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Authors: Jo Bannister

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BOOK: Echoes of Lies
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The Wedgwood blue front door boasted both a bell and a knocker. Brodie availed herself of both and waited. No one came. She tried again with the same result.
She looked around. No close neighbours: a farm cottage where this lane left the Quintin road was nearest, she could ask there as they left. First, though, she'd have a nosy round.
A timber gate, painted to match the front door, led down the side of the house to an orchard full of apple-trees. An A-frame ladder leaned against a white-washed outhouse. Climbers that should have been pruned back in the autumn had the rustic pergola in a strangle-hold.
Shading her eyes against reflections, Brodie peered in at the back windows. Though it was fully furnished there were no signs of life.
Continuing round the house Brodie came to the back porch. Her heart missed a beat when she tried the handle and the door swung open, but the kitchen door was locked. The boots in the porch could have been there for years.
Which was, after all, what she was expecting to find: the house quiet, the occupant gone. Brodie nodded knowingly to herself. She'd talk to the neighbours, then she'd go to Etables and see the
parents. She might get a lead on Marie's whereabouts and she might not, but unless they could prove she was in hospital having her appendix out Brodie would believe she'd got to the bottom of this. She might not have resolved it but at least she could set David's mind at rest. Now he'd need more experts to find Marie, and different ones to get Sophie back.
She turned on the back step to find someone watching her from the pergola. She thought at first it was a boy but it was a girl, in denims and boots and a corduroy coat, her brown hair in a gamine crop. She eyed Brodie warily but raised no challenge to her trespass, waiting for an explanation.
Resorting to schoolgirl French, Brodie stumbled, “Pardon, mademoiselle. Je cherche la maison de Madame Soubriet. Est-ce que je suis perdu?” She was quite pleased with that. It may not have been fluent but she was making herself clear. There was no call for the girl to respond as she did.
“I speak English,” she said.
Brodie sniffed, mildly offended. “I said, I'm looking for Marie Soubriet.”
“I know you did. But English people are better at speaking French than at understanding it.”
It was quite true: the first French phrases Brodie ever used outside the classroom were “Lentement, s'il vous plait” and “Voulez-vous répéter cela?” She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Your English is certainly better than my French.”
“You are looking for Marie?”
“Is she here?”
The girl gave that stereotypical Gallic shrug that can mean anything from “Perhaps” to “Mind your own business”, and ruder things than that. “Have you looked?”
“I just arrived. There was no answer at the door.”
“And in England, when there is no answer at the door, you wander round the back garden?”
Stung, Brodie scowled at her. “I've come a long way. I didn't want to miss her just because she was out back feeding the chickens.”
The girl - or woman, rather, Brodie saw now she was in her
mid-twenties - considered her speculatively for a moment longer. Then she stepped into the porch and, kicking her boots off, reached under a flowerpot for the key. “Pig,” she said calmly.
Brodie blinked. “I don't think that's called for!”
“I was feeding the pig. I am Marie Soubriet. Come inside.”
Brodie's mind whirled. She'd found the woman she'd come looking for. But - didn't that mean Marie wasn't the one she was looking for after all? Now she had to decide how much to tell her. And should she attempt to search the house? She could not discount the possibility that Sophie was here. Perhaps Marie had disdained to flee, had brought her daughter home trusting in her countrymen's support and the old enmity as defence enough against the claims of perfidious Albion.
Then, other people were involved: if she talked too freely she could find a shotgun in the small of her back. Or if she was wrong about Marie the woman would scream for the law the moment she heard the word “abducted”. For the first time Brodie understood the dilemma the Ibbotsens had wrestled with these last twelve days. There were more ways to get this wrong than right.
But she had to start somewhere. If she left now she could tell David nothing. He would believe that finding Marie at home must mean she wasn't involved. And that might be the case, but Brodie wanted to be sure. At least she wanted to talk to the woman long enough to get a feeling for who she was, what she might be capable of.
