Breaking Faith

by Jo Bannister

  She was watching him. He was being so careful not to react that she knew she had him hooked. And she wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Cheyne Warren’s in a dip of the Downs. But The Diligence is on top of the first rise to the south, which gives it a sea-view at the front as well as farmland all round. Mr Fry was anxious for a view of the sea?’

  Chandos nodded, still said nothing.

  ‘There are no immediate neighbours so rocking round the clock won’t be an issue. There’s a couple of acres of grounds, half of it woodland, which should be enough trees for anyone. And the property is on two storeys with a cellar underneath. What was the cellar for again?’

  The manager had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘So I can tell the pop press Jared sleeps in a crypt.’

  Brodie forbore to comment. ‘As you see from the pictures, it’s an old property – probably developed from a mediaeval hall house although the earliest reliable record of it is in 1650. But it’s structurally sound: it was thoroughly surveyed at the time of the conversion.’

  ‘And now it’s flats,’ said Chandos, reading the print-out. ‘Eight of them. Won’t that be a problem?’

  ‘A problem, yes, but not an insuperable one. I’ll do the negotiating. Set me an upper limit and I’ll deal with each owner individually. I’ve done this before, Mr Chandos. It takes time, it takes a lot of meetings, a lot of discussion, a certain amount of persuasion and a degree of lateral thinking. But I haven’t been beaten yet. If Mr Fry wants The Diligence, I’ll get it for him.’

  Chandos was still thinking. ‘What an odd name for a house.’

  Brodie had wondered about it too. ‘Apparently it was the name of the stage-coach that crossed the Three Downs. It was The Diligence Inn, then it was The Diligence Hotel, and when they did the conversion they just called it The Diligence. You could change it but it is a piece of history.’

  ‘Quite.’ Done thinking, he shut the file and stood up. ‘I’ll put it to Jared. It’s the closest we’ve come to what he wants. I’ll get back to you tomorrow. If he goes for it, can you arrange a viewing?’

  For what she was going to make from the purchase of The Diligence Brodie would have arranged for the current residents to swing naked from the jettied upper storey. ‘Leave it to me.’

  Chapter Three

  When word got out that Brodie was negotiating the purchase of a property for the dark lord of demon rock, a number of totally predictable events occurred.

  Small gangs of teenagers, biased towards the female by a ratio of two to one, gathered in Shack Lane, and nudged one another until a volunteer knocked on her door to offer their combined savings in return for the address. They trickled away disconsolate when she explained, with a restraint Daniel would have admired, that Jared Fry was paying her even more than £16-30 to protect his privacy.

  Then Tom Sessions from The Dimmock Sentinel arrived to ask the same question. He didn’t offer her money, and didn’t sulk when she gave the same answer, but he did point out that it wouldn’t be long before someone sold the story to the London papers and when they did he’d be back. She promised for old times’ sake that she’d talk to him before she talked to anyone else, and on that note they parted amicably.

  Every estate agent in Dimmock snubbed her in the street – except Edwin Turnbull, who regarded her as a man might who’s been let down by a favourite niece but can’t bring himself to disown her. These days Mr Turnbull wasn’t just an estate agent: he was someone whose specialist knowledge and reckless courage in opening his front door at two in the morning helped save a woman from certain death. His picture was in the paper. His wife Doreen bought a dozen copies and sent them to everyone she knew. He owed that to Brodie Farrell, and she’d have to do worse than come between him and a potential client, even a rich one, to forfeit his goodwill.

  Eric Chandos came down from London once a week to discuss progress over a meal and a bottle of something pretentious. Jack Deacon, who in recent months had become so nonchalant with the idea of a good-looking woman making room in her life for a bad-tempered policeman that he was starting to take her for granted, reacted sourly the first time Brodie cancelled their regular night out at his favourite restaurant because it was the only time Chandos could see her. The second time he was, if anything, grumpier.

