True Witness (6 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: True Witness
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“I know,” said Sessions. “Daniel, I believe you. But I know you, and this town's full of people who don't. They'll want to blame someone for this, and if they can't have the killer
nailed to a gate they may settle for someone else. Humour me: keep your head down.”
 
 
Finally, just before one, Daniel answered a knock at the door and it was three young men he'd never seen before, shoulders hunched, fists thrust deep in the pockets of their jeans, standing at the top of the iron stairs not looking at him. His heart fluttered. They were younger than him but every one of them was bigger. “Hello.”
They looked at the steps, at the sea, at the pier, at one another – still everywhere except him. One said gruffly, “Are you him?”
Daniel considered. “Could you be more specific?”
It was saying things like that which made people wary of him. They thought it meant he was cleverer than them, which was often the case, and would use it against them, which wasn't. Daniel was an intellectual, but he wasn't an intellectual snob. He was well-read, but people who thought he came from a privileged background were mistaken. He was born in a terraced house in Nottingham. It wasn't a class thing, the way he spoke, the way he thought. It was a Daniel thing.
Another of the youths said, “Can we come in?” and stepped towards him.
Daniel Hood wasn't built for heroics. On average, he had to start looking up at students by the time they were fifteen. Some small men have hearts like lions, but Daniel knew he was vulnerable in a confrontation.
What he had instead was a kind of moral courage. He refused to be ruled by fear. He hated how it made him feel enough to straighten to his full five-foot-seven, hold his head up and look his problems in the face. Which meant that occasionally he got a black eye but most of the time he earned a puzzled respect.
He took a step out onto the iron stairway, closing the door behind him. “No. Now, who are you and what are you doing here?”
“We're from the gym,” said one of the youths, finally looking at the man they'd come to see. “We're friends of Chris Berry's.”
“I see. Then, I'm sorry about what happened.”
“You saw it?”
“Some of it.”
“You saw
him
?” Venom dripped dangerously from the word.
“For a second.”
“Enough to recognise him?”
“I'd never seen him before.”
“Enough to ID him?”
“Perhaps. If I see him again.”
It was clear where this was going. But they were young men, athletes rather than philosophers, and they didn't know how to get there. “Look,” one of them said. “The police know who did this. All you have to do is tell them that's who you saw.”
Daniel drew a steadying breath. “They may think they know. But if they actually knew, they'd have arrested him years ago. They wouldn't have waited for another death on the off-chance that there'd be a witness. If they knew, if they could prove it, he'd have been behind bars for half your lifetime.”
They had no answer. But they wouldn't be shooed away by someone they'd come here to bully. “Look,” said the young man again. “It's easy. All you have to do is co-operate with the police. Ask to see a photograph and tell them that's him. It's the least you can do. For Chris and everyone else.”
Daniel chewed on his lip. He looked at the young men with their stubborn expressions and their hard muscles and thought this was probably a black eye occasion.
He said quietly, “I know how angry you must be. You've lost your friend, and it shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry I
couldn't prevent it. But pretending to have seen something, or someone, I didn't won't bring him back. If you're wrong it'll compound the tragedy with a terrible miscarriage of justice. And if you're right it'll get the case kicked out of court and set a killer free. Be patient. Inspector Deacon wants this man as much as you do. He won't rest till he has him.”
One at a time he'd have persuaded them. They were angry, they were upset, but they weren't vicious. Each alone would eventually have seen the sense in what Daniel was saying. But they weren't alone. They'd come here together because they were resolved to make a difference, and as a rallying call Patience doesn't cut the mustard.
Perhaps if he'd cowered from them they'd have dusted their hands, sauntered away and told one another they'd shown him, and never come back when they learned that actually they'd changed nothing. Grief and rage made them feel they had to do something, and listening to a lecture wasn't what they had in mind.
“Are you going to shop that bastard or not?”
“You mean, am I going to say I saw someone I didn't,” said Daniel. “No, I'm not.”
He didn't even see the fist that floored him. His head snapped suddenly back, lights exploded behind his eyes, then the iron steps came up to meet him and a couple of the boots he'd fallen among were aiming kicks.
A voice cut through the scuffle like a crystal dagger. “The last one of you down those steps is going to suffer the indignity of being thrown over the rail by a woman.”