She introduced herself, gave an abridged version of what she did for a living. Marie curled herself cat-like into an armchair. “Who asked you to find me?”
“Your ex-husband.”
That didn't come as a surprise. She arched and then lowered one eyebrow. “David knows where I live. He doesn't need a private detective.”
“I'm not a private detective. After I find things, sometimes people want me to negotiate for them.”
The expression, contained before, now froze on Marie Soubriet's face, becoming utterly unreadable. “And what could I possibly have left that David might want?”
Brodie chose her words carefully. “He wants to talk about your daughter.”
“Ma
fille?” Anger jerked her back into her native tongue. Her eyes spat fire. “When did the Ibbotsens start thinking of Sophie as
my
daughter? Since the day of her birth Sophie was David's daughter, and more than that Lance's grandchild - a new generation to add to the Ibbotsen line. He didn't want her baptised, he wanted to break a bottle of champagne over her head.”
Brodie chuckled, without much humour. “I haven't known them long but they are a bit overwhelming, aren't they?”
“Overwhelming.” Marie tried the word and found it wanting. “Bastards. It is a house of bastards. My child is being raised by bastards.”
“They do love her, you know,” said Brodie, not so much for David's sake as to reassure the woman before her. She hadn't seen her child for three years and thought she was in the hands of bastards. Of course, that was true. “Both of them - David and his father - think the world of her.”
Marie shook her head. “They value her, as a possession. You don't deprive a child you love of her mother.”
Brodie knew she was walking into a minefield. “They say you could visit Sophie. That that's what the court decided.”
“Court!” She controlled, just barely, the urge to spit. “They had money, I had a drink problem. The court did its duty.”
Actually, Brodie thought it probably had. “Why haven't you been to see her? You wouldn't have to go alone, you could take your mother or a friend. You wouldn't have to spend any time with the Ibbotsens. As long as Sophie doesn't leave the house, you're entitled to some privacy with her.”
Marie Soubriet considered. What it was she was considering, Brodie wasn't sure. “David described me to you, yes?”
“Not well enough for me to recognise you.”
Marie smiled tightly. “Oh yes, David described me to you.”
If Brodie lied Marie would not admire her discretion but judge her the Ibbotsens' mouthpiece. “He described you as volatile.”
“Hysterical.”
“That too.”
“It's not a kind thing to say,” said Marie, “but it's not wildly inaccurate. You know the French - we cry a lot, we wave our hands in the air. Well, even the French think I'm emotional. I get upset. I don't want to be in tears every time my daughter sees me. We write, I send photographs, she sends me drawings. Maybe I should start visiting. The divorce was difficult but I'm stronger now: maybe soon I'll be able to visit my daughter without upsetting her and making a fool of myself.”
Brodie nodded encouragement, but her heart was leaden. It would be wilful to go on believing this woman had kidnapped Sophie, for ransom or any other purpose. Everything she said, every eloquent gesture of hand and body, argued against. She didn't know the child was missing.
Which left Brodie in a quandry. If Marie heard what had happened she would panic and the carefully preserved secret would be out. Later she might regret that; particularly if it transpired that Ibbotsen had been right all along about how the matter should be handled; but by then it would be too late.
When the world's press learned that a millionaire's granddaughter had been kidnapped, it wasn't going to agonise over the ethics of the situation like the man at
The Sentinel.
It was going to pick up the story and run. The people who had Sophie were already restless: that could be the final straw. Brodie had been wrong about the hair and David had been right - it was a last humane warning. Marie Soubriet didn't need to live out her life knowing that her panic attack had led to her daughter's murder.
Marie said, “Is that what they wanted to discuss? Me visiting Sophie?” Her face was puzzled. “I thought they never wanted to see me again.”
Brodie took a deep breath. “Marie - there's been an incident. I believe Sophie is safe and well, but there's a possibility that she's in some danger. Try not to be too upset and I'll tell you everything I know.”
