by Jo Bannister
‘Anything to do with drugs is motive enough for murder,’ Voss agreed grimly. ‘Because of the sheer amount of money involved. But this happened three months ago. Why are we only seeing Scram appearing now?’
Deacon took a slow draught of his shandy. He thought it was a girl’s drink, but since he rarely considered himself off-duty he seldom took enough alcohol to affect his performance. ‘Partly because it took time to set up. To establish the factory, secure supplies of the catalyst and perfect the means of sneaking it past Customs. And partly because, when Barker & Walbrook went to the wall, Windham Transport damned near followed. He lost a lot of business, is only now starting to pick it up again. Maybe he couldn’t get enough horses to justify keep going to Germany. Maybe there seemed no point putting the stuff on the street until he could be sure of getting regular supplies.’
Voss was slowly nodding. ‘Well, he seems to be doing regular business now. And he’ll do more if he’s carrying for Mary Walbrook again. Also, if he was responsible for Barker’s death he’d have had to put everything on hold while it was being looked into. He’d have wanted the dust to settle before he starting taking any chances again.’
‘You keep saying he,’ said Deacon. ‘But this can’t be a one-man operation.’
Voss hadn’t thought about that. Now he did he saw Deacon was right. ‘It takes someone to get hold of the catalyst – a vet, maybe, or someone working at the pharmaceutical plant. Someone to smuggle it in – say Windham. And someone to turn out the pills. Three of them.’
‘Two would be better,’ mused Deacon. ‘With two of you, if something goes wrong you both know who’s to blame. With three, you never know for certain. The vet would be familiar with pharmaceuticals. Maybe he provided the instructions and Windham knocks the things up when he’s at home.’
Voss chuckled. ‘You make it sound like a flat-pack sideboard.’
Deacon glowered at him. ‘Less levity, more detecting, Charlie Voss. What do you think – is it time I interviewed this man?’
‘Brodie went to see him a few days ago,’ said Voss helpfully.
As soon as it was out he knew it was a mistake. Voss had heard it from Daniel: it didn’t occur to him that Brodie might not have told Deacon. What did they talk about on their long evenings in? Somehow Voss couldn’t imagine Deacon passing them the same way he and Helen Choi passed theirs.
‘She did what?’ The restraint in the superintendent’s voice was like the inertia that stops avalanches falling on Swiss villages, right up to the moment that they do.
It was too late for anything but the truth. ‘She made up some story about wanting to import a pony from Germany. To establish whether Windham Transport is a genuine business or just a front.’
It was a valid question: Deacon wished he’d thought to ask it. But what he wished above all else was that Brodie Farrell would stop behaving as if what he did for a living was some kind of a game – anyone could have a go, a talented amateur could always beat a jaded professional, first to collect three Spot The Blagger cards wins a Get Out Of The Morgue Free token.
‘And?’
‘He wanted her custom. Offered her a good deal – which was rather awkward since she didn’t actually have a pony. So she put him off. But she had no doubt that he’s open for business.’
Deacon was pondering. ‘Does that necessarily mean transporting horses is his only business?’
‘If you’ve found a way of packing drugs into your vehicle that a good sniffer dog can’t crack, I suppose it doesn’t matter what you’re carrying as well as long as you’re carrying enough to justify your journeys. So the more business you get, the better. It would be worth undercutting your competitors to be sure you always had horses to move in the right part of the world.’
‘It would, wouldn’t it? Do you know, I still think I want a word with Mr Windham.’ Deacon curled his upper lip.
‘Actually, I want a word with Brodie too.’
‘I have to talk to Jack about this,’ said Brodie. Through the windows of her eyes her mind was racing visibly. ‘He’s been worried sick about the arrival of this new drug from Germany. Scram – the thing Alison took.’
‘I didn’t take it,’ said Ally through clenched teeth.
‘Whatever,’ said Brodie dismissively. ‘He’s been trying to find how it’s coming in. I wonder if he’s thought of a horse-transporter.’
