Reflections

by Bannister, Jo

  Chapter One

  After the man stormed out, trailing clouds of fury and despair, the woman took a moment to compose herself. A moment was all she needed. She had dreaded losing her youth, her looks, her waistline and her ability to turn heads merely by entering a room, but there was this compensation: she no longer cared what other people thought of her. She had never been a slave to public opinion; now she acknowledged it only for the pleasure of outraging it. If she went too long without giving offence she tried harder. As long as she could still turn heads, by one means or another, she knew she was alive.

  Except that, in the diamond core of her being where she was as ruthless with herself as with everyone else, she cared what Robert thought. She knew she owed him better than this. Those who presumed to judge her were one thing, she had no reservations about frightening their horses. But her husband was a good man, a kind man, and he’d tried to make her happy. His failure was less a reflection on him than on her.

  The faint flush that their argument had brought to her cheek had subsided before the door, slammed in his departure with all the force of Robert Daws’ substantial frame, had done trembling. Serena gave a faintly wistful sigh. Anyone witnessing the scene would have thought she enjoyed humiliating him—that she’d taken pleasure and satisfaction from throwing her infidelity in his face. And it was true that things had been quiet lately, and a good knock-down, drag-out fight got the blood flowing in a way that few other things did. But pleasure?—no. Beneath the brilliant, brittle, reckless facade there was still a significant portion of Serena Daws who was her husband’s wife before she was anything else. Because, despite her monstrous behaviour towards him, she did actually care for Robert.

  He didn’t know that. How could he?—she did everything in her power to hide the fact. She treated him with a scorn of which pretty young men were only a symptom. How could he know that none of them meant more to her than sweat-stains on a crumpled sheet? That she courted them not for their own attributes—their pretty faces, their strong young bodies, their arrogant adolescent lust—but precisely because of the effect they had on her marriage. Robert was a successful man, a wealthy man, widely respected for his business acumen—a leading light of a world to which she had no access. And Serena wasn’t prepared to be merely a decoration on his arm. Serena never played second fiddle to anyone.

  In company she referred to him as The Grocer. It need not have been offensive. Grocery was his trade as it was his father’s, and he had no reservations about admitting it. He liked groceries, wished he got the chance to wear his white coat more often. It was the price of success: you turn a handful of south coast shops into a national chain with a London head office and you hang up the white coat and immerse yourself in balance sheets. But a grocer was what he was, what he was proud to be. It was Serena’s particular genius that she could turn the word into an insult.

  Like the insults, the flirting began as a game. When on social occasions she caught him cloistered with other captains of the packet goods industry, discussing transport costs and import regulations and the latest moves in the Banana Wars, she retaliated by homing in on the most attractive man present. Then people would chuckle, and someone would nudge Robert, and he’d bow out ruefully from the debate on raisin futures and pay her some attention. At that time they both went home satisfied: she content in the admiration she attracted, he in the envy he did.

  Somewhere along the line the game developed a momentum of its own. When Robert became inured to her flirting it became necessary to do more than flirt; when secret lovers lost their power to hurt him she began to flaunt them. They became locked in a cycle of pain and punishment that neither seemed able to break. That neither could see for what it was: two people who actually still loved each other increasingly unable to demonstrate the fact.

  Now they were reduced to this: playing parts in a pantomime. Serena wasted her time bedding boys she didn’t want in order to hurt the man she did, and Robert pretended to be indifferent right up to the point where he lost all control.

  Oddly enough, that was the moment at which they might have stepped back from the brink: when Robert came out of the kitchen with tears streaming down his broad face and a carving-knife snatched from the cutlery drawer in his hand. Perhaps if he’d tried to stab her; if she’d screamed; if they’d suddenly seen what they were doing to one another. But even at that point he sublimated his rage to a harmless gesture. His clenched fist rose and fell, rose and fell, sweat pouring down his cheeks along with the tears as he reduced her paintings to gaudy ribbons.

