The Depths of Solitude (21 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: The Depths of Solitude
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In the darkness she heard two kinds of movement – both
quiet, secretive. One, she was horribly afraid, was a rat pattering round. The other just sounded like running water.
 
“All right,” said Deacon, restarting the interrupted tape and taking the seat opposite Michael French. “You want to talk to me, here I am. You want my full attention? You have it. You’ve been offered the right to have a solicitor present and declined. Now let’s get down to business. Where’s Brodie Farrell?”
But that wasn’t what French had sacrificed his liberty to talk about. Not yet. He said, “You killed my wife.”
“Of course I didn’t kill your wife,” said Deacon brusquely. “Your wife committed suicide. I’m sorry if there’s something you think I could have done to prevent it, but I’m not to blame for her death. And Brodie sure as hell isn’t.”
Now he had what he wanted – Jack Deacon across a table, unable to ignore what he had to say – French relaxed. There had been moments in the last fortnight when he’d wondered if he’d ever get to this point, or if his careful plans would collapse as soon as the players he’d been manoeuvring in his mind for so long stepped off his mental stage and into their own reality. He’d thought he’d foreseen their motives, their reactions, how they would handle the drama created for them, but he could have got it wrong. If he’d misjudged one critical response he could have found himself here before anything worthwhile had been achieved.
Amazingly – and looking back it
was
amazing, there were so many points at which the train could have derailed, the odds against bringing it in safe had been terrifyingly long – right now he was exactly where he’d hoped to be. He’d out-thought them all, and Deacon was at his mercy.
But he hadn’t waited five years to be merciful. This interview wasn’t an end so much as a climax: he had five hours to enjoy his success. It wasn’t that long, not compared with five years; but it would be long enough to make sure that Deacon, who hadn’t thought much of Millie when she was alive and probably hadn’t thought of her at all since she died, would never forget her. And then, while most of this was for Millie, French was honest enough to admit that some of it was for him. Retribution. Payment for what he’d lost. He meant to feed on Jack Deacon’s despair for the next five hours. Nothing after that mattered.
“This isn’t about Mrs Farrell,” he said. “You know that. She’s a pleasant enough woman who never did me any harm – actually, she was kind to me. The only mistake she made was to take up with you.”
Deacon nodded slowly. “So you’ve been terrorising a woman who was kind to you because you were too cowardly to face me. Jesus, Michael, Millie
would
be proud of you!”
That wasn’t his temper slipping: he was trying to provoke French. To crack his resolve, tempt him to an indiscretion. Deacon knew who was in charge. This suspect wasn’t tracked down by brilliant detective work and dragged in here kicking and screaming: he presented himself at the front desk and Deacon was here because of it. This room, this table, even the softly hissing tape were not Deacon’s today. Today they were French’s – props on his stage, witnesses in his court. He held the initiative, and the massive advantage of knowing how this was supposed to end, and Deacon needed to shake him. Right now, French angry was less dangerous than French in iron control.
The desire to surge to his feet and grab Deacon by the collar raced through Michael French as a tremor races
through the earth, engaging then abandoning each muscle in turn, leaving him essentially where he had been, only disturbed-looking. He spread his blunt hands on the table-top, staring at them and breathing hard. “Nothing you say,” he panted. “Nothing you say alters the facts. You didn’t know Millie. You didn’t take the time to get to know Millie. You have no idea what she found in me to be proud of.”
That caught Deacon up short: because it was true but also because it resonated with his own uncertainties. He and Brodie had been together for five months, and he had no more idea what she saw in him now than he had at the start. There must be something. She was a handsome woman, if she wanted a man she could walk into the street and point. The initial euphoria that she’d pointed at him had, as the relationship developed, spawned puzzlement and unease. If he didn’t know what she saw in him, how could he believe it would last?
He grabbed his straying attention and hoped French hadn’t noticed. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But I think she was a good person. I don’t think she’d have wanted you to harm another innocent woman, whatever the reason. She might understand where it came from – the pain, the loss, the loneliness – but I don’t think she’d have stood by and let it happen. Do you? You knew her better than anyone. Can you see her watching while you destroyed Brodie Farrell out of hatred for me?”
But a man can do a lot of soul-searching in five years. French had asked himself that before, and found an answer. There were no questions Deacon could ask that French hadn’t dealt with a hundred times. “No, I can’t,” he said softly. “But then, if she was here I wouldn’t be doing this. She isn’t here, she’s dead. Because of what you did to her.”
“I never touched her!”
