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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Closer Still
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Brodie began with the only person she knew who'd known Joe Loomis personally. Faith Stretton had been his lover a couple of decades ago and was in contact with Loomis again shortly before his death. If the police were concentrating on the drugs angle, perhaps Faith could cast some light on the man's private life.
She didn't phone ahead to make an appointment. She found it paid not to. Sometimes it meant a wasted journey, but people found it harder to send you away from their door than to put you off on the phone. Since Faith worked at home, there was a good chance of catching her in.
She was in, but she was busy. Through the open kitchen door Brodie could hear a washing machine at work. ‘I won't keep you long,' she promised. ‘I can see you're up to your eyes.'
‘That's OK,' said Faith, running a distracted hand through her copper hair. ‘My daughter's visiting friends for a couple of weeks – and
now
it turns out she's down to her last clean knickers! What is it with teenage girls, that they can't think one minute ahead of where they are right now?'
Brodie chuckled sympathetically. ‘Be grateful. My
daughter's seven. She doesn't care if her knickers are clean or not as long as her jodhpurs are.'
Faith passed on a universal truth. ‘The longer they stay interested in ponies, the less time they have for boys.'
Brodie winced. ‘They seem to grow up faster every year, don't they? It scares the life out of me – girls barely into their teens dolled up like scrubbers. We were still children at their age. Weren't we? Or am I forgetting?'
Faith shrugged. ‘The world moves on. When I was Evie's age I was wearing bells and saving the planet.'
‘Seems to have worked,' murmured Brodie, and Faith laughed. ‘I'm afraid I never did good causes. In my teens I wanted to be a Success In Life. Good degree, good job, good marriage, pretty children.'
‘I'm guessing that worked too,' said Faith.
‘Well, yes,' said Brodie, ‘and no. Fairly good degree, decent job, married the boss, lovely kid. Then I got dumped in favour of a fat librarian and had to start again. This time I chucked the book away and asked myself what I really wanted.'
‘What was the answer?'
‘To write my own rule book. I never wanted to be dependent on anyone again. And yes thanks, it's working fine.'
Faith nodded. They really did have a lot in common. ‘So what can I do for you?'
‘I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, because he was certainly trash and he didn't deserve much from society, but I'm worried Joe Loomis is getting a raw deal. No one cares that he's dead. Well, I don't care much either, or
I won't once I've paid for the new carpet, but I kind of care that he was murdered. Even Joe didn't deserve that. And no one's trying to find out why. So far as I can make out, the police investigation consists of going into crowded places and asking people to put their hands up if they killed him.'
The older woman was watching her carefully. ‘How do you think I can help?'
‘You could put your hand up if you killed him,' said Brodie hopefully.
Faith gave a gusty little laugh. ‘I didn't.'
‘Oh well, back to the drawing board. I suppose I'm looking for some insight into who he was. I know
what
he was, I know what he did, and the likelihood is that's why he's dead. But he must have had a personal life like everyone else. Most murders are domestic affairs – the killer and the victim are family or close associates. I wondered if, since you'd known him on and off for twenty years, you knew anything about his private life.'
Faith Stretton was still looking wary. ‘I'm sorry, have I missed something here? Why is this your concern?'
Brodie was untroubled. In her line of work it didn't pay to be sensitive. ‘It isn't. Except that finding things is what I do, and it goes against the grain to give up when the search gets difficult. Look, I didn't like Joe Loomis any more than you did. He threatened me and my baby. Oh, he didn't produce a gun or anything, but I was meant to feel threatened and I did. So actually I'm not sorry the guy's dead.
‘But he came to me. About the last decision he made
was to stagger to my door and ask for my help. And I feel under an obligation because of it. Because of who he was, the police aren't exerting themselves to find his killer. But everyone, even Joe, deserves for someone to care how and why they died. If I'm the best he could do it doesn't say much for his value as a human being – I disliked and despised him. Even so, maybe I should try to understand what happened.'
Faith shrugged. ‘It's more than he'd do for you.'
Brodie smiled. ‘Of course it is. But I like to think I'm a better person than Joe Loomis.'
Faith was unconvinced but she offered no more arguments. ‘What do you want to know? Bearing in mind that I've hardly seen him since I was Dev's age.'
‘Was he ever married?'
‘Not that I know of. But I haven't been following his career through the social columns.'
‘Any children?'
‘No,' said Faith.
Brodie cocked an eyebrow. ‘You seem pretty sure of that.'
‘Did he strike
you
as fit to be swimming in the gene pool?'
‘Put it like that,' chuckled Brodie, ‘then no. Still, all sorts of unpromising men become fathers. But there were no children that you knew of. What about friends?'
Faith laughed out loud. ‘Joe didn't
have
friends. I wasn't a friend: I was a stupid girl who, one mad summer, saw something glamorous in a dangerous man. Finally even I saw him for what he was and got out.
