Chapter 5

Tuesday, March 9, 1971

Frank drove between the open, wrought-iron gates, decorated with silhouettes of hooded monks, and parked in front of the round pond with its central dolphin burping spouts of water. Greyfriars House, the beating centre of Anglian Detective Agency. He shook his head and smiled. He must talk to Dorothy and ask her if the agency could pay to have the fountain restored to its original efficiency. She’d already updated several parts of the house: an outer scullery had morphed into a darkroom and the spacious dining room was turned into an office, with four desks, each with its own telephone. The largest desk was hers with a new electric typewriter, and nearby a Xerox duplicating machine, and all the other up-to-date accoutrements needed by an efficient secretary. The dining table doubled as a conference point for their weekly meetings, as well as formal meals.

Today Dorothy would have laid each place not with cutlery, but blotting paper, pencils, sheets of foolscap and duplicated notes for the meeting. She’d put every scrap of her formidable energy into easing the jobs of the three detectives and making Greyfriars into a hub of efficiency. The work helped her to cope with the recent loss of her sister, Emily.

Was it only last September when everything had come to a head? He didn’t regret resigning from the police, not one bit, especially when Stuart had joined him after his retirement. Two policemen, an ex-Senior Mistress, a school secretary and the school cook. What a combination. He shook his head again. A good team. There’d been a few mistakes, not many and non-serious, also a few successes. Finding Amy Frame’s teenage daughter when she’d run away, and the recovery of stolen antique jewellery; both those cases had been satisfying. What would the morning’s meeting throw up? He hoped the team would support his proposal to carry on with the Pemberton case, they’d have to – he’d promised Carol he’d look for David.

Carol. He’d never been keen on the name Carol, until now. Suddenly it seemed a charming name. He remembered following her up the staircase, the tightening of his jaws, the difficulty of breathing normally, and the realisation of the effect she was having on him. He desired her. Usually his desires were followed by boredom and the need to escape from the relationship. You’re not a good person, Frank Xavier Diamond, he thought, echoing his mother’s frequent chides. He’d have to be careful not to allow his carnal feelings to show: was Carol the kind of woman who’d enjoy being ogled? Perhaps, but Adam Pemberton might kick him off the case if he thought he’d taken a shine to his wife.

Something delicious was being cooked in the kitchen; there were aromatic smells of baking fruit and pastry: Mabel was getting ready for their coffee break. In the boardroom/dining room Stuart Elderkin was already seated at the table, his loaded pipe ready beside the blotting paper in front of him, his well-built frame comfortable in the elm captain’s chair with its broad seat and encircling arms. Dorothy was placing a financial report on each of the blotters.

‘Morning, Frank,’ Stuart said, ‘any luck with the missing boy case?’

Dorothy looked up, her spectacles on the end of her nose. ‘I’ve got a suggestion to make on that one, if we take it on.’

‘Good morning. I think you’ll both be interested. Where’s Laurel?’

‘She went out for a run, and needed a shower. Here she is. I can hear her coming down the stairs,’ Dorothy said.

The dining room door swung open and Laurel, red-faced, her damp hair pulled back in a pony-tail, burst into the room. ‘Hello, Frank. That blew the cobwebs away, it’s still chilly but good for running.’ She pulled a chair up to the table.

Frank smiled inwardly as he contrasted Laurel, her tall frame clad in a navy sweater and cords, to the elegance of Carol. Every time he saw Laurel he was bowled over by her: attractive, with long blonde hair, just under six feet tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Her build, courage and intelligence had been more than a match for Nicholson, but it had been a close call. She could have been the last of a long line of his victims.

‘I’ll get Mabel,’ Stuart said.

He raised his eyebrows at Laurel. She screwed her nose up, as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me.’

The first two items on the agenda were quickly dealt with: a financial statement and plans for a second bathroom and the conversion of a smaller room to be used for interviewing clients. All were passed.

‘These are very reasonable quotes, Dorothy,’ Frank said.

‘Dirt cheap, if you ask me,’ Mabel said.

Stuart laughed heartily, too heartily.

Dorothy tapped her nose, looking pleased with herself. ‘Local contacts, member of the church. Well, Frank, you’re item three. The floor is yours.’

