by Scott Hunter
‘I’m sure there wasn’t, Mrs Brodie. But although it might have been out of bounds for the boys, that wasn’t the case for staff members. They would have been able to pop in and out on school business – fairly regularly, I would imagine, your mother being the matron.’
‘Of course.’
Jenny joined her hands together, leaned forward. ‘And that would have included Mr Daintree, wouldn’t it, Fiona?’
Silence.
‘Please answer the question, Mrs Brodie,’ Luscombe said quietly.
A nod.
‘For the tape, please, Mrs Brodie,’ Jenny prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes…?’
‘Yes, Mr Daintree did visit. From time to time.’
‘From time to time,’ Jenny repeated. ‘And these visits became quite troublesome, didn’t they, Fiona?’
Mrs Brodie’s lips were compressed into a thin line. Her face had paled beneath the foundation.
‘And in those days it wasn’t so easy to object, was it, Fiona? Mr Daintree was respected in the school. Feared, even. An old-school disciplinarian, his daughter called him. No one would dare question his integrity, his motives, his … predilections?’
Jenny’s voice went on relentlessly. ‘You tried to tell your mother, but she had her job to consider; it was her living, her calling – a lifestyle choice. She’d given everything to the school. It was her home.’
Fiona Brodie’s eyes were lowered now. No eye contact.
‘Eventually,’ Jenny continued, ‘your mother conceded that the only way out of the situation was to resign from her position as matron, just to get you to a place of safety. But by then, the damage had been done. Your mother was ill by then, too, but she had the good sense to understand that you needed help, some serious counselling to help you come to terms with what had happened.’
Luscombe realised that he had been holding his breath. The atmosphere in the small interview room seemed to have contracted, sucked in upon itself, like a star being swallowed by a black hole.
‘But Mr Daintree was never charged, was he, Fiona? In fact, he was never even accused of any misdemeanour. You didn’t make a formal complaint. Maybe it was just too much to bear, after what had happened. Maybe you just couldn’t face the questions, interrogations, court appearances?’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Mrs Brodie repeated, a dry, hopeless statement.
‘But then, out of the blue, Chapelfields receive an application from one Mrs Fowler. Her elderly father has moved to Scotland – but he’s not managing so well on his own any more. She wants him in Chapelfields, where he’ll be cared for. Mrs Fowler is a busy woman, runs her own business. Hasn’t got the time to be a full-time carer. You remember speaking to Mrs Fowler, Fiona?’
‘For the tape, please,’ Luscombe reminded her.
‘Yes. I remember.’
‘So, here’s the name again, after all these years, popping up like a Halloween monster. You must have had a bit of a shock when you realised who Mrs Fowler’s father was, Fiona? When the name ‘Daintree’ was spelled out for you?’
Mrs Brodie moistened her lips.
‘But then … goodness me, a change of plan! Mrs Fowler decides that a better idea would be to move her dad down south. After all, she lives in Berkshire, so it makes sense to apply to a home in her own county. And lo and behold, there’s another Chapelfields in the town of Reading. Perfect.’
Mrs Brodie’s brief shuffled his papers, crossed one leg over the other.
‘But not so perfect for you, Fiona, because you’ve already hatched a plan. You’ve already figured out what Isaiah Marley and his exotic girlfriend have been up to. You’ve already been bold enough to make Connie Chan an offer – one she can’t really refuse, because you’ve told her that if she doesn’t help you you’ll go to the police with the evidence you’ve collected. And as record-keeping, attention to detail and so on is something of a primary skill, Fiona, I imagine you managed to collect a fair bit – photographs, times of Isaiah’s deliveries, whatever. What matters is that you figured out what they’d been up to. And you offered her money, didn’t you, Fiona? An extra carrot, to get a little job done for you.’
‘DC Armitage is showing the suspect evidence folder P1A, item 1,’ Luscombe said.
Jenny pushed the bank statement across the table. ‘A large sum of money was debited from your account ten days ago. We’ve traced the recipient to an account in France. Account holder is one Ms Z Binti. Can you explain the purpose of the transaction, Mrs Brodie?’