Though Daniel couldn't see her for legs, he knew who it was. The three young men from the gym didn't, either who she was or what she was capable of. Because she wasn't wearing a star-spangled leotard they were fairly sure that they could overpower her. But then they'd have had their mums to deal with. The average British male is about forty before he stops worrying how he's going to explain things to his mother.
The boots moved, shuffling a bit at first, then in an orderly procession down the steps. There was a bit of muttering but none of them was brave enough to cheek the tall woman with the cloud of dark hair and the angry eyes. Perhaps they thought she
was
Wonderwoman and just hadn't had time to change. Feet crunched on the shingle; a voice shouted back, “Think about it”; then they were gone.
Daniel uncurled from his protective ball, found his glasses and gave Brodie a wry smile. “Good timing.”
“Are you all right? Who
were
they?”
“I'm fine,” he said, standing up; and though reaction showed as a tremor in his hands it wasn't enough for her to call him a liar. “Friends of Chris Berry's, from the gym.”
“That's a reason to beat the crap out of you?”
Daniel led the way inside. “They think I'm protecting his killer.”
Brodie's eyes flew wide in amazement. “Why would they think that?”
“His mother was here earlier. She thought the same.”
“But
why
?”
He shrugged. “Because they think Deacon's suspect must have done this, so I must have seen him, so if I won't identify him it's aiding and abetting.”
Brodie dropped onto the sofa and tossed her handbag irritably into a corner. “Daniel, how do you get yourself in these situations? Ten hours ago you were the hero of the moment; now you're the villain of the piece. How does that
happen
?”
He had no answer. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong. He didn't even think he'd done anything stupid. “Beats me.” He smiled again. “To coin a phrase.”
“You'd better call Inspector Deacon.”
It was Daniel's turn to look startled. “Why?”
Brodie shut her eyes for a moment while the urge to slap him went away. “Because three guys big enough to use you as a football tried to! Because next time I might not turn up to bum some lunch off you and they might succeed.”
He shook his head. “They won't come back. They made their point. I think they scared themselves nearly as much as they scared me. They might be big but they're only kids. They were upset. About now they'll be feeling pretty foolish. They won't bother me again.”
“Maybe they won't,” agreed Brodie. “But if the feeling's going around that this is somehow your fault, someone else may. And a sock in the eye may be the least of it.”
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Daniel, with more levity than was wise. “Enter a witness protection programme? Change my name and move to Brighton?”
“Maybe,” retorted Brodie, her voice and her temper rising. “Maybe that's exactly what you should do. Tell you what: you can ask Jack Deacon when you tell him what just happened.” She lifted the telephone and thrust it at him.
Daniel looked at it and then at her. Then he went into the kitchen for some ice.
Brodie swore at his departing back. She dialled the number herself, but put down the phone before anyone answered. “All right,” she growled, “we'll leave Deacon out of it, for now. That doesn't mean they get away with this.”
Daniel returned holding a packet of frozen peas to his face. “Let it go, Brodie. It wasn't important. Let the dust settle. When Deacon stops worrying about the man who didn't do this and starts looking for the one who did, nobody'll be interested in me any more.”
Exasperated, she left him nursing his eye and went to make them some lunch. Everything she could think of required peas.
Brodie left the netting-sheds at five to two to walk back to her office. But as she went to turn into Shack Lane a sign further up Fisher Hill caught her eye.
The Attic Gym.
She stood and stared at it for perhaps half a minute, then with a determined sniff set off up the slope.
There was, of course, more than one gymnasium in Dimmock. Off-hand, she knew of one attached to the golf club and one attached to the squash club. Neither seemed the natural habitat of young fell-runners. Perhaps
The Attic Gym
wasn't either, in which case she'd have wasted a few minutes and a brisk walk; but perhaps it was.
It wasn't above the narrow shop outside which the sign swung, it was beneath it. So it was a reference not to the location but to the Greek ethos: a sophisticated play on words not likely to earn many kudos in Dimmock, Brodie thought as she descended the area steps. Dimmock's idea of sophistication was cake doilies and a plastic heron by the goldfish pond.
She wasn't sure if the gym was open. No lights showed, but when she tried the door it swung wide with the cheery tinkle of silver bells.
Inside were running machines, cycling machines, weight-lifting benches and a boxing ring: very much the sort of place young men would feel at home. But no one was working out right now. Probably the lunchtime shift had already cleaned up and returned to their offices while the leisured afternoon class had yet to arrive.