Joe
was the only friend Joe had.'
Brodie had brought out her notebook. She put it away unused. ‘You're saying that Jack's probably right – it was a business deal that went wrong.'
‘It had to be,' shrugged Faith. ‘He didn't have personal relationships. Ask around, maybe you'll find someone who knew him better than me. But I think the only people Joe knew, the only people who'd have cared enough about him to want him dead, were those he did business with. Drug traffickers, and people wanting to score.'
‘I believe he also ran a stable of prostitutes,' said Brodie.
Faith Stretton's expression shut up tight. ‘Really.'
‘You weren't aware of that?'
‘He never told me. But I can't say I'm surprised.'
‘Maybe that was the motive. A desperate girl, an angry father, a jealous boyfriend. A punter who went home with more than he paid for.'
‘Who knows?' Faith was rigid with distaste. ‘You know, nothing you're saying suggests he was worth the time you're giving to this. Not when there are lost dogs that need finding and broken teasets that need matching.'
‘I know. But still … Murder is a crime in any civilised society,' said Brodie. ‘Not even because of the victim but because of the killer. There's someone wandering round out there who solves his problems with a knife. I don't want to be the next one who annoys him. I don't want anyone I care about bumping into him next time he's in a bad mood.'
‘You're right, of course,' agreed Faith, chastened. ‘What about the weapon? Was that any help? Were there any fingerprints?'
Brodie shook her head. ‘They found Joe's prints on it – it was his knife – and they found mine. That was stupid, I shouldn't have touched it but I did, while I was trying to help him. And that meant any other fingerprints on it were spoilt.'
‘Not the one with the pearl handle? He had that when I knew him,' remembered Faith. ‘He was always playing with the damn thing. He seemed to think it was sexy.'
‘Tell me again,' said Brodie, ‘
what
did you see in this man?'
Faith gave a grim little chuckle. ‘Beats the hell out of me.'
 
There was no warning. The man Daoud returned to Dimmock not by bus or train or even driving a car, but hitch-hiking with a long-distance lorry-driver. The first anyone knew was at two o'clock the next morning when DS Voss, watching from the front bedroom window, saw a figure walk down Romney Road and stop at Balfour Terrace, looking for the house he wanted.
Detective Inspector Salmon was sleeping in his clothes a metre away. Voss slapped his foot with one hand and pulled out his phone with the other. ‘We're on.'
Daoud didn't knock: he must have had a key because they heard the front door opening. Salmon drew his weapon and crept, silent in his socks, to the bedroom door, listening for footsteps on the stairs. But the new arrival had gone into the kitchen – they heard a tap running, then the click of the electric kettle. The man had been on the road for hours: he wanted a cup of tea.
This wasn't how they'd planned it. They'd expected to have a bit of warning and a lot of back-up, a net closing behind the suspect as he approached. But they outnumbered him two to one, Salmon was armed, and they had the advantage of surprise. Still they waited. If this was going to get messy, the closer Armed Response were when the action started the better. Or perhaps when Daoud had made his cup of tea and sat down in one of the threadbare armchairs, and kicked off his shoes and started to doze, they might take him without a fight.
The time of night was to their advantage. If he'd come by day he might have wondered at the silence of the house and gone from room to room checking out the situation. But at two in the morning he assumed the Dhazi cousins were asleep and – even terrorists like to be considerate – tried not to disturb them.
But thirst is not the only physiological consequence of a long journey. Before the kettle had boiled Daoud was on his way upstairs, heading for the bathroom.
They might still have waited to see what happened. But there were more possibilities now. In a few seconds the suspect could be behind a locked door. Or he might stick his head into the bedrooms to check on the cousins. As the senior officer present Salmon had to call the play, but he hadn't much time to think about it. Right now he and Voss still held the initiative: ten seconds from now they might have lost it. ‘We take him,' he breathed.
They positioned themselves so that Voss could yank open the bedroom door and leave Salmon just air between his weapon and Daoud's left ear. They waited for the sound
of a hand on the bathroom door.
But a man who lives as Daoud lived has keen senses. If he doesn't have them at the start, he develops them or he dies. Natural Selection in action. They never knew what alerted him. He may have heard their breathing or smelt their aftershave. But something told him there was a problem, and even told him which door it was lurking behind. In the very act of reaching for the bathroom door he froze.
Then he pivoted on the ball of his left foot and exploded through the bedroom door while the men inside were still waiting their moment.
The leaping door hit Voss in the side of the head and knocked him halfway across the room, spilling him in a dizzy heap beside the bed. For a split second Dave Salmon's vision, ranged down the barrel of his gun, was entirely filled by the face – white in the moonlight and dark with fury – of the man bearing down on him. There was time to fire and he should have taken the shot. But one difference between police officers and terrorists is that the former consider killing someone the last resort, and he hesitated.