‘I dare say he has,’ ventured Daniel. ‘I don’t expect HM Customs & Excise have failed to notice the smuggling potential of a large lorry with a live cargo.’
‘No.’ A shade reluctantly, Brodie had to concede the point. Anything she could think of – probably anything Deacon could think of – the likelihood was that Customs had thought of months before, and the smugglers a month before that. But there was a body of coincidence building up that she could no more ignore than Deacon could, hammering out the same arguments with Voss half a mile away in The Belted Galloway. ‘So he’s being cleverer than that. How? What could he be doing that would be cleverer than hiding drugs in the bodywork of a horse lorry?’
‘Having nothing to do with drugs at all,’ said Daniel firmly.
‘Well yes,’ agreed Brodie, ‘and that may still be the answer. But somebody’s bringing this stuff in, they seem to have some connection to this area, they seem to have contacts in Germany and also with the veterinary trade. It might not be Windham, but it could be. It would explain some things.’
Alison didn’t much like Brodie Farrell. She wasn’t alone in that. Women tended to find her a bit too competitive, a bit too successful for comfort. She was outspoken and she didn’t much care what people thought of her, and she didn’t even try to hide the fact. On top of that she was what men called a looker – not pretty, no one had ever thought of her as pretty, she went straight from gawky adolescence to stunning – and were drawn as wasps to a honey-trap. Women didn’t like that about her either.
What Alison didn’t like most was how Brodie became the centre of attention in any gathering she joined. It happened automatically, didn’t seem to be an effect she planned or worked for; she didn’t seem to be terribly aware of it at all. But Alison was, and it annoyed her more than she could have explained without sounding childish. All that had sustained her these last months, hovering on the brink of the abyss, was a sense of drama. She knew a day would come when she would be proved right and the doubters wrong. There was a certain satisfaction in that, even if she wasn’t there to enjoy it.
But doubt is one thing, being upstaged another. The moment Brodie walked on Alison felt herself relegated to the part of a supporting actress.
Nor was her resentment in any way soothed by knowing that Brodie’s support was key to finally being taken seriously. Daniel had given her a hearing mostly out of kindness. Kindness was not a significant motive for Brodie, and her opinion was worth more because of it. If Brodie Farrell was persuaded, could Detective Superintendent Deacon be far behind?
So Alison needed Brodie on her side. But she didn’t have to like it. ‘What things?’ she asked guardedly.
‘The fight you walked in on, between Windham and your father. Why were they so angry? Everyone I’ve talked to reckons the odd sick or injured horse is par for the course. So maybe your father was bothered that it kept being him having to explain to a client, maybe he thought Windham could do better – but why were they so angry they almost came to blows?’
Shock dropped through Alison’s expression like bricks off a hod. ‘You think he found out? My God! You think that’s why Johnny killed him?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Brodie, dipping her gaze with uncustomary tact.
‘I never thought of anything beyond the horses!’ gasped Ally. ‘But you’re right, aren’t you? Johnny was using our horses as a cover to bring in drugs. But while he was doing that he let his standards slip and the horses got sick. And Dad didn’t believe it was just bad luck, not time after time, and he kept chipping away at it until he got to the truth. And that was it. Drugs. Joh
nny asked him to keep it to himself and Dad refused. And Johnny killed him.’
Alison had a vested interest in that version of events. It made her disinclined to look far beyond it. But Daniel had seen the reticence in Brodie’s eyes, and asking himself what it was about had come up with an alternative scenario. For a moment he wondered if they should even mention it, or leave the girl with the consolation of her beliefs.
He decided it was little kindness to leave her in a bubble that would be burst, without ceremony or much sympathy, the first time she talked to Deacon about it. Better to put it on the table now and let her get used to the idea in her own time.
‘There’s something else they could have been arguing about,’ he said quietly.
Her thin face was all avid attention, as if he was showing her a glimpse of the Holy Grail. ‘What?’
‘The cut.’
She didn’t understand. ‘What cut?’