Marie heard her out almost in silence, with just a little whimper of animal fear. When Brodie first said the word “kidnap” she clamped
both hands tight over her mouth and went on listening while her eyes grew enormous with terror. When the tale was told and Marie lowered her hands, there was blood where she'd bitten her lip.
“Your head must be buzzing with questions,” Brodie said quietly. “I'll answer all I can.”
The only answers Marie really wanted were the ones she knew Brodie didn't have. Where is my daughter? - is she safe? - when will she be home? She managed to suppress them long enough to think. “The police have not been informed?”
“The kidnappers insisted. Mr Ibbotsen thought it best to go along.”
“But he hasn't paid them yet?”
“The money's ready. He's been afraid to hand it over in case they took it and never returned Sophie.”
“So - what is he doing?”
She couldn't say, He's waiting to hear if I was right and you staged the kidnap. “Waiting to hear from the kidnappers again. They have to arrange a hand-over. As soon as there's some news I'll call you. I just need to be sure that you understand something. Sophie's your daughter: you have the right to involve your police. But that could jeopardise the negotiations in England. If you can bear to, nothing is the best you can do for Sophie right now.”
Marie Soubriet was coping better than Brodie had expected. Three tough years had taught her more than how to do without alcohol. They had matured her, given her a resilience that was absent when David knew her. Brodie found herself wondering whether, if he met her now, he would fall in love with her again.
“Lance is handling the negotiations?”
Brodie nodded. “It's his money and the kidnappers know it. No agreement they reached with David would be worth half a million pounds.”
“That's right.” Marie was nodding too, mechanically. “If he says he'll pay, he'll pay. He may be a monster, but he is at least an honest monster.”
“So you'll wait?” prompted Brodie. “If the police step in at this point, I don't know what the consequences might be.”
“I understand.” Marie wiped the blood off her mouth onto the back of her hand. “I understand.”
Brodie stood up. “When this is over and Sophie's safe, you have to get the question of custody looked at again. I don't believe any court in England would deny you the right to bring your daughter home now.”
Marie's eyes widened again. “You work for them! You shouldn't be saying this.”
“I don't work for them,” Brodie retorted tetchily, “I'm trying to help Sophie. And I think she'd be better with you than with the Ibbotsens. This wouldn't have happened if she'd lived with you.”
Marie walked her back to the waiting car. “You'll call me as soon as there's some news? Good or bad?”
“I promise.”
Lance Ibbotsen met her plane - well, his plane - and brought Brodie up to date. It didn't take long: no word had been received from the kidnappers in the five hours she'd been away. Then he wanted to know how she'd fared. “Were you right? Don't tell me David was?”
Brodie shook her head, defeated. “I felt so
sure
… But no, Marie isn't part of this. I'd stake my reputation on it.”
Ibbotsen stared at her as if he couldn't credit what he was hearing. “You mean - everything you told me - you were
wrong
? Sophie isn't with her mother - isn't with anyone who loves her and cares what happens to her? We've wasted another day because what you told me was wrong?”
Brodie was troubled too, or she'd have pointed out he was in no position to lambast her mistakes. “I don't understand. It makes no sense any other way.” She heard then the echo of what he'd said and her pointed chin came up ready for battle. “But don't blame me for wasting time. If the kidnappers haven't contacted you since I left there's nothing you could have done whether I'd gone to France or not.”
He was reluctant to let her off the hook. But finally he looked away and nodded, starting the car. “I suppose not,” he said gracelessly.
They made the short drive from the airport in silence.
 
 
“Now
do you believe me?” demanded David. “Now will you accept that the only way we're going to get Sophie home is to do what we're told?”
Avoiding one another's eyes, Brodie and Ibbotsen both nodded.
“Can we give them the money?” David was looking at his father. The old man nodded again. David turned his gaze on Brodie. “And will you do as they ask? Will you take it to them?”
“If that's what you want,” she said, subdued.
“Thank you.”
She'd come inside with Ibbotsen but she didn't sit down. “You have my mobile number. I'll keep it with me until I hear from you. When I do, I'll be here in ten minutes.”