  And Serena laughed. In the heat of the moment she was proud of that heartless laugh. “What’s that meant to achieve?” she demanded. “Stab me—kill me. Go after Nicky if you think he’ll stand still long enough. But a picture? Dear God, Robert, it’s only a bit of paint and canvas. There are a dozen others in the cupboard; and if there weren’t I could run up another tomorrow. They’re not great art, they don’t take months of painstaking work. They just take a few brushes, a bit of paint, and someone with a body worth looking at.”

  Her head lifted arrogantly. “Or is that why you find them so offensive? Am I only supposed to look at you like that? I have news for you, my dear. I never looked at you like that.”

  Which was when he choked on a sob, and threw the knife at her—not like a weapon but as he might have thrown a cup; it clattered harmlessly on the floor at her feet—and turned and hurried away, his cumbrous body denying him even the consolation of a dignified departure.

  The voice of Serena’s heart cried to her to go after him; warned her she’d gone too far this time, urged her to make amends while there was still a chance—if there was still a chance. But it was a small and muffled voice and she ignored it. Her blood was up, and she was still surfing the adrenalin-wave of the passion she’d provoked.

  She looked at the ruined canvas and chuckled bleakly. At least by savaging her latest venture into life-painting he’d saved her the embarrassment of hanging it. Serena had no illusions about her skill as an artist. Her technique was good but she didn’t inject enough soul into her work ever to graduate from the ranks of the merely competent. Perhaps she didn’t have a soul. She painted not because she admired the results but because she enjoyed the process.

  She wandered through the studio, picking up brushes and tubes of paint thrown or spilled in the excitement, and regarded the damaged canvases thoughtfully, wondering if any of them was worth the trouble of repairing. Objectively, she thought not. But then, Robert would come back; and he’d come into this studio in the little cottage behind their house; and Serena could wring a last drop of satisfaction from the episode by watching his face when he saw the boy who cuckolded him back on the easel in all his youthful glory.

  She plucked idly at the coloured streamers, remembering the animation—the fury, hatred and despair—in her husband’s ruddy face as he slashed. It was the most energy she’d seen him expend in years. Though the painting wasn’t worth the trouble of repairing she would do it. The silver wouldn’t be hard to replicate, and flesh-tones she always had available. And that was about all the thing was: a young man’s body sprawled on a silver sheet, reflections chasing one another through the folds of fabric and flesh. Technically it was accomplished. But even painting her lover she couldn’t seem to instil much passion into it.

  Thinking of the boy—his wariness, confusion, infatuation.

  compliance—brought a tired smile to her perfectly defined lips. She knew herself too well to pretend she loved him. She basked in his inexpert attention, relished the bunch and slide of hard muscles under his perfect skin, enjoyed the urgent thrust of his body into hers. But none of those was the reason for what she’d done. Her only purpose in seducing a pretty, sweaty teenage labourer had been for its e
ffect on Robert. Her husband was genuinely the only man who mattered to her.

  The cottage door creaked. She wouldn’t yield him the satisfaction of turning to face him, went on tidying up in a languid, desultory way. “Something you forgot to say?” There was no reply. Her shoulders lifted in a cynic chuckle. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to apologise.”

  Then she turned, expecting Robert’s tears. Instead she saw the glint of steel: the knife she’d left lying on the floor. Perhaps she should have put it away when she had the chance.

  But she didn’t feel threatened. She laughed aloud, dismissively “Don’t be absurd! Put it back in the kitchen drawer before someone gets hurt. This isn’t a tragedy, it’s a farce.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d misread a situation, underestimated the pain she’d inflicted or the helpless power of the despair she’d invoked. But it was the last.

