Liars All (7 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Liars All
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‘Yes, I can see that.'
Deacon waited a bit longer. Daniel said nothing more. Deacon knew why. ‘So,' he said heavily, ‘
are
you going to give it up?'
‘No,' Daniel said again.
‘May I ask why not?' In the less well-lit parts of Dimmock the sound of Deacon being polite made strong men turn pale.
‘Because…' After he'd started the sentence Daniel found that the answer wasn't as obvious as he'd thought. ‘Because I said I'd help Margaret Carson. She needs help, and no one else has much sympathy for the mother of a killer. It isn't her fault, she doesn't even think it's her fault, but she
feels
as if it is. She needs some kind of redemption. I want to help her.'
‘Enough to send out the message that this' – he flicked the end of Daniel's nose for quite unnecessary emphasis – ‘wasn't enough? That whoever did it should come back for another go?'
‘This is just a thought,' said Daniel, blinking back tears. ‘But you don't suppose that, now I've reported a violent assault to my local detective superintendent, he might take steps to prevent that?'
Deacon shrugged carelessly. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘I can't protect you when I don't know who you need protecting from. Let's face it, Daniel, most of the people you know have felt the urge to break your nose at one time or another.'
Daniel clung onto his patience. ‘So what do you suggest?'
‘My best advice? Drop it. It isn't worth getting hurt over. But since you never take my best advice, my second best advice would be to change your locks. Maybe buy yourself a Rottweiler.'
‘Thanks, Jack,' said Daniel coldly.
He hadn't expected to get much sympathy from Deacon. He didn't expect to get much from Brodie either, and he thought her advice would be the same – and harder to ignore since she was, at least technically, his employer. He waited for her to notice his thick lip and demand an explanation.
But he saw nothing of her the next day, and on the Thursday she phoned to say she was taking Jonathan to Switzerland that afternoon.
‘How long will you be gone?'
‘How long's a piece of string? I don't know what they'll tell me yet. But there's a new chemo treatment this particular clinic's pioneering and I want them to look at Jonathan.'
At least it wasn't the other side of the world. ‘Shall I drive you to the airport?'
‘Or at least, as close to the airport as you can park without having to go in backwards?' He heard the hint of humour in her voice and didn't take offence. ‘Thanks, Daniel, but no. Jack's taking us. I'm just letting you know. Is there anything you want to ask before I disappear again?'
He wondered if Deacon had told her about his close encounter. He hoped not, because if she didn't know she couldn't tell him what to do about it and he wouldn't have to refuse. ‘No,' he said carefully, ‘I don't think so.'
‘OK. I'll call you in a day or two.' Still she didn't ring off. It was as if she was waiting to be prompted – as if she wanted to say something but didn't know how to get started.
Sometimes he could read her mind. But not this time. ‘OK then. Well… good luck.'
Her patience snapped. She was no good at tiptoeing round things. For all her faults, and they were many, she was a forthright woman. ‘Oh Daniel, I wish you'd just say what you think!'
Behind his second-best glasses he blinked. ‘About what?'
‘About chasing wild geese, that's what! That's what you think, isn't it? That I'm wasting time – mine, but more importantly Jonathan's – chasing moon-shadows.'
‘I never said that.' Daniel kept his voice low.
‘I know you didn't. Your silences speak volumes!'
He understood where this was coming from. Sometimes Brodie used him as a sounding board, when part of her questioned the wisdom of something the rest of her was intent on. He sighed. ‘Brodie, you're mistaken. I don't think what you're doing is wrong. I don't know. I don't know what I'd do in your place. I
do
know this has to be your decision – something you can live with. I wish I could help. If sounding off at me makes you feel better, fine. But don't think I'm criticising you when I'm not. Not out loud; not even silently.'
Perhaps no one else would have heard, over the phone, the catch in her voice. But Daniel did. ‘I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm tired. And worried. And missing you.'
‘I'm here,' he said softly. ‘I'm right here. I'm going to be right here when you get back. I'll always be here.'
It never occurred to him that he was making a promise he might not be able to keep.
He only had one lead, so his choice was between following it and giving up. He went back to see Paul Sinclair.