David seemed surprised. “You aren't staying?”
“I want to get home and see if Daniel's all right.”
He said nothing. He had one eye on the phone as if expecting it to ring any moment.
“Look,” Brodie said reasonably, “they haven't called since they sent that packet. They're letting you fret about what it means. Try not to worry: they won't do anything more until they've spoken to you again.”
“I suppose not. No, you're right of course. I'm sorry.” He forced a smile. “I'm not thinking straight any more. Of course you should go home. You have a little girl to think of too.” But he didn't want to leave the phone long enough to drive her home. He called her a taxi.
 
 
It was tea-time. Marta had set places for everyone and Daniel was upstairs. There was a note on the hall table so Brodie wouldn't think she'd lost him again. She dumped her coat but kept her bag with the phone in it and went to join them, entering her friend's flat without a knock.
She walked in on a scene which shocked her to the core.
They'd been making pancakes. Daniel was good at working out the quantities but not particularly deft with a whisk and he'd covered himself in batter. Marta found him a clean T-shirt.
“If I keep wearing women's clothes,” he said ruefully, “people will talk.” He stripped off his spattered shirt.
Brodie arrived at the worst possible moment. A minute before and she could have got Paddy tactfully offside; a minute after and it would have been too late to intervene. But she saw him about to bare his ravaged body in front of her four-year-old daughter and the
protest was out of her mouth before she could consider the implications. “Daniel, for heaven's sake!”
The exclamation startled everyone and for a moment the tableau froze. Paddy, puzzlement holding back the pleasure at her unexpected arrival; Daniel, surprise turning to understanding and then shame; and Marta, dear reliable mercurial Marta, angry with her, seeing what her delicacy had done to the bruised soul in her keeping.
Brodie bit her lip, sorry to add to his burden of hurts. But Paddy was her first responsibility and the child shouldn't have to see the consequences of her mother's stupidity.
It was too late for anything but regrets. If she'd said nothing Daniel would have had the shirt on by now: as it was her horror had paralysed him. He fumbled for the sleeves and failed to find them, all the while feeling her eyes lashing on his raw flesh.
Marta threw the spattered shirt aside and reached to help him. But Paddy got there first. Four-year-olds have perfect instincts, they cut right to the chase. This isn't always convenient but it saves a lot of time that adults waste on tact.
Her eyes widened and she moved in for a better look. She pointed with one small forefinger: Brodie was dreadfully afraid she was going to poke the lesions to see what happened. But she stopped just short. “What's that?”
While Brodie was struggling for an explanation suitable for a small child, Daniel told her. He was used to children's questions, including the embarrassing ones, invariably found honesty served best. It was part of what made him a truth junkie. “I got burned,” he said quietly.
“I got burned once,” said Paddy, remembering. “Mummy said, ‘Don't you dare play with matches you stupid infant.'
“It was good advice.” Daniel had finally found the sleeves of Marta's T-shirt and slid into them.
“It really hurt,” said Paddy. She went on peering at his chest, taking in the scale of the damage. “I bet that hurts too.”
“It did,” nodded Daniel. “It's almost better now.”
“Good.” Satisfied, Paddy went back to help Marta at the kitchen table.
Brodie put down her bag. She said softly, “I'm sorry.”
“I didn't mean to upset anyone,” mumbled Daniel. “I wasn't thinking.”
“You didn't upset Paddy, and I had no right to be upset. It was stupid and unnecessary.”
Daniel looked up nervously. “Is it that bad?”
“No.”
“The truth. I've got used to it, but if it's so grim I ought to keep it out of sight I need to know. I don't want to go through life making children scream and old ladies faint.”
Brodie smiled. “Daniel, I promise you, it's not that bad. It's better now than when I first saw it, and it'll be better again in another week. I don't know why I reacted like that. Motherhood messes with your brain, you start seeing problems where none exist. Never mind me, you saw how Paddy reacted. She didn't scream. She was sorry you'd been hurt, that's all.”
