was one of his workplaces. Seeing the inside of the shed and his tools would make some kind of connection.

Thrusting his way through and ignoring the damage to his clothes, the big man presently reached an area where the grass was shorter and less abundant and he could make his way more easily. And now mushrooms or toadstools — he wasn’t sure which — appeared underfoot, slippery when crushed. The moist conditions must have encouraged them. So many were there that it was impossible not to trample some. If he hadn’t been brought up a townie, he might have foraged for lunch, but he had no idea if they were edible.

He had no difficulty forcing open the padlocked shed door. The wood was rotten and the screws came out like drawing pins from a cork board.

He stepped inside.

Eerie. The first thing he saw was a dark green wax jacket draped over the back of a plastic chair. On the floor was a flask. These items could only have belonged to Rigden. If you ignored the cobwebs and dead leaves, you could kid yourself that the owner had sat there a short time ago drinking tea. Then the sun had come out and he’d stepped outside to do some digging.

No. That couldn’t be right. Surely the man wouldn’t have padlocked the door if he was still at work. Yet if he’d gone home, why had he left the jacket and flask behind? He was supposed to have been methodical and tidy.

The rest of the contents were predictable: the motor mower, several sets of shears and clippers, saws, trowels, hoes, spades and forks, buckets, a sieve and plastic sacks that probably contained fertiliser or compost. On a low table were the remains of seed packets shredded at the edges by mice.

He lifted the jacket and held it up. These all-weather garments had more pockets than anyone ever needed. Was it too much to hope something of interest might have been left behind? He resisted the urge to start looking. He’d take the thing with him. Time to move on and meet the artists at Fortiman House. A shake of the jacket and a large spider hit the floor and scuttled for shelter.

Outside, Diamond hadn’t taken two steps when his heel slipped on some of the fungi he’d already trampled. His feet went from under him and he fell heavily, his backside hitting the ground first.

‘That’s all I need.’

He wasn’t sure whether he’d injured himself, but bar some bruising and the indignity, he would be OK. Rigden’s jacket had fallen with the arms crossed as if the owner was saying, ‘Serve you bloody right.’

‘Get real,’ he told himself. ‘He’s got no use for it.’

He hauled himself up, grabbed the jacket and stumbled back to the car.

‘Look at the state of you,’ Georgina said.

‘I don’t particularly want to.’

‘What happened?’

‘I tripped over a toadstool.’

‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

‘Actually I slipped.’

‘Is that the only suit you have? Didn’t I say you should have packed more clothes? You’ll need a dry cleaner’s now.’

‘Don’t fuss. I’m all right.’

‘I’m not thinking of you. I’m the one turning up at Fortiman House with a scarecrow in tow. Remember who we are.’

‘Plain-clothes police.’

‘Plain doesn’t mean scruffy.’

‘Artists don’t dress up.’

‘They’re as fashion conscious as anyone else, if not more. And what’s that disgusting garment you’re carrying?’

His tolerance was being stretched. He explained.

‘Keep it away from me, then. It will be home to a million unspeakable things.’

He tossed the jacket in the boot and slammed down the lid. Yesterday’s burgeoning sympathy for Georgina was just about used up. He wasn’t sorry she chose to sit beside the driver.

On the map, Fortiman House looked extremely close, but to reach it they had to thread their way back through the woods to a busier road.

‘Remind me why we’re visiting this place,’ Georgina said.

He said through his teeth, ‘To meet the artists, Tom Standforth’s friends.’

‘But why?’

‘Because of the missing schoolgirl, Melanie. She comes to the house on Saturdays to draw, so she’ll be known to them. A couple of nights ago there was a party. Her friend Ella gatecrashed it and texted her friends, including Mel, to boast that she was there. It’s not impossible Mel was tempted to do the same.’

‘Did you question Ella about that?’

‘She claims Mel isn’t a party-goer and wasn’t there.’

‘But you think she could be mistaken — or lying?’

‘I ask myself is it just a coincidence that Mel disappeared on the night of the party? She rides a scooter. She could have got there quickly.’

