by Jo Bannister
‘I said, “Goodnight, Charlie.”’
‘Oh – yes,’ said Voss. ‘Sorry. Goodnight.’
Deacon went on standing there, his hands in his pockets. ‘No,’ he explained with unaccustomed patience, ‘you say that and then you move towards the car park.’
Voss grinned. But it didn't last. ‘Sorry. Mind elsewhere.’
‘Apparently,’ said Deacon. ‘And will you stop apologising? You have nothing to apologise for.’
Voss gave a troubled little snort. ‘That's a matter of opinion.’
‘Selkirk?’ Deacon's tone was dismissive. ‘Selkirk's a solicitor. He thinks policemen should apologise for being born.’
Voss appreciated him trying. ‘All the same, he has a point. I don't know – I don't understand – how I got it that wrong. I keep going over it – the whole thing, everything we were told – and I still can't see where I went off the rails. But I ended up in quite the wrong place. And the consequences of that could have been…’ He shook his ginger head helplessly, unable to come up with a word of sufficient magnitude.
‘Could have been,’ agreed Deacon. ‘But weren't. You made a mistake. It was an easy mistake to make. That kid was certainly being beaten by one of his parents. Forty-nine times out of fifty it would have been his father. You were unlucky -you backed the odds-on favourite and it was beaten by a fiftyto-one outsider.’
‘It's not supposed to be a gamble, though, is it?’ said Voss. He looked and sounded worried. ‘We're supposed to work from what we know to what we can infer to what we can prove, so when we accuse someone of a serious offence we can be pretty sure he did it. We don't go to a jury and say, “There's a strong statistical likelihood this guy did what we say he did.”’
‘You didn't take it to a jury. You were never going to take it to a jury. That's not what was going on.’
Voss's frown was puzzled. ‘The guy was – at least, I thought the guy was – beating up on his twelve-year-old son. We had to do something. All right, it turned out not to be the truth…’
‘You think that's all that saved Adam Selkirk from prosecution? I wish. What was happening to Noah was horrible, but helping him wasn't the name of the game. The main feature was Hyde v. Walsh, and even Selkirk was only a travelling reserve. You were the guy in the changing rooms cutting up the oranges.’
Voss didn't follow. ‘Selkirk was central to both cases – the suspect in one, the main witness for the defence in the other. It seemed reasonable to think that his behaviour towards his son – what we believed was his behaviour – undermined the alibi he was giving Terry Walsh.’
‘It was reasonable,’ said Deacon, ‘and the fact that you were wrong doesn't make it any less reasonable. In fact Selkirk didn't do either of the things you thought he had. He didn't abuse Noah, and he didn't lie for Terry.’
Voss's green eyes flared, astonished. ‘He must have! Lied, I mean. We have four independent witnesses. All right, Susan wasn't going to stand up in court, but there was no way she and Vernon could have got their heads together and agreed a story. Selkirk couldn't have been with Walsh when Bellow was killed. He had to be lying.’
‘What do you know about your independent witnesses?’ asked Deacon quietly.
Voss considered. ‘Well yes, one of them's a drug-runner. But if you want someone to tell you about the criminal underworld it's no use asking a nun. And one's an accountant.’
‘He was Terry's accountant.’
‘Which means he should know what he's talking about.’
‘And now,’ Deacon went on in the same quiet, unemphatic voice, ‘he's Joe Loomis's accountant.’
Voss stared at him with his whole rigid body. ‘What?’
‘Terry and Joe are rivals. However much you want Walsh behind bars, Joe wants it more. And was prepared to do more to make it happen. Like bribe his accountant to say he'd overheard something he hadn't. Terry was seen with Achille Bellow, but that was a week before he was killed. Your Ancient Mariners got the wrong weekend. Bellow was here the weekend of the 17th, and the French police can place him alive and well in Marseilles on the 20th. Terry didn't kill him. Terry couldn't have killed him.’
‘Someone's lying,’ managed Voss, and Deacon nodded.
‘Of course. We knew someone was lying. But it wasn't the brief, it was the bookkeeper.’