Daniel managed a smile too. “She's a nice kid.”
“She is, isn't she?”
On the floor beside them Brodie's handbag warbled.
 
 
Half a million pounds worth of gold is solid and heavy and looks like exactly what it is. Half a million pounds worth of diamonds sparkle like the night sky. But half a million pounds in banknotes doesn't look particularly impressive. It fitted into a suitcase that wasn't heavy enough to trouble her, and Brodie had to keep reminding herself it was the most money she'd ever have her hands on. It might have been Monopoly money, or the cut-down newspapers with which master criminals are so easily fooled on television.
But it wasn't: Brodie checked. She checked every bundle, refusing to be intimidated by Lance Ibbotsen's glacial stare. “I'm going to be closer to these people than you are. I'm not doing it without knowing exactly what it is I'm carrying. You can risk your neck for a week's worth of the
Financial Times
if you want to, but not mine.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” he said distantly. It was, of course, a lie. He'd done more than dream about it: he'd given it serious consideration, only dismissed the idea when he couldn't find a way of getting it past Mrs Farrell. He'd known she would want to see the ransom, had even expected she might check it. It didn't make him any happier about standing there while she riffled every one of the twenty-five bundles under his nose. There aren't many ways to humiliate a seriously rich man, but she'd found one.
“All right,” said Brodie when she was satisfied. “What do I have to do?”
“Drive west along the Shore Road,” said David. His voice was level but only because he was working on it. His face was tense - with hope, fear and deep anxiety - and the muscles across his shoulders were rigid. “They'll phone you with instructions.”
“That's it?”
“Pretty much. They want you to go alone; they want you to use your car; and they want the money on the front seat beside you.”
“In the suitcase?”
He blinked. “I presume so. They didn't say.”
Brodie nodded. “At some point they'll want it open, but it won't do them much good if I'm robbed before I get out of Dimmock. Did they put Sophie on the line?”
“Yes,” nodded David, “I insisted. Only a couple of words, but it was her and she sounded all right. In return …” His voice petered out, the sentence unfinished.
“What?”
“In return,” growled Ibbotsen, “they had him put me on the line.”
Brodie understood. They'd wanted confirmation that the money was coming from the only source where it could be raised. They wanted to deal with the organ-grinder, not the monkey.
She avoided David's eyes. “All right,” she said tightly, “then let's get it over with.” She managed not to add, “One way or the other,” but the sentiment hung in the air.
“Be careful,” murmured Daniel.
She'd wanted to leave him at home but he refused. He couldn't come any further with her, but this was where the first intimations of
success or failure would come and he wanted to be here when they did.
Even though it meant being alone with these people. Before they left home Brodie had made sure he'd thought about how that would feel. She wasn't sure if he was coping with all that had happened or if he was still pretending, and she didn't dare ask. If it was self-defense, an incautious word could break him between one moment and the next.
He'd answered with his shy, stubborn shrug. “Difficult. But the rich have more bathrooms than normal people: I'll never be too far from somewhere I can throw up.”
Now she looked at him and nodded. “Count on it. I won't forget that Sophie's life is at stake.”
“So's yours,” said Daniel. “You don't have to do this, Brodie. Not for them, and not for me.”
“Perhaps not,” she said, just the hint of a shake in her voice, “but I have to do it for me. I don't think I'm in any danger. They want my help too - they asked for it. And no one's trying to cheat them.”
David bit his lip. “He's right. We're asking a lot. If it goes wrong, if you find yourself in danger, walk away. No one will blame you. We'll make another chance.”
Brodie knew what it had cost him to say that. Through the turmoil under her breastbone she felt compassion for him, and respect, and something that was more than both. In other circumstances, when he didn't have the weight of dread hanging round his neck, this could be a kind, intelligent, likeable man.
“It's hard to make promises when we don't know what's going to happen,” she said softly. “But I'll do the best I can. If it's within my power at all, I'll bring Sophie home.”
BOOK: Echoes of Lies
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