  Negotiations to buy The Diligence proceeded as smoothly as a transaction involving eight residents, a free-holder and a purchaser could be expected to. The development company which owned the freehold and had wanted to build more flats in the stable-yard was happy to sell up. It had not anticipated resistance to its plan and was glad to walk away before its profits went on legal wrangling. Of the eight householders, four signalled their willingness to sell right away while three held out for a better offer. The last, who seemed genuinely reluctant to leave his flat, finally caved in when his fellow residents, keen to get their hands on the money, made a pariah of him. Brodie promised to find him something equally desirable and leave him with cash in his pocket, but sullenly he declined. He intended to invest in a business and live above the shop.

  With the deal finalised it was inevitable that the news would break. Brodie persuaded Chandos to give Tom Sessions an interview and he got it into print twelve hours before the London tabloids, which left The Sentinel basking in self-admiration for a month.

  The day after The Sentinel broke the story the chairman of Dimmock Architectural Heritage Society – the indomitable Mrs Fitch-Drury, sixteen stone of well-meaning thuggery surmounted by a silly hat – cornered Brodie on the Promenade and hugged her, oblivious to the sniggers of onlookers or the surprise of Brodie herself.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, somewhere between a boom and a chortle, ‘I’m not what you’d call a Rock Chick myself.’ She managed to pronounce the capital letters. ‘Given the choice I would not have put an important historic property into the hands of a man who puts obscenities to music for a living. But at least he won’t be building more flats, and one owner has to be better for The Diligence than nine.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ said Brodie, struggling for breath. ‘I think you’re right. I doubt he’s gone to so much trouble to buy that kind of property in order to change it into something else.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ avowed Mrs Fitch-Drury stoutly.

  Brodie smiled and moved on. ‘Well, round it,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Or maybe a fly-over …’

  On the first of April ownership of The Diligence passed to Jared Fry. His manager took Brodie out to lunch and settled her account en route to Cheyne Warren to set the builders and decorators to work.

  ‘Have you much work to do before you move in?’ Brodie had been too busy dove-tailing the various deals to worry about the decor.

  ‘Not really. I want to get Jared’s rooms ready before he sees them but everything else can be done once we’re in.’

  Brodie wondered if she’d misheard. ‘You mean, before Jared sees them again.’

  Chandos’s smile was no less attractive on longer acquaintance. ‘No. He hasn’t been there yet.’

  Brodie blinked. ‘Eric – I know what The Diligence cost him. Are you telling me he hasn’t actually seen it?’

  ‘He’s seen pictures,’ said Chandos calmly. ‘And the specs and all the rest of it. But he’s been busy, he hasn’t had the chance to get down.’

  ‘I hope he’s going to like it,’ said Brodie fervently.

  ‘Of course he’ll like it,’ Chandos assured her. ‘And if by any chance he doesn’t …’

  ‘He’ll buy another one somewhere else?’

  ‘No – level it and build a nice block of flats.’

  He was of course joking. Brodie was almost sure.

  The builders completed Fry’s quarters in three weeks. The decorators painted out all sign that they had been there, then stencilled sigils over the paint; then painted over the stencils because Mr Chandos said Mr Fry was a demon rocker, not a fortune-teller.

  On the first Friday in May Brodie w
as closing up when she found the white Mercedes parked outside her door again. She peered through the tinted glass and Eric Chandos nodded back.

  ‘I’ve cashed the cheque,’ she said by way of greeting.

  He chuckled. ‘It’s all right, we haven’t found rats in the cellar or a ghost in the attic – and we’d probably have paid more if we had. I’ve brought an invitation.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Brodie was already weighing up in her mind if she could get away with standing Deacon up again now her job was done.

  ‘We’re having a party at The Diligence tomorrow night. Jared wondered if you’d come.’

  ‘Jared did?’ Not once in the months she’d worked for him had they met.

  ‘Certainly. He appreciates people who do a good job.’