He got a certain amount of satisfaction from the way Sinclair jolted when he saw Daniel's face. It might have been that he was surprised to see him again so soon. Or it might have been that Daniel looked like he'd come second in a headbutting contest with a goat, and Sinclair knew more about that than he'd have been happy admitting.
Daniel smiled pleasantly at him. ‘I'm looking for more cranberry glass for Mrs Campbell-Wheeler.' It wasn't a lie. He was always looking for cranberry glass for Mrs Campbell-Wheeler.
‘Er…right. I'll, um…'
‘Have a look in the back?' suggested Daniel encouragingly. ‘In case there's something you haven't got round to cleaning up yet?'
‘Er…yes.' The dealer made no move. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off Daniel's face.
‘Mr Sinclair? Oh,' he said then, as if suddenly remembering, ‘the shiner. Yes. Somebody mugged me last night. Funniest thing. Didn't take anything, just wanted to talk. About that necklace. You know – the one I asked you
about.' He let the pause stretch until its sinews creaked. He was waiting to see if Sinclair would take another breath. Only when the man started turning blue did Daniel take pity on him. ‘In fact, the
really
funny thing is, you were the only one I
had
asked about it.'
‘I-I didn't…I'd no idea…' stammered Sinclair. ‘It was nothing to do with me!'
‘No? Who was it to do with?'
The man was so flustered that the entry-level trick almost worked. But at the last moment he realised that the words about to come out of his mouth could earn him a call from Daniel's visitor. His eyes widened and his mouth shut tight as if he'd swallowed a goldfish.
After a moment Daniel went on, in the same calm, amiable tone. ‘And I'm not sure what to do about it. Somebody's plainly got the impression that I'm some kind of a threat, and I'm not. As far as I know, the courts dealt with the guy who was responsible for what happened. All I want to do is buy the necklace back. That's my only interest in this, Mr Sinclair. I thought I'd made that clear.'
‘I-I didn't… It wasn't…'
‘You?' finished Daniel helpfully. ‘Oh, I know that. This guy was bigger than you and me put together. But you see, the only way he'd have known I was looking for that necklace was if he'd been talking to someone who'd been talking to you. When I left here, who did you call?'
‘No one.' Clearly a lie, it struggled out of his throat as if someone was strangling him.
‘So when you told me you'd give it some thought, you'd actually no intention of doing so?'
‘No. Yes! I mean, I thought about it. I just couldn't think of anything that would help.'
‘So who did you tell?'
‘No one.'
‘You must have.' Daniel being adamant was like a small glacier grinding its way through a mountain pass. ‘No one mugged me on the off chance. I'm not suggesting you sent him. I'm suggesting that you did what I asked and put out a few feelers, and one of them made someone uneasy. So, who did you speak to?'
But Sinclair just shook his head. Daniel's visitor could have got the information out of him. Perhaps Deacon could. But nothing Daniel was prepared to do would persuade Paul Sinclair that he had more to fear from a maths teacher than from the kind of man who considers locked doors a minor inconvenience. He'd hit a brick wall. Another one.
Deacon wasn't lying when he told Daniel the trail had gone cold. From a purely pragmatic point of view – which, in view of the CID budget, was sometimes all he could afford – he'd done what was required: found the killer, brought him to court, made the charges stick. Recovering the loot would have been the gilt on the gingerbread, but for a pie-and-chips man the main course is what counts.
Deacon always described himself as a pie-and-chips man. In fact he had a taste for French provincial cooking. There were many things about Jack Deacon that contradicted what his enemies thought they knew about him, and what he allowed his friends to think.
So, driving north towards Gatwick with Brodie beside him and his son strapped safely in the back, he allowed his mind to toy with this new development in what he'd considered a closed case. Someone was scared. Of Daniel? It didn't seem terribly likely. At least, to know there was something to be scared of you had to know him reasonably well. Most casual acquaintances saw a diminutive thirty-year-old ex-teacher reduced by post-traumatic stress to doing odd jobs for an old flame. Not a terribly scary prospect, even to the sort of person who jumped when cars backfired and rolled balls under the bed at night.
