She nodded. She didn’t mind Tom being masterful with her. He could take her anywhere he liked.
Outside, the night air was pleasantly cool. Tom had his arm around her shoulders and was walking her across the yard towards the house. She was laughing to herself. Jem and the others would wet themselves if they knew what was happening to her.
‘How many did you take?’
‘Only one. That’s enough.’
‘Do you have any more?’
‘Why? Would you like one?’
‘I’m serious. It’s dangerous stuff. How do you feel now? Are you any cooler?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Ella, did you hear what I asked?’
‘This is nice, you looking after me.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘Taxi.’
‘Give me your phone.’
‘Why?’
‘Phone.’ His schoolteacher voice.
She handed it to him.
They’d reached the house. He helped her up a couple of steps into a kitchen with a huge old-fashioned metal sink. Still with his arm around her, he moved her towards it and ran the cold water. It gushed and splashed.
‘I’m not sick,’ she said.
‘You need to cool down. You get too hot after taking E and it can kill you. Lean forward.’
He splashed water against her face and neck. The shock was extreme at first, but she enjoyed the feel of his hands on her cheeks and neck. She didn’t mind her make-up being ruined. Her hair was getting quite wet as well. He filled a glass with water and ordered her to drink.
She obeyed because it was Tom. She wouldn’t have drunk frigging water for anyone else.
He handed her a towel and she dabbed her face. ‘What do I look like?’
‘You don’t look normal, I can tell you that.’
‘Don’t want to look normal. I’m a goth.’
‘When are you expected home?’
‘Some time tomorrow. Sleepover.’ She giggled. ‘They don’t know who with.’
He removed his arm from her and she swayed or the kitchen swayed. She wasn’t sure which.
‘Ella,’ he said, ‘you need to lie down. This can last some hours.’ He steadied her and moved her out of the kitchen and across a hallway to another room.
‘Are we going to bed?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer. Deeds are better than words, she thought as he led her across a carpeted floor to a huge sofa. They were in a sitting room bigger than any she’d seen before. She sank among the cushions. He lifted her legs, so that she was fully stretched out.
A kiss would be a start, she thought.
Instead, he fetched some kind of throw and draped it over her.
‘Have a sleep now. I’ll look in later.’
18
‘Why do you want to speak to this vicar?’
Georgina was back and letting Diamond know she was still on top of the job. She’d caught him emerging from the breakfast area after a full English and he’d been rash enough to say he’d like to interview the Reverend Conybeare.
The big detective picked his words carefully. ‘He had more to say about Joe Rigden than anyone else. I was reading his statement last night. Went through it line by line. Hen Mallin interviewed him herself.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not sure she asked the right questions.’
Her eyes were the size of the two fried eggs he’d just consumed. ‘Oh my word. Are you thinking she may have held back?’
‘Soft-pedalled... possibly.’
The ‘possibly’ made no impression on Georgina. She didn’t deal in uncertainties. ‘Because she already knew her niece was involved in the murder? That’s appalling.’
‘I’m not a hundred per cent on this.’
‘But you have your suspicions? Peter, you’re absolutely right. We have a duty to look at this again. I’ll join you.’
He’d guessed she would want to be in on the act. He said at once, ‘Both of us taking this on might not be the best use of our resources. We really ought to step up the hunt for Jocelyn.’
She was unimpressed and flapped her hand to show it. ‘That’s all in hand. She’s already on the PNC as locate-and-trace. Everyone has been informed — all the social agencies and car patrols, sea ports and airports.’
‘So we’re led to understand.’
Her antennae twitched — or at least her eyebrows did.
‘The search is being co-ordinated from here,’ Diamond added, ‘from Chichester CID. Don’t you think we ought to make sure there hasn’t been soft-pedalling over this as well? Remember who was in charge.’
She caught her breath and mouthed the words D. C.I. Mallin.
‘And they’re still her team.’
If a sky rocket had shot from Georgina’s lips it wouldn’t have given a louder whoosh. ‘That’s unthinkable.’
He raised his eyebrows and said nothing and encouraged her to think the unthinkable.
‘I’m taking an executive decision,’ she said eventually. ‘We shall divide our resources.’
And that was how Peter Diamond had the use of the police car for the morning.
‘Slindon,’ he told the driver. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I do, sir. I was brought up there.’
‘I’m calling on the vicar.’
‘That will be the rector.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Or the priest. Anglican or Catholic?’
‘Two churches, are there?’
‘The Catholics have always been strong in the village, even when it was dangerous for them. I’m going back in history, you understand. They had a secret chapel in the roof of a house at one time. Anyone looking for places to hide in Slindon is on to a good thing. Tunnels, priest’s holes, they’re two a penny.’
Diamond lodged that in his memory. Missing people weren’t necessarily dead people. They could be in hiding. ‘It must be the rector.’
‘No problem. I’ll take you to the rectory.’
‘The Reverend Conybeare.’
‘He’s not the rector.’
‘Then perhaps after all I want the priest.’
‘His name isn’t Conybeare either. And he doesn’t live in Slindon.’
Why was nothing ever simple? ‘The man I want to see definitely lives here.’
At Diamond’s suggestion, the driver contacted Chichester police over the radio. The confusion ended. The Reverend Conybeare was a retired cleric from Dorset who lived in Baycombe Lane.
A postcard-pretty cottage with thatched roof, roses and a low doorway with a marked leftward tilt. The elderly man who opened the door had no tilt, but he was short enough to use the entrance without stooping, which made him not much over five foot. He was in a blue clerical shirt.
Diamond explained who he was and why he was calling.
‘You’d better come in, then, Mr Detective,’ Conybeare said. ‘Mind your head.’
The interior was shadowy, requiring a moment or two for the eyes to adjust. Then some observation — if not detective work — was needed to work out that the tenant had an interest unusual for a man of the cloth. A display cabinet contained a top hat resting on its crown with white gloves displayed on the brim, a pack of playing cards fanned in a perfect arc, silk handkerchiefs, a coil of white rope, a silver revolver and a black wand tipped white at each end. Any uncertainty was dispelled by several posters for magic shows on the wall behind.
‘It makes sense if you think about it,’ Conybeare said in a world-weary voice suggesting he’d said the same thing many times to visitors. ‘A major part of my ministry was about miracles.’
‘Isn’t there a difference?’ Diamond said.
This earned a smile. ‘No magician worthy of the name admits to trickery.’