Finally a figure appeared at the window. Heavy black moustache. “Evening, sir. Are you the owner of this car?”
“I am.”
“Step outside, please.”
What was this? The breathalyser? He hadn’t finished his pint of real ale. He’d be well under the limit. “Is something up?”
There was a second officer, a policewoman.
The male cop said, “Place both hands flat against the car roof and stand with your legs apart. I’m going to search you.”
“What for? I’ve done nothing wrong.” As he said the words, he thought of all the banknotes stuffed inside his pockets.
He did as he was ordered and felt the hands travel down his body. What the fuck was he going to say?
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Daniel Stapleton.”
“Date of birth, please.”
“Ninth of October, 1970.”
“Mind if I call you Daniel?”
“Danny will do.”
“What’s this in your pockets, Danny? Keep your hands exactly where they are.”
“Some cash.”
“Quite a lot of it, apparently. What’s all this money doing in your pockets?”
“I, em, did some business. Cash transaction.”
“What sort of business?”
“In Littlehampton. I sold a boat.”
“Is that where you came from—Littlehampton?”
“Yes.”
“And where are you travelling to?”
“Only Chichester. Bit of a night out.”
“Spending all this money?”
“Not all of it.”
“You said you own the car. It’s been reported as stolen. That’s why we stopped you.”
“This car? Stolen?” He was able to say the words with genuine disbelief. The young guy had disappeared across the footbridge. He’d been on his way somewhere. He couldn’t have returned so soon and got on to the police.
“Do you have any proof of identity? Your licence?”
“That’s at home.”
The search had been progressing down his body. “Do you normally keep banknotes in your socks?”
The cop didn’t seem to expect an answer, so Danny didn’t attempt one.
A large amount of cash might be suspicious, but it wasn’t necessarily illegal. They hadn’t found drugs or a weapon. They were probably disappointed. Danny was wondering if the comment about the stolen car had been a bluff.
The cop said to his female colleague, “Let’s have a look in the boot, shall we?”
Danny heard her open it.
She said, “God help us.”
2
Priory Park School, Chichester, September 2014
“You won’t believe this,” Jem said.
“Try me,” Ella said.
“The Gibbon has gone.”
Shrieks of amazement and delight from the group. Miss Gibbon was the most disliked teacher on the staff. Her idea of teaching art was endless exercises in perspective.
“Gone where?” Ella said. Always primed for excitement, she was the perfect foil to Jem, the information gatherer.
“I don’t give a toss where. Up her own vanishing point, for all I care. She didn’t tell anyone in the staffroom she was going at the end of last term. I expect the head knew, but none of the others did, so there wasn’t, like, a leaving present or a farewell drink or anything.”
“Who cares? At last they found out she was a crap teacher. I still haven’t got the faintest idea what she meant by the golden mean and she never stopped talking about it.”
“Golden section.”
“Golden balls. Was she kicked out?”
“A scandal? Touching up the year sevens?”
“Not the Gibbon. She was sexless. More like pinching the art funds to go on those cultural cruises she was always on about,” Jem said, and her opinion always triumphed. “The thing is, what happens to us in our final A level year? They’ll have to bring in someone new.”
“That’s all we need, some new teacher straight out of college.”
“Could be a bloke.”
More shrieks. Jem, shorter than anyone, had a big personality. She was like a conductor controlling the highs and lows of excited chatter.
“You wish!”
“Jem, you’re joking . . . aren’t you?”
Clearly she had more to tell. She waited for the noise to stop. “When I came in I happened to notice a sweet little vintage MG in the staff parking. And then I copped the back view of this tall young guy going into the head’s office.”
“Get away! What’s he like?”
“Like an artist. Dark, wavy hair to his shoulders, bomber jacket and chinos, black shoes with Cuban heels—”
“Stop—I’m getting the hots.”
“You’re getting the hots? Think about the head. He was in with her for twenty minutes.”
Everyone was rendered helpless. Even the coy Naseem got a fit of the giggles.
“Did he stagger out all shaky at the knees?” Ella said.
“I waited and waited, but I’d have been late for French conversation.”
“Wouldn’t it be bang tidy if he was our new art teacher?”
“Please God!”
“Dream on.”
“We’ve only got to wait till third lesson to find out.”
Mel, a pale, watchful girl who didn’t often trust herself to speak, went to the window and looked out.
Jem saw her move and joined her. “Em, sorry about this, people.”
“What? What have you seen?”
“The MG isn’t there anymore. Dreamboat has gone.”
“Aw, shoot!”
“The head must have put him off.”
“She’d put anyone off.”
“Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or he was only a computer salesman and she was like, ‘While you’re here, young man, how about checking my software?’ and he panicked and legged it fast.”
A ripple of amusement, tempered by sighs all round.
“Back to normal, then,” Mel said, but she wasn’t heard.