‘I … I can’t recall–’
‘You can’t recall? Let me help you, Fiona. You paid a woman, known to you as Connie Chan, to murder Mr Daintree after he’d relocated to Reading. Unfortunately, it all went wrong after the deed, and Isaiah was accidentally killed. Chan wasn’t happy about that. She blames you, and she decides to take it out on your nearest and dearest. Only, perhaps, Duncan can’t really be described in those terms any more, Fiona, can he? Has everything gone a bit stale? Was he thinking about leaving you?’ Jenny raised her voice by the merest sliver of a decibel. ‘And I wonder, were you hoping that Chan would finish him off properly, so you could play the innocent, blame Duncan for Daintree’s murder?’
Fiona Brodie was staring fixedly ahead. Her mouth was open a fraction but nothing was coming out.
‘You spun us a heart-rending story about Duncan, how he was abused at Eagle Court. That incident at the rugby match, the damage to his ear. Needed quite a few stitches, didn’t it? Well, let me tell you, Fiona, that a colleague of ours has had a good look at Duncan’s ear. An injury such as the one you describe would have left a scar, for sure. Guess what? Not a dicky.’
Mrs Brodie’s brief leaned back and closed his eyes.
‘DC Armitage is showing the suspect evidence folder P1A, item 2,’ Luscombe said.
‘A mobile phone, Fiona. What we call a burner. Cheap, disposable. We found this in a room at the Swan Hotel in Petworth. The call history is interesting. There’s a number of missed calls from one particular mobile – yours. We found the burner in Connie Chan’s room, Fiona.’
There was a short silence, broken only by the tick of the radiator as water was pumped through from some unknown cistern elsewhere in the building.
‘What did you expect me to do?’ Mrs Brodie said eventually, her voice barely a whisper. ‘You don’t know Daintree. You can’t know what he did to me. No one will ever understand.’ She shook her head. ‘No one can ever understand how alone I felt. How dirty. How used.’ She looked up and now her mouth twisted into a sad little smile. ‘I’d do it again, you know. I hope he burns in hell.’
‘I think that will do,’ Luscombe said. ‘Interview terminated at eleven-twenty-six.’
CHAPTER FORTY
‘You’ve just been attacked by a madwoman, you’re in hospital, and all you can think about is Duncan Brodie’s ear?’ Luscombe’s voice rose to an incredulous crescendo. ‘Good God, DI Pepper, you’re a case of pure vintage, all right, no mistake.’
‘Is there a reason for your call, DS Luscombe?’ Charlie tried not to laugh, but the tone of her voice was all smiles.
‘Just to say that Fiona Brodie fessed up a wee while ago. Your intel helped us along, so thanks for that. And Jenny did a fine job.’
‘Ah yes, Jenny.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Luscombe asked innocently. ‘Jenny Armitage is an excellent detective.’
‘I’m sure she is.’
‘And that’s all,’ Luscombe said. ‘She’s a respected work colleague.’
‘Right.’
‘How are you, though? Seriously?’
‘Shoulder’s a bit stiff. Otherwise, I’m fine. We’re waiting to see how Chan’s going to be handled. We’ve got three constabularies barking down the phone at our boss – they all want a slice of her.’
‘I’ll bet they do,’ Luscombe said.
‘So … what are you up to next? How’s local crime in Aviemore?’
‘O
h, you know, pretty average. Enough to keep us in a job.’
‘That’s good. I was wondering…’ Charlie made a face to herself.
‘Uh huh?’
‘I thought I might take some leave, have a change of scenery.’
‘Anywhere in mind?’
Charlie grinned widely. ‘They say the Highlands are nice this time of year.’
‘A little on the dreich side today, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll let you have the flight times later,’ Charlie said. ‘You can bring a brolly.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end. ‘I’ll pick you up in the Rolls then, shall I?’
‘If you insist.’ Charlie laughed aloud. ‘I’d settle for a horse and cart, if it makes it any easier.’
‘Whatever ma’am is comfortable with,’ Luscombe assured her. ‘Your carriage will be waiting.’
