Stagestruck

21

‘No violence,’ Diamond kept repeating aloud while skirting Salisbury on the road to Wilton. The next hour would test him. The anger simmering for days was already threatening to boil over. He’d last felt pressure like this after Steph wasmurdered. Brute force had always lurked within him and he knew the signs, shallow breathing, gritted teeth, flexed muscles. Then the red mist came down and he was danger ous. No, he must keep reminding himself of the purpose of meeting Flakey White: to find out for certain what had hap pened when he was a child. Only by getting to the truth of it could he hope to remove the block his brain had put up and give himself the possibility of closure.

This was it: truth time.

He’d thought about phoning White to let him know he was coming. In most situations it was the civilised way to behave.

Turning up unannounced after dark wasn’t a good start. But in this case, surprise was essential. If White were tipped off that someone he’d once abused was coming, he’d quit the house, or refuse to come to the door.

As it was, there was no guarantee he’d be at home and no certainty he’d be willing to say anything. He could clam up or deny all knowledge of the abuse. The meeting was one extremely demanding obstacle course.

But it had to be attempted.

Without Sergeant Rogers in the passenger seat, Diamond navigated for himself. Part of his brain, at least, was com pelled to function normally. The map showed he didn’t need to drive into the city centre and he was helped by Wilton appearing regularly on the signboards. At a roundabout he swung left and past the huge arched entrance gate to Wilton House, ancestral home of the Earls of Pembroke, not a bad neighbourhood for a jailbird to end up in.

Obliged to stop at some traffic lights where the road narrowed for the village, he studied the map again and worked out where White lived. A right turn brought him into North Street. Forest Close was off to the left.

The house was a squat, stone structure with the look of a converted farm building, single storied with a tiled roof much covered in moss. Crucially, the lights were on inside, behind Venetian blinds.

Determined to stay calm, he took a deep breath, rang the bell and waited. He was relieved to hear movements inside.

The door opened a short way, on a chain. He couldn’t see much of the person inside.

‘Mr White?’

‘Yes.’ The voice was tentative, unwelcoming.

‘My name is Peter Diamond and you were once my art teacher.’ He’d been debating with himself how to begin. This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was a senior policeman.

‘Oh.’

‘It’s late to be calling, I know.’

It must have taken several seconds for Diamond’s first words to register. Without any more being said, White released the door chain and opened it fully. He was wearing a peaked eye shade. White haired and thin-faced, he had worry lines etched deeply. He was shorter than Diamond remembered, dressed in a thin cardigan, corduroys and carpet slippers. His shoulders sagged. ‘Do come in,’ he said.

Then he held out his hand.

There is only so much you can anticipate. The handshake was a pitfall Diamond hadn’t foreseen. Visiting the old paedophile was one thing. Touching his flesh was another. To refuse would expose the disgust Diamond was trying to conceal. He told himself it was only a formality, quickly over. How many hands have I shaken in my lifetime? How many of them were hands that had thieved, assaulted or even committed murder? A fair number.

He reached out and felt White’s palm against his own, limp, bony, lukewarm. After drawing away he couldn’t stop himself rubbing his hand against his hip to cleanse it of the contact.

White didn’t appear to notice. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

‘Please don’t,’ Diamond told him, civil to a fault. ‘I had some not long ago. I was visiting the hospital. That’s how I was in the area.’

The old man matched him for courtesy. ‘Whatever the reason, it’s an unexpected pleasure to meet a former pupil. Come through to the kitchen. I don’t have a living room as such. I use that as my studio. Still doing art, you see.’

To reach the kitchen they took a few steps through the studio. A high stool was in front of a desk on which a drawing board rested, lit by a powerful anglepoise lamp. An ink drawing of a city street was in progress, drawn in the exaggerated perspective of the modern graphic style. Beyond question, it was the work of a skilful artist.

‘I must have interrupted you.’

‘No, no.’ White pulled off the eyeshade. ‘Don’t be concerned about that. A visitor is a rare treat for me. I lead a hermit’s life these days. I’m going to insist that you have a drink.’