The mood was even more subdued in the art room at eleven, when no teacher appeared. Genuine anxiety surfaced about their exam prospects. Some hoped Jem had got it wrong for once, and the boring Miss Gibbon would shortly put her head around the door. She at least knew the syllabus and was capable of getting most of them a grade of some sort.
Naseem said, “We ought to tell someone. We’re way down on where we ought to be at this time of the year.”
As usual, it was Jem who took the decision. “That’s it, then. Why don’t you go to the staffroom, Ella, and say we’re in urgent need of an art teacher?”
“I knew you’d ask me. Why don’t you go yourself?”
“Cos you’re always on about your future and that.”
“I was hoping, like, someone else would do it.”
“I don’t mind going,” Mel said.
She stood, refastened her hair, and left the room.
“I feel bad,” Ella said, “leaving it to Mel.”
“Don’t,” Jem said. “She’s a peasant. Let her run the errands.”
“You asked me first. Am I a peasant, too?”
“Course not. Your parents pay for you to be here. You’re just a pain in the bum.”
In under ten seconds Mel was back. “He’s coming this way.”
“Who is?” Ella asked.
“The new teacher, with the head.”
“Dreamboat? Never.”
“It’s true. His car’s back,” Jem said, from beside the window.
“Tell me I haven’t died and gone to heaven,” Ella said.
No time to tidy hair, make-u
p, anything.
The head entered first, gowned as always, followed by Dreamboat, except he wasn’t dressed as Jem had described. He was in a pinstripe suit, white shirt and tie that made him look like a bank clerk, apart from the long hair.
“I have an announcement,” the head said, although no one was looking at her. “Through circumstances beyond my control, your art teacher, Miss Gibbon, has taken an extended break from teaching and left the school. However, Mr. Standforth will be taking over. He is an accomplished artist and an experienced teacher who will guide you ably through this critical last year of your A level and I have assured him he will have your total co-operation. Because Miss Gibbon left at short notice, I am not entirely sure how much of the syllabus she covered with you. I am confident you girls will be only too pleased to inform Mr. Standforth, so that he can effect a smooth transition.”
That was it. A swish of the gown and they had Dreamboat to themselves. The hush was total.
“Forget the ‘Mr. Standforth’ stuff. It’s Tom,” he said, revealing a set of gleaming teeth. “Sorry about the late start. I was here in good time, but stupidly I misjudged the dress code, so I had to nip home and change. Can’t say I’m too comfortable in a suit. If nobody minds, I’ll take off the jacket.”
Take off whatever you want, the dumbstruck class was thinking. Not one of us will object.
His shirt was short-sleeved, revealing muscular forearms and tattoos. He loosened the tie as well and undid the top buttons of his shirt. Thrills in plenty.
“It will help to know your names,” he said, perching his breathtakingly cute bum on the front desk. “Can’t promise to remember them all right away, but let’s make a start. Who are you, for instance?”
His brown eyes were on Ella. She managed to speak her name in a strangled voice.
“And is there any topic that excites you, Ella?”
Now she could only blink like a patient with locked-in syndrome.
“Any topic in art.”
Her mind had gone blank. “The golden mean.”
The rest of them spluttered.
“Well, that’s an answer I didn’t expect.”
“Golden section, then.”
“Still surprising to me. I’m impressed. Can’t say I know a huge amount about either, but no doubt you’ll all be able to tell me.” He raised his hand. “Not now. Who are you, next to Ella?”
“Melanie, sir.”
“Leave out the ‘sir.’ I’ll let you know when I get my knighthood. What have you been doing with Miss Gibbon, Melanie, or should I call you Mel?”
Jem muttered, “The smell,” and there were sniggers.
“What was that?”
“I said she’s Mel,” Jem said.
“I expect she can speak for herself. I asked you a question, Mel.”
“We did exercises in composition. Lots.”
“Composition. Right.” He didn’t sound thrilled. “The young lady who just spoke, what’s your name?”
“Jemima. Everyone calls me Jem.”
“So will I, then. I take it you, too, are well up on composition and the golden mean. Has it helped you creatively, Jem?”
“Like in my photography?”
“You’re a photographer?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I take pictures.”
“You don’t have to be modest about it. You have a camera, you take pictures, you’re a photographer. Jem the shutterbug.”
Smiles all round, except for Jem, who wasn’t too sure if it was a compliment.
“I expect the rest of you do some snapping with your smartphones, don’t you, all in the name of art? I’m joking, but your phone can be a useful aid. You’ve all got one, I’m sure.”
“We’re not allowed to get them out in class,” Ella said.
“School rule, is it? Well, I’m not going to report anyone I see using hers as a camera. For one thing, you should all keep a record of your work as it develops, and for another you should always be on the lookout for visually stimulating images.”
This was becoming unbearable. At the mention of stimulating images sounds like cars starting up came from around the room.
“But here’s a warning,” he added. “I draw the line at video games. Anyone caught playing Dumb Ways to Die can expect more than just a telling-off. Who’s next to give me her name?”