He consulted his notebook and told them everything he’d discovered at the Pemberton’s house, except he didn’t mention how beautiful Carol was. ‘I found this envelope taped under the bed. I removed it without asking permission.’ He also didn’t tell them there was one drawing he hadn’t brought with him. It remained in his cottage. Why didn’t he want to show it to them? He wasn’t sure himself.

‘Not lost your old habits, I see,’ Stuart said.

‘Old bad habits,’ Laurel said, shaking her head in mock horror.

He shrugged. ‘Finding David is more important than playing with a straight bat. The boy hid them for a reason. He didn’t want his parents to see the contents. I may have to return them.’

‘Shouldn’t we put on gloves, or something?’ Mabel asked.

‘Paper doesn’t take prints, love,’ Stuart replied.

They leant forward, faces eager, intrigued, wanting to see what was in the envelope. God, I love this job, thought Frank.

‘The envelope contains drawings by David of different people. I’ll pass the drawings round without making comments and then when we’ve seen all of them, I’ll tell you who’s who. Some of the drawings are of people I don’t know, but I think we can make guesses at this point. The format varies: some are only faces, others, head and shoulders and there are a few full-length sketches.’

He opened the envelope and carefully pulled out the drawings. He passed the first drawing to Laurel, watching her face as she studied the picture. Bubbles of oxygen seemed to rush through his brain. His heartbeat quickened as he looked at the drawings again.

Nothing was hidden, David had drawn these people as though their thoughts were laid bare on their faces for all to see; their characters revealed: goodness and evil, generosity and greed, lust and innocence. Frank leant back in his seat, waiting for the team to absorb the details. He was sure he’d hit the mother lode. David’s disappearance must have something to do with these drawings.

The last drawing completed the circuit. Laurel was frowning, blinking her eyes; Stuart Elderkin tamped down tobacco in his pipe and lit a match; Dorothy was shaking her head as she reached for her packet of cigarettes and Mabel’s eyes were filled with tears.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ she said.

Stuart reached for her hand. She pushed his away.

Frank pretended he hadn’t noticed. ‘I’ll take you through the drawings of the people I know.’ He placed the drawing of Carol in the centre of the table. ‘This is Carol Pemberton, David’s mother.’ He’d captured her beauty but the face that stared at them from the paper was not the face he’d seen yesterday. The eyes were wide, staring, making her look as though she suffered from an over active thyroid. Her black hair was loose, floating round her head in an electrified cloud and her lips were drawn back showing small teeth. She looked terrified, or possibly …? He thought of the drawing he’d kept back. He hoped it wasn’t true.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t read too much into this, it could be the product of the vivid imagination of an adolescent boy. Mrs Pemberton, though upset at times, was calm and reasonable when I interviewed her,’ he said.

‘Is she as beautiful as this?’ Laurel asked.

‘It does her justice,’ he replied. He moved on to details of his interview with her.

He placed the second drawing by the side of the first. ‘This is Adam Pemberton, the father, another fantastic likeness.’ The lugubrious face with its down-turned mouth was perfectly caught, but at the corner of each eye a tear was forming. The stiff Englishman was made human by the slightest touch of a pencil. The boy had shown his father’s deep sadness. He told them what he’d learnt about Adam. Why is Adam so sad? Was it because of David’s inability to read and write, or the state of his wife’s mind?

He took another drawing and laid it on the table. ‘This is Miss Ann Fenner, the housekeeper.’ He explained he’d only seen her briefly and she hadn’t made a deep impression on him. She’d been polite, efficient in making and bringing in the coffee, but had shown no emotion, or curiosity about his visit. He tapped the drawing. ‘She looks quite different here.’ She was smiling, laughter lines creasing the skin round her eyes and mouth, her head tilted back showing a strong, long neck.

‘It looks like David related to her, someone he trusted, someone who liked him and who he liked back,’ Laurel said.

‘She looks normal, not like his mother and father,’ Dorothy said, following up her comment by inhaling on her cigarette.

‘Stuart, I think you’d be the best person to talk to Ann Fenner if we take on this case. I don’t think she thought much of me,’ he said.

‘She looks a respectable woman. Did you have that leather jacket on?’ Stuart asked.

He nodded, pulling a face.