‘I’m driving. I won’t.’ The warmth of this welcome was disconcerting, the reverse of what he had expected.

In the small kitchen area, White fumbled between the fridge and the wall for a folding chair and tried to draw it open. He was not moving easily.

‘May I?’ Diamond offered.

‘Please do, and then use it.’

‘Where will you sit?’

He flapped his hand to dismiss the possibility. ‘I could use my stool if I wanted, but I won’t because it does me good to stand up. My back isn’t the best these days. Occupational hazard, bending over one’s work for many years. Draughtsman’s back, I call it. What did you say your name is?’

Diamond repeated it. ‘I was at Long Lane primary school.’

‘I remember. The school, that is, not you. I only ever taught in two schools and that was the first. I don’t remember the names of any of the scholars, I’m sorry to admit, and you’ll have changed beyond recognition since your primary school days. Were you any good at art?’

‘Useless.’

‘More of a scientist, were you?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘So what did you become eventually?’

He didn’t want to say, and he didn’t want White setting the agenda. ‘Sport was my main interest. I played a lot of rugby.’

‘As a professional?’

‘No, no. Just amateur club stuff. I wonder if you can recall a school friend of mine called Michael Glazebrook.’

A shake of the head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘I saw him only the other day. He remembers you. In fact, it was through Mike that I managed to trace you.’

White blinked. The glaze over his pale blue eyes was probably cataract. ‘How was that?’

‘He saw your picture in a magazine.’

Some hesitation followed. He pulled the cardigan close across his chest and frowned a little. ‘Recently?’

‘Some while back, he told me.’

White began fastening the cardigan buttons. He was very uneasy.

Diamond said, ‘It was a piece about book illustrators.’

The frown gave way to a look of relief, even mild amusement. ‘Oh, yes. I can recall being photographed for that. Such a performance it was, setting up an arc lamp and a camera on a tripod in my little studio. I have a copy somewhere. We artists don’t often get that sort of attention, even if our work gets seen more widely.’

All this small talk had to end now, Diamond decided. ‘Let me take you further back, a lot further. When you taught at my school you had some connection with a local drama group.’

‘I did some scene-painting, yes, and I designed the tickets and programmes.’ The enquiry hadn’t fazed him. He smiled. ‘Fancy you remembering that.’

‘Mike Glazebrook and I took part in one of the shows, about Richard III.’

White raised both hands. ‘Ah, you were the princes in the tower.’ This was said with the pleasure of recognition, unqualified delight, it seemed. ‘I recruited you, and very good you were, both of you. That’s forty years ago, if not more. I’m so pleased you mentioned it, because I can place you now, both of you.’

I bet you can, you pervert, Diamond thought. ‘It isn’t a pleasing memory for me. I was put off theatres for ever.’

‘Oh dear. That is a shame,’ White said with what sounded genuine concern. ‘On reflection it was a gruesome story to be in, the murder of the young princes. At the time I expect we assumed you’d take it in your stride, two tough little suburban schoolboys.’

‘It wasn’t the play that affected me.’

‘Stage fright, was it? You seemed very confident in front of an audience.’

‘Come on, we both know it wasn’t stage fright.’ He was losing patience.

‘You’d better enlighten me.’

‘No, Mr White. I want you to enlighten me. I want to know what happened between you and me.’

The old man blinked and shook his head and talked on in the same urbane way. ‘I’m sorry. I’m at a loss. As I recall it, I didn’t force you to take part. I offered you the role and you were keen to take it up. I would have got your parents’ permission, I’m certain. From what you say, something was amiss and I apologise for that. To the best of my recollection nothing happened, as you put it.’

‘Why did you choose me?’

‘I expect because you were a confident child who wouldn’t mind appearing on a stage. If you don’t mind me saying so, you have quite a forceful presence as an adult.’

‘I’m a police officer.’

