Echoes of Lies (22 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Echoes of Lies
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“There's a certain inevitability about events. People do things the obvious way unless they've some reason not to. Nine times out of ten what happened is what looks to have happened. There's always the chance that a one-armed man killed Mrs Kimble, but nine times out of ten it's going to be her husband.”
“And you're observing me.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“I am, Danny, I am. Any way you cut it, you're the key to this. You know more than you're telling me. The question is, how much more. Do you know who tortured you and tried to kill you? Do you know why? Have you worked out who Sophie is?”
“It's a common enough name, Inspector. Check the school register: it's one of those names that's been fashionable in recent years.”
“Sophie's a little girl?”
Daniel felt himself flush. “I know of several Sophies under the age of about fifteen. One's a Rottweiler. I don't know any women of the same name. That doesn't mean there aren't any.”
“And of these several Sophies, which one went AWOL?”
“I believe the Rottweiler did, once or twice. Inspector, why are you treating me like a suspect? If I could cast light on what happened to me, don't you think I'd want to?”
“You would think so, wouldn't you?” mused Deacon. He was patting his pockets, looking for something. Daniel watched with a kind of fascination. He had no idea what was coming next, only that
Jack Deacon wasn't a man to waste time on meaningless gestures. Everything he said and did was significant.
Finally he found the right pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “You don't mind, do you?” It was clearly a rhetorical question: his thick fingers moved with a dogged determination that no amount of protest would have interrupted. He opened the packet, drew out a cigarette and tapped it slowly on the back of his hand. He put it between his lips and picked up the lighter. All the time his eyes were on Daniel's face.
Daniel's eyes were locked on the end of the cigarette, the snout of the lighter. When Deacon's thumb made the little flame shoot he started visibly. Even so, it wasn't the sight of the policeman lighting up that made the blood drain from his face. It was the smell. Hot and fragrant. The only thing missing was the scent of his own burning flesh.
Of course, he knew what Deacon was doing. It was only a cigarette. No one was going to hurt him. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and shut his eyes. “I don't have any ashtrays. There's a saucer under the plant-pot you could use.”
Deacon drew on the cigarette and exhaled slowly in Daniel's direction. When he leaned forward for the saucer, Daniel shrank back.
Deacon smiled unkindly, but behind that was more respect than Daniel could have guessed. There was nothing casual about Deacon's cruelty: it was calculated and purposeful, but it hadn't achieved anything because Daniel Hood was a stronger, braver man than anyone ever gave him credit for. Deacon had met all sorts of people, both villains and victims, in the course of his professional life, and he still couldn't pigeon-hole Daniel Hood. It tasked him, as the whale tasked Ahab. He needed to understand, and he believed now that Daniel was deliberately thwarting him.
Yet still he recognised that he was dealing with a basically decent human being, and it bothered him that they always ended up like this, fencing with words and gestures until someone - no, to be honest, until Daniel - got hurt. It worried him that another kind of police officer could have gained his trust and got at the truth that way. But
the only way he knew was head on, like a bull at a gate, and though it worked on thugs and cowards it didn't work on Daniel, only served to entrench the differences between them. Deacon regretted that, but couldn't seem to find a way round it.
He leaned back with a sigh and returned to what he'd been saying. “But then, you'd also think that someone who'd survived what was done to you would keep out of sight until those responsible had been caught. Instead of which you turn up at the general hospital and the school where you work: two places that anyone wanting to know if you were dead would be sure to look. And now you've come home. Danny, you're not behaving like someone whose life is in danger from unknown assailants. You're behaving like someone who knows the danger has passed.”
“We talked about that.”
“I know we did. You said you weren't prepared to spend the rest of your life running scared. It sounded pretty convincing at the time. Now I'm not sure. There's getting quietly on with your life and hoping for the best, and there's making a public spectacle of yourself.”
Daniel's gaze dropped. “I lost it. I thought I could handle it, and I was wrong. Someone said - the wrong thing - and I lost it. Mr Chalmers had to knock me down and sit on me.”
“That's how I heard it,” admitted Deacon. “Not exactly discreet behaviour, you'll agree.”
“Discretion wasn't my top priority right then.”
“No. But you see, it should have been. You shouldn't have gone anywhere near that school. And if you had, you shouldn't have done anything to draw attention to yourself.”
“It wasn't planned.”
“Not the panic attack. But you deliberately exposed yourself to the circumstances which provoked it, and I still don't understand why.”
Daniel shook his head wearily. “I'm sorry if you think I'm behaving oddly. You're probably right. But I still can't tell you anything you don't already know. If we're finished, I'd like to rest now.”
