Private Lessons E-Book

Bernard O'Keeffe

• Herausgeber: Muswell Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A DI Garibaldi Novel
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 436

Beschreibung

Private tutoring is booming and someones making a killing. An Autumnal Sunday morning, a hungover jogger stumbles across a dead body covered in blood, in Barnes Old Common Cemetery, a long-abandoned Gothic graveyard frequented by druggies and drunkards. The victim has spent the summer working in Italy for the wealthy Rivetti family, who appear have something to hide, as too do his bosses at the high-end Forum Tutorial Agency. And why are his old friends, who he'd been partying with the night before, quite so reticent when questioned? Enter DI Garibaldi, the Met's only non-driving, country music loving detective. His first step, to unravel the complex workings of the private tuition company, the Forum Agency.

Leseprobe

PRIVATE LESSONS

Bernard O’Keeffe

For my daughter, Caitlin (1988 – 2020)

Contents

Title PageDedicationPrologue1234567891011121314151617181920212223242526272829303132333435363738394041424344454647484950AcknowledgementsAlso by Bernard O’KeeffeCopyright

Prologue

It was unusual to see anyone in the overgrown, derelict cemetery. That’s why they went there whenever they could, armed with booze from the supermarket. That’s why, as they sat on the grass between the headstones that afternoon, drinking from their cans and talking about what was going on in their lives, they were surprised to see a boy moving towards them.

He stopped a few yards away, looking at them with wild, staring eyes.

He wasn’t much older than them but his clothes, his haircut, everything about him, proclaimed his difference. Different background. Different class.

‘Get your money out,’ said the boy.

They said nothing.

‘I know you’ve got money. Get it out!’

They looked at each other, not sure what to do.

Then one of them got to his feet. As he did, the boy pulled out a knife and held it in front of him.

‘Your money!’

Maybe he did it because he was drunk. Maybe he did it because he found the idea of handing over his money intolerable. Whatever the reason, the one who had stood 2up moved towards the boy, grabbed the wrist that held the knife, pushed back the arm and kicked the boy in the groin.

The boy fell and the knife flew to the ground.

He kicked the boy again, this time in the head.

Then he was on him, kicking and punching, raining blows on his face and body.

He looked back at his friends and invited them to join him.

1

Simon Mulholland closed the front door behind him, breathed in the morning air, did a few muscle stretches and set off at a gentle pace down Cleveland Gardens. He jogged through the narrow passage that led to The Terrace, crossed the road in front of Barnes Bridge, and joined the path that ran beside the river.

This was how he began each Sunday – with an early morning run beside the Thames. It would usually clear his mind and set him up for the day ahead, but today, as he ran along the towpath looking at the river glistening in the September sunshine, the exercise was struggling to work its magic.

He knew exactly why.

Another dinner party. Another night sat round a Barnes table with other young professional parents talking about the usual stuff. Where to shop. Where to dine. Where to holiday. Where to ski. The best schools for your kids. How to get your kids into them. How to keep them there.

And all with that horrible competitive edge that made any encounter with friends nowadays like a parents’ race at sports day. He couldn’t remember when he started to hate these occasions so much that getting drunk became the only 4sensible response, but he knew that last night he had needed to drink more than usual to get through. And it was the drink, together with the hostess’s spicy Indian food, that was making this morning’s jog so difficult.

He struggled towards Hammersmith Bridge, and carried on along the towpath until he was opposite Fulham Football Club, where he took a right, heading back to Barnes on a path that ran beside the playing fields. This morning’s run, far from making him feel better, had made him feel considerably worse. His head had not cleared – it was fuzzy and aching – and his stomach felt as if something was wriggling inside it trying to escape.

He cut across the common and joined the path that ran beside the Rocks Lane tennis courts. As he did, he slowed down almost to a walk in the hope that gentler movement might make him feel better.

As he jogged past the courts, his stomach cramped.

He stopped by the couples playing early morning doubles and crouched down. He knew what was coming, and he knew it was coming quickly. He looked to his left and saw a path leading into a clump of trees. That would have to do.

He got to his feet and, unable to move freely and still clutching his stomach, hobbled his way into the trees, hoping to find somewhere out of sight of the tennis players or of anyone walking along the path.

Focused on what he needed to do, he didn’t notice what was around him. He saw none of the headstones, none of the statues, none of the broken monuments. All he saw was trees, plants and foliage. All he saw was cover.

He headed in further, desperate to do what he needed to, but anxious for privacy. He found a small space between two stones, and, giving a final look around to check that 5no-one was in sight, dropped his shorts and pants, lifted his runner’s shirt and squatted.

Out it came.

He gasped with relief as everything loosened and what had become of Alice’s Indian food spattered onto the leaves below him.

It squirted onto the ground with a terrible force and his nostrils filled with an acrid stench. He glanced around again, anxious that someone might have seen him, but no-one was in sight.

He lifted himself up and examined the brown pool he had deposited, wondering how best to cover it up.

He shifted some leaves towards it with his trainers and, as he did, his eye caught something on the ground.

A hand.

A hand lying, palm- down, beside a headstone.

Simon pulled up his pants and shorts and then, eyes fixed on the hand, he moved closer to the stone. He peered over.

The body lay on its front, one leg raised, one arm stretched out behind, the other reaching round the side of the stone. Jeans, trainers, fleece – and a pool of blood spread on the ground beneath.

He bent down further to make sure. It was as he feared.

His stomach tightened again and he felt another uncontrollable convulsion in his body.

He turned away from the stone and emptied himself again.

This time through his mouth.

