"A compelling page turner with intriguing murders and strange connections!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted August 21, 2015
Mystery Police Procedural
Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond is totally
disgruntled about being forced away from his current
investigation concerning jewel thieves in the Bath area,
but an internal investigation turns out to be much more
interesting when he heads to Sussex and he finds he
knows the female officer under investigation. Like Alice falling down a rabbit hole, Peter finds too
many things just don't add up and things don't make
sense. Why is a three year old case so important now? Written by the highly acclaimed and multi-award winning
Peter Lovesey, DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN is the fourteenth
book in his Chief Superintendent Peter Diamond
investigation series. It is little wonder that Lovesey is
an international best-selling author and he certainly is
in top form in DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Lovesey excels
at writing authentic and compelling police procedural
books and puzzling mysteries to solve. Even if new to
the series, the reader quickly appreciates Peter Diamond
as a character with sardonic wit, and Lovesey fans will be
delighted with the interactions and maneuverings Diamond
and Dallymore do as this police investigation gets under
way. Lovesey quickly pulls the reader into the action, but the
connections between the characters and their situations
are a little confusing at first. As the story moves
into the investigation, the puzzle starts taking shape.
I find Lovesey's style very easy to read with short
chapters that keeps the reader wanting more. DOWN AMONG
THE DEAD MEN is a fascinating read and I had trouble
putting the book down. Just had to keep reading and
putting life on hold until the last page. Great plotting
and exciting action! Police procedural and British mystery readers will
definitely relish picking up the clues and following
Diamond's investigation in this puzzling mystery. So,
grab a copy of DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN and then settle in
to really figure out the linkage to this very intriguing
title! Enjoy!
SUMMARY
Peter Diamond takes a dive down among the dead men to
solve a seven-year-old murder case in the latest
installment of Peter Lovesey's classic procedural series.
In a Sussex town on the south coast of England, a widely
disliked art teacher at a posh private girls’ school
disappears without explanation. None of her students miss
her boring lessons, especially since her replacement
is a devilishly hunky male teacher with a fancy car. But
then her name shows up on a police missing persons
list. What happened to Miss Gibbon, and why does no one
seem to care?
Meanwhile, detective Peter Diamond finds himself in
Sussex, much against his wishes. His irritating and often
obtuse supervisor, Assistant Chief Constable Georgina
Dallymore, has made Diamond accompany her on a Home
Office
internal investigation. A Sussex detective has been
suspended for failing to link DNA evidence of a relative
to
a seven-year-old murder case—a bad breach of ethics.
Diamond is less than thrilled to be heading out on a road
trip with his boss to investigate a fellow officer, but
he becomes much more interested in the case when he
realizes who the suspended officer is—an old friend, and
not a person he knows to make mistakes.
As Diamond asks questions, he begins to notice unsettling
connections between the cold case and the missing art
teacher. Could the two mysteries be connected? How many
other area disappearances have gone unnoticed and
uninvestigated? Diamond and his hapless supervisor have
stumbled into a web of related crimes. Will Diamond be
able to disentangle them?
Excerpt“Are you sure this thing works?” Danny asked Mr. Singh,
the gizmo man.“You want demonstration?” “I’d be a mug if I didn’t.” “No problem. Where did you leave car?” “A little way up the street.” “What make?” “It’s the old white Merc by the lamppost.” “Locking is remote, right?” Danny dipped his hand in his pocket, opened his palm and
showed the key fob with its push button controls. “Very good,” Mr. Singh said. “We can test. Go to car and
let yourself in. Step out, lock up and walk back here. I
am waiting on street with gizmo.” Danny was alert for trickery. He wasn’t parting with
sixty-odd pounds for a useless lump of plastic and metal.
But if it really did work, he could be quids in.