‘No wonder she didn’t take to you. We want to find out about her relationship with David. Anything else?’

‘Any gossip about the parents, also if you can find out about the tutors David had, especially in the last two years before he went to school. Addresses or telephone numbers would be useful. One of them might shine some light on the family,’ he said, as he picked up more drawings. ‘The rest of the people I don’t know, but I guess some of them are staff and pupils at Chillingworth.’ He spread out the remaining drawings below the others.

‘I know one of them.’ Stuart said, pointing to a full-length portrait of a man dressed in a suit, collar and tie and black gown. ‘That’s the headmaster, Ralph Baron.’

‘How do you know him, Stuart?’ Dorothy asked.

‘It was a few years ago. One of the pupils died. Nothing suspicious. Found in his bed by one of the other pupils. Some kind of heart failure. Everyone was very upset.’ He looked at the expressions on the other members of the team. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There was a post-mortem, nothing nasty was found.’ The silence round the table said it all. They looked again at the drawing of Ralph Baron.

‘Is he as tall as he looks?’ Laurel asked.

‘Bit taller than you, Laurel, about six two,’ Stuart replied.

They looked again at his portrait.

He was certainly slim with the build of a whippet, or a long-distance runner, and looked ready to leap from the page and jump a few hurdles. David had captured the intensity of his character, he fairly fizzed off the paper. His hair looked fair, straight. Definitely short back and sides with a low parting on the left and hair combed across his scalp. The face was long and thin, bushy eyebrows, a Roman nose and a generous mouth with full lips, which seemed incongruous in such an ascetic face. And the expression? Difficult to judge. Was this a person David liked? Frank frowned. The eyes said yes, he’d given the man kind, friendly eyes; the lips said no: they were lascivious and slightly twisted.

‘Frank, can I interrupt before we look at the next drawing?’ Dorothy asked.

Frank nodded.

‘I read all the previous case notes, as we all have, and as I was going through the East Anglian Daily Times yesterday I came across a job advert—’

‘Not leaving us already?’ Stuart quipped. Mabel glared at him and he took some deep puffs on his pipe and looked the other way.

‘Chillingworth School are advertising for a secretary, part time. What do you think? It might be useful to have someone able to snoop round.’

‘Well spotted,’ Frank said. ‘If we decide today to take the case, and after Stuart and I’ve been to the school, we can decide whether it would be a good idea.’ He hesitated. ‘Mind you, you might not get it.’ He ducked as an eraser flew through the air. The mood lightened. ‘Time for a coffee break?’ Mabel asked

Stuart picked up some plates and followed Mabel. ‘That was a really lovely Chelsea bun, Mabel.’

There was a muffled reply from Mabel and the closing of the kitchen door.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ Frank asked Laurel and Dorothy.

‘I don’t know,’ Laurel replied; she looked at Dorothy.

‘Mabel hasn’t confided it me, but I’m sure she’s still fond of Stuart.’

‘Women!’ Frank said, puffing out his cheeks, then blowing air like a surfacing whale. ‘You could have fooled me.’

Laurel dug him in the ribs as Stuart came back into the room; he avoided everyone’s eyes and slumped into his chair.

Frank collected the drawings they hadn’t looked at; everyone took their seats waiting for Mabel.

She bustled in. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I was putting a casserole into the oven: lamb hotpot. One of your favourites, Stuart.’ She looked at him. He didn’t reply, but shot her a baleful look.

They’re worse than a pair of spotty teenagers, Frank thought.

‘Mabel, you’re spoiling us. I’ll have to up my running if you keep on giving us so much delicious food.’

‘Thanks, Laurel, glad someone appreciates my efforts.’

‘Mabel!’ Dorothy said.

Mabel flushed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Let’s look at the rest of the drawings,’ Frank said.

The one he’d selected was a woman dressed in a uniform which suggested she might be a nurse or possibly a school matron: starched uniform, with a fob watch displayed on her ample bosom and a neat cap pinned to a thin head of hair which was scraped back from her face, possibly into a bun. The mouth was tight, no sign of teeth, the nostrils flared, as though she’d detected a random fart. Large eyes, probably brown from the amount of graphite used, were surrounded by lash-less lids. The eyes were expressionless, staring into space, showing no emotion, neither caring nor disdain. Frank thought he wouldn’t like to see her approaching with a bedpan, or worse a thermometer.

