Way?’
‘Dartmoor.’
‘You take them yourself?’
‘If only.’ He handed Dawn the glass of water. ‘I go down there a lot. There’s a gallery in Bovey. A local guy’s produced a whole book of them.’ He waved them towards a low, chrome-framed sofa and hooked a canvas-backed director’s chair towards him with his foot. ‘How can I help you?’
Dawn was looking at a framed poster on the other wall, a swirl of greens and misty yellows with sails poking through, EXPOSITION DES BEAUX ARTS , it read, MUSÉE D’ORSAY .
‘What were you doing last Friday night?’ she enquired.
Addison took the question in his stride.
‘Working,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Here’ – he nodded towards the back of the room – ‘editing video tape.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Dawn ignored the question. Stapleton was consulting his notebook.
‘Two other dates,’ he began, ‘February nineteenth and April twelfth. Do you keep a diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to check it?’
‘Listen …’ Addison had a tiny frown on his face. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if you just explained what this is about?’
Stapleton offered a helpful smile, then described the series of incidents featuring a man in a Donald Duck mask. The ongoing investigation had thrown up his name and they were simply keen to eliminate him from their inquiries.
‘Thrown up how?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘But someone told you it was me? Is that what you’re saying?’
Disbelief was giving way to derision. Crazy people. Crazy thought. Dawn suggested that the diary might help them clear all this up. Then they’d be out of his hair.
‘OK, why not?’ Addison shrugged and left the room. He was back within seconds, unfolding a Psion organiser. ‘Those dates again?’
Stapleton gave him the dates. On 19 February he’d been in London most of the day on a conference; 12 April was a blank.
‘So what does that tell us?’
‘The nineteenth I can remember coming back here. I’d have been at home.’
‘Could anyone corroborate that?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘No social life?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What about April?’
‘The same. I’d be teaching during the day. Back here for the evening.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Probably not. Most nights I’m either editing or marking. Stuff I prefer to do alone.’
‘So we’ve only got your word for it? All three dates? Is that what you’re saying?’
Addison was beginning to tire of these questions. Dawn could sense it.
‘There’s a problem with one of your students,’ she began.
‘Who?’
‘Shelley Beavis.’
‘What about her?’
Dawn outlined the father’s complaint. Addison held her gaze, unblinking.
‘
Raped
her?’
‘That’s what he’s saying. Or at least that’s what he thinks it amounts to.’
‘And what does she say?’
‘She’s a bit confused.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that she wouldn’t tell us.’
‘Wouldn’t tell you whether I’d raped her or not?’ He began to laugh. ‘Are you guys serious?’
Dawn glanced at Stapleton. He had a pen out now and he was making notes.
‘Shelley mentioned dressing up,’ he said. ‘Costumes and masks and stuff. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Addison nodded. ‘She’s doing a drama module. She wants to be an actress. Did she tell you that too?’
Stapleton ignored the question.
‘Do these sessions happen here?’ His gesture took in the whole house.
‘Yes. Though “sessions” would be the wrong word. Some parts of the curriculum you can only reach through interactive role-play. It’s highly structured, believe me.’
‘And she’s alone when this happens?’
‘Yes. And she’s alone because she’s very good. In fact, she’s outstanding. In this city, talent like hers deserves a little attention. Most of the students I teach have difficulty getting up in the morning. Shelley’s in a class of her own.’
Stapleton was bent over his pad again,
‘Dartmoor.’
‘You take them yourself?’
‘If only.’ He handed Dawn the glass of water. ‘I go down there a lot. There’s a gallery in Bovey. A local guy’s produced a whole book of them.’ He waved them towards a low, chrome-framed sofa and hooked a canvas-backed director’s chair towards him with his foot. ‘How can I help you?’
Dawn was looking at a framed poster on the other wall, a swirl of greens and misty yellows with sails poking through, EXPOSITION DES BEAUX ARTS , it read, MUSÉE D’ORSAY .
‘What were you doing last Friday night?’ she enquired.
Addison took the question in his stride.
‘Working,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Here’ – he nodded towards the back of the room – ‘editing video tape.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Dawn ignored the question. Stapleton was consulting his notebook.
‘Two other dates,’ he began, ‘February nineteenth and April twelfth. Do you keep a diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to check it?’
‘Listen …’ Addison had a tiny frown on his face. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if you just explained what this is about?’
Stapleton offered a helpful smile, then described the series of incidents featuring a man in a Donald Duck mask. The ongoing investigation had thrown up his name and they were simply keen to eliminate him from their inquiries.
‘Thrown up how?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘But someone told you it was me? Is that what you’re saying?’
Disbelief was giving way to derision. Crazy people. Crazy thought. Dawn suggested that the diary might help them clear all this up. Then they’d be out of his hair.
‘OK, why not?’ Addison shrugged and left the room. He was back within seconds, unfolding a Psion organiser. ‘Those dates again?’
Stapleton gave him the dates. On 19 February he’d been in London most of the day on a conference; 12 April was a blank.
‘So what does that tell us?’
‘The nineteenth I can remember coming back here. I’d have been at home.’
‘Could anyone corroborate that?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘No social life?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What about April?’
‘The same. I’d be teaching during the day. Back here for the evening.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Probably not. Most nights I’m either editing or marking. Stuff I prefer to do alone.’
‘So we’ve only got your word for it? All three dates? Is that what you’re saying?’
Addison was beginning to tire of these questions. Dawn could sense it.
‘There’s a problem with one of your students,’ she began.
‘Who?’
‘Shelley Beavis.’
‘What about her?’
Dawn outlined the father’s complaint. Addison held her gaze, unblinking.
‘
Raped
her?’
‘That’s what he’s saying. Or at least that’s what he thinks it amounts to.’
‘And what does she say?’
‘She’s a bit confused.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that she wouldn’t tell us.’
‘Wouldn’t tell you whether I’d raped her or not?’ He began to laugh. ‘Are you guys serious?’
Dawn glanced at Stapleton. He had a pen out now and he was making notes.
‘Shelley mentioned dressing up,’ he said. ‘Costumes and masks and stuff. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Addison nodded. ‘She’s doing a drama module. She wants to be an actress. Did she tell you that too?’
Stapleton ignored the question.
‘Do these sessions happen here?’ His gesture took in the whole house.
‘Yes. Though “sessions” would be the wrong word. Some parts of the curriculum you can only reach through interactive role-play. It’s highly structured, believe me.’
‘And she’s alone when this happens?’
‘Yes. And she’s alone because she’s very good. In fact, she’s outstanding. In this city, talent like hers deserves a little attention. Most of the students I teach have difficulty getting up in the morning. Shelley’s in a class of her own.’
Stapleton was bent over his pad again,
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