But someone was here or the door would be locked. Brodie raised her voice in peremptory summons.
A man appeared from the locker-rooms. “I'm sorry, miss, we're not open today. I only came in to get something – I should have locked the door. We've had a bit of a tragedy.”
“Chris Berry,” Brodie said stiffly. “I know.”
George Ennis raised an eyebrow. But of course it must be common knowledge by now. “Was it one of the ladies' classes you were interested in? If you could come back tomorrow …”
“Thanks,” she said brusquely, “but I get all the exercise I need in the course of a day's work. Do you want to know what I was doing this lunchtime, for instance?”
Ennis wasn't sure he should hazard a guess. But she waited so he did. “Aerobics?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she nodded. “Specifically, I was stopping three young thugs from beating the living daylights out of a friend of mine. Since they seem to be pupils of yours, I'm here to warn you that if I see hide or hair of them again I'll have them down at the police station, and then I'll have you.”
People who had known Brodie Farrell as a girl, and then as a young wife, were always startled to meet her again since the divorce. They remembered her as a quiet, modest person, almost demure, not someone to go round threatening six-foot athletes. But demure was of limited value to a woman who, at the age of thirty, suddenly found herself without a husband, a home or the means to make a living but with a three-year-old child to raise. She learned what her strengths were and how to use them, and because it was urgent she learned quickly.
She found she was much tougher than she'd ever guessed. From rock-bottom at the time of the divorce, her confidence had grown in step with the growing success of her business until now she had no reservations about sharing the great secret with all and sundry. The secret was: Women aren't soft. They're strong.
Ennis frowned, plainly bewildered. “I'm sorry – what are we talking about?” So she told him what had happened.
George Ennis heard her out but the anger behind his eyes was mounting. Not at her – he'd been threatened before, lots
of times, by people who intended him much worse – but at the direction events had taken. “Those damned idiots!” he exploded when she'd finished. “I can develop their muscles, I can increase the capacity of their hearts and lungs, I can get them to the peak of physical fitness. But I can't knock any damn sense into them. Your friend: is he all right?”
Mollified slightly, Brodie nodded. “He's holding a pack of frozen peas to his eye, but otherwise he's fine.”
“Thank God for that at least,” said Ennis. “Mrs Farrell, you have my absolute assurance there will be no repetition of this. I can guess who your visitors were: I'll have them down here within the hour and they won't leave until they've written an apology. If Mr Hood will accept that I'll be very grateful. But if he wants to involve the police I'd understand.”
Brodie had marched in here ready for battle. His immediate surrender left her room to be generous. “There's no need for that. When it happened I was angry enough to call the police but Daniel wasn't. I think he feels that nobody's at their best today. Chris's friends have every right to be upset. If some of them were distraught enough to strike out at the first person they could find, well, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing and there's no great harm done. If you'll make sure it doesn't happen again we can draw a line under it.”
“Thanks,” said Ennis. “You're right, we've all been turned inside out by this. They're good lads, they're not thugs, in the normal way of things they don't go round threatening people. I dare say they're feeling pretty ashamed of themselves already – by the time I've seen them they'll be feeling a great deal worse. I'll point out that they could have found themselves in court for their stupidity. And also that your friend risked his life trying to save Chris.”
He saw her to the door. The business between them disposed of, Brodie unbent enough to say what she should probably have said at the start. “I am terribly sorry about what happened to Chris. Murder is always a monstrous thing, but
it's worse when it's someone with his whole life ahead of him. I didn't know him, but it's obvious he's going to leave a big gap in a lot of lives.”
Ennis nodded. His brow dipped, and Brodie knew that if she stood here much longer he'd start to cry.
“Thank you for your help.” She left him alone to his grief, her heels beating a sharp tattoo on the area steps.
 
 
Jack Deacon was starting to get information back, and none of it was helpful.
Preliminary findings on the post mortem indicated that Chris Berry had not been sexually assaulted, but there did appear to have been a struggle. It had left him with fist-sized marks, that would have developed into bruises if he'd lived long enough, on his jaw, ribcage and arms. None of them were serious injuries. He succeeded in defending himself until his assailant stopped trying to punch him into submission and beat his head in with a wheel-brace. No, Deacon corrected himself pedantically, with a smooth hard implement with a rounded profile approximately three centimetres in diameter. Death must have been instantaneous – no salt water reached the lungs.