2

Garibaldi stood on stage beside John Prine, holding a guitar he couldn’t play. He looked out at the audience and then turned to the singer, hoping he would give him some tips. But John Prine was lost in his song – ‘Speed of the Sound of Loneliness’. His head was tilted upwards, his eyes half-closed, his brow furrowed with intensity.

Sweat ran down Garibaldi’s back as he gazed into the auditorium. The lights dazzled but he could make out faces, most of which were looking in his direction. Puzzled faces. Questioning faces. Faces that asked Garibaldi what right he had to be up there beside the great American singer-songwriter.

Garibaldi looked down at the guitar. His hands felt its corpse-like coldness. The chorus was coming and any second now he would have to join in. He had to make sure he hit the right note. He had to harmonise.

He took a breath, shot a sideways look at John Prine, leant into the mike and opened his mouth.

A loud bell rang. So loud that Garibaldi couldn’t hear his own voice, so loud that no music at all could be heard. The bell’s shrill ring filled the whole of the Shepherds Bush Empire auditorium. The house lights came on and 7the crowd, holding their hands to their ears, headed for the fire exits.

Garibaldi turned to John Prine. He wanted to apologise for screwing up – for not being able to play the guitar and for missing the chorus – but Prine was still singing, as if nothing had happened. The fire alarm still rang, but the singer was in his own world. ‘You’re travelling at the speed and the sound of loneliness,’ he sang, as the crowd rushed away.

The alarm was now even louder and right next to Garibaldi’s head.

He reached for it, scrabbling to find the button that would stop it, and realised that it wasn’t an alarm at all.

It was his phone, ringing and vibrating on the bedside table.

He looked at the screen. Deighton.

He looked at the time. 9.00 am.

‘Garibaldi.’

‘Jim. Haven’t woken you, have I?’

‘Not at all. I’ve been up for hours.’

‘We’ve got a body. In the cemetery.’

Garibaldi furrowed his brow and screwed up his eyes. A body in the cemetery. So what was new?

‘The cemetery?’

‘Yeah. Barnes Old Cemetery.’

Garibaldi tried to place it.

‘The one near Rocks Lane,’ said Deighton. ‘You need to get there.’

‘OK. I’m on it.’

Garibaldi yawned, stretched and hauled himself up to sit on the side of the bed.

Another anxiety dream. Another impostor syndrome nightmare. 8

And now a body in the cemetery.

Deciding to wake Rachel with a cup of tea before telling her he had to go, he went into the kitchen, trying to remember where, exactly, Barnes Old Cemetery was, and what he’d heard about it.

He brought two mugs of tea into the bedroom and placed one on Rachel’s bedside table. Standing by the bed, he looked at her as she slept, her dark hair spread on the pillow. Who would have thought when they spent that first night together a couple of years ago, that it would lead to this? Living together. Bringing each other cups of tea in the morning.

Rachel stirred. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘And it’s Sunday, right?’

‘Sunday. All day. No school.’

‘I heard the alarm, but I dropped off again.’

‘Why don’t you go back to sleep?’

‘Why?’

‘Something’s cropped up.’

‘Work?’

Garibaldi nodded. ‘Yeah. But there is a bright side.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Gives you a chance to get on top of your marking.’

Rachel sighed, shut her eyes, raised a half-hearted hand in farewell, and turned onto her side.

Garibaldi unlocked his bike from the railings of Rutland Court and cycled into the High Street. Barnes was up and about, enjoying the crisp September morning. He passed the Sun Inn flower stall and glanced to his right where, beside the pond, loud young parents with loud young kids were feeding the ducks and the swans. He winced. Whenever 9he heard the young bankers or accountants or lawyers with their braying wives and their children, whenever his ears were assaulted by their high-volume public-parenting, he always asked himself the same question – was he just getting old and grumpy, or were they prats?

He always reached the same conclusion.

He cycled on, checking out the posters outside The Olympic and the window display of Barnes Books, took a right at the lights opposite The Red Lion and headed down Rocks Lane.

He wheeled his bike towards the police cars and the forensic van parked in the car park, locked it to a stand and walked to the taped cordon and the tent. An information board mounted on a wooden stand caught his eye and he paused to look at it. Welcome to Barnes Common Old Cemetery. He glanced at the pictures and the map, surprised by how he could have lived so close to the place for so long and know so little about it.

‘Sir?’

Garibaldi turned to see DS Gardner in a forensic suit walking through the cordon past a uniformed officer.

‘Morning, Milly. What have we got?’

Gardner stood beside him and looked at the board. ‘Male youth. Twenties.’

‘Any ID?’

Gardner shook her head.

‘Phone?’

She shook her head again.

‘What’s it look like?’

‘Stabbing.’

Garibaldi pointed at the information board. ‘You know much about this place?’

‘Not a lot. Pretty spooky, isn’t it?’ 10

‘Most cemeteries are.’

‘Yeah, but this one’s a different kind of spooky.’

Garibaldi walked with his sergeant towards the police tape.

‘And what have you been dragged away from on this bright Sunday morning?’ said Garibaldi.

‘Nothing much. Only Tim.’

Gardner had been with her new partner for a couple of months. Still early days, still plenty for her to worry about.

‘And you?’

‘Nothing much. Only Rachel.’

He knew as he spoke the words how little he believed them.

Garibaldi showed his card and nodded to the uniform at the cordon, pulled on a forensic suit hood, shoes and gloves and walked along the gravel path.

Light from above filtered through the branches and the leaves. To his left the ping and thwack of balls on rackets came from the tennis courts. To the right gravestones and memorials were dotted and scattered with no sense of order or regularity amongst low-lying shrubs, bushes and foliage. Some were broken, some had sunk into the ground and leant at an angle, many were green and lichened. The place reeked of abandonment and decay.