Voss was struggling to get his head around what he was being told. His expression might best be described as one of God-forsaken shock. ‘Leslie Vernon works for Joe Loomis?’
‘That's why Terry wanted rid of him. Things he was saying in front of Vernon kept reaching Loomis. When he was sure, he gave Vernon his marching orders. Joe owed him a favour so he put him on his own payroll.’ He gave an amused little grunt. ‘I never imagined Joe Loomis keeping books.’
‘Why didn't you tell me?’
‘I didn't know either, until today,’ said Deacon mildly. ‘But then, it wasn't my case. If it had been I might have thought to look rather more closely at a man who claimed to have heard a very clever villain behaving like a rather stupid one.’
Voss didn't even hear the criticism implicit in that. He was still trying to make sense of it all. ‘What about Susan Weekes? Are you saying Joe Loomis got to her too – got word to her in custody in Dover and told her what story to tell? It's not possible…’
‘I don't think that's what happened. I think she told you what you wanted to hear. I think the questions you asked her suggested the answers you needed. I think, because it confirmed what you wanted to believe, you were more open to what she had to say than you would otherwise have been.’
‘She said she heard Walsh threaten Achille Bellow!’
‘Well, maybe she did. She was working in his wife's casino when Bellow met his unmourned end. I don't doubt Terry had been muttering about him for a while before he got round to putting the frighteners on him, and maybe Susan heard what she says she heard. But think about that interview you had with her. Can you honestly say you didn't prime her – tell her what you were looking for, the dates you were interested in, the whole line of your inquiry?’
Voss thought hard. And then he shook his head. ‘No, I can't,’ he said simply. ‘She asked me what we wanted to know and I told her. And then she gave it back to me. She hardly even changed the wording. We'd have got the same statement if I'd written it myself.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Why didn't I see that? That is such a rookie mistake!’
‘It's another easy mistake to make,’ said Deacon, and in another man you'd have said that was sympathy in his tone. ‘One we can all make any time we start thinking our job is proving our theories rather than collecting evidence. And you weren't the senior investigating officer. Maybe you should have realised what was happening. But your SIO should have prevented it happening.’
Bemused, Voss shook his head. ‘She – we both – wanted it too much. Thought we had a case when all it amounted to was one con trying to bury another, and a terrified woman willing to say anything that might keep her out of jail.’
‘That's about the size of it,’ agreed Deacon. ‘Oh, cheer up, Charlie Voss. It could have been worse. You could have been right about Selkirk, and had to turn a blind eye to what he was doing at home because that was the price of nailing Walsh.’
Of everything that had been said to him, that shocked Voss most. ‘No way! I swear to you, chief, I was never going to do that. There were two approaches we could take and still protect Noah: the discreet way and the see-you-in-court way. But the boy's safety was always paramount. We'd have done what was necessary to achieve it.’
‘I know you'd have tried,’ said Deacon quietly. ‘But I think, if it had come to a straight choice between charging Terry and protecting Noah, the kid would have gone on walking into doors. N o one would have said it was a straight choice, of course. But the serious and organised Ms Hyde had a lot riding on nailing Terry. I think she'd have found a perfectly good argument for keeping a watching brief and not breaking up the family if Selkirk had given her what she n
eeded.’
‘No…’ But a note of doubt crept into the Sergeant's voice. He'd learnt a lot about the big wide world in the last few days. One thing he'd learnt was that Jack Deacon wasn't the worst thing in it.
As if he'd read his mind, Deacon gave a rough chuckle. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Charlie Voss, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. If you'd been right about Selkirk, the point would have come where you'd have had to walk away knowing there was nothing more you could do for Noah. Be glad you were wrong. For once, the consequences of being right would have been worse.’
He could see from Voss's incredulity that he still didn't really believe it. Of course, Voss was a young man. Perhaps he still thought that law and justice and good were all facets of the same jewel. Perhaps he had yet to realise that the one thing worse than a man without a creed is one who'll do anything for the one he has. ‘Go home, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Things will look better in the morning.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Voss.
‘No,’ said Deacon patiently. ‘Go home. The wall will stand up on its own.’