Hood didn't see the fight but he did see the murder. So there was a struggle somewhere else, possibly where the killer and his victim met, and Chris Berry repelled his assailant long enough to take to his heels. The older man then armed himself with his weapon of choice and gave chase. It was impossible to judge how far they had run, but finally Chris made the mistake of turning into a dead-end. The man pursued him to the end of the pier and killed him there.
The whole thing might have lasted no more than a few minutes from beginning to end. Deacon was glad, even if it made his job harder. If Chris's death was frightful, at least it
was quick. He hadn't suffered days of terror, pain and degradation first.
The forensic examination of Neil Cochrane's Land Rover was not coming up with the desired results. There was evidence of the farmer in there, and his sheep, but not so far of Chris Berry. But if Cochrane had cleaned the vehicle out thoroughly enough to remove traces of an unwilling passenger it should have been a lot cleaner than it was.
“So he used something else for transport,” mused Deacon. “He doesn't own another vehicle. So he borrowed one, or stole one, or …” His train of thought screeched to a halt as the guard leaned out the back waving a red flag. “A trailer. He's a farmer, he's bound to have something for moving livestock. Maybe the boys were never in the jeep. And the inside of a trailer could be power-hosed as soon as he got it home.”
For five minutes Deacon sat bolt upright at his desk, wondering why he hadn't thought of that ten years ago, trying to convince himself it wouldn't have mattered if he had. The trailer would have been as clean then as it would be by now. But at least it explained how Cochrane could transport youths who desperately didn't want to be there without leaving any physical evidence.
After five minutes Deacon got up, yelled for Charlie Voss and headed for his car.
 
 
Though she thought it unlikely, Brodie didn't want Daniel making a liar of her. She called from her office to tell him about her meeting with George Ennis and what had been agreed.
Clearly Daniel hadn't given any thought to calling the police. Preoccupied with something else, his voice was low. “What did he say?”
She'd already told him what Ennis had said. She repeated it. “He apologised. He said it wouldn't happen again.”
“About me,” said Daniel distinctly. “Does he blame me too?”
“Damn it, Daniel,” exclaimed Brodie, “are you still fretting about that? Will you get it into your head that it wasn't your fault? Not that Chris Berry died, and not that his killer is still at large. You did everything humanly possible. Lying would not make things better.”
“Not everyone would agree. Not Mrs Berry, not Chris's friends, and not Inspector Deacon.”
“Mrs Berry is a special case. It's only a few hours since she lost her son: she may look to be coping but in fact she has no idea what she's doing or saying right now. It would be cruel to hold her responsible for anything she does in the next few days.
“And his friends are not only shocked and grieving, they're also scared. What happened to him could happen to them. They're desperate to see the bastard caught. Desperate enough to think they could speed things up by giving you a hard time. But then, they are only young. Young men aren't noted for making good decisions under pressure.
“And you're wrong about Jack Deacon. He doesn't want you to lie. He was taken aback, that's all – he thought he knew who was responsible. By now he'll be looking for alternative suspects. Don't read too much into his manner: you know he has all the social grace of an alligator. That doesn't make him a bad man, or a bad detective. He'll sort this out. He doesn't need to like either of us in order to do it.”
“Just as well.” But Daniel sounded a little reassured. “I'm sorry, I'm behaving like an idiot.”
“You're behaving like someone who hasn't had much sleep,” said Brodie. “Why don't you get your head down for a couple of hours?”
“Maybe I should,” said Daniel. He didn't fool her for a moment. It was the sort of thing he said when he wanted to avoid an argument without actually fibbing.
 
 
Of course there was a trailer at Manor Farm. An aluminium beast-box designed to confine a ton of seriously displeased dairy bull would be more than adequate to imprison a man.
And it wasn't pristine from the power-hose. Nevertheless, the policemen didn't expect it to yield much evidence. Cochrane had half a dozen sheep penned in it.
Hope springs eternal. Deacon had the sheep driven off and the trailer towed to the police garage. If just one of those boys had understood what was happening he might have left his mark scratched into the aluminium with a belt-buckle in a spot where only a trained searcher would find it.
Deacon knew it was a long shot. He was prepared to try anything that might stop Neil Cochrane before another young man went missing.

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