Echoes of Lies (20 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Echoes of Lies
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They sat a little longer, drinking coffee and hardly talking. Twice David tiptoed upstairs to check that Sophie was where he'd left her; the second time Brodie went with him. The child was sound asleep with a little smile touching her lips.
She caught David looking at the cropped cap of golden hair. “It'll grow,” she whispered.
He looked round with a smile. “I think I rather like it.”
For a moment Brodie almost told him it made Sophie look like her mother. But she stopped herself in time, aware that wasn't what he most wanted to hear.
She was ready to leave. She saw him wondering whether to say something, and then he did. “Listen. This isn't what we were talking about earlier - trying to make things right. It's just something that, well, might be nice anyway …” He swallowed and tried again. “I'm going to take Sophie away while we get over this. We told the school we were going to be cruising in the Caribbean, I think that's what we'll do. I wondered, would you come? You and your daughter? The girls would be company for one another, and - and I'd like it too.”
Brodie went on staring at him, dumbfounded. Whatever she'd been expecting it wasn't this. She didn't know how to reply. After a moment, the fact that she didn't dismiss the idea out of hand struck her as deeply significant. “I can't just shut up shop and disappear to the Caribbean! I have obligations, work to finish.”
“I appreciate that,” said David. “But it doesn't have to be tomorrow. Sophie should probably have a few days to get her breath back anyway. If we left it a week, could you clear your desk by then? Finish what you can, not start anything new? I realise it's asking a lot. The business is important to you, you can't neglect it. But suppose I hire a temp? Someone to man the desk, field phone-calls, make appointments for when you get back. People would just think you were busy and take it as a good sign. Nobody wants to hire someone that nobody else wants to hire.”
He seemed to hear himself babbling and broke off with an embarrassed grin. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to press you. It would mean a lot to me if you could manage it, but if you'd rather not …”
She wasn't sure she could; she wasn't sure she should; but Brodie was fairly sure she wanted to. “What about Daniel?”
David looked doubtful. “I didn't think he'd want to spend any more time with the Ibbotsen family.”
Brodie thought so too, but that wasn't what she meant. “I shouldn' t leave him. Not yet. He's still - very raw.”
David ducked his head but not quick enough; she saw him wince. “Well - would you think about it? Things might look different in a week.”
“I'll think about it,” she promised.
In her heart of hearts, Brodie was annoyed with Daniel. She knew he was still weak, she understood that the waiting and then the news must have wrung him out like a wet rag. Even so, she thought he might have stayed to celebrate her triumph. The Ibbotsens' gratitude was one thing: that she'd earned. But she hadn't done what she'd done for them. She'd done it for Sophie and for Daniel; and one of them had slept through most of it and the other had gone home. Anti-climax made her tetchy.
It also made her more inclined to accept David's invitation than she might otherwise have been.
When she got home there were no lights in her flat, only in Marta's. “Is Daniel here?”
Marta shook her head. “I haven't seen him since you both went out. What happened?”
There was very little of the story that her friend didn't already know so Brodie told her. Told her all the thoughts that had been chasing through her head, all the things that could have gone wrong, everything she did to keep the show on the road. Told her about meeting the kidnappers, and how she'd made them prove the child was alive before parting with the money. Told her about hauling the crate out of the gorge though it took all her strength to do it.
Told her, in fact, all the things she'd expected to be telling Daniel. Marta exclaimed in wonder, in horror, in admiration, in all the right places; but it wasn't the same. Marta was her friend, she'd have done that however poorly Brodie had performed. If she'd got everyone killed Marta would have thought she'd done OK. But she'd done better than OK, and she'd looked forward to hearing Daniel say it. She felt let down. Marta fussing over her, anointing her sore hands with salve, was no substitute.
Paddy was asleep in Marta's spare room. Brodie didn't disturb her, except to look at her the way David had kept looking at Sophie,
to reassure herself she was still there and all was well. Then she kissed Marta goodnight and went downstairs.
Daniel wasn't there either. Brodie hadn't really expected him to be. He'd said he was going home, and that wasn't here. So she'd served her purpose and he was done with her. Perhaps he didn't owe her any more. But she'd begun thinking of him as a friend, and friendship brings its own obligations.