Thousands. The gizmo, as Mr. Singh called it, looked pretty basic in
construction, a pocket-sized black box with two
retractable antennas fitted to one end. No money had changed hands yet, so the guy had nothing to
gain by doing a runner. Danny stepped out of the little
coffee shop and did exactly as suggested. Walked to the
Mercedes, unlocked, got in, closed the door, opened it
again, stepped out, locked, using the smart key, and
walked back to where Mr. Singh was standing outside the
shop with the gizmo in his hands. “You locked it, right?” “Sure did,” Danny said. “Where is key?” “Back in my pocket.” “Excellent. Leave it there. Now go to car and try door.” Danny had walked only a few steps when he saw that the
lock pins were showing. Just as promised, the car was
unlocked. He was impressed. To be certain, he opened the door he’d
apparently locked a moment ago. “Good job, eh?” Mr. Singh said when Danny went back to
him. “Nice one. Who makes these things?” “Made in China.” “Wouldn’t you know it?” “Simple to operate. You want to buy?” “How does it work?” “Okay. You know how key fob works?” “Using a radio signal.” “Right. Sending signal from fob to car. Programmed to
connect with your car and no other. But this gizmo is
signal jammer. Breaks frequency. You think you lock up,
but I zap you with this.” “Let me see.” Danny held the thing and turned it over. “All I have to
do is press this?” “Correct. All about timing. You are catching exact moment
when driver is pointing fob at car.” “Hang on. There’s always a sound when the locks engage.
And the lights flick on and off. If that doesn’t happen,
the driver will notice.” “Did you notice?” Danny hesitated. “There was traffic noise and I was
thinking of other things.” “So?” Mr. Singh flashed his teeth. “In a quiet place the driver would notice.” “Don’t use in quiet place. Street is better, street with
much traffic.” Danny turned the jammer over and looked at the other
side, speculating. “How much are you asking?” “Seventy, battery included.” He made a sound as if he’d been burnt. “Seventy is more
than I thought.” “Fully effective up to fifty metres.” Danny handed it back. “I don’t suppose it works with the
latest models.” “Now I am being honest. Very new cars, possibly no.
Manufacturers getting wise. Any car up to last year is
good. That gives plenty choice. To you, special offer,
not to be repeated. Sixty-five.” Danny took a wad from his back pocket, peeled off three
twenties and held them out. Mr. Singh sighed, took the money and handed over the
jammer. “Before you go,” Danny said. “There’s something else.
This gets me into the car, but it doesn’t let me drive it
away. I was told you have another little beauty for
that.” Mr. Singh’s eyes lit up again. “Programmer. Which make?
BMW, Mercedes, Audi?” “I need a different one for each make, do I? How much
will it cost me?” “Two hundred. Maybe two fifty.” Danny whistled. This was getting to be a larger
investment than he planned, but he thought about the top-
class cars he could steal. “Let’s say the Bimmer.” “BMW three or five series I can do for two hundred.” “Is it difficult to operate?” “Dead easy. All cars now have diagnostic connector port.
You plug in and programmer reads key code.” “Then what?” “Code is transferred from car’s computer to microchip in
new key. You get five blank keys gratis as well.” “So I can drive off using the new key? Have you tried
this yourself?” “No, no, no, I am supplier only. Supplying is lawful.
