Liars All (17 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Liars All
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She shook her head. ‘I shouldn't think so. That would make Him a pretty petty God, wouldn't it? Oh Jack, let's be realistic here. It was always a long shot. But if a long shot's all you've got, you take it. We've taken them all – tried everything. Now we wait.'
There was something else he needed to ask. He knew she'd be annoyed, but he didn't feel he could let it pass without comment. ‘Brodie…what was all that with Daniel?'
She tossed her hair contemptuously. ‘I know. He promised he'd be here. I know he wasn't happy with the idea, but still…'
‘That's not what I meant,' said Deacon, though he was pretty sure she knew already. ‘Why are you treating him like this? Why are you so angry with him?'
Brodie turned on him sharply. ‘You know how much this meant to me. So did he. But he couldn't put his precious principles aside for the half-hour it would have taken to do what I asked.'
But Deacon knew about dishonesty, dealt with it every day; recognised it in himself sometimes and recognised it in Brodie now. ‘That's not fair. Daniel did exactly what you asked. He came here ready to do what you wanted. As ready as I was, though it was going to cost him more. But even that wasn't enough for you. You ripped him to shreds. You tore his heart out. Why?'
For once, the temper which was always her first line of defence wasn't up to the task. Great rents appeared in it, and her face crumpled and suddenly tears were flooding down it. Her voice was thick with them. But all she would say was, ‘Because he deserves it!'
Criminal detection is like algebra. You start off with a few facts and a lot of unknowns, and set about replacing the question marks with true values. Mathematicians do this with formulae – the degrees in the angles of a triangle always add up to one hundred and eighty, that sort of thing. Detectives are supposed to do it by numbers too, but Deacon preferred his own methods. They could be summarised as three laws:
Everyone is guilty of something.
There is no such thing as the perfect crime.
Leaning heavily on the wrong person will not solve today's crime but may very well improve the overall clear-up rate.
The morning after the prayer meeting he took his son for a drive in the car. The doctors had said that little outings would do nothing but good, getting a bit of sunlight onto Jonathan's skin and fresh air into his lungs. And they were a chance for his parents to enjoy something approaching the normal experience of having a baby. Also, Brodie had to open the office.
Deacon drove up onto the Firestone Cliffs and parked
with a panoramic view of the Channel before him. The sea was bright blue. He settled Jonathan on his knee, and the frail child drifted between sleep and blowing contented bubbles while the detective thought.
The view wasn't the only reason he'd come up here. Terry Walsh had a house on the Firestone Cliffs, one of just half a dozen sharing the best address in Dimmock. He wasn't planning on visiting Walsh today, but it pleased him to plot the man's downfall while sitting on his doorstep.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Walsh was involved in the Carson case. He had no evidence. He had a theory of a kind, but it fell far short of a case. All he really had was a well-honed instinct that zeroed in on criminality as a sniffer dog zeroes in on hash. He
knew
Walsh was up to his neck in this. He'd find a way to prove it.
For once, though, the three laws offered little help. Of course Walsh was guilty of something – he was the nearest thing Dimmock had to a Godfather, even if Deacon hadn't yet been able to prove it. Walsh was a free man because he'd been both clever and careful every day for ten years. Having dealings with Bobby Carson would have been an uncharacteristic error of judgement. Then he'd tried putting the frighteners on Daniel Hood when he'd have been much safer trusting that Daniel's lack of skill meant he'd hit the buffers sooner rather than later anyway.
There was, of course, the possibility that it wasn't Walsh but someone else, making the same mistakes for the same reasons. This should have been a cheering thought, because Deacon had a better chance of catching someone else. But
he wanted it to be Walsh.
That was why he'd taken leave. If he was detecting on public time he had to do it properly – work from the facts of the crime towards the identity of the criminal. If he was on his holidays he could please himself how he established Terry Walsh's guilt.
He didn't usually think aloud. But there were only the two of them here, and Jonathan didn't know what most of the words meant but he liked the sound of his father's voice. So Deacon discussed the matter with him as he would have done with Voss.
‘Points in favour of Terry Walsh being behind all this,' he observed to the top of the slumbering infant's head. ‘One, Lionel Littlejohn worked for Terry. All right, he worked for other people as well, but he wouldn't have come out of retirement for all of them. He would for Terry.
‘Two, most of the people Lionel might have done this for wouldn't have been so considerate. If they were worried enough to need Littlejohn's help, they wouldn't have settled for giving Daniel a bloody nose as a warning – they'd have wanted him in the hospital, or the morgue.
‘Three, Bobby Carson went to prison on the basis that he was acting alone. If he was working for someone, he kept it quiet because he knew that nothing the law could do to him was as bad as what would happen if he grassed up his boss. Terry Walsh isn't the only man on the south coast that you'd give years of your life to avoid upsetting, but he's a front runner.'
