Requiem for a Dealer

by Jo Bannister

  By now they had crossed the coomb onto Menner Down and Peyton Parvo, not a light lit, lay in the blackness below. ‘How are we going to handle this?’ asked Daniel. ‘If we get there before Jack?’

  Brodie considered. ‘I suppose that depends on whether we get there before Kant. If we do, I suggest we bluff it out. Say Jack sent us back for Alison because he needs our statements down at Battle Alley tonight. If Mary’s on her own she won’t challenge that. It could be true.’

  ‘And if she isn’t alone?’

  ‘That could be harder,’ admitted Brodie.

  ‘Maybe you should stay in the car,’ suggested Daniel in a low voice. ‘Then if it all goes pear-shaped you can call for help.’

  ‘Help’s already on its way,’ she retorted brusquely. ‘And what the hell makes you think I’ll hide in the car while you and Ally are in danger?’

  He tried what had served before. ‘You have Paddy to think of.’

  She curled her lip at him. ‘That only worked because it was an animal. This time it’s my friends in danger. You don’t really think I’ll stand back and watch?’

  ‘No,’ Daniel said honestly.

  ‘I should bloody well think not,’ sniffed Brodie.

  Her first instinct was to leave the car out of earshot of the yard. But subterfuge would immediately cast doubt on their cover-story. Whereas if they seemed casual and tired and a little irritated, if Alison herself had not been having parallel thoughts and jumped too eagerly through the escape hatch, above all if Mary Walbrook was alone, they would get away with it.

  But there was no way to be sure what they would find. If they could talk Ally out of the house they would. If they couldn’t, it was impossible to know how this would end. At least Deacon knew where they were, and why, and was – she was sure of this – on his way. And anyway they had to try. With the girl in imminent peril and no sign of the relief column, they had to try.

  Brodie cast Daniel a last sidelong glance before they got out of the car. ‘What do you think? Can we do this?’

  ‘If we have to.’

  She had just one last snippet of advice. ‘Remember, it isn’t lying if it means getting her out of there without a fight.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ he retorted sharply. Then, relenting: ‘It’s in a good cause. I can lie in a good cause.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘Probably. At least … Oh what the hell,’ he snorted, ‘let’s find out.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Talking loudly, grumbling about the inconvenience, they presented themselves at Mary Walbrook’s front door and knocked. There were still lights on in the flat: they were unsure if that was a good sign. Brodie raised her voice and called up, ‘It’s only us. I’m sorry to disturb you again but Jack’s sent us back for Ally. He wants statements from the three of us tonight.’

  She wondered if that would serve. Would Mary Walbrook know that by jack she meant the head of Dimmock CID? But if she made it clearer and less casual, wouldn’t it be obvious that she was using his name as a weapon? She decided, on balance, this was one of those occasions when less is more.

  Anyway, they were about to find out. They heard steps on the wooden stairs inside, then the door opened. It wasn’t Alison, as Brodie had hoped, but at least it wasn’t Kant. Mary Walbrook was wearing a disapproving frown. ‘The police want to talk to Alison again? Tonight? She’s exhausted, she’s on her way to bed.’

  ‘I know,’ said Brodie apologetically, ‘I was heading for mine as well. But they’re adamant. They need the statements as the basis for a warrant.’ She had no idea if there was any truth in this but the words had the ring of authenticity.

  The woman gave an irritable sigh and stepped back from the door. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. Alison,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘you have to get dressed again. You’re needed in town.’ She turned and led the way back upstairs.

  For a second Brodie hesitated to follow. But success was within reach, she wasn’t going to jeopardise it now. She set her jaw and went on up, Daniel at her heels.

  Right up to the moment that Walbrook opened the living-room door and Alison was inside pulling on her sweater, Brodie half expected to be jumped from behind with a guttural yell of “Achtung!” They hadn’t wasted much time, either getting here in the first place or getting back, and the vet was on foot when he left Sparrow Hill. But he could have hijacked a car within minutes, in which case it was conceivable that he’d got here first.