  Chapter Two

  Hugo Daws had exhausted every other avenue when he turned into Shack Lane, a stone’s throw from Dimmock’s shingle beach, and stopped in front of a curtained window displaying a few discreet testimonials and a slate inscribed Looking For Something? The policeman in charge of the case had sent him here. Daws no longer lived locally, had never heard of Brodie Farrell, wasn’t persuaded that the answer to his dilemma lay behind a burgundy velvet curtain in an unregarded sidestreet of an unfashionable seaside resort. But he was desperate and would try anything before he admitted defeat.

  He had nothing to lose. A little time, a little money perhaps. He was not concerned about making a fool of himself. No one, looking back on these events, would pause to chuckle because Hugo Daws had been reduced to consulting a private detective before abandoning his nieces to council care.

  Although on a Wednesday morning in September there were more seagulls about than tourists, he was unable to park in Shack Lane. He left the hired car on waste-ground round the corner and walked back. As he walked he told himself it wasn’t seedy so much as authentic. Original. Some of these buildings were three hundred years old. So, he suspected, was some of the paintwork.

  At least Brodie Farrell knew how to use both paint and polish. Daws wielded the bright brass knocker on the burgundy front door and waited.

  A woman opened the door: a tall woman in her early thirties with a cloud of dark hair pulled back from her brow and brown eyes that scanned his face for a second longer than he considered polite. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Hugo Daws,” he said, “here to see Mr Farrell.”

  The woman regarded him a little longer, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m Brodie Farrell/’

  Daws blinked. He’d lived in South Africa for twenty years—the feminist revolution had passed him by. The doubts he’d had about coming here returned with a vengeance at the idea of a female private detective.

  He cleared his throat to cover his confusion. “Superintendent Deacon suggested I see you. He didn’t warn me—”

  “Warn you?” The voice was educated and ambivalent. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or about to throw him out.

  “I mean … I was expecting Humphrey Bogart.”

  Brodie Farrell chuckled softly and held the door wide. “Sorry to disappoint you. Jack Deacon said you might call round. Come in and tell me how I can help.”

  He followed her through a tiny ante-room into an office that was hardly any bigger. It held a desk, a chair, a small sofa and a filing cabinet.

  Brodie saw him weighing up her premises. She said candidly, “It was all I could afford when I started up last year. But the business is doing well and now it’s not big enough. I’m trying to acquire the building next door so I can knock through. In the meantime, all I really need is room for a computer and a telephone. A lot of my work I don’t do in the office.”

  “What kind of work do you do, Mrs Farrell?” He’d spotted the wedding-ring.

  “What did Jack Deacon tell you?”

  “He said you find things. Does that make you a private detective?”

  She shook her head, the dark hair tossing. “No. I don’t lurk in alleys, I don’t bug telephones, I don’t follow people to see if their evening class is actually an assignation with a person of the opposite sex. It’s like Jack said: I find things. Things that people have set their hearts on and haven’t been able to track down. A painting by a particular artist, a piece of furniture from a particular period, a silver inkwell to match a set. Going from one dealer to another until you found it would take months and cost you a fortune. I deal with the dealers all the time, I leave them a list of what I’m looking for and they call me. Sometimes it’s bigger things. You want a house that meets particular criteria and the estate agents can’t show you anything? I’ll find you one that wasn’t even for sale until I talked to the owners.”

  She saw his expression and laughed, a clear laugh like a wind-chime. “No, of course I don’t threaten them! There are other kinds of offers you can’t refuse. I closed one deal by moving the vendors into something smaller now they were getting older, making all the arrangements including finding a new home for two Bernese Mountain Dogs. You try getting that sort of service from an estate agent!”

  Hugo Daws was still frowning uncertainly. He was a man in his mid-forties, tall and rangy, and Brodie saw from his tan and his warm coat that he was used to a milder climate. “It isn’t a thing I need finding,” he said. “It’s a person.”

  A shiver ran down Brodie Farrell’s spine: not so much fear as the memory of fear. Her lips pinched to a thin line. “Inspector Deacon”—she hadn’t got used to his promotion yet—“didn’t tell me that.”