Brodie sighed. ‘Well, there were dead horses to be paid for. They could have been arguing about whether that came out of Windham’s share of the profits or your father’s.’
Chapter Fifteen
There’s one thing about being good with horses: it tends to make you bad with people. Different rules apply. If a horse kicks you, you don’t offer to discuss the matter, look for common ground and try to negotiate a means of avoiding confrontation in the future. You retaliate, instantly, so in the small and chaotic space that is a horse’s brain it associates its own action with an undesirable result and minds its manners next time.
It should be noted that not all horsemen, and particularly horsewomen, subscribe to this view. They believe that a horse is entitled to an equal say with its owner and should not be constrained to do anything it doesn’t want to. They believe that negotiation will accomplish more in the long run.
And indeed it will. It’ll accomplish everything the horse wants: long days in the field and an owner who only visits at meal-times, juggling buckets and elbow-crutches with stoic aplomb. Horses are a lot like teenage boys: they’re big and strong, they have a childish sense of humour, and given the chance they always argue. They’re nicest to be with, and also happiest, when the lines of responsibility are clearly drawn so they know what’s expected of them.
Alison Barker had loved her horses dearly, and had got the best out of them, and given them a future in which they would always be valuable to someone, but she hadn’t done it by letting them trample her. Now she didn’t let anyone trample her. Instead of blanching as Brodie’s meaning hit her – and indeed there was nothing subtle about it – she struck out with her fists.
Brodie never saw it coming. She reeled under the first blow, would still have been there for the second but that Daniel flung himself at the girl, wrapping his arms around her, pinning her elbows to her sides. ‘Enough!’ he commanded crisply in her ear; and by degrees her struggles ceased until she was just standing against his chest, the violence contained, only the hatred still radiating from her.
Brodie was almost too shocked to complain. It’s not often a grown woman takes a sock in the eye; unless her nearest and dearest is that way inclined. She pressed the heel of her hand over it and stared, one-eyed and open-mouthed, at her assailant.
‘Now, everybody settle down,’ Daniel said sharply. He pointed a spare finger at Brodie. ‘You too. Honest to God, Brodie, you asked for that. Which doesn’t mean’ – he gave the girl in his arms a shake without releasing her – ‘you had any right to deliver it. Not in my house. You want to scrap, go outside. But at some point you’ll still have to sit down and talk about this, and it might as well be now.’
Ally’s whole body was stiff with resentment. ‘Why the hell would I want to talk to someone who thinks my father was a drug-runner?’
‘Might have been,’ gritted Brodie. ‘Might have been a drug-runner.’
‘And you.’ The girl spun in the compass of Daniel’s arms, staring fiercely into his face. ‘Is that what you think too? It is, isn’t it? That’s what you meant. You bastards! You say you’re my friends, you want to help me, and all the time that’s what you’re thinking! You didn’t know him, either of you. How dare you think that?’
Now her attention was on him Daniel thought the danger of fisticuffs was probably over. At least, he was prepared to risk his front teeth in a way that he wasn’t prepared to risk Brodie’s. He released Ally and stepped back, spreading his hands. ‘A lot of weird things have been happening. But they aren’t really weird. Somehow, to someone, they make sense. We’re just trying to work out who they make sense to and how.
‘And Brodie’s right: one of the possibilities we have to consider is that your father and Johnny Windham fell out when a drugs operation they were both involved in went sour. You want people to believe you? Well, your story makes a lot more sense if there was more at stake than a few horses. A man might certainly be annoyed with someone who was bad-mouthing him to their mutual acquaintances, might even seek an injunction to shut her up, but he wouldn’t dream of killing her. But he just might go that far if he thought she was going to draw attention to a nice little sideline he’d set up importing illegal drugs.’
‘Johnny Windham will do anything that’s in his own interests and he thinks he can get away with,’ Ally said tersely. ‘I’d believe anything of him. What I’ll never believe is that my father was involved.’ Her gaze was sharp, astute. ‘How much of this is just a pretty theory and how much do you actually know?’