The effect was dramatic. White’s hand went protectively to his throat. His face drained of colour, his voice husky. ‘I think I will sit down.’

Diamond got up from the chair and set it in the centre of the room. White was so shaken that he had to support himself briefly, holding onto the back before getting seated.

‘I know about your prison term,’ Diamond said.

Almost in a whisper, White said, ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘But it happened.’

‘I served my sentence.’

‘Early release after three years.’

‘It was no picnic. They make sure everyone knows what you’re in for and you get it tougher than anyone else. You’re called a nonce and that’s the lowest form of humanity inside. Sub-human, in fact.’

‘You won’t get sympathy from me.’

‘I’m not asking for any. I deserved all I got. I did my time and I haven’t offended since. You can check the records.’

‘I have,’ Diamond said. ‘All it means is that you weren’t caught again. People like you don’t reform. The perversion is permanent.’

He didn’t deny it. He nodded. ‘In that way it’s a unique crime. Other prisoners can wipe the slate clean. I’m a child molester, a paedophile, and that’s how the world will always see me, even at my age. Is this about the sex offenders’ register?’

‘No. It’s about you and me.’

As if he hadn’t heard, White continued, ‘All I can repeat to you is that I never worked in a school again. I was unemployed for a long time, incapable of getting my life back on track. When I did, it was my facility at drawing that was my salvation. I could have illustrated books for children. That’s where most of the work is. I deliberately stayed out of that. Eventually I found a niche in graphic novels for adults. Why are you here, Mr Diamond?’

The anger was hard to hold down. ‘Isn’t that bloody obvious? You say you changed your job and your style of life. At least you had the chance. It’s not so easy for your victims, is it? They have to live with the trauma of what you did to them.’

White lowered his head. ‘I’m aware of that. As a child I was abused myself. Many who commit these crimes had it happen to them. It’s self-perpetuating. Please understand I’m not whingeing. I made these choices. I knew my conduct was wicked and unlawful. Believe me, after I came out of prison I stopped.’

Diamond still despised him. ‘Mr White, I’m not interested in what happened after you came out or how you live now. I’m here because of what went on when I was a kid with a teacher I trusted, and who my parents trusted, apparently.’

He looked up wide-eyed and said, ‘I didn’t abuse you.’

Now he was denying it, the filthy creep.

The red mist descended. Diamond grasped him by the shoulders. ‘What are you saying, you faggot, that it wasn’t abuse?’

‘I swear to God I didn’t do anything to you.’

‘Don’t give me that. Think about someone else for a change instead of yourself.’ Diamond hauled him out of the chair and held him up like an old suit. They were eye to eye. ‘Each time I step inside a theatre something so foul is triggered in my brain that I want to throw up. I don’t know exactly what. Mentally a shutter comes down. But I know precisely when all this started – during that weekend when I was in the play.’

White’s face was contorted with terror. He tried to mouth some words and couldn’t. All that came out was bad breath.

Diamond shoved him back into the chair so hard that it skidded across the floor, rocked back and almost overbalanced. He advanced on him, fists clenched. The impulse to hit him was huge.

White screamed. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

‘I didn’t touch you,’ Diamond said, disbelieving.

He was whimpering. When he opened his mouth it was obvious that he’d bitten his tongue.

The blood was White’s salvation. The sight of it acted as a check on Diamond, reminding him of all the promises he’d made to himself about non-violence. It wouldn’t take more than a few blows to kill this old perv, and what would that achieve?

‘Admit it,’ he said, panting for breath himself. ‘You know what you did to me. I need to hear you say it.’

White simply shook his head.

This was not going as planned.

Diamond made a fist again and then unclenched it. He was making huge efforts to stay in control. He took a step back, grasping his own hands to stop them from lashing out. ‘I didn’t come here to beat you up. The least you can do is tell me the truth.’

White wiped some of the blood from his chin and succeeded in saying, spacing the words, ‘I have never assaulted you in any way. Never touched you.’

‘Bloody liar.’

‘Really.’