‘Oh – yes.’ Finally Voss headed for the stairs.
When he was sure his sergeant had gone, Deacon headed for Alix Hyde's office. The door was open. He closed it behind him.
DI Hyde had her briefcase and a cardboard box on the desk in front of her. She was putting things into both.
‘Pulling out, then?’ said Deacon levelly.
She flicked him a weary smile. ‘No point staying. He's had too long to organise his defences – we won't sneak past them now. We'll get him. We just won't get him this time.’
‘Can we expect to see you back, then, in another year or two?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Though it might be better if it was someone else. Someone he doesn't know.’
‘I think it would be better if it was someone else, too,’ said Deacon.
She wasn't looking for a fight with him. She'd spent the last weeks avoiding him as much as possible. But that wasn't something she could overlook, or put down to an unfortunate infelicity with words, or take as a joke. She had either to challenge it or to tacitly acknowledge he was right.
Alix Hyde hadn't got where she was by turning the other cheek. Her eyes flared combatively. ‘You blame me for this shambles? For not knowing that the guy giving us Walsh was actually working for his rival? Superintendent, that's exactly why I asked for local support! You said you were giving me your best man. I relied on him to tell me things like that. To know, or to find out. That was a mistake. He's a nice lad, young Voss, but he's not ready to carry that level of responsibility.’
Deacon lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the desk. It was an old desk, solid enough to take him. He considered for a moment before replying.
‘You mustn't think,’ he said carefully, ‘that I don't know what you were doing here. I don't think Charlie does – like you say, he's a nice lad – but I do. I know how you used him. You used him as a flak-jacket. You kept him between you and anything that might blow up in your face. He thought you were giving him a chance to show what he could do. I think he still thinks that – that he let you down. But you and I both know, don't we, Inspector Hyde, that actually he did exactly what you needed him to do. He stood up and drew the fire that would otherwise have come your way.’
She considered denying it. Facing anyone else she would have denied it. Deacon was possibly the only person she would have answered honestly. Not because he was a senior officer, although he was. Not because she was reluctant to lie, because she wasn't. And not because she was ashamed, because she wasn't that either. She'd been playing for high stakes. She'd been given the task of taking an important villain off the streets, and if she'd succeeded everyone would have wanted to shake her hand.
She'd used all the tools at her disposal. Sergeant Voss had been one of them. Detective sergeants were put in the world to be useful to detective inspectors, and Alix Hyde didn't acknowledge any fundamental difference between using them for legwork and using them the way she'd used Charlie Voss. Leaving the ranks of the used and joining the users was possibly the best reason, in her opinion, for seeking promotion.
She let a slow smile spread across her handsome features. ‘The role of footsoldiers since the dawn of warfare, Superintendent.’
Deacon acknowledged that with a rueful little smile of his own. ‘I've always thought that the history of warfare, and its popularity as a sport among the upper classes, would have been quite different if generals had been made to stop shouting Charge! and instructed to shout Follow me! instead.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Hyde, ‘dead officers can't lead an army. And neither can live privates.’
‘You're aware, are you, that this will have damaged Voss's career? That it'll be a question mark on his record every time he's considered for promotion for years to come.’
Hyde shrugged. ‘I don't make the rules, Superintendent. We all have set-backs in our careers – I did, you did. We made mistakes, we paid for them, then we worked hard enough to rise above them. That's how the system works. I'd like to think that what Charlie's learnt from this will serve him well in the long run.’
‘Not to put too much trust in senior investigating officers? To remember that they may be willing to shaft him in order to use his bloody corpse as a shield?’
‘To keep his wits about him,’ said Hyde. She wasn't smiling now. ‘To do his homework. Not to assume that his SIO will have nothing better to do than keep him out of trouble.’
Deacon showed his teeth in a feral grin that had nothing to do with humour. ‘To recognise the fact that not all the ruthless bastards are on the other side. That ordinary decent criminals have a lot to recommend them in comparison to an ambitious police officer.’
‘There's nothing wrong with ambition, Superintendent!’ retorted Hyde, genuinely surprised.