‘If you’ll stay in your corner for five minutes I’ll tell you.’ Brodie repeated everything – there was no reason not to – that Deacon had told her. The German veterinary tranquillizer. The factory that was combining it with common pharmaceuticals to produce the powerful party-drug that had already killed two and put four, herself included, in Intensive Care. The fear that this was just the tip of the iceberg: that now the factory was up and running Scram would any day explode onto the streets of southern England leaving devastation in its wake.
‘Why doesn’t he shut down the factory?’ asked Ally, as if that simple solution might not have occurred to anyone.
‘If he knew where it was,’ said Brodie heavily, ‘I’m sure he Would.’
‘What do you mean by a factory? Literally, a big industrial building with smoke coming out of a chimney?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘It might be just a room in someone’s house. Or an outbuilding somewhere. A power supply, water, privacy. You could do it in a flat as long as you didn’t get too many visitors.’
Brodie was watching him oddly. ‘How do you know?’
‘It’s chemistry, isn’t it? A lot of good science is done in chemists’ kitchens.’
‘Well, in this case some bad science is being done there too.’
‘The point is,’ said Daniel, ‘there are too many places where this stuff could be manufactured. Jack can’t search every house within a ten mile radius of Dimmock.’
‘Of course he can’t. Which is why he’s so desperate to find one person who’s involved in this. One person will do. Once he has a way in he’ll get at the truth.’
‘Johnny Windham.’ There was no missing the cat-like satisfaction in Ally Barker’s voice. ‘As I keep saying.’
‘And it may turn out you were right,’ nodded Brodie. ‘In any event, Jack’ll need to take a good hard look now at everything Windham’s ever done or been suspected of, right down to fiddling his income tax and jumping red lights.’
Ally nodded. It was happening – what she’d hung on this long for. ‘Tell him.’
As if telepathy was a new service offered by the mobile phone companies, Brodie’s warbled in her handbag – no one who knew her was surprised that it played “The Ride of the Valkyries” – and it was Deacon. ‘Where are you? Something’s come up. I need to see you.’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ replied Brodie. ‘I’m at Daniel’s. Something’s come up at this end too. Shall we come to you or …?’
‘Stay where you are,’ said Deacon, ‘I’ll be
there in five minutes.’
It quickly became apparent that the two leashes of bloodhounds had converged on the same scent. If that’s a reasonable analogy; if it wasn’t more like one leash of bloodhounds and a Saluki accompanied by a Jack Russell. Over a fresh pot of coffee, which contained rather more stimulant than the shandy Deacon had left undrunk in The Belted Galloway, they compared notes.
Everyone listened carefully to everyone else, but Alison listened to Deacon like Moses taking down the Ten Commandments. When he’d finished she said, ‘Superintendent - are you saying now that I might have been right?’
‘Honest answer, Miss Barker? I don’t know. I want to take a fresh look at the whole business.’
‘Well, hallelujah!’ she declared. ‘You mean, maybe I’m not insane after all?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Barker,’ he said gruffly.
‘Neither would I,’ muttered Brodie, still comforting her eye.
Deacon was looking oddly at her. ‘Yes. What happened to …?’
‘What we were wondering,’ Daniel interrupted hurriedly, ‘was if Windham could be using his lorries to smuggle in this German tranquillizer. If he was doing it when he was supposed to be looking after horses for Barker & Walbrook. If Alison’s father found out, and that’s why they fought and he took his business elsewhere.’
‘Or if they were in it together,’ Brodie said stubbornly, keeping her good eye on Alison and her distance from her.
‘Or if Dad figured out what he was up to and Johnny killed him because of it,’ added Ally, her voice rising as if to meet a challenge.
Deacon blinked and looked to Daniel for an explanation, and Daniel rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘We’ve covered a fair bit of ground in the last half hour,’ he murmured.
Deacon shook his head to clear it and tried to get back to what was, for him, the point. ‘Charlie says you went to see Windham.’ He was looking at Brodie.
‘That’s right,’ said Brodie after a moment, ‘though I don’t know how he knew.’