In lunch break, there was only one topic: the man of the hour, the day, the week and probably the year. Eat your heart out, Prince Harry. Everyone agreed Tom Standforth was a perfect ten regardless of how he would shape up as a teacher. The art group were the envy of the school. People who hadn’t yet clocked him made sorties to the staff car park to see the red MG.
For a time the art students were incapable of doing anything except replaying the lesson in their minds.
Jem, a good mimic, had his voice already. “‘If nobody objects, I’ll take off the jacket.’”
Peals of laughter.
“‘And is there any topic that excites you, Ella?’”
Ella squeezed her eyes shut and said, “Don’t.”
“She goes, ‘The golden mean.’ Anything that excites you, and she’s, like, the golden bloody mean.”
“It’s all I could think of. Oh my God, I wish he’d ask me again.”
“‘Anyone caught playing Dumb Ways to Die can expect more than just a telling-off.’ What did he mean—a spanking? Bags me first.”
Naseem had been using her smartphone. She put an end to Jem’s miming with, “I’ve found his website.”
Gasps.
“You what? He has a website? Yoiks.” They almost bumped heads trying to see.
“They must be his paintings. Cool.”
“Genius. Those colours.”
“Such energy.”
Active fingertips moved Tom’s output at speed across the small screen.
“It isn’t only abstracts.”
“What’s that? She’s starkers. He paints nudes.”
Shrieks.
“Let’s see. Hold it higher, Nas. The size of those boobs.”
“They look normal to me,” Jem said.
“They would . . . to you.”
“I’d rather have mine than your pathetic pair. D’you think he paints these from life?”
“Of course he does, pinbrain.”
“Is it, like, his girlfriend? Oh, I hope not.”
“How would I know? I expect she’s just a model. Look, this one’s blonde. She’s gorgeous.”
“They can’t all be girlfriends.”
“Why not? With his looks he could pull whoever he wants.”
Naseem navigated back to the home page and found some pictures of Tom in his studio. The place looked large and cluttered, the walls and easels spattered with colour. “Why does he do teaching when he has his own studio?”
“Maybe he can’t sell anything. All the great painters were like that, living in poverty.”
“Poverty?” Ella said. “He owns a vintage MG. They’re not cheap.”
“He’s a proper teacher. The head told us.”
“And she’s in the best position to know.” Jem grinned.
“Who, the head? What position’s that?”
Amid the laughter, Jem said, “Ask her. I dare you.”
By the end of the afternoon, the excitement had scarcely abated. The A level group were watching from an upstairs window when the young man returned to his zippy sports car at the end of the day.
“There’s only one question left,” Jem said.
“Only one? I can think of hundreds. We know sweet F.A. about him.”
“Yeah, but this is the one that counts: who gets to ride in the MG first?”
3
Tom was shaking up the school. In the first week, his pinstripe suit got so paint-spattered that the head
gave him special dispensation to wear whatever casual clothes he liked. And the girls were permitted to bring T-shirts and jeans for art lessons, and change in the dressing room behind the stage.
He’d told year eleven that creating a portfolio sounded boring until you realised a portfolio wasn’t a flat case for carrying a mass of drawings, but an opportunity to create exciting things that would never fit into a flat case. He’d taken them to see landscape artworks at Petworth and West Dean. They’d visited the sculpture park at Goodwood and come away with wholly different ideas about creativity. Inspired, they started on projects of their own. Jem worked on a big scale with a leaping dolphin made from driftwood. Mel was collecting pieces of glass worn smooth by the sea and making an exquisite mosaic no bigger than a dinner plate. Naseem was building a Neptune figure entirely from seaweed. Ella’s was a big abstract fashioned mainly from broken lobster pots.
Some afternoons Tom would drive them in the school minivan to one of the pebble beaches—Bracklesham Bay and Selsey being only ten miles away—and get them scavenging for materials. On these trips he was relaxed about smoking and swearing and he always fitted in a visit to the beach café. He’d chat about almost anything except himself. His personal life seemed to be off limits. And of course the girls took this as a challenge.
“Ever come down here at weekends, Tom?”
“Far too busy, Jem.”
“What—painting and stuff? How do you relax, Tom?”
“I’m always relaxed. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Except you’ve got to be sharp when you’re driving. Have you had it long, your MG?”
“Some time.”
“Who chose it—you, or your girlfriend?”
“That would be telling.”
“Go on—tell us.”
“I’ve always liked sports cars. Most guys do.”
“And your girlfriend, does she like it?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Just now you seemed to be saying there’s someone.”
“I’m pretty certain I wasn’t—and if there was, I wouldn’t.”
Laughs all round.
“Spoilsport. Is she an artist like you?”
“Talking of artists, Ella, give the others a shout, will you? They seem to be chatting up those skateboarders outside the café and I don’t think we can justify it as performance art. It’s time we started back.”
Down Among the Dead Men Page 2