Jonathan gave a sleepy hiccup. It might have been agreement or wind.
‘And lastly,' said Deacon, his voice a soft rumble where his jaw rested against Jonathan's bald spot, ‘I
want
it to be Terry. This probably isn't as good an argument as the others, but there is such a thing as poetic justice. It
ought
to be Terry. It ought to be me that proves it.'
He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the big 4x4 drawing up behind him. The first he knew was the rap of a polite knuckle on the window by his ear. Jonathan woke just long enough for a gummy yawn before falling asleep once more.
Deacon lowered the window, and Caroline Walsh said, ‘Are you all right, Jack?'
These days, when Terry Walsh was a wealthy entrepreneur, no one turned a hair at the marriage of an East End barrow boy and the daughter of a professor. But the Walshes were married in their early twenties, when Terry still had his fortune to make. Which meant that either the girl with the cut-glass accent had already spotted his potential, or it really was love.
Deacon kept his expression wooden. ‘We're fine. Just admiring the view.'
Caroline Walsh knew that Deacon's baby couldn't see the view and Deacon himself was not much given to aesthetic contemplation. She could have made an intelligent guess at why he was here. ‘Terry's inside. Come in for a coffee.'
He was tempted. Terry Walsh's wife was an easy woman to like – confident, friendly, intelligent. Also, he'd known her for years. Jack Deacon didn't cry on anyone's shoulder; but if he'd needed to share his sorrows he could have done worse than share them with Caroline Walsh.
But common sense intervened. Accepting the invitation would have involved him in explaining to two different authorities. He could probably satisfy Division as to his motives for taking morning coffee with a target criminal's wife. He wasn't sure about Brodie. ‘Better not,' he said, nodding at the baby. ‘His mum'll be wondering where we've got to.'
‘All right.' Caroline nodded her ash-blonde head, her hair curled so expensively it looked natural. She was wearing a cream blazer, a strand of pearls just visible at the neck. She walked round the car and coolly got in at the passenger door. ‘Then I'll keep you company for a minute.'
He didn't think he was being propositioned. He didn't think either his professional or personal virtue was in any danger. He'd had a wealth of experiences in the last thirty years, but not many of them involved classy women trying to get him into bed. ‘Did Terry—?'
She didn't wait for him to finish. ‘No. I was on my way back from the shops and saw your car. Jack…you do know we're both thinking of you?'
Deacon always found kindness harder to deal with than violence. ‘Yes,' he mumbled gruffly. ‘Thanks.'
Caroline looked at the baby, jaunty in the baseball cap that kept the sun off his empty eyes, and reached a finger to stroke his cheek. There were tears in her smile. ‘Such a charmer…' She cleared her throat, directed her gaze to the emotional safety zone of the Channel. ‘I know you have to be careful – you can't take help from just anyone. But Terry's a businessman. He could find a way to do it
that wouldn't compromise you. You don't have to choose between your job and your son.'
Deacon felt as if she'd reached inside him to knead his guts. He was at once startled and immensely touched. ‘I appreciate that, Caroline. For what it's worth, if I thought it would make a difference I'd take you up on it. But it wouldn't. It's not a question of money. Brodie's seen every expert the world has to offer, and none of them think they can treat him.'
Caroline Walsh nodded, still looking ahead. ‘How is Mrs Farrell?'
‘Bearing up.' It was all he could think to say. ‘I think she's pretty well resigned now to what's going to happen. In a way it was harder when she thought there might be a cure and she only had to find it.' He gave a mirthless little chuckle. ‘All we're left with now is prayers. At least you can do that without leaving home.'
The woman laid her hand on his wrist in a gesture of compassion. ‘Keep praying. Miracles do happen, you know.'
‘But not as often as they don't.'
‘No.' She squeezed his wrist, and got out of the car and walked towards her house.
Deacon called her name. She looked round, one perfect eyebrow arched. ‘You do know I'm going to get him one day, don't you?'
Caroline smiled broadly. ‘As I said, miracles happen.' She walked on up the drive, the pearls shimmering around her throat.
Jane Moss phoned looking for Daniel. Brodie explained that he wasn't available but she was familiar with the case and would be able to help.
But Jane knew what she wanted and it wasn't Brodie. ‘Do you have his mobile number?'
‘Yes.' Brodie heard herself and winced. She sounded like a jealous mother fending off her son's girlfriends. ‘It's here somewhere.' She read it out. ‘But I doubt he'll be able to help you any further.'
‘I bet he does,' said Jane calmly.
After she'd rung off, Brodie sat peering at the phone for a long time, her thoughts unsettling. Daniel was finally doing what she'd wanted him to for most of four years. Why didn't she feel happier about it?