  Daws looked puzzled. “Am I missing something?”

  Brodie rubbed an eyebrow with the side of her hand in a wry gesture. “Nothing you should have known. But Jack Deacon knows I don’t look for people, and why. The last time I did it someone got hurt. Maybe it wasn’t my fault, but it wouldn’t have happened without my help—my skill, if you like. I swore I’d never risk it happening again.”

  “I see.” Daws blew out his cheeks, defeated. “Well, I understand your position. If Mr Deacon had told me I wouldn’t have troubled you. Only, I really don’t know where else to go, and I’m running out of time.”

  Brodie regarded him levelly. Behind the stillness of her expression her brain was running calculations. It wasn’t much like last time. Deacon had sent him because he thought she should make an exception for Hugo Daws. He knew and respected her views on the subject. His involvement was as close to a guarantee as she could hope for that Daws was on the level.

  Anyway, no harm would be done by listening to him. She gave a conciliatory smile. “Maybe I’m jumping the gun. Tell me what you need, Mr Daws, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The man paused for a moment, wondering how to say the unthinkable, the unbearable. He decided that quick was better than slow. “My brother murdered his wife. He stabbed her thirteen times with a kitchen knife, then he disappeared. I have no idea where he is or when he’ll be found, but I do know he’s in no position to look after his two daughters.”

  A little tic twitched on his cheekbone. It was the only indication that he was talking about his own family. “My wife and I flew up from Johannesburg as soon as the police contacted me. But I have a business and people depending on me, I can’t stay much longer, and the girls can’t leave the country until matters are settled here. I don’t want them going into care, but the only family they have apart from me and Peris is their mother’s sister, and she and Serena seem to have lost contact years ago. That’s who I want you to find. If she could look after them for a few weeks, then they could come to South Africa with us. We’ll give them a permanent home. It’s what happens to them in the short term that concerns me.”

  Brodie had heard about the case, of course—the public details that were carried in The Dimmock Sentinel and the bits that Jack Deacon had dropped over late-night coffee in her flat when he was too tired to be discreet. She didn’t mind him unburdening himself when t
he alternative was going home with his mind too full to sleep. Heading a murder inquiry only sounds glamorous: in practice it’s long hours full of hard work, dead ends, frustration, anxiety and pressure.

  Jack Deacon was luckier than some in both his superior and his sergeant, but neither would share in the criticism if an investigation went pear-shaped. The buck stopped with Deacon, and there was no one he could confess his worries to if he didn’t bring them to her. When Brodie was married to a solicitor he did the same thing; but there was this difference. Nobody blames the solicitor if a killer remains free long enough to kill again.

  So much of what Hugo Daws had steeled himself to say she already knew; including the answer to her next question. She asked it because it would help her to understand where he stood in all this.“Is there any question about your brother’s guilt?”

  Hugo shook his head grimly. “Not much. No one saw him do it, but that’s about all. The girls heard their parents arguing and saw Robert slash Serena’s painting with a knife. The fight was about a young man—unfortunately she didn’t settle for just painting him. The children were scared and ran off. When they came back half an hour later Serena was dead and Robert had gone. They called a neighbour and he called the police.”

  So the family weren’t trying to believe it was a passing maniac who stabbed Mrs Daws and kidnapped her husband. If they could be realistic about the situation it should be possible to help them without getting drawn into their tragedy. Either she would locate the wife’s sister or she wouldn’t, but no one would expect her to make everything all right again. No one could do that for the Daws family. The best they could hope for was finding a way to live with what had happened.

  A good start would be finding Serena’s sister. Without knowing anything about her, Brodie was confident she could track her down. People were generally much easier than things. They left a paper-trail wherever they went.

  “Mr Daws,” she said, “because this relates to a serious crime I’ll need to check with the police that I won’t be getting in their way. If Inspec … Superintendent Deacon’s OK with it I’ll take it on. So what can you tell me about Serena’s sister?”