Relief wiped some of the creases off Hugo Daws’ brow, but not all of them. “Not much,I’m afraid. I’ve never met her. Her name is Constance, but whether she’s still Constance Ward or if she’s married I don’t know. She’s a couple of years older than Serena—thirty-nine, maybe forty. The family were local, they had a house at Peyton Parvo, but it was sold years ago and all the older generation are gone.” He gave a rueful smile. “It’s not much to go on, is it?”
Brodie didn’t like making what she did sound too easy, but the man was desperate for reassurance. “It’s surprising what you can find when you look in the right places, Mr Daws. I can’t give you a guarantee, of course, but if you’re a betting man you might risk a little flutter. Leave it with me for a couple of days. When I speak to you again I’ll have a better idea how feasible it is and how long it’s likely to take. How long can you stay in England?”
Hugo shrugged under the coat that would have seen him through a Dimmock winter and looked rather absurd in mid September. “Not much longer. I’m an architect, I have clients and colleagues waiting for me. But my wife’s willing to stay for a couple more weeks in the hope that something can be sorted out.”
Brodie nodded. It was one thing to say you should drop everything in an emergency, another actually to do it. Hugo had come six thousand miles at a few hours’ notice to try to help his nieces. Perhaps he thought he could have done more but Brodie didn’t. She thought he’d done all that could reasonably be expected of him. “Where are you staying?”
“Sparrow Hill. My brother’s house.” He jotted down the address and phone-number: as he passed her the note he saw surprise in her face. “The girls wanted to stay,” he said defensively. “They’ve lost so much already, they didn’t want to be homeless as well. And the—murder—didn’t happen in the house. It seemed less disruptive to stay than to move them elsewhere.”
Brodie nodded her understanding. “There aren’t any absolutes in a situation like this, are there? You just have to go with what feels right; and failing that, what’s possible/’
The man stood up, extended his hand in a way that wasn’t fashionable when he last lived in England.“Thank you for your time. I’m feeling a bit more positive already.” He started to turn, then stopped. “Something occurs to me. It’s a long shot but you might be able to help. I need a tutor for the girls. Serena was teaching them—putting them into school now would be a major trauma, but they can’t just do nothing.”
Brodie smiled brightly. “I bet Jack Deacon didn’t tell you to ask me that.”
Fresh misgivings etched themselves on Hugo’s brow. “No, he didn’t. Why?”
“Because I have a friend who does that sort of work, but he’s not Superintendent Deacon’s favourite person. Not for any reason you need worry about—it’s purely personal. They’re two quite different types of men and they’ve never been able to see eye to eye. But I could tell Daniel about your situation, see if he can help, if you like.”
Hugo pursed his lips, momentarily embarrassed. “I’m sorry, you’ve rather taken me by surprise. I was looking for a woman—perhaps a retired schoolmistress?”
Brodie nodded again. “If you’d prefer. I don’t know anyone off-hand but I can make enquiries. Though I have to say, man or woman, you’ll be doing well to find someone as well qualified as my friend Daniel.”
“Why do you say that?”
She hesitated a moment. It was no one else’s business; except that maybe, just a little, it was Hugo’s. And it wasn’t as though it was a secret. “Because Daniel knows about pain. It makes him the ideal person to help your nieces deal with theirs. Listen, why don’t you meet him? If you’d still rather hire a woman he’ll understand. But when you talk to him you might agree with me that you’ve been lucky to find him.”
“Daniel?” said Hugo doubtfully
“Daniel Hood.”
Chapter Three
Brodie rang the number of Marta’s flat, above her own. Daniel was lodging with Brodie’s Polish neighbour while his house was rebuilt. Since Marta was a music teacher working from home it wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it was the best they could think of at short notice. They’d imagined he’d be under his own roof again by the end of the summer. But four months after the fire Daniel was still waiting for his roof to go on.