Garibaldi had seen many dead bodies, but the mixture of emotions he felt when he was about to see a new one always surprised him. Fear at confronting more evidence of man’s inhumanity to man, his capacity for savagery and cruelty. Fear that there but for the grace of God went us all. Fear that whoever killed might kill again. And pity. Pity for the life cut short. Pity for those who would mourn.

But there was also excitement. Not at the thought of what he was about to see, but at the thought of what he 11was about to engage in. Another puzzle. Another challenge. Another chance to bring whoever did it to justice and bring even a tiny amount of comfort to those who grieved.

The fear others might understand, but the excitement he kept quiet about. It might make him seem weird. Or strangely old-fashioned, like he was on some kind of moral crusade, desperate to restore order to a broken world. Both, he knew, were a long way from the truth. It was a lot more complicated than that.

Ahead, Garibaldi saw a large monument. He walked towards it, catching sight on his left of a statue of an angel. It stopped him in his tracks, making him look again to check that he was seeing things correctly.

He was. Above the wings was the trunk of a neck but the angel’s head was missing.

‘See what I mean?’ said Gardner. ‘Weird.’

Garibaldi opened the flap of the forensic tent erected next to the monument and followed Gardner in.

The SOCOs were at work, taking swabs and samples.

The body lay on its front, its head close to a gravestone, the left arm stretched out at right angles, the other arm reaching round the edge of the stone, the right leg raised and bent at the knee. The clothes – jeans, trainers, top – were the clothes of any young man. He looked to be in his twenties, but it was difficult to tell from what was visible. Not much older than Alfie, perhaps. Garibaldi shivered.

He looked up at the trees. Sunlight trickled through the branches, dappling the broken headstones and the back of the corpse and falling on the dark pool of blood.

The Crime Scene Manager came up to him. ‘A couple of things to be aware of,’ he said, pointing at two areas of the ground identified by crime scene markers on the other side of the stone from the body. ‘Vomit and faeces.’ 12

‘And is it as obvious as it looks?’ said Garibaldi, pointing at the body.

‘There’s a lot of blood. On him, on his clothes, on the ground, and there’s some on the stone. Probably his own, but you never know.’

‘And the faeces and vomit?’

‘From the bloke who found him, apparently,’ said Gardner.

‘Shit scared was he?’

‘Taken short on his run.’

‘So he came in here, took a dump and vomited?’

‘Says he relieved himself and then, after he found the body, he threw up.’

‘Sounds like our number one suspect. Or maybe that should be our number two suspect.’ The Crime Scene Manager looked baffled. ‘Any sign of the weapon?’

‘Nothing so far.’

‘Shame. A bloodstained knife would be handy.’

‘What have we here?’

Garibaldi turned to the voice and saw Martin Stevenson walking through the tent flap in a forensic suit.

‘Another round of golf cancelled,’ said the pathologist. ‘I sometimes think they do it just to fuck up my weekends.’

Garibaldi smiled. He liked the pathologist’s sense of humour. Irreverent. Ironic. Intelligent. His favourite ‘I’ words.

Another cry of ‘Out’ came from the tennis courts.

‘Should have brought your racket,’ said Garibaldi.

The pathologist crouched down beside the body. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said. He looked around at the broken headstones. ‘What kind of cemetery is this?’

‘An overgrown abandoned one,’ said Garibaldi.

‘Very Gothic.’ 13

Garibaldi nodded his agreement. Gothic was the word. ‘You should see the decapitated angel.’

Stevenson looked up. ‘The what?’

‘A statue of an angel with its head chopped off.’

‘Fascinating. You must show me.’

‘It’s not the only one sir.’ Gardner’s voice came from behind them. ‘There’s another headless angel and a headless human.’

‘A headless human?’ said Stevenson, as if the idea held some appeal.

‘A statue, that is. I looked around while I was waiting for you.’

‘OK,’ said Garibaldi, ‘I’ll have a look when—’

‘When we’ve dealt with this,’ said Martin Stevenson as he bent down to look more closely at the body.

Garibaldi looked on as the pathologist set to work. Forensics were busy searching the ground. Photos were being taken, a video camera was recording and one officer was dictating into his phone. ‘Vomit located five metres south of body. Faeces five metres west.’

The pathologist went over to the officer and looked down at the vomit. ‘Chicken curry, I’d say.’ He moved towards the faeces. ‘And this shit looks pretty human as well.’ He sniffed. ‘If I were a gambling man I’d put my money on it being chicken curry as well.’

The sound of the tennis players carried from the courts, a reminder that, only yards away from where a life had been brutally ended and a dead body was being subjected to the probing indignities of forensic examination, Sunday morning life was carrying on as usual.

Garibaldi looked around the cemetery and then down at the victim, wondering what had brought him here.

Sex? A creepy place for it, unless you got your kicks 14from having it off on gravestones or among dead bodies and headless angels. But it wouldn’t surprise him. He’d learned over the years that there was no accounting for the range of sexual appetites.

Drugs? Areas of leafy affluence like Barnes were plagued by them as much as areas of inner-city deprivation. Just different drugs and more money to pay for them.

Stevenson stood up. ‘Looks pretty straightforward but can’t be certain yet.’

He beckoned a couple of SOCOs and instructed them.

Garibaldi looked down on the body as they turned it. It was not quite the final indignity – that would come when it was subjected to post-mortem – but it was a step on the way. The face was now on full display, exposed to the morning light, blank and lifeless, eyes and mouth shut, a far cry from the smiling photo that would accompany the next day’s news report.