You had to look quite a lot closer to see that, while the facts were correct, they represented the truth hardly at all. Daniel's mental health hadn't always been fragile – it had been ripped apart by an act of extraordinary violence. Even so, he was not so much a victim as a survivor. And Deacon knew what Brodie did not: that he'd have been back teaching for eighteen months, that he was well capable of returning to a job he loved, except that he'd placed Brodie's needs above his own. As he always had, almost from the moment they met. She wasn't an old flame. She was the other half of his soul.
All of which, had it been common knowledge, would have made a lot of people review their opinion of Daniel Hood. He was smarter than he looked. He could be stubborn for England. And he was a zealot – he did what he thought was right even when it wasn't going to be easy.
And somebody knew this well enough to be nervous about his interest in the Carson robbery. Deacon didn't know who. Right now he didn't know how to find out
who. But he was pretty sure that, if he put his mind to it, he could work it out.
He'd have liked to bounce a few ideas off Brodie. He didn't, for two reasons. She was preoccupied with her trip to Switzerland – expecting it to be another wasted effort yet unable to ignore the remote possibility that this time would be different. Like a busted gambler buying one more hand, because you only have to win once to pay for all your losses.
And the other reason was, Deacon knew Daniel had said nothing to her about his visitor. That he'd avoided seeing her because his bruises would have prompted questions he wouldn't lie to answer. Knowing that running her business had put him in danger would have given her a terrible dilemma. She'd still have gone to Switzerland, but the knowledge would have added vastly to her burdens. So Daniel stayed where she couldn't see him, and Deacon said nothing.
As the traffic began to build approaching Gatwick, Brodie said with a trace of a grin, ‘Maybe we should have taken the train from Haywards Heath.'
Deacon gave a deep chuckle. The last few months had taken a lot out of her. But they hadn't taken the resilience – the inbuilt knowledge that, when things are as tough as they can get, they aren't going to be made worse by a bit of black humour. When this was all over – however it ended – she'd still be there: battered, sad, but capable at some point of starting to pick up the pieces.
She loosened her seat belt and turned to smile at Jonathan, secured on the back seat. ‘Jack…'
They were directed to the Urgent Treatment Centre at Crawley Hospital. By the time they got there the baby was breathing normally again. But neither of them believed it was anything other than a significant deterioration in his condition, and by the time he'd been examined and his history considered, the consultant confirmed it.
‘I don't think you can continue your journey, Mrs Deacon. I think we should admit Jonathan for twenty-four hours, just to monitor what's going on. Then, if he's stable, you should go home.'
‘Farrell,' said Brodie absently – unaware that, by correcting the error, she was driving a fresh scalpel under Deacon's ribs. ‘My name is Farrell. So's Jonathan's. Can I stay with him?'
‘Of course.' The doctor was checking his notes, wondering how he'd got the name wrong. ‘Try not to worry too much. I don't think this is a quantum change in the situation. You say he's had seizures before?' Brodie nodded. ‘I think he's just very tired and rather poorly, and by tomorrow he'll seem a good deal better. But home's the place for him now. I understand why you've been doing so much travelling, but I think now it's time to stop.'
Brodie felt as if he'd quietly, politely but very firmly shut a door in her face.
Deacon said gruffly, ‘Are we down to the last week? The last month?'
The consultant shook his head. ‘There's no reason to think so. See your own specialist in the next few days, she'll be able to tell you better, but I don't see this as the
beginning of the end. Just a warning that it's time to rethink your plans. He's not getting any stronger and you need to reduce the stress. On everybody. Your wife as well as your baby.'
Deacon said nothing until he saw that Brodie was about to. ‘She's not my wife. I'll call the airline, cancel the tickets.'
‘Tell them…' For a moment Brodie was going to ask him to have them hold the ticket rather than cancel it. As if a few days might make all the difference. As if next week they'd be able to go to Switzerland after all. As if nothing the doctor had said had registered with her.
Then cold, hard reality laid its hand on her. Held her against the wall and spoke directly into her face. This was the end of the line. She'd done everything she could do. All that was left was to wait for events to take their course. It had been an uneven contest from the start. Now it was time to submit.
Deacon saw them settled into a mother-and-baby room before heading back to Dimmock. He'd have stayed longer except that Brodie made it clear she'd rather be alone. ‘I'll call you tonight.'
‘It's not necessary…'

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