This was why French was here: to hear Deacon’s increasingly desperate arguments and demolish them. He went on remorselessly. “My wife was a virgin when we married. She never had another man, except the one who raped her. She was frightened, hurt and humiliated. But that didn’t kill her.
“She dreaded coming here. But it was the right thing to do and she did it. Men who behave that way don’t just do it once: she wanted to stop him before he hurt other women. It wasn’t lack of courage that killed her either.
“What killed her was that it was all for nothing. Because you didn’t believe her. Or maybe it was worse than that – you believed her but didn’t think it was worth the trouble of obtaining justice for her. You chewed her up and then her spat out, and you didn’t leave her enough self-respect to live on. That’s why she died.”
“I
did
believe her,” said Deacon quietly. “I believed she was telling the truth, that she didn’t want to have sex with William Saville. But I knew what neither of you did - that in a rape trial the woman’s actions are scrutinised at least as closely as the man’s. Saville would have bought himself a good, tough barrister and he’d have taken her apart. Publicly and protractedly. She’d never have stood up to that. I was doing her a favour by not asking her to.”
But French had anticipated that argument too. “If she couldn’t face the prospect of a trial she’d never have come to you. It wasn’t for you to judge what she could stand. He raped her, and his defence was that he took her for a slut, and you accepted that. Can you
imagine
how that made her feel?”
Deacon raised both shoulders in a gesture that was meant to convey sympathy but looked like a shrug. “I know it was difficult for her –”
“Difficult?”
yelled French, leaning forward so the gale of his breath blasted Deacon’s face. “You think it was
difficult
for her? You labelled her a slut and a liar, and everyone who knew what happened knew that was your opinion. You’re surprised she didn’t want to live that down? You robbed her of her self-respect, left her feeling soiled and worthless. After that every day was an ordeal. Do you know, she came to believe you were right? That she must have encouraged Saville, given him a reason to think she was willing. That she was to blame all along. That she let me down. Can you believe that? She was afraid she’d let me down!”
Deacon felt his brows gathering of their own accord. He felt to be on the edge of a truth. “Michael – is
that
what this is about? You’re afraid
you
let Millie down? Not me but you? You think you should have seen what was happening to her and found a way to stop it. God almighty, Michael – you blamed
her?”
For an instant longer French stared into Deacon’s eyes from a range of inches, the rage boiling off him. Then he flung himself back in his chair.
But in that instant Deacon knew what had happened. The couple had survived the initial trauma, and the painful days and weeks that followed, by supporting one another. But they got tired. French got tired enough to say something he didn’t mean, that he could never have meant, that Millie would have known he didn’t mean if she’d had any reserves left. And Millie got tired enough to walk down the beach rather than reason with him.
Which didn’t excuse the things Deacon did, or didn’t do, around then. He should have taken the time to explain to the Frenches what it meant that he wasn’t going to charge Saville – more precisely, what it didn’t mean. It didn’t mean he thought Millie was lying. A prosecution would fail because the jury would think Saville might also be telling the truth. There was a grey area where a misunderstanding could have arisen, and they wouldn’t jail a man for rape if they weren’t sure that was his intention.
“Oh God, Michael,” Deacon said thickly, “I’m sorry. You’d taken a hammering too – you can’t blame yourself for letting one unkind remark slip out. It went on too long. You can be a rock for somebody, but only so long. Eventually even rock weathers. Is that what happened? You finally ran out of patience, and in an unguarded moment you said something you’d never have said if you hadn’t been so bloody exhausted.
“It shouldn’t have mattered. She should have burst into
tears, or thrown the kettle at you, and you should have screamed at one another for a minute and then grabbed hold of one another and hung on. Neither of you was to blame for the situation. You were doing the best you could.
“But instead of chucking the kettle she ran out of the house, and you never saw her alive again. You never got the chance to apologise. That’s why you hate me. Because if it isn’t my fault she’s dead it’s yours, and no one should have to carry that burden.”
French looked up then. There were no tears. He’d done all the crying he was capable of five years ago. His eyes were like polished agate, shiny and hard. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Superintendent. I loved my wife. I would never say anything to hurt her.”
There was a pause. Deacon had thought he was making progress. He knew where he had to be, wasn’t sure how to get there. “Michael – how are we going to resolve this?”
French shrugged, settled back in his chair. “You tell me. I’m at your disposal, it’s your problem now. How are
you
going to resolve it?”
Deacon chewed his lip. Shouting would get him nowhere and for once he recognised the fact. “Have you hurt her?”