The pathologist bent over the body.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Garibaldi.

He bent down to look at the face and the gravestone beside it. He tried to make out the name on the stone but the covering of moss and lichen made it impossible. All he could see was the date – 1848.

‘Want to see the headless angels?’ said Gardner.

‘Headless angels?’ Garibaldi got up and brushed himself down. ‘What better way to start the weekend?’

Gardner walked into the bushes and Garibaldi followed her into the heart of Barnes Old Cemetery, leaving the SOCOs to their work and the pathologist to a closer examination.

3

‘Apostrophe. Yes or no?’

In the long silence that followed, Giles Gallen wondered whether his pupil had forgotten what an apostrophe was or, more worryingly, whether he had ever known.

‘What do you reckon, Paolo? Do you think that needs an apostrophe?’

Under a Mediterranean sun, apostrophes had hardly mattered. Now, on a Saturday afternoon in a London autumn, with the leaves starting to fall and the nights drawing in, the villa and the yacht and the events of the summer were behind them and apostrophes had taken on renewed significance.

Paolo looked at the sheet in front of him and tilted his head to one side. In recent years Giles had become adept at reading the backs of heads, and he knew what this one was saying. I don’t want to do this. I know my parents want to get me into a good school and I wouldn’t mind going to one either but if I’m honest right now I’d rather be in the basement playroom or chilling out in the home cinema – anywhere in this multi-million-pound mansion rather than at this desk with you.

Giles knew exactly how his student felt. Right now he’d rather be anywhere else as well.

This wasn’t how he’d thought it would turn out. He’d 16always imagined that when he graduated he would embark on an exciting new life – an interesting job in something (he’d never been clear exactly what), a flat in an edgy area of East London, and a continuation of the independence he had enjoyed during his time at Cambridge, this time with more money in his pocket and without the obligation to write essays and pass exams.

He’d never thought that, four years after graduating, he would still be living with his parents in Barnes and reading the backs of reluctant students’ heads.

Nor that he would have got himself into such a horrendous mess.

He checked his watch while Paolo continued to ponder the unfathomable mystery of the apostrophe. Fifteen minutes to go. Time to set a little exercise and think about the evening ahead.

‘OK. Paolo, here are ten sentences,’ he said, reaching for a sheet and placing it in front of his student, ‘but the apostrophes are missing. What I’d like you to do is copy them out and put in apostrophes where you think they should go.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘What do you think?’

Giles knew exactly what Paolo thought. He had to. Having a guess at where to put a few apostrophes was a better option than his mum going nuclear.

Paolo took the sheet and Giles sat back in his chair.

The door opened and Mrs Rivetti came in. Petite and lithe, with raven shoulder-length hair framing a high-cheekboned face, she radiated energy. Her dark eyes were bright and piercing. Giles sensed she was always on the brink of explosion and knew from what he had seen in the summer how true this was – like Vesuvius, she might erupt at any moment.

‘How’s he doing?’ 17

Giles nodded. As parents’ questions went, ‘how’s he doing’ was no more than a loosener, the equivalent of hello or a handshake.

‘Could I have a word?’

‘Sure.’

‘In private?’

More serious now. ‘In private’ had shifted it up a level.

‘Of course,’ said Giles, getting up from his chair.

Mrs Rivetti led him into the kitchen, or at least what the Rivettis liked to call the kitchen. Giles had never been in a kitchen that contained a grand piano. Had the floor slid open to reveal a swimming pool and dancing girls he wouldn’t have been surprised.

‘I’m worried,’ said Mrs Rivetti.

Nothing new here. Every parent of every kid he’d ever tutored was worried. That’s why they hired him.

‘I’m worried he won’t get in. Since the beginning of term he hasn’t really settled. I know you’re doing your best and we appreciate that.’

Giles knew the code. ‘Doing your best’ meant ‘we think you could be doing more.’ ‘We appreciate that’ meant ‘we don’t appreciate it at all.’ Everything Mrs Rivetti was saying suggested a new level of concern – even that subtle shift from ‘I’ to ‘we’. Luigi Rivetti was in on the case as well – or if he wasn’t, Lucia would get him on it soon. Vesuvius was rumbling.

‘Paolo always finds it difficult at the beginning of the school year,’ said Mrs Rivetti. ‘Summer is fine. He loves his holidays.’

A life of luxury in villas, on private planes and in yachts. Who wouldn’t love his holidays?

‘But back here in London …’

Paolo may not have liked being back in London, but 18Giles was relieved. He was enjoying seeing the nights draw in and feeling the temperature drop.

He was glad to have a chance to recover. A chance to forget. A chance to wipe the slate clean and make a new start.

‘We think you should see him more,’ said Mrs Rivetti.

More? He was already seeing Paolo for two sessions in the week and one at weekends. There was no point seeing him more than that. One of the things he’d learned since he had taken up tutoring was that reluctant pupils didn’t lose their reluctance through increased exposure to what they didn’t want to do.

‘You’re the only one he’ll respond to, Giles. We saw that right from the start and we certainly saw it in the summer. I know it wasn’t easy for anyone what with … but you were good to have around. Good for all of us, but especially for Paolo. He gets on so well with you and that is so valuable.’

Giles knew how valuable it was. He still couldn’t believe how much he had been paid.

‘The thing is, Giles, that Sam’s decided she can’t carry on tutoring Anna.’

‘Really?’

This was news to him. He hadn’t seen Sam since they’d got back. They’d messaged a few times, but not about anything important. Not about what had happened.

He was surprised she hadn’t told him she was stopping.