‘How can you say this? Come on, the truth.’

He raised a pacifying hand while he gasped for air. Finally, he spoke. ‘Will you hear me out?’ Breathing hard, pausing often, he said, ‘You don’t know as much about me as you think. There are different sorts of child sex, Mr Diamond. I wasn’t ever attracted to small boys. Yours was a primary school. My offences were all at Manningham Academy. That’s a private school for girls aged eleven to eighteen. I took advantage of under-age girls of fourteen and fifteen. I’m a paedophile and ashamed of it, but I was never a pederast.’

Diamond heard the words and didn’t at first believe them. He did a rapid rethink of how he’d learned about this. Mike Glazebrook had said his mother had read in the News of the World that White had been convicted of sex offences against minors at a private school in Hampshire. And Scotland Yard had later confirmed it was Manningham Academy. That much, at least, was fact.

Was the rest a misunderstanding? The way the newspapers reported such cases, the names of the victims protected by law, there was scope for uncertainty. Mrs Glazebrook had questioned Mike to find out if he’d been abused. She’d evidently assumed that the victims were young boys and this assumption had stuck with Glazebrook and been accepted unquestioningly by Diamond.

Big mistake, was it?

Apparently so. It would have been easy to find out what sort of school it was. He’d failed to make a basic check. How unprofessional was that? He knew why he hadn’t looked at the newspaper files himself or tried to contact the school: because it was so personal. He’d backed off from the nauseating detail.

Yet the truth solved nothing. The facts still didn’t add up. He could trace his theatre episodes back to immediately after the Richard III play, when he’d gone on holiday with the family and refused to stay in the theatre at Llandudno.

‘I’m certain something deeply upsetting happened to me over the weekend of the play,’ he told White with a huge effort to sound reasonable. ‘You knew the people involved. Was there anyone else who could have targeted an eightyear-old boy? The actor who played the king? He would have handled us.’

‘Angus Coventry? I think not,’ White said. ‘He was having a passionate affair in real life with the actress playing Lady Anne. He wasn’t interested in anyone else.’

‘One of the others, then?’

‘I doubt it. There wasn’t the opportunity. It was a church-hall production, if you remember. The backstage area was minimal, and just about everything had to be done there, so it was always crowded with actors and scene-shifters and what have you.’

This chimed in with Diamond’s memory. He was forced to conclude that he wasn’t being duped.

White added, ‘I remember a scene when you and the other prince were smothered. In the Shakespeare version the murders were done off stage, but this was very far from Shakespeare. Could that have been what upset you?’

‘The smothering? I’m certain it wasn’t.’

‘I was thinking if Angus pressed too hard -’

‘No,’ Diamond said from direct memory. ‘The pillow was placed lightly over my face and I had plenty of space to breathe. That wasn’t the cause.’

‘I can’t think of anything else.’

‘And neither can I.’ To say that he was disappointed was an understatement. He’d psyched himself up, confident of getting the truth, however painful. To be denied any explanation at all was so unexpected that he had difficulty dealing with it.

‘What will you do about me?’ White asked.

‘You?’

‘If it gets known locally what I am, people are going to feel threatened, concerned for their children.’

‘Afraid of vigilantes, are you?’

‘It’s happened before. I’ve had to move out each time.’

‘Why didn’t you change your name?’

‘Because when you get found out, as you will in time, you become an even more sinister figure, a pervert trying to pretend he’s someone else, somebody normal.’

Diamond saw sense in that. ‘This was a personal visit, nothing to do with my job. If someone in the police asks me if I know your whereabouts, I’ll tell them. I know of no reason why they should.’

‘What about the other man, Glazebrook?’

‘He won’t come near you.’

During the drive back to Salisbury District Hospital, Diamond reflected on his failure. The visit to Wilton had not been one of his more glorious hours. He’d messed up, big time. He could have killed that old man, and all through a mistaken assumption. He felt more shamed, more tarnished, than before he’d started. And he still didn’t know how to deal with his private nightmare.