Murder in Mind

by Lyndon Stacey

  Lost in thought, he stared out at the section of hedge illuminated by the beam of his headlights. Twigs and brambles danced in the gusty wind and now and then the car was hit by sleety rain. The engine was still running, the heater pushing out a comfortable level of warmth, and he hoped that, wherever he was, Deacon had found some sort of shelter.

  Deacon.

  Why had he phoned Delafield in a panic on the night of Doogie’s party? Matt would dearly have liked to know what time that had been. According to Casey’s contact, the minder’s story had been that he and Deacon had left the party together, and the police had apparently been satisfied that the footage from the CCTV at the garage backed that up, but what if the figure in the car hadn’t been Deacon but Wintermann? The two young men were of a similar build and colouring. On grainy videotape, it would probably be impossible to tell who was who. If Joe was telling the truth – and there seemed to be no reason for him to lie – then Kendra’s brother had been left at the party to amuse himself while Delafield pursued his own pleasures. Deacon had certainly been there when he and Jamie arrived, Matt remembered, but for how much longer? What kind of trouble had he got himself into that Delafield should have dropped everything – including the unfortunate Joe – to hurry to his rescue?

  The answer that immediately sprang to mind was horrifying but refused to be dismissed. It was clear that – like Jamie – at the time Sophie had been attacked, Deacon’s whereabouts were unaccounted for and the police weren’t aware of the fact. At best, the troubled young man may have been a witness to her killing; at worst … It took no very great leap of imagination to see that someone who, in the grip of psychosis, could deal out a cruel death to a beloved pet, could also have been responsible for the death of Sophie Bradford.

  Without medication, Deacon was prone to ‘flashes of temper’, his mother had told him earlier. Had he taken his medication on that Saturday night?

  Reluctantly, Matt picked up his phone again. He didn’t have Bartholomew’s contact number with him – the card was under a fridge magnet in the kitchen at Spinney Cottage – but a directory enquiries company put him through to Charlborough Police Station. At this point he suffered a check. Asking for DI Bartholomew, he was told that he was at present unavailable. Declining to speak to anyone else, Matt gave his name and requested that Bartholomew call him back as soon as possible.

  Frustrated, he cut the connection. Thinking of Joy had presented him with another dilemma. Should he tell Deacon’s parents what he’d found out from Wintermann and warn them that he’d contacted Bartholomew? He shrank from the thought of Joy’s distress, but it was inescapable. And what of Charlie, who was so desperate to present a normal front to the world that he had kept his son’s illness a secret – even from his daughters? How would he react to the possibility that Deacon had been responsible for Sophie’s death?

  While Matt was debating his next move, a movement caught his eye. Away up the lane, at the dim limits of the car’s headlights, a figure was climbing over a gate from one of the fields. Even though it was too distant to be distinct, the idea that it was anyone other than Deacon didn’t occur to Matt for a second. Wearing only jeans and a pale tee shirt, in spite of the bitter wind, the person was slender but unmistakably male. As Matt watched, the man glanced back down the lane towards the car, shielding his eyes with his hand, and then set off, half walking, half running, in the other direction.

  Losing sight of him round a bend in the lane, Matt put the car in gear and drove slowly in pursuit. Just as his headlights picked out the hurrying figure once more, his mobile phone began to trill. He picked it off the seat with his left hand.

  ‘Is that Matt Shepherd?’ It was Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes. Thanks for getting back to me.’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m off duty. I just popped back to the office for something, but my sergeant said this sounded important.’

  ‘Yes, it is – but …’

  Ahead of Matt, Deacon picked up speed and, worried that he was panicking the youngster, Matt pulled in and stopped the car at the side of the lane, its two nearside wheels on the verge.

  ‘Look, can you hold on for a moment?’ he said into the phone and, without waiting for an answer, dropped it back onto the seat and opened the car door. Stepping out into the biting wind, he shouted, ‘Deacon wait! It’s Matt. Wait for me.’

  To his relief, Deacon slowed and turned, squinting against the lights as he continued to walk backwards with short, jerky steps.