‘Did she say why?’

Mrs Rivetti shrugged. ‘Personal reasons.’

Personal reasons? What did that mean?

‘And we were wondering if you could take over.’

‘Take over from Sam? I, er …’

Taking over from Sam would mean teaching both the Rivetti children. It would double the time he spent at the Rivettis’ and double the pressure. 19

‘We’d pay you well. Extremely well.’

Giles tried to imagine what, in the Rivettis’ world, paying extremely well might mean.

‘The thing is, Paolo will only have this one go at getting into that school and we really can’t leave anything to chance. We need to get him the best. And you, Giles, are the best.’

‘I’m very flattered, Mrs Rivetti, but—’

‘Think about it, Giles.’

‘The thing is I do have other clients—’

‘Whatever you earn from your other clients, we will double it, triple it, if you take over Sam’s side of the teaching. Think about it.’

Giles thought about it. It had been a busy Saturday, cycling from house to house to tutor teenage kids. How much easier would it be if he only had two students? And if he earned more from them than he did from the others?

‘The coming weeks are crucial for Paolo,’ said Lucia. ‘The more he can get of you, the better his chances. We know that. He responds to you, Giles, in a way he doesn’t respond to his teachers at school and sometimes he responds to you in a way he doesn’t even respond to us, his parents …’

Giles didn’t need telling. He had seen the parental shortcomings of the super-rich in close-up.

‘And if you agree to take on Anna as well, we were thinking that you could even move in here for a while.’

Move in? He hadn’t seen that one coming.

Mrs Rivetti’s eyes fixed tightly on his. ‘We have a lot of room here. And there is a self-contained apartment at the back that you could have. When you’re not tutoring Paolo and Anna you would have complete independence. Come and go as you please.’ 20

A self-contained apartment? Giles tried to imagine it. If they called this room a kitchen what would their apartment look like?

‘I’m very flattered, Mrs Rivetti, but can I think about it?’

‘Of course. But Luigi wanted me to mention something else for you to consider. If you come to us, live with us, and work exclusively as our tutor we would cut the ties with the agency. You would be our employee.’

‘So I wouldn’t be working for Forum at all?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Rivetti. ‘Just for us. Ideally as a live-in. Maybe you would like to see the apartment before you go?’.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘that would be great.’

When Giles left the Rivettis’ and set off on his bike down Castelnau towards his parents’ house in Ranelagh Avenue, his mind was spinning. The prospect of working exclusively for the Rivettis held many attractions, the greatest of which were undoubtedly more money and the chance to move out of his parents’ home. The annexed apartment had been the size of a small house and he couldn’t stop thinking of what it might be like to live there. Nor could he stop thinking of how many noughts might be on the end of the Rivetti live-in tutor pay cheque – more, he sensed, than the number of apostrophes Paolo had placed correctly.

On the other hand, the idea of being owned by the rich Italians, of working only for them and, despite the apartment’s apparent independence, in effect living with them and being constantly at their beck and call, was not something he could seriously consider. His experience in the summer had confirmed his sense that this kind of tutoring was not for him, and his instincts were telling him that, far from moving in with the Rivettis to be a live-in tutor for Paolo and Anna, now might be the time for him to do what Sam had done and stop working for them completely. 21

As he cycled past the Sun Inn, Giles reached a couple of decisions.

The first was to say no to the Rivettis.

The second was much bigger and would have more far-reaching implications. He should have done it years ago but now, at last, he would do the right thing.

And he would do it tonight, after the Forum party.

4

‘So tell us all about it,’ said Simon.

Giles took a sip of his beer and looked round the early Saturday evening crowd in the Coach and Horses.

‘About what?’

‘The summer.’

‘It was good.’

What else could he say? Three weeks in a Tuscan villa and a cruise round the Med. Four hours a day tutoring Paolo, and the rest of the time to himself.

‘How come you land all the good jobs? Whenever I apply for these exotic placements I never come close. And now here we go again. Another September.’

September. The beginning of another academic year. The return of schools and, with their return, the demands and requests of parents anxious for extra help. Extra help that would bring their kids up to scratch and get them the grades. Extra help that would get them into the right school or university. Extra help that would give their kids the edge and keep them ahead. Extra help that would ensure they weren’t missing out on the extra help that other kids were getting

It was a busy time for tutoring. 23

And it was time for the annual Forum drinks party.

‘I don’t know why they do it,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, what’s the point?’

‘It’s because Forum’s a family,’ said Simon. ‘Haven’t you seen their website?’

‘Silly me,’ said Emily. ‘I forgot.’

‘Yeah,’ said Simon. ‘One big happy family, and one with …’ He turned to Giles. ‘One with favoured sons.’

‘You’ve got it wrong,’ said Giles.

‘I don’t think so, ‘said Emily. ‘If you don’t watch it, you’ll become a …’ She looked over her shoulder at the early evening drinkers in the Coach and Horses and leant into the table as if about to deliver a confidence. ‘You’ll become a supertutor.’ She italicised the word with a whisper.

‘A super tutor?’ said Giles.

‘Yeah.’ Emily leant back and smiled. ‘One of those tutors who works for the super-rich and earns an absolute fortune.’

‘I really don’t think so,’ said Giles.

Emily took a swig of beer from her bottle and licked froth from her lips. ‘You’re almost there.’

‘One family,’ said Giles, holding up his index finger. ‘One.’

‘Yeah,’ said Simon, ‘a super-rich one.’

‘Exactly,’ said Emily. ‘Perfect for a … supertutor.’

‘I do have some principles, you know.’