  But Ally was climbing into her clothes, not gagged with parcel-tape and roped to a dining chair, so it seemed he was still on his way. With luck, there’d be a reception committee waiting when he got here, but the main thing was to get Ally away. ‘Step on it,’ growled Brodie, ‘the night’s not getting any younger.’

  Ally looked up in surprise at her manner. ‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t Mr Deacon say he wanted statements before we left Sparrow Hill?’

  ‘Because he had other things on his mind. Because he doesn’t see why anyone should get some sleep when he’s not going to. I don’t know: ask him yourself But get a move on, because I really, really want to go home.’

  ‘OK – I’m coming.’ Ten minutes after they trooped up the narrow stairs they were trooping down them again, and then they were outside and still no one had raised an objection. ‘Mary,’ the girl said over her shoulder, ‘I’m sorry about all this. Thanks for your help. I’ll call you in the morning.’

  ‘Sure,’ yawned Mary Walbrook. ‘I’ll be here.’

  And then they were in the car, with the lights of the yard swinging round behind them and the darkness of the Downs sweeping in.

  Daniel let out a breath he’d been holding, or thought he had, for ten minutes. ‘Well, that was easier than I was expecting.’

  ‘It didn’t feel that easy,’ muttered Brodie, wiping a dew of sweat from her lip.

  Framed in the mirror, Alison’s face was a study in puzzlement. ‘What are you talking about?’

  There was no reason not to tell her now – or only one, and Brodie was too tired and enervated to be kind. ‘She’s part of it. With Windham and the vet. We think it was Mary who killed your father.’

  The silence grew like a balloon, stretching and growing thin until an explosion was only a breath away. Daniel twisted in his seat, reaching for the girl as if his gaze had been a steadying hand. ‘I’m sorry, Ally. We could be wrong about it but I really don’t think so. That’s why we had to get you out of there. It was nothing to do with Detective Superintendent Deacon. We think Kant’s on his way there now. We didn’t want you to be there when he arrives.’

  Her thin young face was a battleground for all the different kinds of information she was processing. Anger and a sense of vindication over her father; disbelief, shock and grief over her friend, because betrayal on that scale is a kind of bereavement; and a tremulous relief at how closely she had shaved disaster again. The poor girl couldn’t decide if her guardian angel was working overtime to keep her safe or should be sacked without a reference for letting her get into these situations in the first place.

  Daniel said gently, ‘It’s over now. You’re safe, and the people who hurt you are going to pay. It won’t bring your father back, but at least his murder won’t be swept under the carpet.’

  She began to cry. Soft as snowfall, desolate as a lost child. After a moment Daniel touched Brodie’s arm, and she stopped the car and he climbed into the back with the sobbing girl and put his arm around her. Brodie drove on.

  The road crossed the black maw of Ship Coomb and turned along its flank, heading for Dimmock and the sea. Brodie felt her eyes closing, had to shake herself awake. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she said aloud, ‘and we’ll be home.’ But no one answered. On the back seat Alison had stopped crying and was resting on Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel too was drowsing, his yellow head parked protectively over her dark one.

  A fog was coming up from the Channel, smearing the bright steel of the moon-shot water and t
urning the pinprick lights of the distant ships to shades of pink. The outlines of the hills were growing fuzzy. The road ahead had a strange amorphous quality in the rosy headlights so that she couldn’t see for sure which way it turned. She was driving slower and slower, trying to puzzle it out. The steep-sided little gorge was too close to the offside wheels to risk guessing. Her chin bounced off her chest again.

  Something was wrong.

  She steered Deacon’s big car to the side of the road and put on the handbrake. Even to herself her voice sounded odd, thin and breathy. ‘Daniel, you’re going to have to drive. I’m not feeling very well.’