Deacon went on watching him, his expression planklike, the thoughts condensing in his head battened down behind it. Of all
the suppositions, possibilities, suggestions and inferences surrounding this case, he knew only two things. Daniel Hood had been the victim of an horrific attack; and he needed to rest now.
He stood up. “All right, I'll leave you in peace. I can't guarantee everyone else will do the same.”
“Time's getting on. I think it's over.”
The policeman eyed him in exasperation. “Danny, whoever these people were, at least one of them was a professional. I thought that before: now I know it. I've seen his portfolio.
“You weren't the first living canvas he's worked on. I've come up with three previous masterpieces I can definitely attribute to him, and four more that have everything but the signature. If we don't get him soon he'll die of lung cancer.”
Daniel swallowed. Despite living with the memory for eleven days he still found it difficult to talk about. “Cigarettes?”
“Not invariably. Sometimes it's cigars, sometimes it's lighters; he's used a poker, and once it was a miniature blow-torch. You know, the kind that cooks use to finish off a créme brulée and put a nice crackling on pork. But always something hot and domestic. Innocuous. You carry a gun or a knife, even a pepper spray, and you'll have a lot of explaining to do if someone opens your briefcase. But cigarettes and a lighter? Even the blow-torch: drop in a white hat and a copy of
Mrs Beeton's Cookbook
and nobody'll give them a second look.”
He didn't want to ask; he didn't want to know. Except that part of him did. “What - happened - ?”
“To the others? Dead, Danny, every one of them. The three definites and the four probables. He gets around, him and his smoker's compendium. One was in Aberdeen, another on the Isle of Wight. At least, that's where she floated ashore. She may have come off a boat. I say come off: I mean of course they threw her off. It was as good as shooting her. The shock of salt water on that many burns killed her before she could drown.”
Daniel said faintly, “She …”
“Oh yes,” said Deacon briskly, “he's an Equal Opportunities torturer. A professional, like I said. And as far as we know, you're his
only failure. Apart from those who paid him, the only living witness.”
“I never saw his face.”
“I dare say you'd recognise the voice again, though. I don't think you'll forget that in a hurry. He must know you're alive by now, and he won't be happy about that. It's the thing about professionals: they don't like leaving loose ends.”
“I'm sure he has more to worry about than whether I'll ever hear his voice again. Unless he does a bit of television on the side, it isn't very likely.”
“No,” allowed Deacon. “But unlikely isn't the same as impossible. I think he'd be happier with impossible.”
“Tell you what, Inspector,” said Daniel, finally losing patience. “If he comes back here, you'll be the first to know.”
Deacon shook his head grimly. “No, Danny, you will. I might be the second, but it'll already be too late. Your only defence against this man is to tell me who he is.”
“I don't know who he is!”
“Who hired him, then.”
“I can't tell you that either.”
Deacon didn't believe him. He was still shaking his head as he tramped heavily down the iron steps. When he heard the door close above him he glanced back, and then he took the cigarette from between his lips and tossed it onto the shingle. He'd never got a taste for the things, even when he was young enough to want to.
By the time she got back to the office Brodie had stopped fuming, was beginning to feel uncomfortable about things she'd said. She knew she'd over-reacted. So Daniel was behaving strangely: after what he'd been through it was no wonder. Her obligation to him didn't end because the mystery was solved, or because he'd developed a schoolboy crush on her. The fact that she now had more tempting demands on her time didn't change anything either.
She knew she should call and apologise. She was eyeing the phone askance, wondering what to say that wouldn't reopen either the argument or the wounds, when she heard the door. Immediately she thought of Daniel. She wasn't sure why he'd come - to apologise, to insist she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion or to profess his love - but she was glad he had. They'd survived too much to part like this. If he'd misread the situation she'd mishandled it, and he had more excuse.
But it wasn't Daniel, it was David Ibbotsen. For a moment Brodie couldn't decide if she was pleased or disappointed. In fact she was both. She was glad to see David, but right now she needed to see Daniel more.
David seemed to sense her ambivalence, a tiny frown pinching his eyebrows. “Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” said Brodie, waving him in. “Do you want a sandwich? - I missed my lunch.”
He nodded, took the other chair and tucked into the tuna and mayo with gusto. Brodie regarded him with amusement and some affection. She was fairly sure that an hour ago he'd been tucking into sirloin with the Chamber of Commerce, or lobster with the Harbour Commissioners, or failing that Mrs Handcock's Star-Gazy Pie up at
Chandlers.
Lord only knew where he found room for a sandwich as well, but he wouldn't let her eat alone. It was a friendly gesture which she appreciated.
“How's Sophie today?”