‘All right. I suppose it’s worth looking into. I can only think of one set of people less reliable than schoolgirls and that’s artists. Kidnapping might be someone’s idiotic idea of performance art.’

The Standforth property was in a far better state than Holly Blue Cottage. The grounds appeared well managed and the house they drove up to must have been one of the grandest in the district. Unseen by his superior seated in the front, Diamond rubbed his muddy shoes against the backs of his trousers.

Other cars and vans in a variety of makes and conditions from a rusty Renault to a brand-new Lamborghini were already parked in front of the house. The police vehicle drew up beside the red MG Ella had mentioned and the first person they saw was its owner. Diamond suspected he had been waiting for them.

‘You will respect the reason my friends are here?’ Tom Standforth said as he escorted them to the barn that doubled as his studio. ‘These sessions are meant to be laid-back and some of them can get a little touchy if they feel their space is invaded.’

Georgina was quick to answer. ‘Don’t think of us as invaders. We’re used to mingling with strangers, aren’t we, Peter?’

‘It’s our job,’ he said, his toes curling. Mingling with strangers? Like at a cocktail party? Pity he couldn’t have thought of some alternative mission for Georgina.

‘I must apologise for the state of my colleague’s clothes,’ she said to Standforth. ‘We had a diversion involving a trek through a quagmire.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

The studio was abuzz with people chatting over coffee. Three of the Prior Park schoolgirls glanced across and immediately went into a huddle. Ella, Jem and Naseem were alert for every twist in this drama.

‘There’s no need for an announcement,’ Georgina told Tom Standforth.

‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’

‘To explain who we are and why we’re here. I dare say they’ll find out soon enough.’

‘I wasn’t aiming to say anything. I’d rather keep it low key.’

‘So would we.’

‘In fact,’ the young man said, ‘I’m wondering if you’d like to join us.’

‘We intend to,’ Georgina said. ‘We’ll introduce ourselves as we go round.’

‘That isn’t what I mean. Would you like to do some drawing?’

‘Actually put pencil to paper? Oh my word, I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose we could appear to be sketching. In fact, it might be rather a clever move. Peter, what do you say to that?’

He was speechless. They hadn’t come here to make fools of themselves.

‘In which case,’ Georgina said, ‘we need drawing materials.’

‘Not a problem,’ Standforth said. ‘Help yourselves to coffee and I’ll fix it.’

‘I can’t draw,’ Diamond said after their host had moved off.

She was without pity. ‘Anyone can make marks on paper. That’s all it is. Go to any gallery and you’ll see aimless scribbles passed off as masterpieces. Art is ninety-nine per cent bluffing.’

‘Are you any good at it?’

‘As a matter of fact, I won the art prize at school. I’d offer to show you the basics, but we’d better split up when it starts, don’t you think?’

‘I need a strong coffee.’

All too soon, Standforth clapped his hands and addressed everyone. ‘Let’s start the first session, shall we? You’ll be pleased to hear Davy is back with us today.’

‘Who’s Davy?’ Diamond asked, jumpy as frying popcorn.

‘How would I know?’ Georgina said.

The floor squeaked to the sound of easels and stools being dragged into position. Two of the men pushed a low wooden stand into the centre.

‘What’s that for?’

‘The dais,’ Georgina informed her colleague from the depth of her experience. ‘To support the arrangement.’

‘What of?’

‘Come on, Peter, this is art. Still life. The usual thing is a bowl of fruit or a potted plant. Personally, I prefer apples or oranges. They’re easier to copy.’

Standforth handed them drawing boards with large sheets of paper clipped to them. ‘I recommend charcoal if you haven’t done much before. Take as much as you like from the box on the table at the end. And help yourselves to easels. Back of the room.’

‘Do we really need easels?’ Diamond asked his boss.

She was implacable. ‘Thank you for offering. Place mine next to the gentleman with the clerical collar.’