  When there was no reply she tried again. ‘Daniel, wake up!’ But he didn’t, and neither did Alison. With considerable effort she turned in her seat and prodded his knee. But he was miles away, with no prospect – perhaps with no means – of returning. It took almost more strength than Brodie had left to get back in her seat.

  Her mind wasn’t working well but it was working better than her body. When she had the answer she let out a hollow little moan. ‘Oh, you bastard!’

  So Kant had reached Peyton Parvo ahead of them. Alison hadn’t seen him because Mary had packed her off to bed while the man worked at dismantling the secret factory. When he was finished they’d have dealt with her together before vanishing into the night.

  But he’d heard their car return, seen them go to the door and heard what they said to Walbrook, and he’d guessed what it meant: that the time he’d thought they had to get out of the area was in the process of shrinking. Possibly to just a few minutes.

  What he couldn’t know was whether Daniel and his tall friend had already alerted the police to their suspicions or were waiting to see what they found at the yard. So much had gone wrong already today that they might have been reluctant to cry “Wolf?” again, were simply acting on their own initiative. Which raised the attractive possibility that he could, by silencing them, regain his lead, those eight hours before any of them would be missed that was his buffer against disaster.

  He’d had to think quickly, but he’d already proved adept at that. When they went up to the flat he’d slipped a Trojan Horse into their car. Something simple, unsophisticated but effective. Something he’d have with him: ether or chloroform would do, but probably the tranquillizer that all this was about would too. Somewhere under the seats was a rag soaked in the stuff. He’d thought she’d crash the car and solve all his problems at a stroke.

  Well, she hadn’t. She’d brought it to a controlled halt, and if she could open the window or door she could probably get enough fresh air in here to revive herself. If she couldn’t, there was possibly enough vapour to kill them all. On these roads at this time of night, the chances of being rescued by a passing Samaritan were vanishingly small.

  Deacon’s car had electric windows. She couldn’t remember where the switch was. She’d used it a dozen times, but now that it mattered she couldn’t find it. She dipped the headlights and washed the windscreen, but the windows remained resolutely shut. She tried to open the door instead.

  It was ridiculous. The handle was right there at her elbow. Brodie couldn’t lift her arm enough to reach it. She watched her hand twitch laxly in the hazy moonlight and knew they were all going to die here if she couldn’t make it do what she wanted.

  She concentrated as she’d never concentrated before. Each muscle in turn she identified in her mind and issued with its instructions. Her upper arm to pull her elbow back. Her lower arm to drop her hand down beside her thigh. Her wrist to rotate and put her fingers where they could snare the handle, and the fingers themselves to lock onto it and pull. And pull. And when nothing happened, to pull harder. She felt a wetness on her face that was the tears of frustration. Salvation was inches away – but death was right here, in the car with them, and she was the only one left awake and she hadn’t the strength to save them.

  And then she felt the dull click through her fingers that was the lock turning, and the door edged away from her. Just a centimetre or so – but a centimetre all the way up, and it let the night air in. She inhaled. It tasted of champagne.

  Then there were lights behind her, the deep throaty rumble of an engine, footsteps and someone standing beside the door. She tried to turn her head, to explain. No words came. Never mind, she thought, how much explanation does it need? You find three people unconscious in a car, you don’t start a discussion, you call an ambulance.

  As long as he doesn’t shut the door again while he’s waiting for it.

  He didn’t. He opened it a little further. He said, in a soft guttural accent, ‘You must be Mrs Farrell. And’ – looking in the back – ‘Miss Barker and my friend Mr Hood. All my favourite people in one car.’

  Brodie had been in desperate situations before, but never so desperate or so helpless. She couldn’t have got out and run if he’d held the door for her. She couldn’t have fought him off if he’d tied one hand behind his back. And she was in the best shape of the three of them. All their lives depended on her.

  We are so dead, she thought.

  And she was afraid – God knows she was afraid – but the fear was not the enormous, smothering, crippling burden she might have expected. Almost as if, finding it too big to deal with, her mind put it on one side with a note attached suggesting she try again later. A sort of promise to herself to be really, really frightened if she was spared to be. In the meantime she was preternaturally calm, analytical even, finding refuge from a terrifying, and brief, future in a last attempt to manipulate the present.