‘Could be the school matron,’ Laurel said.

Dorothy shivered.

‘That’s the end of the adults. The last two are children.’ He placed them side by side on the table. The portrait on the left made him feel sick. It had when he’d first seen it, and its effect on him hadn’t changed.

The child looked young, possibly nine or ten, although Carol had told him the youngest children in the school were eleven. This boy was terrified. There was a frozen expression of fear on his face, shown by the wide eyes, enlarged pupils, the half-open mouth, lips drawn back in horror at what he was looking at, or what was about to happen. The way David had used shading to create shadows made his skin ghostly white, his cheek bones sharp as knives; you could almost hear his terrified whimpers. Frank gripped the edge of the drawing and placed it back in the pile of drawings. ‘I hope David has a vivid imagination; no child should feel this terrified.’

‘I wonder who he is,’ Dorothy said, lighting another cigarette and taking a deep pull.

‘If he’s a Chillingworth pupil we’ll find out. He’s not the boy who died, is he?’ Frank asked Stuart, knowing the answer but wanting to break Stuart Elderkin’s silence.

‘I would have said, if he was,’ Stuart snapped.

Frank glanced at Laurel who bit her lip.

He ploughed on. ‘Last one. The only one with a name.’

Written in a childish but firm hand, in a jumble of capital and lower case letters, was the name Peter. It was a full-length portrait of a slim boy, about fourteen, who was smiling, his light-coloured eyes, probably blue, looked at you directly, and his small mouth curved with happiness. He was the kind of child mothers smiled at and old ladies patted on the head.

Laurel put out her hand. ‘Can I have a closer look, please?’

She’d seen what he’d seen.

‘Unless I’m mistaken this boy, Peter, has Down’s syndrome.’

Dorothy leant forward and Stuart looked up.

‘You mean he’s a mongol?’ Mabel asked.

Laurel nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. Although the signs are not obvious: he’s got a round face, and his hair, which is probably blond, looks thin. It’s the eyelids, that droop at the corners that give it away. I’ve seen several children with Down’s syndrome; I worked at a special school when I did my teacher training. Peter’s physical signs of the condition are slight compared to the children there, at least that’s how David has shown him. Also, if you look carefully at the corner of his mouth you can see a bubble of saliva.’

‘Carol – Mrs Pemberton – said David had a friend called Peter he was especially fond of; I don’t think she approved. Now I know why,’ Frank said.

Laurel bridled. ‘It’s not Peter’s fault he’s got Down’s syndrome; it’s inherited through the chromosomes. The children I worked with were lovely; well not all of them. They were a mixed bunch, just like any other class.’

‘Don’t get snotty with me, Laurel; I was giving you a reason for Mrs Pemberton’s dislike, not mine.’ He immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

‘Then Mrs Pemberton doesn’t sound like a very nice person … even if she is beautiful.’

What was happening? Their meetings didn’t usually degenerate into swapping insults. He took a deep breath. ‘I wondered why he’s the only person David has given a name to? David obviously has difficulty writing, but he’d wanted this boy to have a name. I think he was someone important to David. Someone special.’

Laurel nodded. ‘I think they were friends. Perhaps they were attracted to each other because of their disabilities: David, the boy who has difficulty reading and writing, but is a genius with a pencil, and Peter, the boy with Down’s syndrome, who’d not only have difficulties with reading and writing, but also in coping with many other aspects of normal life. What a strange friendship, if that’s what it is. But understandable. Two misfits supporting each other. Able to be themselves when they were together.’

‘That’s a brilliant analysis, Laurel,’ he said.

‘Poor little buggers.’ Stuart reached for his pipe.

‘If Peter is still at the school he may know why David ran away,’ Dorothy said.

‘Or David may have told Peter about his family, perhaps the reason for his disappearance lies there,’ Frank mused.

They all gazed in silence at the drawing of Peter.

Frank studied their faces. The moment seemed right. ‘I’d like us to take this case on. Do I have your agreement?’

Four pairs of eyed looked into his. Four heads solemnly nodded. Relief flooded through him and deep in his guts desire and lust made his muscles tighten. He’d see Carol again. And again. And again.