Relief radiatied like sunshine from David's broad face. “Sophie's fine. She's still a little drowsy - I left her in bed with a colouring book.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It took me three attempts to leave the house. I kept nipping back to make sure she was still there.”
“Has she said anything about what happened?”
He lifted a wry shoulder. “Nothing useful. Nothing that'll help us find the kidnappers. Actually, she seems quite confused about it. She talked about a man and a woman, and a cottage in the country, but I'm not sure how much she understood. I'm not even sure she knows she was kidnapped, and I don't like to press her because it's probably better if she doesn't.”
Brodie was confused too. “Why does she think she was away from home for thirteen days?”
“Who knows what they think at that age? We're always doing something to them they can't possibly understand - we leave them at playgroup, we take them to school, we let people they don't know baby-sit, we let the doctor stick needles in them when we know it's going to hurt - we tell them everything's all right and expect them to believe us. And, not having much choice, they do. Maybe if the kidnappers told her everything was all right, she believed them. Maybe a fortnight in a country cottage with some people she didn't know didn't seem any stranger to Sophie than the time Mrs Handcock's niece took her pony trekking, or when my father took her to launch a new ship and left her with a crane-jockey all afternoon while he argued over the price of propellers.”
Brodie laughed. “Paddy would
adore
spending all afternoon with a crane-jockey!”
“Great,” said David, “that's her birthday treat sorted.” They munched on, companionably.
But he hadn't come to be fed. Brodie waited for him to broach the real reason. When the sandwiches were gone and he still hadn't, she prompted him. “So what can I do for you today, Mr Ibbotsen?”
He cast her a shy look, uncertain how to ask. Brodie found his diffidence rather touching. He seemed genuinely anxious as to what her reply might be. “I wanted to know if you've given any thought
to what we were talking about. The Caribbean. The four of us. We ought to - well - decide what we're doing.”
“Yes, we must,” agreed Brodie. “There are plane tickets to book.”
“Actually, I've already booked them.” He didn't give her time to object but hurried on. “Don't worry, that doesn't mean you have to say yes. Well, of course it doesn't, it's your decision. I'm not trying to put you on the spot, I just thought I'd get the tickets now rather than leave it to the last minute and have to sit at different ends of the plane. We don't have to use them all. I mean, I hope we will but we don't have to.” He heard himself babbling and shut up.
“You won't get a refund. Not at this notice.” There was a Puritan streak in Brodie. If someone promised her the moon she'd wonder if they shouldn't wait for the January sales.
David smiled again, a shade wanly. “You'd be amazed how obliging people are when your father owns a shipping line.”
Brodie debated whether to say it. But he wasn't a client, she didn't have to massage his ego. “You could always walk away. Do something else for a living.”
He looked at her as if the idea had never occurred to him. “Like what?”
“Like anything! Landscape gardening, interior design; get an HGV licence, be a cook; anything except being a rich man's son. You don't enjoy it so do something else.”
He stared at the desk with its litter of breadcrumbs and clingfilm, his chin sunk on his chest. After a minute, without raising his head, he said, “I know you're right. I should have done it fifteen years ago. I think now - with Sophie, with the old man getting older - I've left it too late.”
“David, you're - what, thirty-five, thirty-six years old? You've got most of your life ahead of you! Sophie's got all of hers. If you're unhappy with who you are and what you're doing, make a change. You don't need Lance's money. People with no family business, with no education, with no talents to speak of, still manage to make a respectable living and raise their kids. Feeling as you do, you have more to gain than to lose.”
“And the old man?”
“The old man can make his own choices. I imagine he'd run his business for as long as he was enjoying it, then put in a manager. Don't buy the myth, David: the only power he has over you is what you allow him. You'd do fine on your own. All it takes is the decision.”
He managed a rueful little smile. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is - millions of people do it every day. Stand on their own two feet and take a pride in whatever they're able to do for their families. Whereas you have every material advantage and get no pleasure out of it. For pity's sake, do one thing or the other. Either enjoy being Lance Ibbotsen's son or tell him you're not dancing to his tune any more.”
“He'd never forgive me,” muttered David. “And it's not just my inheritance I'd be risking, it's Sophie's.”
“Maybe,” nodded Brodie. “Or maybe he'd be impressed as hell. He doesn't give you much credit, David, it might make him sit up and take notice if you told him where to go sometimes. Not,” she added belatedly, “that it's any business of mine.”
David laughed at that, relieved to have the searchlight of her scrutiny off his soul. “Are you always this … ?”