French paused before answering, for no better reason than to let dread gnaw a moment on the other man’s vitals. “No. A whiff of chloroform kept her quiet while I got things organised. She’s fine. Not comfortable, not happy, but fine.”
“Where is she?”
French laughed aloud. “Come on, Superintendent! You don’t really expect me to answer that?”
Deacon forced a rueful smile. “You might. Now you’ve
put the fear of God into me you might think this has gone on long enough, and the sooner somebody rescues Brodie the better. You don’t want her to come to any real harm, after all. Do you?”
French smiled, cat-like with idle cruelty. “Don’t I?”
Deacon kept his hands on the table in front of him, where he could see them. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Not when you’re going to stand trial for it. Unlawful imprisonment is one thing, murder’s another.”
The smile faded leaving French’s face sombre. “Yes, it is.”
“Tell me where she is, let me go and get her. Then we can talk.”
French’s eyes were scornful. “Superintendent, the
only
reason you’re talking to me now is that I know where your lady friend is and you don’t! I think we’ll leave it like that until I’ve had everything I want from you. It’s quite hard to get your undivided attention. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Deacon dipped his head in what might have been a real apology. “I am aware I didn’t give you and Millie the time I should have. I didn’t look after you as well as I should have. It wasn’t that I thought it didn’t matter, I just didn’t see victim support as my responsibility. Even when she died, I didn’t realise it was anything to do with me. I thought I’d done all I could, when it came to nothing I moved on. It’s what we do – close one case, for better or for worse, and start the next. There’s not much time for inquests. If you made mistakes you try not to make them again; if you got it right you enjoy the warm glow while it lasts – which is generally that night in the pub because tomorrow’s headlines will have police being baffled about a whole new set of mysteries.”
French gathered his brows in a frown. “Let me get this right. You think I should be sorry for you?”
Deacon bristled – and immediately every muscle at his command locked rigid. He absolutely could not afford to lose his temper with this man. He couldn’t spare the time, he couldn’t risk Fuller pulling him out, and he needed to get a grip on this interview which was different from any other he’d conducted.
People had walked in off the street to confess to him before. But that wasn’t what French was doing. He’d come for his pound of flesh. Deacon had to regain the initiative if he wanted answers to his questions – but gently, because French held the ultimate sanction of withdrawing from any proceedings which didn’t serve his agenda. It was like a game they were playing: each anxious to defeat the other, to outmanoeuvre his pieces and demolish his strategy, but also aware the game would end if the other left the table.
French knew that if Deacon took a swing at him he’d be down the corridor faster than he could say PACE. That was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to see Deacon suffer. He wanted to watch him grow increasingly desperate as the machinery of power failed him, as he discovered that his authority and the code of law underpinning it would not serve him now. That it was just the two of them, and this time French had nothing at stake and Deacon had everything. He wanted to be there when Deacon finally understood what losing everything felt like. He had to be there to see the hope turn to ashes in his face.
In months to come there would be arguments about his sanity. In fact he knew exactly what he was doing, wouldn’t demean himself by claiming otherwise. He wasn’t mad, just very, very angry. He’d been angry so long it no longer affected his capacity to function, reverberated in his voice or made his hands shake. What it mostly did
was stiffen his resolve to a steely determination. No pressure Deacon could bring to bear would bend him. He would break first.
Both men needed to keep this dialogue going. It made them infinitely careful about every word they said.
Deacon unknotted his fists knuckle by knuckle. “No, I don’t want your sympathy. I’m trying to explain how it happened. But you’re not interested in
how
it happened, are you? You think I shouldn’t have let it happen. Of course, you’re right.
“What do you want from me, Michael? My resignation? You can have it. Tell me where Brodie is and as soon as she’s safe I’ll go. I’ll make a public statement saying why. I served you poorly and I’ll pay for it. But Brodie’s not part of this. Let her go. Don’t soil Millie’s memory by using her as an excuse to hurt another woman.”
French regarded him without expression, the very stillness of his body a kind of threat. It seemed to suggest that when he finally moved the sky would fall.
He broke the spell with a tiny shrug. Deacon was watching so intently it made him start. “Call it an excuse if you like. I call it a reason. Millie, and what happened to her, is why all of us are where we are today. You, me and Mrs Farrell. And why none of us is going anywhere for the next” – he glanced at his watch – “four hours.”
“What happens in four hours?”
Michael French’s lips curved in a faint knowing smile. “The big reunion.”