‘What are you grinning about?’ Moran looked up as Charlie knocked and came in with an evident spring in her step.
‘Nothing, guv. Just arranged a few days off.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly earned it.’
‘Thought you’d like to know – Fiona Brodie’s confessed.’
Moran slapped his desk. ‘That’s great news. Let’s hope we get to have a crack at Chan – Zubaida, I should say – as well.’
‘Higginson still negotiating?’
Moran nodded wearily. ‘The woman’s left a trail of destruction behind her – ten year’s worth at least. And that’s just the stuff we know about.’
Charlie pursed her lips. ‘As you said before, her background…’
‘Bad, sure, but it doesn’t excuse a record-breaking serial-killing spree.’
‘No. No, of course it doesn’t.’
‘I can hear the ‘but’ loud and clear.’ Moran’s smile was not unsympathetic.
Charlie sighed. ‘It’s been playing on my mind. Not just Chan, but Fiona Brodie too. Both lives wrecked by what happened to them, by something they couldn’t control.’
Moran nodded. ‘They’re not the first, and they won’t be the last.’
‘It’s just … I don’t know, it’s not–’
‘–Fair? Uh huh.’ Moran steepled his fingers. ‘So … exactly how long have you been a serving police officer, DI Pepper?’
Charlie groaned. ‘OK. Point taken. I think I need that break.’
‘With my blessing,’ Moran said. ‘Go on, push off. And if you see DC Collingworth, ask him to pop in, would you?’
‘Sure.’
Charlie was half-way out the door when he called after her. ‘And give my regards to DS Luscombe.’
Moran was still smiling when Collingworth’s tentative knock made him look up again.
‘Ah. DC Collingworth. Come in, please. Shut the door behind you, would you?’
Collingworth’s body language as he made the short journey between the door and Moran’s desk called to mind a condemned man’s final approach to the scaffold.
‘Have a seat.’ Moran’s invitation was genial, and Collingworth nervously did as he was told.
‘I expect you’ve been a bit fretful recently, Chris.’
Collingworth appeared a little startled at Moran’s use of his Christian name. He managed a short reply. ‘Been busy, guv. A lot going on.’
‘Yes, and I hear you’ve been very helpful. Getting stuck in, mobile traces and the like, some good research on Duncan Brodie’s background. You found the asylum – perhaps we shouldn’t call it that these days – the hospital where Fiona and Duncan Brodie ran into each other again, that right?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Good work. Nice to see a healthy spirit of co-operation between ourselves and Aviemore. DCS Higginson will be pleased.’
‘Thank you, guv.’
‘Just wanted to clear something up, Chris. About the RTC, the Cleiren shunt.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Moran put his pen down, allowed his spine to sink into the supportive leather of his new chair, and joined his hands together. ‘The credit card you found in the artic? I’ve spoken since to Sergeant Ruiter – you’ll recall he was overseeing the forensic investigation?’
‘Ruiter, yeah. I spoke to him.’
‘That’s right, he remembers your visit. Funny thing is, he swears on his wife’s life that they’d been over the shell of that truck with a fine-toothed comb – his expression. All that was there to be found, had already been found.’
‘He was surprised when I pulled the card out, I remember that.’
‘Careless of them, to miss something obvious, you think?’
‘I suppose, yeah. Easily done, though.’
‘Easily done.’ Moran scratched his chin.
‘You know, Chris, I’m aware that there may have been a few rumours doing the rounds recently concerning my time in the Garda.’
‘Rumours, guv?’
‘Relating to associations, affiliations, that kind of thing.’
Collingworth made a noncommittal gesture.
Moran went on. ‘It’s just that, I wouldn’t believe everything you hear. Especially from the man in the street, if you understand my meaning.’
‘Man in the street,’ Collingworth repeated.
‘Or in the pub, even.’
‘The pub,’ Collingworth parroted.
‘You see, I know the landlord pretty well. We go back a long way.’
Collingworth’s face was stone. He knew what was coming, just not exactly how it was going to end.