  Realising that the lights were intimidating, Matt reached in and switched them to dipped beam, turning the hazard warning lights on at the same time.

  ‘Deacon, stop! I just want to talk.’

  This time Deacon hesitated.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Matt – you know, Kendra’s boyfriend.’

  Leaving the car door open, he stepped round it and walked forward a few paces.

  Deacon looked blankly back.

  ‘Where’s Kendra?’

  ‘She isn’t here, Deke. She’s gone out with Grace.’

  ‘I can’t see you – I can’t see your face. Who are you? Stay away from me!’ Panicking, Deacon started to back away again, his own face sheet-white in the glare.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll stay here. I won’t hurt you.’

  Through the open front of his leather jacket the wind was cutting through the fabric of Matt’s sweatshirt as if it didn’t exist and, even at a distance of several feet, he could see that Deacon was shuddering with cold, hunching his back and hugging his bare arms, his dark hair whipping around his head. Matt remembered that he had his new fleece in the back of the car.

  ‘Deke, stay there. I’ll get you a coat. Just hang on.’

  Keeping an eye on the figure outlined by the lights, he retraced his steps and reached in. On the passenger seat his phone was emitting a tinny voice and he picked it up.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ he told it, without preamble. ‘Please hang on. It’s really important.’

  Moments later he was advancing cautiously towards Kendra’s brother, the navy fleece, with its red and white logo, held before him, invitingly.

  ‘This’ll be warm, Deke. Come on, take it. Put it on.’

  Although Deacon looked longingly at the garment, he made no move to reach for it, but neither did he move away as, approaching as if to a nervous horse, Matt drew closer. Finally, stepping slightly to the side, he held the fleece up and Deacon obediently slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves.

  ‘Good. That’s better,’ Matt said.

  ‘Matt?’ The word was spoken on a note of discovery.

  ‘That’s right. What are you doing out here, Deke?’

  Deacon looked away across the darkened landscape and, for a moment, Matt thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, through chattering teeth, ‘I had to try and find her.’

  ‘Who? Kendra?’

  Deacon shook his head.

  ‘The girl. She was pretty – really pretty. She was dancing.’

  Matt was touched by dread.

  ‘Do you mean Sophie, Deke?’

  ‘Sophie … ?’

  ‘The dancing girl. Was her name Sophie?’

  Deacon looked away again.

  ‘Where’s Frannie?’

  ‘She’s with Kendra,’ Matt said, beginning to shiver himself. He wasn’t sure whether Deacon’s slightly irrational state of mind was the result of too much medication, or not enough. ‘They’ve gone out for the evening. They’ll be home later.’

  ‘Frannie’s kind. She’s my favourite.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit in the car and I’ll see if I can get Frannie on my mobile,’ Matt suggested. ‘It’ll be warmer in there.’

  The temptation was to try and lead Deacon back onto the subject of the dancing woman, but he wasn’t at all sure it was either wise or in the lad’s best interests. As it turned out, his thoughts drifted back that way w
ithout prompting.

  ‘She wouldn’t wake up,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ Matt’s heart began to thump heavily.

  ‘The dancing girl. She had pretty hair – long and blonde. She sat down and went to sleep. I didn’t know what to do.’ He turned towards Matt and there were tears running in sparkling trails down his thin face. ‘She wouldn’t wake up.’

  ‘So what did you do, Deke?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to her. She looked so pretty, dancing.’ Then, with a sudden shift, ‘I was smoking – you won’t tell them, will you?’

  Matt assured him that he wouldn’t.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I like you, Matt. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?’

  ‘Of course not. Why? Who’s hurt you, Deke?’

  Deacon’s face screwed up like that of an upset child and he started to walk again, turning away from the car and its promised shelter.

  ‘Niall said I mustn’t talk about it.’

  ‘Has Niall hurt you? What has he done?’

  ‘He took care of her.’

  ‘Took care of the girl?’

  Deacon nodded.