No one answered the phone, so Marta was shopping and Daniel was down at the shore. Brodie reached for her jacket. “This way, Mr Daws. He’s probably arguing with his builders—let’s go and cheer him up.”
A short walk took them down Fisher Hill to the Promenade where they turned right towards the pier, a finger of black timber pointing sullenly out to sea. Brodie indicated the tar-boarded netting sheds. There used to be three of them: now there were two and a building site.
“What happened?” asked Hugo.
Brodie considered. “Some people blamed him for something that wasn’t his fault. They burned him out.”
The tall man broke his stride and stared at her, appalled. “This is the man you’re recommending as a tutor for my nieces?”
She bristled slightly. “Daniel did nothing wrong—ask Jack Deacon. Or if it makes you nervous, forget it. It’s nothing to me, I’m not his agent. He’s a friend, that’s all. And a good teacher, and a good man.”
Hugo thought for a moment. Then he shrugged awkwardly. “I suppose, while we’re here, we could say hello.”
Dimmock was not one of the south coast’s leading resorts. It couldn’t boast miles of sandy beach, smart hotels or a marina full of gin-palace cruisers. It had a stony shore, a derelict pier and a crazy golf course, and the general feeling was that anyone who wanted more excitement than that should be in Acapulco.
It also had, until comparatively recently, a small fishing fleet. The boats were launched by tractor straight from the beach. EEC grants and factory fishing put an end to that, so now all that remained were a rotting hulk by the pier and the netting sheds, two-storey structures built on the shingle just out of reach of the fifty-year wave. Four months ago the one nearest the pier had provided a pleasant flat with unrivalled sea views for a single man unburdened by too many possessions.
Now it provided him with not so much a hobby as a magnum opus—the restoration of a traditional building using materials that satisfied both the eye and the Building Control Officer, in the hands of builders whose answer to every problem was, “Whack a bit off that breeze-block.”
There were half a dozen men on the site this morning but Brodie had no difficulty locating Daniel. Partly because in any group of men he was likely to be the shortest; partly because of his yellow hair, bright as sunshine; but mainly because of something it was hard to put into words. He was a twenty-seven-year-old maths teacher with the gentle manner of a curate and the stature of a fifteen-year-old boy, yet somehow he had a presence. He stood there on the stony shore, spare frame wrapped in an old guernsey, yellow hair batting in the breeze against the thick round lenses shielding his pale grey eyes, and Brodie felt she should be worried about the tough, bluff, street-wise builders walking all over him.
But she wasn’t, and the reason was that Daniel Hood could hold his own against anyone not actually armed with a shot-gun. He was intelligent, articulate, and as quietly determined as a raindrop is to reach the sea. If he said he wanted Scandinavian pine for the weatherboarding, Mr Wilmslow of Wilmslow Construction might as well stop arguing that a lick of black paint on larch-lap would look the same and start telephoning Norwegian timber-merchants.
“Daniel!”
He heard her above the hiss and chink of the shingle and turned, his plain round face already framing a smile. Brodie beckoned. “Mr Daws and I are going for a coffee. Join us—he may have a job for you.”
He looked interested. Then he looked at his work-grimed sweater. “I’m not dressed for eating out.”
Brodie sniffed. “Actually, I heard Claridges had dropped their plan to take over The Singing Kettle.”
Daniel grinned and they trooped across t
he promenade together.
Daniel read The Sentinel too. He knew who Hugo Daws was as soon as he began his account. “How can I help?”
“Mr Daws needs a tutor for his nieces,” said Brodie. “Their mother was teaching them at home.”
“How old are they?”
“Juanita’s fourteen,” said Daws. “Emerald’s eleven.”
Brodie bit down on a laugh. But Daniel had taught a Marilyn Monroe—children’s names had long lost their capacity to surprise him. “Are you thinking of this as a permanent arrangement?”
Hugo shook his head. “I want to take them back to Johannesburg when I can. It shouldn’t take more than three months, it might be less. But it’s too long to leave them to their own devices. It’s not even the education they’re missing, it’s the lack of structure to their day. I think it would help to restore some semblance of normality.”