So the shot that boomed in the confines of the little room, that brought bedroom lights on in houses all along the street, wasn't his.
Deacon worked through to one in the morning before finally going home. He'd been asleep an hour when the phone startled him awake. This happened regularly enough that his fingers could take the call while his brain was still struggling with the whole concept of consciousness. ‘What?'
It was Sergeant McKinney, calling from Battle Alley. ‘Are you awake, Jack?'
‘What?'
McKinney had known him for ten years. Long enough to call him by his given name; long enough to know he could do a good impression of a senior investigating officer while still technically sleepwalking. ‘You need to be firing on all cylinders for this one. Tell me you're awake.'
‘I'm awake, damn it,' growled Deacon. ‘What's happened?'
‘The shit's hit the fan at Romney Road. There was a fire-fight. The ambulance is there now, so's the Area Car and an Armed Response Unit. The story I'm getting is one dead, one critical, one hurt.'
Deacon's heart turned over and sank like a stone.
It took an effort to get the word through his teeth. ‘Who?'
But McKinney couldn't tell him. ‘All I have is numbers. I'll get back to you when I have names to go with them. Or you could …' He stopped talking when he realised no one was listening. Deacon had thrown the phone down on his bed while he fought his way back into his clothes.
 
Detective Inspector David Salmon had stared death in the face many times. And worse than death: his job had taken him into the company of men who used torture as a male bonding exercise and made videos of it as a kind of party bag to take home afterwards. His prime concern had never been whether he'd be killed if his cover was broken, because he knew he would. But some of these people were experts, and could make it last for hours.
In spite of which, he doubted he'd ever been closer to death than he was right now, staring down a gun barrel so still it might have been mounted on a tripod. Three, maybe four seconds ago the biggest problem on the man Daoud's immediate horizon was finding his way to the bathroom without waking his hosts. Now he was about to kill someone, and he'd made that massive mental leap without any sign of confusion. The face above the gun was as immobile as the gun itself: intelligent, focused. The eyes, one narrow, one wide, were asking
Now what?
– but Salmon had no sense that he was waiting for the answer. The only question that mattered right now was which of them was going down. Because one of them
was. And Salmon's gun was halfway across the room, still spinning on the board floor, while Daoud's was in his hand.
Then Daoud blinked. ‘I know you.'
For a second Salmon couldn't think if he was in more trouble or less. But actually that was a no-brainer: he couldn't
be
in any more trouble. So he nodded. Very slightly; very carefully. He spoke in Arabic. ‘I know you too. Your name is Daoud. I'm Suleiman – we worked together in Leeds.' He rolled his eyes. ‘And today we nearly killed one another. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why do we need enemies when we're perfectly capable of destroying ourselves?'
The other man didn't lower his gun by a millimetre. But nor did he pull the trigger. He spared an instant's glance for Voss, sprawling dazed beside the bed. ‘Who's he?'
‘He's Irish,' said Salmon, inventing rapidly. ‘The bomb-maker.'
Now Daoud's eyebrows rocketed. ‘We need a foreign bomb-maker? We haven't bomb-makers of our own?'
‘Theirs go off when they're supposed to,' said Salmon tartly. ‘Look, will you get that gun off me? You know who I am. I'm sorry if I surprised you, but we weren't expecting you. I thought we were being raided.'
‘I wasn't expecting you,' admitted Daoud. Finally he lowered the gun. Only a little, it stayed in his hand, but at least Salmon wasn't staring down the barrel any more. It made it easier to think. ‘Or your Irish bomb-maker.' He stared at Voss as if his ginger hair was a personal affront.
‘Let me tell him what's going on,' said Salmon. ‘He doesn't speak Arabic. He probably still thinks we've got a problem here.'
After a moment Daoud nodded. ‘We don't want anyone thinking we've got a problem.'
Voss mightn't speak Arabic but Daoud spoke good English. Salmon had to get this right. ‘A misunderstanding,' he said, and hoped Voss was less groggy than he looked and capable of following not only what he was saying but also what he wasn't. ‘This is my friend Daoud. We worked together in the past. I told him we thought he was the police.'
Voss laughed dutifully.
‘He thought the same thing. I explained you're from Belfast, here to show us how to make a better bomb.'
‘So tell me,' said Daoud quietly, in English, ‘what is it you know about explosives that we don't?'
Voss sat up, leaning his back against the bed. ‘I know Semtex is a damn sight more reliable than HMTD.' He wasn't sure about the accent. But Daoud was a Saudi – he might recognise an Irish accent when he heard one but probably wouldn't know the difference between a Belfast accent, a Dublin one and the kind of stage Irish brogue in which drunken Englishmen sing ‘Danny Boy'.