She reached for the phone, to check that he'd arrived safely, then she put it down again. Why wouldn't he be safe? The people who hurt him before had no interest in him now. He'd been a hunted man for a week; now he was just a comprehensive school maths teacher again. She went to bed.
Bone-tired as she was, sleep was a long time coming.
 
 
She was in her office in Shack Lane before eight. She had a day to find Cora Burton and acquaint her of the crisis facing the family business which her shares could resolve. Brodie had expected to have this wrapped up yesterday, but once again the Ibbotsen drama had intervened.
So Cora was a painter. If she lived on her work she must sell it, presumably through galleries. Brodie started with the Yellow Pages, moved on to the internet, then started making phonecalls.
Within half an hour she'd found two galleries - one in Brighton, one in Hastings - which had sold paintings by Cora Burton. But neither of them had seen her within the last few weeks and both still had her Dimmock address.
Brodie tried to put herself in Cora's sandals. This was a woman who lived quietly. She didn't own a house, or even take a proper lease. She rented surplus farm cottages for a few months at a time. She barely saw her family, only visited galleries when she had something for them to sell.
This was not a woman who took any pleasure in other people's company. Dimmock had probably seemed like a city to her; Brighton must have seemed like Las Vegas. She went there only when she had to.
So when she had to, she would do everything she could only do somewhere like Brighton. She would buy things there that she couldn't get in country post offices, or even in Dimmock.
“What's the name of your nearest artists' supplier?” she asked the man at the gallery.
And when she phoned the supplier, they did indeed see Ms Burton every few months - every time, so far as Brodie could make out, that she took work to the gallery round the corner. She bought canvases, brushes and paint; sometimes she had them frame something for her.
“Did you know she's moved?” asked Brodie.
“Again?”
“I mean, from Dimmock.”
“Oh yes,” said the girl, “I knew that. About three weeks ago. She bought some canvases last time she was in: they were too big for her to take with her so she asked us to keep them until she moved and then deliver to her new home.”
Brodie nodded, feeling smug. “You have the address?”
“Oh yes. Do you want the phone number too?”
Brodie called Cora, explained the situation and asked her to phone Arthur Burton immediately. To make doubly sure Brodie also phoned him herself. “You'll be hearing from your cousin Cora any minute. But just in case you don't, this is her number.”
She could almost hear the cider bottler mopping sweat off his brow. “I didn't think you'd find her in time.”
Brodie indulged in a bit of boasting. “It's only the impossible that takes a little time. The merely difficult I try to do at once.”
Burton chuckled appreciatively. “I won't forget this, Mrs Farrell. I'll gladly recommend your services to anyone I think can use them.”
They parted with mutual expressions of satisfaction. Brodie leaned back in her chair, well satisfied, and glanced at her watch. Ten-fifteen: time for elevenses. She thought she might nip out for something. Down to the seafront, perhaps.
As always, Daniel's loft looked little different from the other five that still held rotting nets, old oars that had lost their partners,
lobster creels, lengths of cordage too short to reuse but too good to throw away, and seaboots with holes in them. The only signs of occupation were milk-bottles on the bottom step and curtains at the high windows.
Brodie parked by the kerb and crunched across the shingle. As she climbed the iron steps
Chandlers
came into view on the hill. Somehow it no longer looked like a toad.
She thought Daniel wasn't going to answer her knock. She was about to leave when the door finally opened. She'd clearly got him out of bed. It was mid-morning, but then he did still have a hole in his chest.
“I'm sorry,” she said, and meant it. “Go back to bed. I'll see you later. I'll pop across at lunchtime if there's not too much happening.”
Daniel shook his head, the yellow hair tousled from his pillow. “No, come in. I'm awake, I just haven't got going yet.” But his glasses were on crooked and the eyes behind them were bleary. She thought he was only awake because she'd woken him.
She followed him inside. The flat surprised her. It was both more stylish and more homely than the natural habitat of the single twenty-six year old male. There wasn't an empty beer-can in sight and the floor was not being used as a laundry box. Unless he'd come home late last night and immediately started tidying up, this was how he lived. Perhaps it figured: chaos could have scant appeal for a mathematician.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” said Brodie. “Last time you were here …” She left the sentence unfinished, wished she hadn't started it.
He shrugged the green dressing-gown closer around his bones. “It wasn't too bad. Of course, knowing there was nobody waiting behind the door helped. Sit down, I'll make some coffee.” He left the kitchen door open, talking through it. “I'm sorry I missed you last night. I had to get out of there.”