‘Of course,’ said Emily. ‘We’ve all got principles. I mean, I’m only tutoring because—’

‘Because it’s something that pays while you pursue your dream?’ said Giles. He’d heard the line many times before. He knew all about Emily’s and Simon’s dreams.

‘This time next year,’ said Emily, ‘I won’t be doing this.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Giles laughed. ‘You said exactly that this time last year.’ He turned to Simon. ‘Both of you said it.’ 24

‘Yeah well it takes time, doesn’t it?’ said Simon. ‘It’s all right for you, landing jobs like that. Must be the Hugh Grant looks. The floppy hair. The posh voice.’

‘Radley and Cambridge,’ said Emily. ‘That’s what gets you these jobs. Comprehensive and Cardiff like me you’ve got no chance.’

‘Or Radley and Newcastle like me,’ said Simon. ‘Not quite the same, is it? The thing is, Giles, the reason you’d make a good supertutor is there’s nothing else you’re desperate to do.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you’ve never said there is.’

‘That doesn’t mean I don’t want to do something else. I just haven’t worked out what it is yet.’

‘Exactly,’ said Emily. ‘So why not go for it? Spend your time jetting round the world and getting paid a fortune.’

‘You’re forgetting that while I might spend some of my time on yachts in the Med, I also spend some of my time in inner city state schools.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Simon. ‘Pro bono!’

He smiled at Emily. ‘Pro bono!’ she repeated.

‘You may laugh, but I’d like to point out that of all those sitting round the table right now there’s only one person who offers his tutoring services for free in an area that might need it more than the Rivettis.’

‘It’s not that we don’t want to,’ said Simon, ‘it’s that we can’t afford to.’

‘Yeah,’ said Emily. ‘Principles are really expensive.’

‘Whereas you’re raking it in,’ said Simon, ‘so principles are a bit easier.’

‘I don’t have to do it, you know. No-one’s forcing me to.’

‘And Forum don’t have to do it either,’ said Emily. ‘But it makes them feel better and it looks good. Maybe it does the same for you.’ 25

‘Look,’ said Giles, his tone suggesting he wanted to bring this conversation to a close. ‘I’m not claiming to be a saint or anything. The fact is I do the pro bono stuff because I want to and so what if it makes me feel better? What’s the harm in that? Maybe I do it to keep my feet on the ground, to remind myself that all the flashy stuff is OK but it’s not real. The thing about these glamorous jobs …’

He paused. For a moment, a very brief moment, he was tempted to tell them about the summer.

‘The thing is, at the end of the day, you’re left in no doubt about where you stand. You’re their employee, their servant. You’re part of their domestic staff. A maid with a degree.’

‘But you’re like a fashion accessory,’ said Emily, ‘their bit of British class they like to show off. They don’t show off their maids.’

‘Look,’ said Giles, ‘I only go abroad with them in the school holidays. If you wanted to make serious money out of it you’d have to live with them the whole time.’

He thought again of the Rivettis’ offer. Ditching Forum and moving into the self-contained apartment in their Lonsdale Road mansion. The more he thought about it the more appalled he was.

‘You still haven’t told us about the summer,’ said Simon.

Giles tensed. ‘What’s to tell?’

‘Was she there again?’ said Emily.

‘Was who there?’

‘You know who I mean.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yeah,’ said Simon. ‘The other tutor.’

‘The other tutor? Yeah, she was there.’

‘And … ?’ Emily leant forward.

‘And what?’

‘What happened?’ said Simon. 26

‘Nothing happened.’

Simon stroked his chin. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘You can believe what you like, but it’s the truth.’

‘What’s her name again?’ said Emily.

‘Sam.’

‘Oh, yeah. Sam. And is Sam going to be there tonight?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so? You mean you don’t know?’

‘When I last spoke to her, she said she couldn’t make it.’

Emily gave a knowing smile. Was Giles imagining it, or was that a jealous glint in her eye?

‘I still don’t understand why they needed two tutors.’

‘I was there for the son and Sam was there for the daughter.’

‘And what are they like, this Italian family?’ asked Emily. ‘You must have got to know them pretty well.’

‘The parents? Not really.’

‘What about the kids?’

‘Yeah, I got to know them quite well.’

‘No, I mean what about the kids telling you stuff about the parents? Kids always tell you stuff.’

‘Yeah,’ said Simon. ‘The kids always tell you things. Those little breaks you take for a chat – that’s when they let things slip about mummy and daddy. I mean, the things you find out!’

Simon started to tell them the things he’d found out. The cross-dressers in Chiswick. The father in Kew who put hidden cameras in all the rooms. The couple who made loud love in the bedroom while he was tutoring.

‘Are we listening to your next Edinburgh show?’ said Giles.

‘Could be,’ said Simon. ‘What do you think?’?

‘Is any of it true?’ said Emily. 27

‘Every word of it.’

‘And what about you?’ said Emily, turning to Giles. There was something about the way she was looking at him. Was she flirting?

‘What about me?’

‘Found out anything interesting about your parents? I mean the parents of the kids you teach.’

‘Nothing special.’

‘I sometimes worry about you, Giles …’ Emily leant forward and he saw the glint again. ‘All those mothers.’

‘What about them?’

Emily gave a suggestive wink.

Giles shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘What about the fathers?’ said Simon.

‘Afraid not.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Emily.

‘About the dads?’

‘About any of them.’

Simon downed his drink and stood up. ‘OK. Let’s get this over with. A big smile for Felicia and Roddy so they know we’ve turned up and then back to the pub as early as we can.’

‘Good idea,’ said Emily. ‘What about you, Giles? Fancy slipping out early to the Red Lion?’