The easels were heavy and paint-spattered. By the time he’d manoeuvred one to where Georgina wanted it, a circle was forming. He noticed some people weren’t bothering with easels at all. They perched on high stools or at a lower level astride donkey stools. A tall black man in a Rasta hat was standing with a sketchbook. One of the stools would do for Diamond.

‘I’ll be on the other side,’ he told Georgina.

She didn’t answer. She was staring over her shoulder at a large man in a black silk dressing gown standing beside the dais, barefoot and bare-legged. The apples and oranges would have to wait for another day.

The next hour was a new low in Diamond’s career. He had the rear aspect of the nude model, Davy, and he wasn’t interested in committing it to paper. No one spoke. The concentration in the room was absolute. The whole point in being here was to get acquainted with the artists, but it wasn’t possible. He could only look around and try to get an impression of them as people.

The only consolation was the sight of Georgina with her full-on view of the model, having her artistic credentials tested to the limit as Davy faced her, hands on hips. Each time Diamond glanced her way she swayed like a boxer out of sight behind the easel. Mostly she managed to hold a fixed stare at Davy’s head and shoulders as if the rest of his body didn’t exist. There was one exquisite moment when the tension became too much, her charcoal snapped and a piece rolled across the floor and stopped six inches from the dais. She didn’t go after it.

Finally Tom went over and drew chalk marks around the model’s feet to allow him to move and ease the strain on his muscles. Everyone relaxed. And then, with the grace of a true gentleman, Davy stooped, picked up the charcoal and handed it to Georgina. She turned geranium red, took a step back and knocked over someone’s easel.

Diamond didn’t have long to savour the incident. The woman beside him said, ‘Are you having trouble?’

‘Trouble?’

‘With the pose. You haven’t made many marks. I’m Drusilla, by the way.’ She held out a slim hand. Her voice was sharp, but she looked friendly enough, a slim woman about his own age dressed in some kind of ethnic sweater and frayed jeans.

‘Peter,’ he said, shaking hands, ‘and it’s no use pretending I can draw. I’m a fraud, as you can see.’

‘An interloper?’

‘In a way, yes. A police officer, volunteered for this by my boss.’

‘The lady hiding behind her easel?’

‘Right. She thinks we should join in and not be too obvious.’

‘She’s more obvious than she thinks. Are you supposed to be undercover? If so, you’re not very good at it. What are you hoping to find out? We may look a suspicious bunch, but I don’t think we’re lawbreakers — except Manny, the West Indian. He had a short spell inside for dealing in cannabis, I was told, but he served his sentence and made use of the time to become a brilliant cartoonist.’

‘Good for him.’

‘Tom and Ferdie employ him as the gardener. They’re like that, open-minded, willing to give a man a fresh start. You should ask to see his cartoons. He’ll do one of you if you ask. He might have done one already. There’s character in your face, if I may be personal. But if you’re going undercover—’

‘If I was undercover, ma’am, I wouldn’t have told you I was in the police.’

‘My dear, you can tell me anything and it stays in here.’ Drusilla tapped her forehead. ‘What are you investigating?’

‘One of the schoolgirls who has gone missing.’

‘I saw on the TV. I was hoping it was just a tiff with the parents. Isn’t there any news?’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Have you spoken to her friends? I suppose you will have.’

‘They don’t know either. There was a party here a couple of nights ago — the night she went missing. Did you go?’

She nodded. ‘They couldn’t keep me away if they tried.’

‘Was Melanie there?’

‘If she came, I didn’t spot her. I thought only one of the schoolgirls came and that was Ella, the tall one over there, looking amazingly grown-up and different in her gothic get-up, and she didn’t stay long. When she got a little woozy, Tom removed her from the scene. It was the right thing to do. He’s a responsible young man.’

He nodded, trying not to seem over-interested. ‘When you say woozy, are you talking about alcohol?’

‘She wouldn’t have been offered the wine, I’m sure. She’s far too young. Most of us stick to soft drinks, anyway. Pressed fruit in various flavours.’

‘That’s restrained for a bunch of artists.’

She laughed. ‘This is rural Sussex, my dear, not Soho in the sixties.’

