He was tempted to say something, but he didn’t.
Jim Bentley always watched the lunchtime news at home in his Emsworth bungalow with his wife Sheila. First the national and then the local, by which time he’d finished his tomato soup and started on the banana. This was the routine right through the year except for the days he went fishing with Norman. Even the flavour of the soup never changed. For a man of his age he was enviably slim.
Points South were screening an item about swans.
‘Hey-ho,’ Jim said ‘this could be close to home.’
But it wasn’t. They were the swans at Christchurch, some way up the coast.
‘They want to come here,’ he said. ‘Ours take some beating.’
‘You’re so competitive,’ Sheila said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with loyalty to your own home town. If they came to film our swans they’d probably show the town quay. I’d like to see my boat on the telly.’
‘You and that boat.’
‘She’s given us some good times, you have to admit.’
‘You’re speaking for yourself, I hope. I don’t go to sea.’
‘But you make the most of it when I do.’
‘In what way, may I ask?’
‘In the shops — Debenham’s, Jaeger, The White Stuff. Shall I go on?’
The news had moved on to a man speaking to a collection of microphones. Seated to his left were a man and a woman. The woman’s eyes were red with weeping.
‘Poor soul. Why do they put them through this?’ Sheila said.
Jim had picked up the latest Practical Boat Owner and was leafing through it. ‘Through what?’
‘It’s a missing child. He’s a policeman and they’re the parents. I hope they don’t force the mother to speak. She’s too distressed. You can see.’
It was the father who spoke. ‘If you’re watching this, Mel, please, please get in touch some way and let us know you’re alive. We’re here for you as always and we’re missing you dreadfully.’
Sheila said, ‘It can’t be a kiddie if they’re asking her to get in touch.’
‘Runaway teenager probably,’ Jim said. ‘They aren’t young, those two. I’d say they’re knocking on fifty, both of them. Trying to bring her up to old-fashioned standards, I bet. It doesn’t work in the modern world.’
‘They don’t look particularly strict,’ Sheila said. ‘It could be nothing to do with the parents. Some boy could have put ideas in the girl’s head.’
‘Let’s hope that’s all it is,’ Jim said. ‘If I was in charge of the case I’d take a close look at the family. Nine times out of ten it’s what they call a domestic.’
‘They aren’t faking,’ Sheila said. ‘Believe me, they’re out of their minds with worry, those two.’
Now the detective in charge was speaking again.
‘He’s trying to sound positive,’ Sheila said, ‘but look at his eyes. You can see he doesn’t really think she’s alive. We’ll turn the news on tomorrow and they’ll say they’ve found a body. I’ve seen it all before.’
The weather girl came on, pointing at the map.
‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Jim said. ‘She may never be found. Real life isn’t like these soaps you watch. It isn’t all storylines that get tied up neatly, so you know exactly how things turn out.’
‘There’s an end to the story of every one of these poor people who go missing,’ Sheila said. ‘Even if they’re never found, they must end up somewhere. Sometimes they’re all right and survive and sometimes they don’t. But they all have a story.’
‘What I’m saying,’ Jim said with deliberation, ‘is we don’t always find out.’
‘It doesn’t matter tuppence if you and I never find out,’ Sheila said, ‘but for the families, it must be slow torture not knowing.’
The weather forecast had come to an end. Cold air from the north was coming in.
Jim said unexpectedly, ‘I’m going to call Norman.’
‘What for? You’re not planning another fishing trip? She said there could be gales.’
‘It’s about something else.’
The studio was pandemonium, a theatre bar between acts in a Beckett play, with everyone needing a break from the tension. Drawing from the model required strong concentration. Most were holding baguettes and drinks. Diamond squirmed through to the table at the end where the food was set out and a silver-haired man was presiding.
‘May I?’
‘Help yourself. Smoked salmon and salad to your left and bacon, lettuce and tomato here. The bacon is still warm, I think.’
‘I can smell it. I’ll go for it.’
‘I’m Ferdie, by the way, Tom’s father. Don’t know you.’
‘Peter Diamond, interloper, as one of your guests put it.’
‘A first-timer, then? What will you drink — hot or cold?’
‘CID, in fact, making a nuisance of myself asking questions about a missing schoolgirl. As I’m working, a coffee will suit me nicely.’
‘Instant, I’m afraid,’ Ferdie said, pointing to the urn. ‘Help yourself. We’re all extremely concerned about the young lady. I’m at your disposal.’
‘You’re not an artist yourself, then?’
‘One in the family is more than enough. I try to make myself useful as the catering manager.’
Diamond took a bite of the BLT. The bacon was still crisp and warm. ‘These are good. Do you cater for Tom’s parties as well?’
‘They’re easy to put on,’ Ferdie said. ‘Plenty of alcohol and savoury biscuits.’
‘Nothing stronger?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was thinking a bunch of artists wouldn’t be above dropping something extra into their drinks.’
‘Never seen it happen,’ Ferdie said. ‘I wouldn’t allow it in my house if they tried. Tom knows that.’
Diamond nodded. No one was going to admit to a police officer that drugs were being taken, but Ferdie seemed to mean every word. ‘I guess most of them are past that sort of carry-on.’
Ferdie smiled. ‘They’re a lively crowd after a few drinks. You should see them.’
‘I’d like to, but they may not appreciate a policeman showing up. Did you see the students at the latest party?’
‘I saw only one, with the wild hair, wearing black. A goth, she calls herself.’
‘That’s Ella. The missing girl is Melanie Mason, known as Mel, shorter, with dark hair. She hasn’t been seen since that night.’
‘I know who she is, from the art sessions. She definitely wasn’t at the party.’
‘Ella was taken ill, I heard. Can you tell me what happened? She had to leave the party, I believe.’
Ferdie sighed and shook his head. ‘She shouldn’t have been here. You’d better speak to Tom about that. All I can tell you is that she spent the night on a sofa in our main sitting room. He drove her home next morning. I offered a cooked breakfast, but she couldn’t face it.’
They were interrupted by a woman with charcoal smears on her face wanting a coffee. Diamond picked up his plate and mug and moved off. He definitely needed to speak to Ella.
He was crossing the room to where the three Priory Park students were in conversation when his path was blocked by a tall, gaunt man in a butcher’s apron holding a knife. Sunken eyes and a mouth like a gash from the blade.
‘You want to be careful with that,’ Diamond said.
‘You want to be careful where you fucking walk,’ the man said. He pointed with the knife.
At knee level was a small armoury of knives and daggers spread out on a donkey stool. Diamond would have crashed into it if he hadn’t been stopped.
‘Thanks. Didn’t spot them.’
‘Fine fucking detective you are.’
‘You know about me, then?’
‘Everyone knows.’