This was the first time Brodie had spoken to Jane Moss. Everything she knew about her had come from Daniel. The cool, self-possessed voice at the other end had been unexpected, but she of all people could appreciate strength of character. She didn't know what had made her hackles rise.
She wasn't sure what Daniel would do when he got
Jane's call. Given how she'd spoken to him last night, and the way they'd parted, only one person in a hundred would have felt any obligation to keep her informed. But Daniel was that person. Ten minutes later her phone rang again.
‘Jane has an idea for settling things with Margaret Carson. Whether or not it leads anywhere, we can't bill Mrs Carson for any more work – she ended the commission days ago. You can take the cost of what I've done since then out of my wages. Anything else I do for them will be personal.'
It hurt her to hear him speak to her as an employer when they'd been so close. Closer than family; closer than lovers. Now they were reduced to talking in a manner carefully calculated to avoid misunderstandings.
‘Fine,' she said. She should have left it at that, but the devil on her shoulder prompted her. ‘I'll issue an invoice for our services to date, you can bill her yourself from here on out.'
There was a brief silence. Then Daniel said quietly, ‘I've never put a price on friendship before and I don't intend to charge for it now.'
‘As you like,' shrugged Brodie. ‘You're a free agent.'
Another, longer pause. When he spoke again there was a yearning in his voice. ‘Brodie, what's happened? To us – to you? Why are you treating me like this?'
She pretended not to know what he meant. ‘What happened to me is that my child got sick and I haven't as much time as I once had to feather-bed your feelings. And maybe I haven't the patience I once had, either.'
‘You never had
that
much patience,' Daniel remembered wistfully, and Brodie had to concede that he was right.
‘But we were good friends. Now you talk to me as if I'm your enemy.'
‘Oh, get over yourself, Daniel,' she said tartly. ‘Everything isn't about you. I'm just a bit too tired and too fraught to tiptoe round you at the moment. If you need someone to hold your hand, try Jane. What idea, anyway?'
‘What?' He was off balance, struggling to deal with her new coldness.
‘You said she had an idea about Margaret Carson. What idea?'
Daniel didn't want to discuss it. He remained deeply uncomfortable with the idea, even if he could see some merit in it. Now Jane wanted to show him something and wouldn't tell him what. ‘It's all a bit off the wall. I'm hoping she'll have second thoughts.'
‘Yes? Well, good luck with that.' She went to ring off.
He made one last attempt to get through to her, his voice in her ear plaintive. ‘Brodie…can't we at least
talk
?'
‘Daniel, we've
been
talking. But I'm busy. There are things I have to get on with. My assistant walked out on me last night.'
‘I didn't…' He stopped and took a deep, unsteady breath. This wasn't about who'd said what to who, or who started it. It was much more fundamental than that. They could argue about the symptoms, they could blame the malaise on one another, or they could try to cure it. ‘Don't throw away what we had. If you've no use for it at the moment, pack it away carefully so you can find it if you need it later. We're strong enough to survive this. We've
survived a lot worse. Don't push me away. I care about you.'
‘Yes? That's nice,' she said; and she kept her voice calm and rather patronising, and this time she managed to put the phone down.
But she went on looking at it for some minutes, appalled at what she'd done, half hoping it would ring again. If it did, she knew she wouldn't be able to go on with this. She knew she'd tell him everything. But it didn't. She sniffed, and took the diary out of the drawer.
When she opened it the first thing she saw was Daniel's small, precise, rather schoolgirly handwriting. And she burst into tears.
Jane picked him up at the netting shed. She had an adapted hatchback with sliding doors and hand controls, and her wheelchair was folded in the back. Daniel got in beside her. ‘All right, I'm here. What did you want to show me?'
‘Patience,' she said mysteriously. ‘You'll see in a minute.'
She drove up Fisher Hill – Daniel staring rigidly ahead to avoid gazing forlornly into Shack Lane – and near the top turned off into the jumble of little alleys at the back. In Hunter's Lane she stopped the car and opened the door.
Daniel looked around. There were a few dusty shop windows – a locksmith, a barber, a charity shop – among the small stone houses. They'd been built for fishermen when Dimmock had a small fleet. But it never had a harbour, and launching the boats from the stony shore
was the kind of hard physical labour that people stopped doing when the alternative was the dole rather than the workhouse. Daniel's home was a relic of the same period. Now there were no fishermen and the little stone houses were mostly occupied by widows and old men who rarely ventured further than Fisher Hill because, whichever way they turned, it was too steep for old knees.
While he was looking Jane had unloaded her chair and hefted herself into it, leaving Daniel feeling guilty. ‘Er… can I help?'
‘No need,' she said airily. There was no dip in the kerb. She hauled herself up backwards by the sheer strength of her wrists, then spun neatly. ‘This is it.'