‘Or does the blue-eyed boy want to hang out with Felicia and Roddy?’ said Simon.

‘You’ve got the wrong idea,’ said Giles. ‘Really.’

‘No we haven’t,’ said Simon. He poked Giles in the ribs. ‘Teacher’s pet.’

Teacher’s pet. That’s what Simon had called him at Radley and he’d carried the habit, together with so many others, beyond the school walls. The two of them went back such a long way and shared so many things that whenever 28they were with others they were sometimes accused of lapsing into a code that people didn’t understand, making references from which others felt excluded.

Tonight Giles had been more than usually conscious of this, and he knew exactly why. It was because of what he had decided to do. He had lived with it for too long and now was the time to sort it out. Now was the time to come clean.

‘Yeah,’ said Emily. ‘Teacher’s pet!’

‘You’ve both got the wrong idea.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Emily, placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. ‘Mr Supertutor!’

Giles laughed with them but his mind was elsewhere, thinking of when he should turn down the Rivettis’ offer and when would be a good time to have a quiet word with Simon.

5

DCI Deighton’s office, like Deighton herself, revealed nothing about her private life. No family photos. No personal touches. A business-like, no-nonsense affair.

‘No ID?’ said Garibaldi.

Deighton shook her head.

‘No phone?’

Another shake.

‘And why there?’

‘Strange place, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Garibaldi. ‘Did you know it’s where Ebenezer Morley’s buried?’

Deighton raised her eyebrows. She tolerated many things about Garibaldi – his inability to drive and his QPR season ticket, for example, but she found other things more difficult to take. Like his tendency to show off.

‘Ebenezer Morley?’

‘OK,’ said Garibaldi, sensing that her face was turning into a no-tolerance zone, ‘I didn’t know who he was either. Had to look him up. Amazing what you can find on Wikipedia. Turns out he’s the man who formulated the rules of modern football. Pretty big news in football terms. And he lived in Barnes. Funny that. Coming from Barnes 30you’d think he’d be more of a rugby man, but good old Ebenezer, eh? And it seems he’s not the only famous person buried in the Old Cemetery.’

Deighton raised her eyebrows again.

‘F.T. Palgrave.’

‘And who did he play for?’

Garibaldi smiled. ‘Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. A famous poetry anthology.’

‘Of course,’ said Deighton. ‘And what did your Wikipedia research tell you about the times you couldn’t move in the Old Cemetery for used needles and condoms?’

‘Maybe that’s what brought him there. Sex and drugs.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Unlikely to be rock and roll.’

The blank look again.

‘It’s a song. Ian Dury. “Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll”.’

‘I see.’

‘Had it been a bit closer to the Marc Bolan shrine we might consider it.’

Deighton nodded. She got this one – a reference to the memorial at the sycamore tree on Queen’s Ride into which the T. Rex singer’s car had fatally crashed in 1977.

‘It’s surprising,’ said Deighton, ‘how few people know about Barnes Old Cemetery.’

Garibaldi nodded. Those who knew about the cemetery at the edge of the Common often referred to it as a well-kept secret, the term ‘well-kept’ applying to the secret rather than the cemetery. Long ago abandoned, neglected and overgrown, the place had in the past attracted cruisers, drug addicts and gloom-seeking goths, but in recent years a local environmental group had kept it in better shape, clearing rubbish and tending the paths, while allowing nature to 31take its course and the place to become a sanctuary for birds and other wildlife.

‘Anything on the man who found him?’ said Garibaldi.

‘A banker called Simon Mulholland. We’ve got a statement. Seems more embarrassed about needing a crap before he got home and throwing up than worried about what he found. DNA check will confirm whether the bodily expulsions are his.’

Deighton paused and gave Garibaldi a look he had come to recognise. The pastoral concern look. The unspoken but implied recognition of what he had been through.

‘So, Jim, how are you?’

He gave a non-committal shrug. Deighton’s face still wore the pastoral care look, her eyes inviting Garibaldi to speak.

‘I’m, you know, getting by,’ he said.

‘Like the rest of us, then,’ said Deighton. She let out a slow sigh. ‘You know, I sometimes wonder if we shouldn’t expect more.’

‘More than what?’

‘More than getting by.’

‘Getting by seems good enough to me. Beats expecting too much and always being disappointed.’

‘Look, Jim, if you ever want to talk about things—’

‘Talk about things?’

‘If you’re, you know, finding it tough.’

Garibaldi felt accused, as if he looked like a man who needed to talk about things, as if he’d done something wrong and everyone had noticed.

‘Talk about things?’

‘We all know how difficult it was for you a few years back.’

They all knew, but it was only in the car with Milly and 32here, in Deighton’s office, that the divorce and depression were ever mentioned. Or at least mentioned to his face.

‘And,’ said Deighton, ‘it’s difficult to find the right time when we’re here.’ She waved her hands to suggest she was referring to the whole station. ‘So I was wondering if you might fancy a drink one night after work.’

‘OK,’ said Garibaldi, trying hard to hide his surprise.

‘Let me know. It’s sometimes easier to say things away from this place.’

Garibaldi had to pinch himself. The closed book that was DCI Deighton was threatening to open.

‘Right,’ said Deighton in a back-to business tone, looking down at her notes. ‘Another young life gone.’

Another young life. He thought of Alfie. He’d always assumed that the older he got, the less he would worry about him, but his first year at university had shown him otherwise.

Deighton’s phone rang. ‘DCI Deighton.’

She nodded and scribbled on her pad.

‘We’ve got a name,’ she said when she hung up.

‘How did they get that?’