Daniel thought so too. “I’ve no one coming for tutoring at the moment. It’s too early in the school year: parents don’t start panicking till after Christmas usually. The only thing I have to do is keep an eye on progress across the road. Otherwise I can fit in with whatever hours you have in mind.”
“According to the girls, they work for four hours in the morning and finish at lunchtime,” said Hugo. “Your afternoons would be your own.”
Daniel nodded amiably. “Then I’m at your disposal. I’m a maths teacher really, but I can cover the physical sciences up to GCSE, and given a few hours with the textbooks I could keep them ticking over in the rest of the curriculum. Except sport: I know nothing about sport. And cooking. And languages too, actually, but I’ll have a go. If their French is better than mine they can teach me. If you want to give it a try.”
From the pause that followed it was clear that Hugo still had reservations. He was honest enough to say what they were. “I was really looking for a woman. You know, with them being girls…”
Daniel nodded again. “That’s reasonable. I taught mixed classes, I still take pupils of both sexes, but if you’d be happier with a woman I’ll ask around, see who’s available.”
It was almost impossible to talk to Daniel Hood for any length of time and not like him. Hugo was already wondering if his reservations were anything more than bigotry. “Can I ask where it was you taught? And why you left?”
Brodie looked away. But it was an entirely appropriate question that Daniel was willing to answer. “Dimmock High School. I was there for almost a year—talk to the principal before you make a decision. I quit because of an accident that left me with a stress problem. I hope to go back sometime.”
“An accident?” Hugo suspected he was being rude, but he was responsible for the well-being of two young girls and before he left them with anyone he wanted to know they’d be safe.
Daniel smiled gently. “I bumped into a sadist.” He explained what had happened; at least, as much as had been in the papers.
They continued talking over the coffee and scones, and it struck Brodie that although the job had not formally been offered, in fact the deal had been done. She was glad. She thought it would be good for Daniel—not only financially.
though she knew the rebuild was proving an economic strain, but in terms of easing him back into full-time employment. She believed it would be good for the girls too. They were inside a nightmare: who better to guide them through it than a man who had rebuilt his own life, brick by brick, recently enough to remember how?
Daniel said, “We’ll need to clear it with the girls. Are you going back there now?”
Daws nodded. “Do you want to follow me up?”
“I don’t have a car.”
The tall man blinked. Of course, he came from a land where distance was measured not in miles but in hours or days. “All right, I’ll bring you back when we’re finished.”
“And I’ll come over tomorrow morning,” said Brodie. “I need to look at Serena’s belongings for any clues to Constance’s whereabouts.” She checked her notes. “Poole Lane. That’s off the Guildford Road, yes?—a couple of miles out of town.”
Hugo nodded. “There’s a farmyard opposite the drive. Once you turn in you’ll see the house.”
“A big house, is it?” asked Daniel. His experience of big houses hadn’t always been happy.
Hugo shrugged. “Fairly big. It was a good house in its day, but the land was sold off generations ago and it went quietly downhill for a hundred years.
“When Robert—” He stopped, as if just speaking his brother’s name had been a breach of taste. Then without prompting he set his jaw and continued with what he had been about to say. Brodie respected that. She knew it took more guts than simply changing the subject. “When Robert turned a modest family business into a retail empire he did the place up. But I don’t think he’s done much with it recently. The paint’s beginning to flake again.”
“Was it your family home?” asked Brodie.
The tall man nodded again. “I grew up there. When our mother died twelve years ago Robert decided to keep the place and moved his family in. That was the last time I was home until… this … happened.”
“It must have come as a terrible shock,” said Brodie quietly.
“It did,” Hugo said simply. “But I’ve wondered since if it should have done. I knew they weren’t happy. I knew Robert was driven to despair sometimes. He’s a quiet man, a gentle man, but even gentle people can be pushed over the edge if someone’s determined to do it.