She was indicating one of the front windows. Like Brodie's office, it was hard to be sure if it was a shop or someone's front room. A curtain had been drawn across and there was a small brass plate beside the door. Daniel read it. Even then he didn't understand. ‘He sells cars?'
‘No,' said Jane with a heavy patience, ‘Mr Daimler makes jewellery.'
Daniel gave a little jolt. ‘I didn't know there was a jeweller here. When I took Margaret Carson's commission I reckoned I'd contacted every jeweller within a ten-mile radius. I never even heard the name Henry Daimler.'
‘That's because he's discreet. He doesn't need to advertise. His name is well enough known in the kind of circles where they commission good jewellery. This is where Imogen and Tom's father came thirty years ago.'
Daniel's eyes widened. ‘This is where the necklace was made?'
‘It wasn't this Henry who made it, it was his father,' said Jane. ‘But the workshop's the same and he still has his father's pattern books. If he can't copy Imogen's necklace, no one can.'
Daniel hung back. He really didn't want to do this. Jane gave him no choice. She herded him in with the wheelchair like herding a stubborn sheep with a quad.
With the result that when Henry Daimler junior looked up and saw the uncertain young man with the thick glasses and the determined young woman in the wheelchair, he thought they were shopping for a ring to mark an engagement only one of them wanted. Rather than produce the pattern books and talk through their preferences and their budget, he thought perhaps he would show them some that he'd made earlier. The reluctant groom might buy something from the cheaper end of the range rather than make a scene, but Mr Daimler was pretty sure that if he left a commission he'd phone up later to cancel it.
Only when the girl spoke did he realise he'd made a mistake. ‘We were talking on the phone earlier. You're the young lady who's interested in star sapphires.'
Jane nodded. ‘Jane Moss. My friend, Daniel Hood.'
Daniel hadn't realised she thought of him as a friend. Or perhaps it was just shorthand, to avoid a lengthy explanation.
‘I want a piece making up. I have a picture of the original. It was made by your father about 1980. I want as close a copy as you can manage.'
Mr Daimler nodded. He reached under his counter,
lifted out a tray. ‘I put together some stones after you called. If you see something you like we can start immediately. If not, I'll ask around, try to find what you want.'
Pinned to a cream velvet board, carefully angled to the light, was a pocket constellation. The stones varied in colour from nearly black to nearly colourless. The blue ones came in every shade from polar sky to indigo, the black ones from dove grey to charcoal. There were yellow ones as well, and some the colour of fire, and some the colour of blood.
Daniel caught himself staring. ‘They're all sapphires?'
The jeweller chuckled in his beard. ‘Everyone thinks sapphires have to be blue. They can be any colour. We call the red ones rubies, but they're all sapphires.'
‘And the stars?' asked Jane.
‘They're commoner in some colours. There are star rubies. There are blue star sapphires, the best of them from Burma and India. Black sapphires produce the most stars, and the best of those are mined in Thailand.' He indicated a smooth oval stone the colour of Indian ink. ‘The rays are gold.'
Jane was looking intently at the stones. ‘That's what I want. Gold rays. But I want twelve of them.'
Mr Daimler blinked. ‘Those are rarer. Dearer.'
‘That's all right.' Jane looked directly at her companion. ‘Isn't it, Daniel?'
Daniel gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘It has to be twelve,' he admitted.
‘And cut like that,' said Jane. ‘Round, like a pillow.'
‘All star gems are cabochon cut,' the jeweller pointed
out politely. ‘To show off the rays. What about size?'
She looked around the tray, then pointed. ‘About like that.'
Mr Daimler's eyes widened perceptibly. ‘That's thirty-eight carats. That's a big stone.'
‘It has to be the same as the original.'
He nodded slowly. ‘Well, you can find any stone, at a price. How deep a black?' Again she pointed. ‘I'll make some enquiries. What about the mount? You said you had a picture.'
She reached into the pocket of her jeans, produced the insurance photograph. Mr Daimler looked at it. Then he looked closer. ‘You want me to copy this?'
Jane nodded.
‘Forgive me,' said the jeweller slowly, ‘but…does the owner know? Only, people don't like seeing what's supposed to be a unique piece of jewellery worn by someone else.'
‘I
am
the owner,' Jane said sharply. ‘The legal owner. It was stolen from me.'
‘Oh.' He was plainly taken aback. ‘Then obviously I'm mistaken. I thought… I'm sorry. For a moment it looked familiar.'
This wasn't what they'd come here for. Even Jane, who'd known they were coming, hadn't expected this. Daniel felt as if someone had knocked him off a chair. ‘It did?' he said weakly.
Jane raised herself on her arms and leant forward until her chin was almost resting on the glass counter. You could have cut diamonds with her resolve. ‘Mr Daimler,' she purred, ‘tell me where you saw my necklace.'

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