  She said – whispered, rather, even the power of speech was failing her – ‘You don’t have to do this. Keep moving. They don’t know where to find you.’

  ‘Well, that may be true,’ Werner Kant replied amiably. ‘Or it may not. You may have informed the police of your suspicions before attempting to rescue Miss Barker. In any event, clearly they were not close enough to help. So perhaps you are right. For myself I do not need to do this.

  ‘But Mrs Farrell, a man has obligations to his friends. You recognise this: you would not be here otherwise. I have obligations to my friends also. This regrettable incident, which cannot be laid at either of their doors – Miss Walbrook is even now speaking to Dimmock Police Station, notifying them that you are on your way, while Mr Windham has the even better alibi of being in a police cell – will seriously damage the case against them. Detective Superintendent Deacon may find himself in that most trying situation for any policeman, of knowing much more than he can prove.’

  He failed to hide the satisfaction in his voice. But then, he wasn’t trying very hard.

  Also, of course, his superiors will remove him from the case. It would be improper to allow him to continue with an investigation which has cost the lives of his mistress and her friends. A man, even a policeman, must be allowed to grieve.’

  Brodie was no longer thinking straight enough to judge if his optimism was well-founded. What she knew absolutely was that it made sense to him, that he wouldn’t be dissuaded by appeals to his conscience, his better nature, even his sense of self-preservation. He’d thought the ramifications through quickly, because there hadn’t been much time available, but thoroughly enough to satisfy himself as to his best course of action. He wasn’t going to reconsider now.

  Which at least spared her from spending her last dregs of energy arguing with a man who wouldn’t be moved. She wrinkled her lip at him. ‘Bastard.’

  He had a rag ready. He wafted it close to Brodie’s face – not close enough to leave its mark on her skin – and she felt her consciousness slipping once again.

  Kant reached past her to make some adjustments in the car – turning the wheel to the right, taking off the handbrake. Then he opened the boot and removed something from behind the back seat. Then Brodie heard the vehicle behind her rev up and felt the jolt of a soft collision. Mary Walbrook’s Land Rover, she supposed, the bumper padded to avoid damage to Deacon’s rear-end. Deacon didn’t go in for runabouts, his car was
big and it was solid – but nothing short of a bin-lorry would be big and solid enough to resist a Land Rover.

  Kant was right, Deacon would know this wasn’t an accident. Losing three witnesses in one car crash was the sort of bad luck that would make even a very bad policeman ask questions. It had been a long day, and anyone could fall asleep at the wheel or misjudge a turn in someone else’s car, but the circumstances were such that murder was a much more likely cause. But what could he prove? Only that, if they were run off the road, it wasn’t by either Johnny Windham or Mary Walbrook.

  Her mind slowing, Brodie had just enough awareness left to realise she had under-estimated these people. She’d thought they wouldn’t risk faking another accident and so would run rather than fight. Now it was too late she knew that Mary Walbrook had no intentions of fleeing. She was talking to Battle Alley in the full knowledge that the time, duration and place of origin of her phone call would be recorded and refute absolutely any attempt to blame her for the crash. By the time the remains of Deacon’s car and its passengers were found and squad-cars were squealing to a halt in the yard at Peyton Parvo, there would be nothing left to find there. Kant would have finished removing the evidence and moved on. By the time of Alison’s funeral, at which Mary Walbrook would be the prime mourner in a smart new hat, he would have re-established the factory in some anonymous lock-up somewhere, with enough catalyst in the three plastic canisters recovered from Gretl to pay the rent for about a thousand years.

  Brodie fought the creeping paralysis, struggled to use her last moments of will in defiance. If she could steer … if she could pull on the hand-brake … But her hands stayed limp by her sides, deaf to the urgings of her brain.