“At first I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t imagine the circumstances that would make a murderer of my kind, considerate brother. Now I’ve come to terms with the reality that Robert stabbed his wife, but I still can’t get my head around the fact that by doing so he abandoned his children. Whether he skipped the country or stayed and went to prison, that was the inevitable result of what he did. He thought the world of those girls, and they of him.”
“Perhaps he was just too distraught to think through the consequences,” murmured Brodie. “He felt betrayed and struck out in blind anger. If there hadn’t been a knife handy he’d probably have slapped her face. Of course he’s responsible for what he did, but not for the situation he found himself in.”
“He killed her!”
“I know. But he’s not the first decent man to do something terrible. We think murder is the ultimate crime, and in a way it is. But it doesn’t need a criminal to commit it. A momentary loss of control and a handy implement—a kitchen knife, a golf club, a flight of stairs—and someone’s dead who ought to be getting a severe talking-to, and someone who ought to be getting tea and sympathy is a killer. I can’t imagine resorting to blackmail, extortion or robbery. I can imagine striking out in pain and fury and finding myself on a murder charge.”
Hugo Daws met her gaze. He wasn’t sure if it was the truth, but if it was a lie he appreciated it. “I was fond of Robert. I still am. I know what he’s done can’t be mended or forgiven, but I can’t bring myself to blame him. I blame her.”
“That’s what families are for,” agreed Brodie. “Loving unconditionally. Believing in us when we’re least worthy of it.”
Until quite recently Jack Deacon’s idea of a social life had been a pint after work with Charlie Voss. Mostly they did this when he needed someone to bounce ideas off and the overtime allocation didn’t stretch to doing it in the office. He thought Detective Sergeant Voss was unaware of this. In fact, Voss not only knew what was going on but actively encouraged it. In order to hear Superintendent Deacon think aloud about an investigation he’d not only have stayed late without being paid, he’d have brought the beer.
Getting to know Brodie Farrell had expanded Deacon’s horizons immeasurably They went out for meals, went home for coffee; occasionally she dragged him round an art gallery or to the theatre; occasionally he dragged her on a three mile walk across the downs, at the end of which he was just getting into his stride and she was exhausted. She hadn’t seen him as an outdoors man. He was a Londoner, as she was, despatched to Dimmock by su
periors who, since they couldn’t stop him being offensive, had thought to put him where there was no one important to offend. He’d caused considerable irritation at Divisional Headquarters by solving some high-profile crimes and winning promotion.
Not that Brodie was the first woman he’d known. He’d had girlfriends before; he’d even married one of them. That was a long time ago and he wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. For living with he was pretty well satisfied with his cat, a vast malevolent tom called Dempsey But it was a nice change that sometimes when his phone rang it wasn’t someone’s brief uttering veiled threats, or his own superiors uttering overt ones, but an attractive intelligent woman seeking his company for lunch.
Even in the middle of a murder inquiry a man has to take nourishment. He opened Voss’s door and said, “I’m going for something to eat. I’ll be back in an hour. If you need me before that—”
“I know,” said Voss, nodding his ginger head. “The little French place in Bank Lane.”
Deacon smiled complacently. “I was going to say, tough.”
He had a fair idea why Brodie wanted to see him and she quickly confirmed it. “Hugo Daws called with me this morning. He wants me to look for Serena’s sister. I said I’d have to check with you first.”
“By all means,” said Deacon, buttering his roll. “If I had the time I’d look for her myself. I don’t want him to take the girls out of the country—they’re my witnesses, I need to be able to talk to them; when I find Robert the court will want to hear from them. But I don’t want to see them in care either. No, you find their aunt if you can. If I can help I will.”
“I thought I’d go up to Sparrow Hill tomorrow and take a look at Serena’s things. She may have some old letters, photographs, something like that.”
“We didn’t find anything helpful. But then, that wasn’t our priority. Go ahead, we’re finished at the house.”
Reflections Page 2