‘Nothing at all,’ agreed Deacon. ‘Until it becomes the reason for doing the job. This job – I've never done any other so I can't speak for them all. But I know this job. I know what it needs. It needs Charlie Voss. It needs Charlie Voss a lot more than it needs you.’
She laughed at that. But the look in her eyes said the nonchalance wasn't entirely genuine. ‘That's a touching vote of confidence in a young man who's still wet behind the ears. Have you told him you see him heading up the Met some day?
‘No, of course not,’ she answered herself, the smile broadening. ‘If he knew you had that sort of faith in him he'd have a bit more in you. Wouldn't, for instance, worry that one day he'll open a door and find you in bed with a con.’
She couldn't have come closer to flooring him without using a baton-round. Among the things Deacon had known were going wrong and those he'd suspected were going wrong, it had never occurred to him that the trust between himself and his sergeant had been under strain. He'd thought, because he was happy with the relationship, the relationship was fine. One reason he'd offered Voss's services to the visiting fireman was that he trusted the dog to come home.
Jack Deacon wasn't a man who trusted easily. It had taken time for him to feel sufficient confidence in Voss to relax with him, to acknowledge – if only to himself – Voss's strengths and to make the most of them. And no, he hadn't told Voss he was the best DS he'd had, even better than no DS at all. He'd thought Voss knew. He'd assumed the young detective was capable of drawing the correct inference from the fact that he did less shouting these days. In truth, he'd made an assumption that generations of men had made before him, if in different circumstances: that if it was good for him it was good enough.
So it came as a blinding shock that Voss trusted him less than he trusted Voss. Of course, Hyde could be lying. It would take almost no effort of will for Deacon to believe she was lying. But Deacon held the truth in almost as high regard as Daniel did. He didn't confuse what was true with what was convenient, and he didn't tinker with it for his own comfort. In spite of which, Hyde had somehow stumbled on a truth he himself had not suspected. Th
at Charlie Voss was unsure whether, if push came to shove, Deacon would do his job or help his friend.
Another man would have staggered under the blow. But Deacon had spent nigh-on thirty years showing people what he wanted them to see and no more. And he didn't want Alix Hyde to know she'd bloodied him. He hid the wound behind a slow, cold smile. ‘Worry is good,’ he said. ‘Worry keeps you on your toes. Worry stops you taking things for granted. I want my officers to worry that one day I might cross the line – that any of us could. That in the right circumstances, any of us is capable of betrayal. I don't want them to think that carrying a warrant card makes us superheroes.
‘I don't want them ever to think that some DI they don't know from Adam – or Eve – has to be honest, decent and trustworthy because she wouldn't be a police officer if she wasn't. I want them to use the same critical faculties, the same standards, to judge their senior officers as they use every day in their work. I want them to be aware that I could cross the line. Knowing that keeps them safe.’
Deacon's lip curled with contempt. ‘You knew Vernon was dodgy from the start. You came here knowing it – knowing what he was prepared to say, but also knowing it wouldn't stand up to thorough scrutiny. But it would serve as a framework on which to hang other evidence. Only, if it came out that was what you were doing, you wanted to be able to show it wasn't you doing it. You steered Voss onto Leslie Vernon like lining up a jet fighter for mid-air refuelling. You knew what Vernon would say when he was asked – all you needed was someone to ask him.
‘Which raises an interesting question, Detective Inspector Hyde. How did you know what Leslie Vernon would say? If this plot to dispose of his rival was hatched by Joe Loomis, how did you know what to ask? Unless you've been ignoring guidelines and best practice and all that crap and conspiring with one villain to take down another.’
If he hadn't known it before, the way Hyde's expression clamped down told him he was right. ‘Say that in front of anyone else,’ she said quietly, ‘and I'll take it all the way to the top. And it'll be your word against mine – you won't find any evidence. There isn't any evidence. But there are people up there waiting for a chance to push the last of the dinosaurs over the cliff and have a fresh start. You're not the face of policing for the 21s t century, Superintendent Deacon – 1 am. You have rank on your side. I have time. And a lot more friends.’