‘His clothes. Apparently his jumper had one of those name tags your mum used to sew in. Maybe he had it when he was at school.’

From nowhere a memory rushed back and, in the corner of Deighton’s office, Garibaldi saw his mother stitching labels in his grammar school uniform. There she was in their Fulham council flat, her eyes flitting between the needle and thread and the TV. And there was his father in the chair beside her, his head in a paper, ready for his evening trip to the pub. How many years ago was it? Thirty? Forty? And how many years before the fateful accident that took them both away from him? 33

Even now there were nights when Garibaldi heard again the knock on the door and the policeman’s words. Even now there were times when he saw all of his life after that point as some kind of crazed grief – joining the police rather than going to university, marrying Kay, becoming a father, and then the shit of a couple of years ago when everything unravelled, as if it had taken all those years to comprehend the enormity of what had happened to him just before he was about to take his A Levels.

‘Jim?’

Garibaldi turned away from his mother and father and saw Deighton looking at him across her desk, eyebrows raised.

‘Are you OK, Jim?’

‘Sure. I’m fine.’

‘You seemed miles away.’

‘Did I? Sorry, I was just thinking.’

‘About the victim’s jumper?’

‘Yeah. I was thinking that it might not be his.’

Deighton nodded in the way she always did when Garibaldi surprised her with an unexpected line of thought.

Garibaldi shook his head, trying to shake the memory away.

Penny Gallen, still in her dressing gown, wore the waxwork face of a woman frozen by shock. Her movements were slow, her speech uncertain and her manner that of someone recovering from a dizzying blow to the head.

Jeremy Gallen sat beside his wife, clutching her hand, his white fingers tightly wrapped round hers. He was dressed in a suit, looking as if, despite the news they had just received, he would go off to work after this interview and carry on with his life as normal. Garibaldi sat opposite the couple. 34DS Gardner sat beside him and the Family Liaison Officers stood outside in the hall, ready to offer support when their visit ended.

The room was heavy with pain, numb with shock.

‘I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel,’ said Garibaldi, ‘and I’m sorry to have to ask you questions so soon after hearing such terrible news.’

Jeremy Gallen nodded. His wife gazed into space.

‘But given what seem to be the circumstances of his death, it’s important that our investigation starts as soon as possible.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’ said Mr Gallen, looking imploringly from Garibaldi to DS Gardner and then back to Garibaldi. ‘Who could possibly want to kill … to kill Giles?’

Mrs Gallen flinched at the mention of her son’s name.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr Gallen. ‘Who could have done this?’

‘Everything in front of him,’ said Mrs Gallen, still staring into space. ‘Why?’

Garibaldi leant forward. ‘When did you last see Giles?’

Mrs Gallen turned to him, but her look was blank, as if she had no idea what he’d said.

‘We saw Giles yesterday lunchtime,’ said Mr Gallen. ‘Before he went out.’

‘Where did he go?’ asked DS Gardner.

‘He said he was going to work.’

‘Where did he work?’

‘All over the place,’ said Mr Gallen. ‘He was a tutor. A private tutor.’

‘I see,’ said Garibaldi, ‘so do you know where he went?’

Mr Gallen shook his head. ‘He was tutoring several students, but he never told us who they were or where he was going …’ 35

‘Twenty-six!’ said Mrs Gallen.

Twenty-six. The words echoed in the silence like a doomed bingo call.

‘We never asked him where he was going,’ said Mr Gallen. ‘As long as he told us if he wouldn’t be coming back.’

Wouldn’t be coming back. Another silent echo.

‘That’s all we asked,’ said Mrs Gallen ‘Let us know if he wouldn’t … He said he’d be back early evening and then he’d be going out again to a drinks party.’

‘Where was this party?’

‘I think he said it was at the agency.’

‘The agency?’

‘The tutoring agency he works for. Worked for.’

The wrong tense of the recently bereaved. One of the few grammatical errors Garibaldi never felt the urge to correct.

Mrs Gallen shook her head again, her eyes blank and wide.

‘The drinks were at the tutoring agency he works for,’ said Mr Gallen.

‘Do you know the name of this agency?’

‘Forum. It’s called Forum Tutors.’ The barely audible words came from Mrs Gallen. ‘They’re based here in Barnes.’

‘And Giles had been working for them as a tutor?’

Mr Gallen nodded. ‘He’s been doing it for several years. Ever since he left Cambridge. At first it was just something to tide him over. I kept going on at him to get a proper job—’ He broke off as if remembering, and regretting, the discussions. ‘—and he kept telling me he would, but then over the last year or so he started to get different kinds of placements. More money. Travel abroad. So he decided to carry on. I still wish …’ 36

‘Where did he go?’ said Garibaldi.

‘All over the place.’ Mr Gallen sounded disapproving. ‘Italy. The Greek islands. Mainly Easter and Summer holidays. The rest of the time the family were here.’

‘The family?’

‘An Italian family. Massively wealthy.’

‘And do you have any idea who Giles was tutoring on Saturday? Was it this family?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Gallen. ‘He’s always busy on Saturdays. And terms have just started, I suppose, so …’

Mr Gallen gave a heavy sigh. ‘Do we really have to answer questions now? This is unbearable.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr and Mrs Gallen, but we need to—’

‘They need to know!’ Mrs Gallen almost shrieked the words. ‘They need to know!’

Mr Gallen rested another hand on his wife’s.

Mrs Gallen looked at her husband’s hands and then up at his face, as if unable to make a connection between them.

She turned to Garibaldi. ‘Will I be able to see him?’

‘His body will need to be identified,’ said Garibaldi, ‘but you don’t have to …’