Driving off with some person’s car is not.” “But you can show me how the thing works?” “You come back with two hundred cash this time tomorrow
and for you as special customer I am supplying and
demonstrating BMW three series programmer.” Next afternoon special customer Danny drove away from
Brighton with the programmer and the pride of a man at
the cutting edge of the electronic revolution. In his
youth he’d used a wire coat hanger to get into cars. He’d
graduated to a slim Jim strip and then a whole collection
of lock-picking tools. But the days of hotwiring the
ignition were long gone. In recent years anti-theft
technology had become so sophisticated that he’d been
reduced to touring car parks looking for vehicles left
unlocked by their stupid owners. For a man once known as
Driveaway Danny it had become humiliating. The Mercedes
he was driving was twelve years old. He’d liberated it in
July from some idiot in Bognor who’d left it on his
driveway with the key in the ignition. Everything was about to change. He would shortly be driving a BMW 3 series. It wasn’t easy to nail one. For more than a week he
patrolled the streets of the south coast town of
Littlehampton (which isn’t known for executive cars) with
his two gizmos in a Tesco carrier bag. The new technology
called for a whole new mindset. He wasn’t on the lookout
for a parked car, but one that happened to drive up while
he was watching. He’d need to make a snap decision when
the chance came. If the chance came. Late Sunday evening it did. After a day of no success he
was consoling himself with a real ale at his local, the
Steam Packet, near the red footbridge over the River
Arun. He lived in a one-bedroom flat a few hundred yards
away and liked to wind down here at the end of a long
day. The pub was said to have existed since 1840, trading
under a different name, because the cross-channel ferry
that departed from there hadn’t come into service until
1863. WELCOME ABOARD THE STEAM PACKET, announced the
large wooden board attached to the front with a profile
of a paddle steamer—and in case the maritime message was
overlooked, the north side of the pub had a ship’s
figurehead of a topless blonde (in the best possible
taste, with strategically dangling curls) projecting from
the wall. With a little imagination when seated in the
terrace at the back overlooking River Road and the Arun
you could believe yourself afloat. This was a favourite
spot of Danny’s, nicely placed for seeing spectacular
sunsets or watching small boats chugging back from sea
trips. But at this moment, alone in the half-light at one
of the benches around 9:30 on a September evening, his
thoughts were not about sea trips or sunsets. He’d just
decided he’d wasted his money on Mr. Singh’s gizmos. How
ironic then that this was the moment when a silver BMW
drove up and came to a halt in the parking space across
the street. Danny almost knocked over his beer reaching for the
carrier bag. He tugged out the jammer and extended the
antennas. Its first use for real. He couldn’t have been
better placed, all but hidden by the chest-high terrace
wall. The car’s plates weren’t visible from this angle. He
couldn’t tell from the design of the thing which year it
had been manufactured, if it was too recent to respond to
the jammer. If the trick didn’t work, so what? It was
worth the try. The door opened and the driver got out, no more than a
youth, slim, in a dark blue hoodie and jeans. He pushed
the door shut. He didn’t immediately use the key. Danny’s right forefinger was poised over the switch. As
Mr. Singh had said, this was all about timing. You catch
exact moment. With a springy step and a bit of a swagger, the kid
started walking in the direction of the footbridge. No
one else was about. He hadn’t used the smart key yet. As
if in an afterthought, about three paces from the car, he
turned his head and glanced back. Danny’s view was masked. All he could see was the youth’s
back half-turned. It was impossible to tell for sure if
the key was in his hand, but reasonable to assume it was.
Drivers habitually took a few steps from their vehicle
and then turned, pointed the key and pressed. Now or never. Danny brought his finger down and
instinctively ducked out of sight behind the terrace
wall.
Nothing happened. He had to remind himself that the whole point of the
jammer was to get a negative result. When Danny put his head above the wall again, the kid was
halfway across the bridge, moving briskly. Danny stowed
the jammer in the carrier and hurried out, leaving almost
half a glass of real ale behind. On his way through the
lounge he raised his free hand in a farewell to the
barmaid and stepped out of the building and round the
side to where the BMW was parked. A thousand blessings on Mr. Singh. The pins were up. The car was unlocked, begging to be liberated. But not yet. He needed to use the second gizmo, the programmer, to
make his own key before he could drive his free gift
away. After checking to make certain no one was about, he
stepped round to the driver’s side and let himself in.
The interior was still warm and smelt faintly of body
odour. He left the door open. He dumped the carrier bag
on the passenger seat and lifted out the programmer. Now
it was a matter of locating the on-board diagnostic
system and plugging in the sixteen-pin connector. Should be simple. Danny had been given a demonstration by Mr. Singh, who
was as wiry as a strip of three-core flex. Danny was
overweight. Grovelling under the dashboard of a car
wasn’t easy. On his knees and breathing hard, he made
more room by pushing the seat back to its fullest extent.
Just above the pull switch for the bonnet he found the
cover with the letters OBD on it. He opened up, plugged
in, watched the programmer light up, used the controls to
collect the key code and then remembered he would need
something else. He reached for the carrier and scrabbled
inside for one of the blank fobs, found one and pressed
it against the programmer. All done in under three minutes. Relieved, he unplugged, extracted himself and stood up.