‘He keeps an eye on what’s going on,’ Moran said. ‘All part of the craft of the pub landlord. It’s not all glasses and pulling pints.’
‘It was a mistake, guv.’
‘Oh?’
Collingworth nodded vigorously. ‘I made a fool of myself. It was stupid. I risked my career, and now I’ve blown it. I’m sorry – I got involved in something I didn’t understand.’
Moran looked Collingworth up and down. ‘That might be the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard issue from your lips, DC Collingworth.’
Collingworth looked confused, so Moran kept talking. ‘I’ve been in this game a very long time, son. And you’d be right in thinking I’ve learned a few lessons of my own by this stage of my career. But, you know what?’
Collingworth shook his head dumbly.
‘I still muck things up, often very badly. These last weeks, for instance, I’ve had to relearn a very old lesson, a lesson that’s particularly relevant when it comes to the rather … shadowy world in which we’ve recently found ourselves.’
Collingworth looked as though he might issue some kind of denial, but then thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.
‘Would you like to hear the advice I had to repeat to myself?’
‘Yes – I mean, absolutely, guv.’
Moran leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk. He looked Collingworth directly in the eye. ‘This is appropriate for any number of circumstances you might encounter during routine investigations, but it’s particularly appropriate when we find ourselves rubbing shoulders with…’ Moran lowered his voice, ‘the shadowy world in question. You understand me?’
‘Sir.’
‘OK. Here it is, the first rule: Trust no one. Got that?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Repeat.’
Collingworth cleared his throat. ‘Trust no one – guv.’
‘Good.’ Moran sat back in his chair.
‘What’s going to happen now? I mean, are you going to–’
‘You’re going to get on with the job, DC Collingworth, without further distractions, I trust.’ Moran beamed. ‘And who knows? You might even find yourself in a sergeant’s post before too long.’
Collingworth sprang from his chair. ‘All right. I mean, thank you very much, guv.’
After Collingworth had left, Moran spent a few minutes reflecting on the wisdom of his decision. He was a pretty good judge of character, and his judgment was that Collingworth had learned his lesson. Time would t
ell if the lesson was going to stick.
We shall see, DC Collingworth…
The mention of Sergeant Ruiter reminded Moran that the forensic overseer had left a message to phone him. He tapped the number and Ruiter answered instantly.
‘It’s DCI Moran returning your call, Sergeant. How can I help?’
‘I’m beyond help, have been for years,’ Ruiter said drily, ‘but this might help you. Or it might not.’
‘Let’s have it,’ Moran said. ‘Whatever the result, eh?’
‘Okey dokey.’ There followed the sound of rustling paperwork as the sergeant searched for the relevant place in his notes. ‘Your artic shunt. Like I told your man, we’ve been over and over it, but this popped out from forensics yesterday. They were dragging their heels while they repeated some test or other. All to do with the brakes.’
‘The brakes?’
‘Yep. Turns out there were microscopic traces of explosive residue in and around the brake mechanism.’
Moran was baffled. ‘There were traces of explosive inside the truck – we knew that much already. So what’s the implication? That someone set out with the specific intention of causing the brakes to fail?’
‘That’s your department, DCI Moran. I’m just passing on the info. Forensics speculate that the charges could have been set off remotely. A pro job – you know, state-of-the-art device that leaves little evidence behind? So they reckon, anyhow. It’ll all be in the report, which’ll be on its way to you shortly. State-of-the-art carrier pigeon.’
‘I see. Thank you Sergeant – I may need get back to you on this.’ Moran’s mind was whirring. Someone had wanted to make sure Cleiren totalled his truck right where it happened: on the M4, on Moran’s patch. The question was, which of two possible perpetrators would stoop so low?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Moran wearily unlocked his front door, stepped into the hallway, picked up his post, dumped the pile onto the hall table, and greeted Archie with a quick ruffle of the spaniel’s tufty head. Checked the lounge, kitchen. Went upstairs, repeated the same for the bedrooms and bathroom. Caught himself reaching for the long pole that unclasped the attic trapdoor latch. Stopped himself.