“That's all right,” said Brodie off-handedly, as if she hadn't given it a thought. “I suppose it was asking a lot, for you to sit down with the old thug. Is it right what he said - that you're not going to shop him to Deacon?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Pretty much. It isn't true?”
Daniel sighed. “I suppose it is. I said I wouldn't lie to the police, but I wouldn't send them round with a Black Maria either.” He smiled gently. “They don't have Black Marias any more, do they?”
“Not in your lifetime,” grinned Brodie.
“She was all right?” It wasn't a non-sequitur: it was the only thing worth talking about, everything else was just conversation. And it was only half a question: he wanted reassurance more than information.
Brodie nodded. “She's fine. Like I told you last night.”
Daniel brought the coffee. “I should have waited. I - they - It was difficult.”
“I can't get over the old sod asking you to cover for him,” snorted Brodie. “The way he was talking yesterday morning, if he could just get Sophie back wild horses wouldn't keep him out of Jack Deacon's office.”
“I suppose the richer you are the less attractive prison looks. When Sophie was safe he could afford to worry about himself.”
“David said -” She thought better of it. “They were both keen to offer any kind of recompense they thought you'd accept.”
“I know.” He looked at her. “I'm really not interested in their money.”
“I know that.” Conscience pricked and she tried again. “David wants me and Paddy to join them on this Caribbean cruise.”
Daniel made no reply. He sipped his coffee.
“You think it would be a bad idea,” prompted Brodie.
“I didn't say that.” His grey eyes caught her gaze and held it. “You like him, don't you? David.”
“Maybe.” She considered some more. “Yes, I think I do. Not enough to excuse what he was part of, but … Daniel, he swore to me he was only aware what was happening when it was almost over.”
“Yes?” Daniel returned his attention to his mug.
“I wouldn't go,” said Brodie, “if I thought you'd be hurt.”
“You don't need my permission.”
“I know.”
“Or my blessing. And if you want an unbiased view on whether it's a good idea to accept Ibbotsen hospitality, you've come to the wrong place for that, too.”
Brodie turned away, obscurely disappointed. Of course he wasn't going to wish her luck. She didn't need him to: she was a grown woman, she made her own luck and her own decisions. What she was hoping, she realised with a twinge of discomfort, was for Daniel to make one more sacrifice in someone else's interests. To tell her it was all right, it didn't matter, he didn't mind. And that wasn't reasonable. Of course he minded. He was just too decent to say so.
“Well, I don't have to decide today,” she said, finishing her coffee and getting up. “I must get back to work. And you should get some more rest.”
He said, “I thought I might go in to school.”
Brodie's eyebrows rocketed. “Daniel, you're not ready! It could be weeks before you're fit enough.”
“Not to work,” he said. “Just to show my face. And there's something in the library I want to check.”
“Can't it
wait
?”
“I've nothing else to do. I can't spend all day in my dressing-gown. I need start getting back to normal.”
 
 
She never afterwards knew what made her return to the loft when she shut the office at one. She bought some sandwiches, told herself she was making sure he kept his strength up, but that was only the excuse. From midday on she felt a mounting unease that no amount of common sense would quash.
That sense of something amiss sharpened as she climbed the steps to find the front door unlocked. She didn't even knock: she threw it open and hurried inside. “Daniel?”
“In here.”
She found him in the kitchen. The sink was full of cold water; his sleeves were rolled up and his face and forearms were wet. Without his glasses he looked as she had first seen him, white and vulnerable.
“What's happened?”
He reached for a towel. He tried to smile but didn't pull it off. “Going back to school,” he said in a thin voice. “Not a good idea.”
 
 
At first it had seemed so. The stolid unchangingness of the place had been reassuring. A week be damned: he could have been away for a year and it would still have felt utterly familiar as he opened the door. The smell of disinfectant hiding the smell of something worse; the clatter of feet, the thump of falling books; the groan of unslammable doors being slammed anyway; Charlie Monroe standing in the corridor outside the principal's office.
He'd timed his visit carefully. Apart from Charlie, the children were in class: he wouldn't have to cope with pointing fingers, staring eyes and tactless questions in his first five minutes back; except of course from the staff.

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