His hands were shaking and his knees were wobbly. He
looked towards the footbridge and saw no one. The next job would be more familiar: driving the thing
away to get the registration plates changed. A guy called
Stew was the local specialist, always relocating to
outwit the fuzz and currently on a trading estate in
Chichester, not more than twelve miles away. Danny got in, slotted in the key and yelped in triumph as
the dashboard lit up. The fuel tank was three-quarters
full. Bridge Road, the main road to Chichester, went past the
front of the Steam Packet. Danny drove off as sedately as
if he was taking his mother shopping. He didn’t want to
get pulled over for speeding. The good thing was that the
young owner was still unaware his car had been driven
away and with any luck he wouldn’t return for a couple of
hours. You couldn’t have much sympathy. He was probably
some rich kid whose father had bought the thing for him.
Dad would shout the odds and then buy him another. The Bimmer handled well and was a smooth ride. Danny
didn’t object to driving an automatic. Not much over two
years old, he reckoned. No need for a respray when there
were so many silver saloon cars out there. Once this had
the new plates, he’d dump the old Mercedes. Selling
wasn’t an option in the stolen car game. But it was all
very satisfactory, and for not much outlay so far. Stew
would be more expensive than Mr. Singh, but that had to
be faced. New plates were essential. Now that he was clear of the crime scene, so to speak,
Danny needed to check with Stew that he was willing to
take delivery. The guy had never been known to turn down
a job, but he liked to be contacted first. Only
reasonable. Generally he was in his workshop until around
midnight. Out in open country, after the A259 had changed its
identity from Bridge Lane to Crookthorn Lane to Grevatt’s
Lane, he found a field entrance with enough room to pull
off the road and make the call on a cheap mobile he’d
bought specially for this job. “You working?” Stew answered and he knew Danny’s voice right away. “Yep.
Got something to show me?” “If you got time.” “When were you thinking of?” “Now if you want. Say twenty minutes.” “See you, then.” Having made the call, Danny wedged the phone under the
back wheel of the car so that it would be crushed when he
drove off. Technology is a two-edged sword to anyone in a
high risk occupation. He was tempted to do the same with
the gizmos, but they’d been an expensive buy. Before leaving, he thought he would also clear the glove
compartment of the manual and any documents. It’s common
sense to remove everything that can reveal the owner’s
identity. The seats and door panels were free of obvious
clutter, which was a help. For a young owner, it was all
incredibly tidy. He leaned across and clicked the latch.
The flap pushed against his hand. An avalanche of banknotes tumbled out. Masses of them,
mainly twenties. The thump, thump wasn’t the money hitting the floor; it
was Danny’s heart. Either the young guy who drove this
car didn’t believe in using banks or he robbed them.
There must have been more than a couple of grand here. Alternately swearing and thanking God, Danny scooped up
handfuls and stuffed as many as possible into his
pockets. The rest went down his socks. How glad he was
that Stew hadn’t found this lot. What a turnaround in his luck. If it wasn’t so late in
the day he would have bought a lottery ticket. Fully ten minutes passed before he calmed down enough to
drive again. Even then he was mentally spending the
money. Good thing the route was obvious. He was through Felpham and Bognor and onto the Chichester Road without
registering that he’d passed anywhere. Concentrate, he told himself. The job isn’t done yet. The last stretch of the A259 was a dual carriageway
leading to the A27. Two roundabouts and he would be at
Stew’s. He could safely go up to seventy here and test
the acceleration. Watch the speedo, but feel the power. Faintly over the engine sound he heard the twin notes of
a police siren. Can’t be me, he thought. I’m inside the limit. In the mirror he saw the blue flashing light. Do what any
law-abiding motorist does, he told himself. Pull over and
let them pass. He eased his foot off the pedal. Hardly anything else was
on the road and they could easily get by, but he did the
decent thing. Instead of overtaking, they closed in behind him and
flashed their headlights. What now? He pulled over, braked, lowered the window and switched
off. Bluff this out, he thought. They can’t possibly know this
quickly that the car is stolen. It’s got to be some minor
infringement like a faulty rear lamp. He grabbed the bag of gizmos and pushed it out of sight
under the passenger seat. They were taking their time, probably checking over their
radio that the car wasn’t on their list. 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.”
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