  ‘He says I mustn’t talk about it or I’ll be locked away. He says he’ll tell everyone I’m mad and they’ll take me away. Can he do that?’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘No, of course he can’t,’ he said, with more conviction than he felt. Delafield could certainly set things in motion – cause questions to be asked – but, unless Matt was very much mistaken, the minder would be just as reluctant to have his charge committed to an institution as Deacon would be to go. If Matt’s suspicions were correct, then just under the troubled surface of the youngster’s mind were memories that could have Delafield consigned to a cell for a good few years to come. Took care of the girl, did he? Hefted her body over the side of the bridge and down into the undergrowth, more likely.

  ‘When did he threaten you?’ he asked. ‘Was it today? Is that why you ran away?’

  ‘Yes. No. It was the dream … Oh God! I can’t get it out of my head.’

  Deacon’s hands flew to his temples and he stopped so abruptly that Matt passed him and had to turn back.

  He saw the lad’s fingers curl tightly into his dark hair and heard the tormented groan that he uttered.

  ‘It was horrible,’ Deacon said brokenly. ‘And I keep thinking – what if it wasn’t a dream? What then? What if I really killed Benjy without even knowing it? What kind of person does that make me? Oh, God, I wish I could just remember, instead of seeing things – pictures – that don’t make sense. It’s like it’s all there on the edges of my mind but, when I try to look at it, it slides away. What’s the matter with me?’

  Matt was way out of his depth, but he felt that, whatever Deacon had or hadn’t done, this wasn’t the best time or place to try and exorcise his demons. He put a hand on the lad’s arm, but the contact made Deacon jump as if an electric shock had passed through his body.

  ‘Come on,’ Matt urged gently. ‘Come back to the car, Deke. There’s nothing that can’t be sorted out.’

  Deacon shook his arm free, moving sideways a pace.

  ‘You don’t understand. I loved Benjy. How could I do that? How? And the girl – she’s in my head, too, kissing me, smiling at me. I thought she liked me.’

  In spite of himself, Matt said, ‘And then what happened?’

  Deacon tilted his face to the night sky, where windblown scraps of cloud scudded across the darker vault. One or two stars showed, and a three-quarter moon.

  ‘She smelled wonderful. I tried to hold her, but she pushed me away …’ He put a hand up to his face again, running his fingers down his left cheek.

  Matt remembered the stinging blow Sophie had dealt Jamie.

  ‘Did she slap you? Is that what happened?’

  ‘I pushed her and she sat down. I only wanted a kiss. She wanted it, too – didn’t she? She was so pretty, and now … now she’s dead.’ Deacon’s gaze dropped to Matt’s face, his eyes gleaming in the light from the distant car. ‘Was it me, Matt? Did I do it? I can’t remember.’ His voice began to rise in an apparent agony of frustration. ‘I can’t bloody remember! Did I kill her? Oh God, I wish all this stuff would get out of my head and leave me alone!’

  Deacon started to walk again, weaving from side to side as though drunk, but nevertheless swiftly putting distance between himself and Matt, who stood helplessly watching him go.

  He was rapidly moving beyond the reach of the car’s headlights and, fearful of losing him completely, Matt decided to go back to the vehicle and bring it closer.

  Breaking into a run, he retraced his steps and slid behind the wheel of the idling MR2. Shutting the door, he shifted the gear lever into first and was about to pull forward off the verge when a glow in the rear-view mirror signalled the approach of another vehicle.

  Hoping that it was either Brewer or Delafield, Matt lowered the side window and signalled for it to slow down, trusting that the driver would see his hazard warning lights and pull up alongside.

  It didn’t.

  Barely slowing to pass Matt’s car in the narrow lane, a four-wheel-drive vehicle whooshed by, its full-beam headlights instantly picking out the moving figure on the brow of the hill, the red and white target on his borrowed jacket bobbing with each stride.

  Matt’s first thought was to thank God that he’d loaned Deacon the highly visible fleece, his second, bewilderment that the other driver didn’t appear to be slowing at all.

  ‘Slow down … For God’s sake, slow down!’ he muttered. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Frantic, he leaned on the car’s horn, watching with growing horror as the vehicle rapidly closed on the walking man. Whether Deacon heard the warning or not, Matt would never know. The bulk of the 4x4 hid him from view in the last few moments before – with no attempt to brake – it hit the youngster with a sickening thud that was clearly audible where Matt sat, frozen in his seat, some sixty or seventy yards away.