“You give me your word?”
The smile broadened. It was impossible to take any comfort from it. “Oh yes.”
 
It was most certainly a rat. There were crumbs left from the picnic: it had caught the scent and was screwing up
the courage to investigate. In the crowding dark it ventured nearer, its progress marked by the tiny skipping patter of its claws on the floor. Brodie yelled and flung her free arm in its direction, and was rewarded by a diminuendo skitter as the creature fled. But ten minutes later it was back.
A soft touch on her breast where her collar was open gripped her with a momentary horror so great she couldn’t even scream. But as the cool spot migrated down the curve of her body she realised what it was: a tear fallen from the end of her nose as she sat huddled in the dark. She hadn’t even realised she was crying.
She couldn’t know how desperate her plight was, whether it would end in a few hours in tears and hugs or if she was meant to die down here. She wouldn’t know until one thing or the other happened. Nor had she any way of measuring time. But if the cold relaxed its grip that might mean it was day, and past the deadline French had set for her rescue. Which could mean she was in for a long haul.
It would not mean she was as good as dead. Deacon was looking for her, drawing on the full resources of his force. She was unhurt, and had eaten and drunk within the past few hours. It was cold here but not freezing – she could survive like this for days. Longer, if she could find the source of that trickling sound and a way to reach it. Among the rubbish there might be a stick: she had a handkerchief, and water wrung from a rag would keep her alive while the search continued.
That was her first priority: to try to better her situation. She should have used the light while French was here to scan her surroundings for anything she could use. She hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. Now the torch had gone a finger-tip search was the only option. She gritted
her teeth and told herself the rat was no keener on a close encounter than she was. Still it took an effort of will to reach into the blackness and begin to map the refuse strewn across the floor.
But her right wrist was still shackled to the wall, and in the arc of her reach she found nothing helpful. Mostly what she found was rubble, slimy with algae. She thought again about the trickling sound. There must be times when a fair bit of water got in here. If it rained, would she find herself sitting in a puddle?
 
“What do you want from me?” Despite his best intentions, as near as damn it Deacon was shouting now. Even by his own standards: by anyone else’s he’d been shouting for a while. “How can I bring this to an end? What is it you’re waiting for?”
French knew the answer to that. “For you to accept your responsibility for Millie’s death. To admit that it wasn’t suicide – that you forced her into a position, and a state of mind, from which there was no other escape. That you killed her. Tell me you killed her.”
Only the safety of someone he cared for would have made Jack Deacon humble himself before this man. He knew he’d made mistakes, should have done better by the Frenches. But he didn’t believe he was responsible, either legally or morally, for the girl’s suicide. Someone who walks into the sea months after an attack on her may be depressed, may be despairing, but is responding to internal not external pressures. He hadn’t treated her well. But he hadn’t treated her so badly that suicide was a legitimate response.
But finally this wasn’t about Millie. It was about Michael French – what he believed, what he’d accept as the price of Brodie’s life. “All right. I killed her,” said Deacon, his voice low.
French shook his head like a teacher correcting a sullen student. “Not just the words, Mr Deacon. Feel it.
Know
it. You killed her. You put her through hell, then you lost interest and that’s why she died. She came to you for help, and you wiped your feet on her. You tossed her into the gutter and she drowned there. Say it.”
“I killed her,” Deacon said again, tersely. “I killed her, Michael. I’m to blame for the death of your wife. All right? I’ll say it as many times as you want, as many different ways as you want, in front of anyone you want. I killed Millie French.”
“But you don’t believe it,” murmured French. Disappointment was bitter on his tongue. He’d thought, when he got to this point, there’d be a sense of achievement. But it was meaningless if it was just the words. “You’ll say anything to save Mrs Farrell.”
“Of course I will!” exploded Deacon. “Damn it, that’s why you’re here – because you can make me say things I wouldn’t say otherwise! If that isn’t enough for you, I don’t know what else I can do.”
“You can believe it! You can feel remorse.”
“I do feel remorse,” said Deacon. “That much is true. The rest … I’ll tell you anything you want to hear, but if there’s a part of you that’s still in touch with reality, that knows the truth when it hears it, and if that part is telling you that I don’t believe the words you’re putting in my mouth, maybe that’s because you don’t believe them either. Because they aren’t credible. Because we both know the difference between a tragedy and a murder. What happened to Millie shattered her confidence, and what she did because of that shattered your world. I don’t think you’re an evil man. But what you’re doing is evil. I’ll do anything in my power to help you stop.”

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