  It’s always nice to hear a compliment. Brodie just found it hard to believe a man with Fry’s resources ever accepted second best. ‘I’m glad he’s satisfied. But I rather assumed he always was.’

  ‘Mrs Farrell, there are huge advantages to being rich – it may not make you happy but you can be miserable in real comfort – but there are drawbacks too. One is that a lot of people can’t resist trying to cash in. They know you’ve been massively successful at something but still they take you for a fool. When you find someone who does exactly what she promised, doesn’t try to spin the job out or negotiate a whole range of creative add-ons, and doesn’t just happen to have a friend who writes for the Sunday papers, you remember. In the short term you ask her to your house-warming. Longer term, you keep her number for next time you or someone like you needs someone like her.’

  ‘I am good at what I do,’ agreed Brodie with a winning lack of modesty. ‘And I do like a good bash. But won’t I be the only one there whose party-frock didn’t start life as a shroud?’

  Chandos laughed out loud. One of the reasons he courted Brodie Farrell’s company was, of course, that no man minds being seen with an attractive woman. Another was that she continually surprised him. She didn’t state the obvious. She kept him on his toes.

  ‘There are two things to remember about the music industry,’ he said. ‘First and foremost, it’s theatre. Jared Fry on stage and Jared Fry in his own kitchen are two different men. Catch him when he’s not spitting obscenities and french-kissing a microphone and there’s a lot about the guy to like. Well, some things. The publicity stunts are exactly that – stunts, for publicity. “Demon Rocker Ate My Gerbil” is news. As a headline, “Demon Rocker Feeds Gerbil Before Putting In A Long Day At The Recording Studio” just hasn’t the same impact. Off-duty, guys in bands are a lot more like everyone else than they like to admit. On the whole, demon rockers check their shrouds at the stage door.

  ‘And the other thing is, the guys on stage are the tip of the iceberg. For every one vomiting into his drum-kit there are gangs of managers, technicians, roadies, publicity people, sponsors, record producers, DJs, journalists and celeb-collectors everywhere they go. You’ll fit in fine. Usually, the one who looks most like a fish out of water is Jared.’

  Brodie didn’t need much persuading. ‘I’d love to come. Can I bring a friend?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Chandos. ‘I’d like to meet Detective Superintendent Deacon.’

  A doubtful eyebrow scaled Brodie’s forehead. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. We’ve only just moved in, Brodie, the police can’t possibly want us for anything yet.’

  ‘Um – I’m just flying a kite here,’ murmured Brodie, ‘but policemen aren’t always the most popular guests at functions where the intoxicant of choice may not come in bottles.’

  His eyes were measuring her, assessing her. It should have been an unpleasant experience – he was not merely undressing her, he was checking the labels on her underwear – but the lick of his gaze evoked a response that startled her. Almost a thrill. She felt herself purring like a stroked cat. When she realised she was coiling her body round his wing-mirror, shocked, she hauled herself up straight. She had nothing against flirting, but usually it was a conscious choice.

  Chandos’s brown-velvet voice was low, provocative. ‘I thought the police force of today wasn’t going to concern itself overmuch with substances kept for personal use.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ grimaced Brodie. ‘Well, that’s the problem. Jack doesn’t hold with this Policing For Today lark. Part of his soul hankers back to when hanging really was considered too good for criminals so they were drawn and quartered as well. Asking Jack Deacon to turn a blind eye to recreational drug use would be like asking a man-eating tiger to settle for a nut cutlet.’

  Amusement made Chandos’s eyes sparkle in a quite extraordinary way: at once knowing and surprised, warm and slightly dangerous. Brodie had to check she wasn’t crawling in through his window again. ‘Bring who you like,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there from about ten. Come early: Jared wants to meet you.’

  ‘Isn’t he staying?’

  ‘Yes. But after midnight he transmits better than he receives.’

  Brodie stood back from the car. She glanced down at its perfect lines and pristine paintwork. ‘I thought black was the colour of choice for demon rockers.’