  15

  ‘No!’

  Matt’s cry was worthless, coming eons too late and going unheard by anyone but himself. Seconds later, he was once more out of his car and running to the scene of the collision, still struggling to believe that the driver of the 4x4 hadn’t seen Deacon before he had run into him. Had he been on the phone perhaps, or fiddling with his radio? Whatever the case, reality was in the motionless form at the side of the road, its outline just visible to Matt in the glow of the vehicle’s reversing lights as it backed up.

  The 4x4 stopped, slightly slewed across the lane, a few yards from Deacon’s body, and, as Matt drew nearer, the driver’s door opened and someone stepped out, but instead of immediately hurrying to see what – if anything – could be done for the casualty, he stood stock-still, with one hand on the door, watching Matt’s approach.

  Shock, Matt supposed, slowing as he reached the scene.

  ‘What the hell were you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Didn’t you see him?’

  Deacon lay partly on his side, face down in the frosty grass of the verge, with one arm outflung and both legs hideously misshapen, the thigh bones curving impossibly.

  ‘Ring for an ambulance!’ Matt instructed, and then knelt down, wishing he had a torch. The moon was free of cloud now, but Deacon was in the shelter of the hedge and his face and upper body lay in shadow. There was no way Matt was going to move him; Kendra’s brother was in a pretty good approximation of the classic recovery position, and experience with racing falls had taught him that you don’t touch if you don’t have to.

  Putting a hand lightly on Deacon’s chest, he felt the shallowest of rise and falls, and, giving up on the silent bystander who still hadn’t moved, he unzipped his jacket and reached into the inside pocket to find his own phone, only to remember that it was lying on the passenger seat of the MR2.

  A beam of light fell on Deacon’s face, and, with renewed hope, Matt looked up. The 4x4 driver had foun
d a torch and was coming closer.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Not yet, but he will be if we don’t get an ambulance here!’ Matt told him, urgency rendering his voice sharp. ‘I haven’t got my phone.’

  The torchlight transferred to Matt’s face, catching him full in the eyes.

  ‘Get that bloody thing out of my face!’ he snapped, blinking.

  ‘He’s wearing your jacket,’ the voice beyond the light said in a faintly accusing tone.

  ‘Yeah, well he was cold,’ Matt replied unthinkingly. ‘Look, have you got a mobile or not?’ He was beginning to think he was dealing with a second case of mental imbalance. Surely everyone had a mobile phone these days; certainly you’d expect the driver of what appeared to be a fairly modern Land Rover to have one, so why on earth didn’t he use it to call for help?

  The driver ignored his question, and the light stayed, infuriatingly, on Matt’s face.

  He stood up.

  ‘Phone … ? All right, I’ll get mine. Look, don’t just stand there! Have you got anything to put over him? He needs to be kept warm but, whatever you do, don’t move him.’

  ‘You’ve fucked everything up now!’

  The driver’s voice was vehement, but so low that, for a moment, Matt wasn’t sure he’d heard the words aright over the noise of the wind. He paused in the act of turning to run back to his car.

  ‘You what?’ he demanded, squinting against the torchlight which was still shining in his face.

  ‘Giving him your fucking jacket! What did you go and do that for?’

  ‘I told you – he was cold. He only had a tee shirt …’ As he began to speak, recognition came to Matt. The slightly gruff tone, the Land Rover, the fact that the man had recognised what was, after all, a fairly new coat – the man with the torch was Niall Delafield.

  Suddenly, the full, chilling significance of his remarks was borne home to Matt. Delafield had meant to hit the running figure; and not because he’d thought it was Deacon but because, in that distinctive jacket and having just passed the MR2, he had mistaken him for Matt.

  Almost involuntarily, he took a step back, glancing down at the motionless body at his feet. What to do now? The very fact that Delafield had drawn Matt’s attention to his mistake augured badly for the future. By not attempting to pass the deed off as an accident, he had, in effect, signalled his intention of finishing the job.