‘But you don’t expect to stay sober at a party, do you?’

‘Personally, I can get high on good company and music, but I can’t speak for everyone. A few I could name knock it back, but I’ll spare their blushes. We’re all rather hyped up by the end of the evening.’

‘Does anyone do drugs?’

Drusilla laughed. ‘Good God, you are a suspicious policeman. Get that idea straight out of your head. I wouldn’t have anything to do with drugs, I assure you, and neither would most of the others — including Manny, who learned his lesson the hard way.’

‘But you just said by the end of the evening...’

‘I meant something much more innocent. Haven’t you ever been to a pop concert? Just listening to the music gives me an adrenalin surge. Coming back to young Ella, I saw Ferdie taking her a glass of fruit juice.’

‘When you say Ferdie...?’

‘Tom’s father, the unofficial barman. It’s thanks to his generosity that we come here at all.’

‘So you didn’t see Mel that night. You’re certain Ella was the only girl from Priory Park who showed up?’

‘You’d better ask around if you doubt me. Ella’s the only one I saw.’

His theory was looking shaky. He didn’t get a chance to ask around because the model had just stepped up to the dais again and people were back behind their easels.

‘I’m ducking out of this session,’ he told Drusilla. ‘I’ve done all I can.’

He glanced across at Georgina. With her easel in a prime position, she would find it impossible to extract herself without everyone noticing. Stuck between the clergyman and a tall man making slashing movements with a palette knife, she looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else on the planet.

But Diamond escaped.

As if in sync with him, a wintry sun emerged from behind the clouds, throwing shadows and patches of bright green across the landscaped estate. What better than fresh air and exercise? Well, there was something better if the exercise had a purpose. Somewhere was the lake Ella had spoken about and that he’d speculated would be the ideal place to set up her lobster-pot House of Usher. Ella was a useful contact. With time in hand before lunch, the least he could do was to check. Down a gentle slope to the left was a beech copse turning gold. Logic suggested the lowest point on the landscape where the wooded area flourished would be where the lake was sited. He started walking.

One thing he hadn’t expected until he got close and felt it underfoot was a gravel driveway running directly across the lawn, not so much in the direction of the copse as off to the right. From the size of the tracks it appeared to be in use by heavier traffic than cars. He couldn’t at first understand why. There was nothing worth driving towards, just the tall brick wall that bounded the garden. Then he noticed a point where the wall angled sharply inwards and formed a square-shaped enclosure, presumably a walled garden. He wouldn’t have picked it out from the background unless he’d asked himself where the road headed. Now it made sense. He could just see the roofs of buildings inside the walls that evidently housed the orchid collection. The driveway across the lawn would be needed to transport the orchids by van to the main drive.

His thoughts moved quickly from orchids to lobster pots. How simple it would be for the Standforths to transport Ella’s House of Usher from the school to its new location by the lake — provided they liked his suggestion.

He crossed the drive and continued down the slope. Before reaching the copse he saw the gleam of water between tree trunks. All doubt was removed when a pair of mute swans glided across. He picked his way down a steeper incline and reached the bank where the water lapped. He was impressed. Two hundred to two-fifty metres to the far side, he estimated. The depth was anyone’s guess, but this was much more than a pond. In his estimation it qualified as a lake. The dark reeds at the edges would blend in superbly with Ella’s creation.

No question: it would pass for Edgar Allan Poe’s sinister tarn.

The find was pleasing. There hadn’t been much to celebrate lately. He stood a little longer, enjoying the view, thinking if Tom and Ella agreed he would have contributed to a small success.

In the act of turning to go back, he spotted a movement on the far side. The lake almost lapped the wall there, but a narrow path existed because someone was walking slowly from right to left.

Impossible to tell if it was male or female. Well covered in black beanie hat, brown overcoat and trousers. Not particularly tall and moving in a preoccupied way, with head down and arms folded. Maybe one of the artists had got the same idea as he, and escaped. Whoever it was hadn’t seen him and was too far off to hail, or wave to, so he turned and retraced his route.