“Opinionated? Yes, I rather suspect I am. People ask me what I think, and when I tell them they get this glazed expression - very much like yours - and I realise they didn't want to know what I thought at all, they just wanted me to agree with them. I'm not very good at that: falling into line for the sake of a quiet life.”
“I am,” murmured David. “But then, I've had practice.”
Brodie made some coffee on the ring in the cloakroom. She'd forgotten he'd asked her a question, so eventually David had to repeat it.
“Have
you decided? About the Caribbean?”
Brodie started guiltily. “I'm sorry -
that's
what we were talking about before I started reorganising your life! Yes. You asked me to think about it and I've thought about very little else. I'm not sure how sensible it is, but I'd love to come. Or does that seem the height of hypocrisy?”
David didn't follow. “Hypocrisy?”
“Telling you to throw off the shackles of your father's money, but not until he's paid for our holiday in the Caribbean.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “I don't care if it is - we have it coming. You, me and the girls. Let's grab a bit of fun while we can. If the last fortnight has taught me nothing else, it's proved that we can't know from one minute to the next what the future holds. We get a shot at happiness, we have to take it.” His eyes dipped again and he blushed. “I'm sorry, that must sound - presumptuous. A holiday: that's all we're talking about. A shared family holiday. It's just …”
He looked up then and his eyes glinted. “Brodie, you must be aware something's happening between us. Some chemistry. I feel I've known you for months. I feel you've known
me
all my life!”
She touched his hand across the desk. “David - don't try to look too far ahead. Starting how it did, the odds on this going anywhere aren't great. What we're feeling now, what we're enjoying - it might be real and it might last, but it might just be euphoria. We got through it, everyone survived, it's a natural human reaction to want to hug and kiss someone and neither of us has a significant other at home. I'm not saying that's all it is: I'm saying it might be.
“We need to go easy until our hearts stop thumping and there's time to weigh up if we like one another enough. If not, there's no harm done. We're two intelligent adults, we understand how a crisis throws people together. There's nothing wrong with that, it needn't stop us enjoying our holiday, it's just no basis for a lifetime's commitment. We need to get our breath back, get to know one another, and not ask where it's going until we know what we want.”
David nodded acceptance. “That's good. That's - sensible. Only …”
“Only?” echoed Brodie, one eyebrow raised.
“Only people don't go to the Caribbean to be sensible. Or, come to that, to be good.”
 
 
When she got home, Marta had a message for her. Daniel knew both her office and mobile numbers, so he'd called Marta specifically to avoid talking to Brodie. She didn't mind. At least he'd made contact.
She wasn't going to meet a wall of iron silence when she tried to fix the damage they'd done each other.
But it wasn't going to be today. “He said he was going to London,” Marta reported. “He said he'd be away a couple of days so you weren't to worry. He said he'll see you before you leave.”
“How did he sound?”
Marta shrugged. “Troubled.”
There was nothing Brodie could do about that. She was sorry if she'd hurt or disappointed him, but she wasn't responsible for his dreams. He had to accept she had a life in which he had no part. She'd gone about as far as she was prepared to in the cause of smoothing Daniel's ruffled feathers: it was time to consider her own needs.
Having made the decision to go, she had just three days to get ready. Both she and Paddy had current passports, but suitable clothes were another matter. Paddy had outgrown everything that fitted her last summer, and cruise-wear had been a low priority in Brodie's budgeting since the divorce.
She couldn't justify it now, either, leaving the business to an answering service and spending her savings on clothes with palm-trees on them. But she didn't care. David was right: she'd earned this. She'd worried about the business since setting it up, and she'd no doubt worry about it some more when she got back. But for the next two weeks she was going to have fun.
Wednesday morning she went shopping. She bought two suitcases, a bright yellow one for Paddy, a bright red one for her, and set about filling them with absurdly frivolous clothes. A swimsuit she'd be embarrassed to hang on her line at home. Floaty wide-leg trousers and kitten-heel shoes that made her feel like Grace Kelly. Extravagant sun-hats for herself and both girls, and sun lotion you could distemper walls with. She went home poorer but thoroughly in the mood.
She hadn't told Paddy they were going on holiday. She did so this evening. The little girl listened in rapt excitement, then tried on her new clothes and posed before the mirror in her sun-hat. She and Brodie looked up the Caribbean in the atlas.
She asked about Sophie.
“Well, Sophie's daddy's a friend of mine. She's a year older than you. She's very nice. It'll be fun having someone to play with.”
Brodie had debated with herself whether to say anything to Paddy about the last week's drama. But she was four, she wasn't stupid: in the course of a fortnight's cruise things were going to be said that she would pick up and knit together. Better that she know what they were talking about than be left to make up a horror-story of her own.

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