  Chandos gave a delicate little shudder. ‘I’m not a demon rocker and I never was. I’m a businessman. I make good deals. Pass me a guitar and I’ll only hold it the right way up eight times out of ten. But pass me a road map and I’ll put together a tour that’ll have a band playing for more hours to more punters in more cities than anyone else in the business. I can’t tell Jared Fry anything about entertaining people, except this: you’ve got to reach them where they are.’

  ‘And the white car?’

  He shrugged offhandedly. ‘It was what they had.’

  ‘When you walked into the showroom.’

  ‘Well …’

  She had him on the run. ‘So how long did you wait for it?’

  Eric Chandos knew he was beaten. All right! Three months. I fancied white. I don’t see any point blending into the background. I can afford a car like this, I want to make sure people know. Does that make me a bad person?’

  Brodie grinned and walked away. Over her shoulder as she went she called, ‘Ask me again when I’ve known you longer.’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  Daniel shuddered. ‘Brodie, I can’t. There’ll be hundreds of people there. You know I can’t do crowds.’

  They were in Brodie’s kitchen. She left what she was doing and sat facing him across the table. ‘You see, I think you could. Now. At least, I think it may be time to find out.’

  ‘Last time I tried I lost it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Totally. My old headmaster had to knock me down and sit on me.’

  Brodie had heard. ‘That’s a while ago now. Also, it was where you used to work, a place you weren’t free to get up and leave when you needed to. This would be different. We could leave if you started feeling uncomfortable.’

  ‘I feel uncomfortable just thinking about it,’ he confessed.

  She smiled. ‘You’re not getting off that easily. Look, I don’t need an escort to go to a party. If you don’t come, it won’t ruin my evening. I just see it as an opportunity. You’re a lot better now than you were six months ago. Restaurants, pubs, the supermarket – ordinary crowds in everyday situations don’t bother you any more. Maybe it’s time to find out what else you can cope with now that you couldn’t have done six months ago.’

  ‘A party?’

  Brodie nodded. ‘It’ll be noisy, but there’ll be no one there you know and no one’ll care if you want to go out in the garden for a bit. No one’ll notice if we go home after half an hour.’

  Behind the thick glasses Daniel’s pale eyes slid out of focus. She knew he was trying it out in his head, wondering how far he could get before panic set in. She thought he was surprised at his lack of anxiety.

  ‘But a party,’ he complained after a minute. ‘I don’t do parties. I never did. Even before …’

  He didn’t finish the sentence; but then, he didn’t have to. Da
niel Hood’s life changed utterly a little over a year ago. Before he’d even heard of Brodie, though not before she’d heard of him. On certain readings of the facts, what happened to him was largely her fault. When she started Looking For Something? she would undertake to find anything, including people. It never occurred to her to wonder what might happen to the young man in the grainy photograph if she managed to trace him for her client. Seeing him clinging to life in a hospital bed, a bullet-wound in his chest and his body pock-marked with burns, was what changed her mind about finding people.

  These days they hardly spoke of it. They talked endlessly about everything under the sun, but not that. That didn’t mean either had forgotten; and, though Daniel had long ago forgiven her, Brodie had not forgiven herself. It wasn’t the reason for their friendship but perhaps it explained its importance, to both of them. And why Brodie’s motives on this occasion were genuinely unselfish.

  ‘You must have gone to parties when you were at college.’ As far as she could remember, Brodie’s university years consisted almost entirely of the things.

  ‘Not really. I mean, I used to meet people in bars and bedsits and places, but the object was to talk. Exchange ideas. You can’t do that at parties. You can’t hear what people are saying. I always ended up in the kitchen, washing glasses and talking mathematics to a girl in sensible shoes. I gave up parties after the first term.’

  Brodie sighed. ‘That was your chat-up line, was it? Mathematics?’

  ‘I’m a mathematician – what else? Fermat’s Last Theorem slays them every time.’ He gave a wry, self-deprecating grin.