‘But also harder to get hold of. And reliability is less of an issue when your operatives are willing to martyr themselves,' said Daoud.
‘You mean, the dumb shits don't mind fragging themselves and leaving the target standing?'
For a second Salmon thought he'd killed them both. But he'd got the tone exactly right. The weary combativeness,
the disrespect of the veteran terrorist for the upstart: exactly these things may be heard in the voices of IRA men who've outlived their war.
Daoud nodded slowly. ‘What will you do about that?'
‘The trigger mechanism,' said Voss immediately. ‘I mean yeah, pulling a string is nice and simple, you wouldn't think much could go wrong. But you know, I think we can improve on it.'
Suddenly Daoud smiled. ‘You know, I think you're right.' The gun in his hand seemed less like a weapon now and more like a piece of personal jewellery. Finally he took time to look around. ‘Where are the Dhazi boys? Hiding under the bed?'
Salmon grinned. ‘I didn't trust them to keep their nerve. I sent them away.'
‘Permanently?'
Salmon's brows gathered in a frown of mild disapproval. ‘To relatives in London.'
Daoud looked surprised. ‘You trust them to keep quiet in London?'
‘Will you guys talk English?' demanded Voss in his all-purpose Irish accent.
Salmon ignored him. ‘I don't think they'll talk to anyone. I think they'll talk to one another by slipping notes under the door.'
Daoud laughed aloud. ‘OK.' He cocked an eyebrow at Voss. ‘That English enough for you – OK? Someone should bring me up to date. Things have moved on while I was in Birmingham.'
Salmon immediately looked wary. It required no acting at all. Then – forgive me – perhaps it's not me who should be
bringing you up to date. Are you actually supposed to be here?'
‘I don't know,' admitted Daoud. ‘The Dhazis knew I was coming back. But the Dhazis aren't here now, and you are.' He considered. ‘Are you supposed to be here?'
Even to himself, Salmon's chuckle sounded less than convincing. ‘We're where we were sent. We were given a job to do and told to do it here. Maybe we were told wrong.'
‘
English
,' insisted Voss. ‘Talk frigging
English
!'
‘We're upsetting your ethnic friend,' said Daoud in Arabic. Then to Voss: ‘My apologies. Very well. How far have you got? You have the Semtex here?'
Voss hesitated. If he said yes the very next question would bring the whole subterfuge to a bloody end. But if he said no the Arab was entitled to wonder why not. He turned indignantly to his senior officer. ‘I want to know exactly who this guy is before I tell him anything. You said we'd be alone here. Jesus, have you people no idea what's meant by the word
security
?'
Salmon gave an awkward little shrug. ‘He has a point. Maybe we should call someone …?'
‘That's probably best,' agreed Daoud. ‘Call your contact. Listen.' He jerked his head towards the bathroom. ‘I'm bursting. I'll be right back.' He closed the bedroom door behind him.
Salmon vented a long, silent breath to carry away some of the tension. But he held up a hand to warn Voss that they weren't safe yet. ‘Call the boss,' he said aloud. ‘Tell him what's happened.'
And because he was talking to Voss, who was still on the floor beside the bed, he had his back half-turned when
the door opened again unexpectedly. The first thing that came in wasn't Daoud. It wasn't even Daoud's gun. It was a bullet. So was the second thing.
 
Deacon arrived, wheels spitting grit, as the paramedic slammed the back door of the ambulance. Deacon's hand closed over his on the handle, inflicting instant paralysis. ‘Who?'
But there hadn't been time to get names. ‘Foreignlooking guy. Listen, we've got to go, right now. This is a straight-to-theatre job.'
Deacon stood back. ‘Go.' The weight of shock kept him standing there a moment longer. He'd thought they'd done everything necessary to control the situation. But a fanatic with a gun had slipped through the cordon, and he'd lost one of them because of it. Dave Salmon, who'd survived deep cover with Anglophobe extremists only to go down protecting a dowdy little south coast town nobody'd ever heard of; or Charlie Voss, who'd had it all ahead of him, who'd have made an outstanding police officer and now wouldn't get the chance.
Deacon wasn't a man who prayed. What had happened had already happened and it was asking a lot even of omnipotence to turn the clock back. But he hoped briefly, guiltily, that it was Salmon who was dead and Voss who was alive. Then he went into the house.
Everyone was upstairs. They melted out of his way like magic. On the landing someone had, in defiance of best practice, perhaps as a mark of respect, spread a sheet over the body. Inside the bedroom another paramedic was bent
over the third man, dispensing bandages and good advice. ‘Sit there. Don't move. You're in shock – if you try to get up you'll fall over.'
Deacon tried to see past his shoulders and couldn't. So he fisted one hand in the man's collar and pulled him back like restraining an Airedale.
‘Hi, boss,' said Charlie Voss weakly.

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