by Jo Bannister
It would have been easy for Brodie to say that she didn’t go to Woodgreen. But that would be as good as telling a client that she could only do some parts of her job – the easy, safe, convenient bits – because she was a woman. He wouldn’t get that admission out of her with red-hot pokers.
So she would do it. She would find the address and photograph the model, and negotiate a price with the owner, and with luck most of her car would still be there when she returned to it. She had one thing going for her. Half of Woodgreen knew she was at it like knives with Dimmock’s senior detective.
But she wouldn’t go there with Paddy in the car. “I’m free this evening. Will you …?”
She managed to stop short of voicing the stupid question, but not soon enough that Harcourt didn’t hear it anyway. If he was offended he didn’t let it show. He gave a gentle, solemn smile that reminded her of Daniel’s. “Yes, Mrs Farrell, I’ll be in all evening.”
She went early, hoping to be in and out of Woodgreen while the residents were still sharpening their flick-knives. By eleven these streets would be unsafe for anyone but drug-pushers. The police, when they had no option but to enter the estate, went in threes.
But at seven on a November evening you could drive through Woodgreen and wonder what the problem was. Yes, there was some graffiti, and a certain amount of rubbish, and a number of empty houses people should have been keen to rent. Dimmock was, after all, a pleasant little town on the south coast of England, and this estate was less than two miles from the sea. Boarded-up property was unexpected.
But still the place didn’t look like a wild-west town. If her life was in imminent danger the old lady walking a cocker spaniel seemed unaware of the fact. A group of under-tens were playing on bicycles, undeterred by the fact that they outnumbered their transport by two to one - and that was being generous to the bike with one wheel. Someone was washing his car by the light from his porch. It was all curiously normal. For sure, a lot of troublesome people congregated in the Woodgreen estate; but so did a lot of people who wanted nothing more than to get on with their lives in peace. The only thing they’d ever done wrong was not make enough money to move somewhere smarter. Brodie regretted now her knee-jerk reaction when Harcourt asked her to come here.
Right up to the moment when, driving under a walkway between two tower blocks, she got a split-second impression of something hurtling at her and the windscreen exploded.
Deacon was there in five minutes. He found her sitting on a doorstep, a bloody handkerchief pressed to her lip and the mandatory cup of hot sweet tea in her other hand, while a middle-aged woman fussed over her and a fat man stood guard over her car. A small crowd had gathered.
Deacon left the two constables he’d brought to organise the recovery of the car and went immediately to Brodie’s side. “What happened?”
She shook her head dazedly. Blood leaked from a deep cut to her lip. “I think someone threw something.”
“Dropped, more like,” said the woman plying her with tea. “Off that walkway We keep telling the council to shut it before somebody gets killed. But it’s a short cut and people in the tower blocks don’t want it shut. But they won’t stop their kids using people for target-practice either.”
Constable Batty appeared with half a brick in his hand. “That’s what did the damage, sir.”
Deacon stared at it. “Jesus! What kind of people do that?” He glared around him. “Did anyone see who it was?”
Like adding drain-cleaner, suddenly the knot of people thinned and dissipated. Ten seconds later there were only the policemen, Brodie and the couple from the house. Deacon sighed. “Take that as a no, should I?”
“I was in the house,” said the woman apologetically.
Her husband shrugged. “I was washing my car. But I didn’t see anything.”
There was no way of knowing if it was the truth. And it would have been poor reward for their kindness to subject them to the third degree when answering his questions could put them in danger. “Batty, will it drive?” The constable nodded. “Then take it to Battle Alley. I’ll take Mrs Farrell to the hospital.”
Brodie waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no need …”
“You haven’t seen your face,” said Deacon, with more honesty than tact. “I’ll have you home for supper.”
Brodie rescued her handbag from the car. “Will you make a call for me? A man called Harcourt – I was doing a job for him, he’s waiting to hear from me.” She scribbled down his mobile number and Deacon told him what had happened while she was having her lip stitched. He rang off while the man was still apologising. Then he took her home.
Paddy exclaimed in awe over the damage to her mother’s face. Brodie knew the child would bring any number of friends home for tea during the week ahead, and by next Saturday have a new toy tractor.
“I’ll let you have the crime report number,” said Deacon. “For your insurance claim.”
Brodie nodded cautiously. “I’m sorry to add to your workload.”
“It won’t take a minute. Batty’ll fill in the forms.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean hunting the sod who did it. It’s not like I can give you a description – I didn’t see him.”
Deacon said, “Um.”
His tone made her look up. “What?”
He shrugged broad shoulders. “I’ll be honest with you, Brodie – we haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting someone for this. We won’t get a print off half a brick and there won’t be any witnesses. Fill in your insurance claim and put it down to experience.”
Her eye nailed him to the sofa. “You mean, you aren’t going to investigate? Someone dropped half a brick through my windscreen. He could have killed me. He could have sent me off the road to kill someone else. And you aren’t going to investigate.”
“There’s no point. I can tell you now, with absolute certainty, we’d learn nothing. All we’d do is stoke up ill feeling in the estate. I’m not rattling a lot of cages when I know it won’t do any good. Most of the time Woodgreen is a slumbering giant. If you wake him up you’d better have the manpower to deal with him, and you’d better have a good reason. Before the month’s out I may have to go in there. I may have a murder to investigate, or an armed robbery, or an abused child. For that I’ll get together all the people I need and we’ll put our necks on the line to do what needs doing. But not for a broken windscreen and a split lip.
“You’re right, it was a crime. He could have killed you and I should be investigating. But I’m not going to light the blue touch-paper when I know there’s nothing to be gained. I think, when you calm down, you won’t want me to.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” Brodie said icily. “Just a little surprised. You always tell me there aren’t any no-go areas on your manor.”
“I’m still telling you that,” said Deacon sharply. “It’s a question of cost-effectiveness. Doing the right thing will cost a lot of time and energy, put good people at risk and provoke disorder. Doing the wrong thing will avoid all of the above, and the bottom line will be the same – we won’t find the culprit. You need to understand –”
“Oh, I do,” said Brodie. “I understand that someone attacked me and Dimmock CID doesn’t think it’s worth the trouble of doing anything about it.”
“That’s not what I said,” growled Deacon.
“That’s what I heard.”
Deacon gave up. “Think what you want. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll get the car fixed, you should have it mid-morning on Monday.”
“Good. I’ll be busy on Monday Guess where.”
Deacon’s eyes narrowed. It might have been an empty threat, but he didn’t trust her to make empty threats. “Brodie, let it go. The damage was minimal. Don’t put yourself in danger trying to make someone pay for it.”
“What’s it to you?” she demanded, reckless with anger. “Oh, that’s right — if somebody murders me you might have to go in there after all.”
“I’m going home now,�
� Deacon said stiffly. “I’d like to think that by tomorrow you’ll have come to your senses.”
“And I’d like to think that by tomorrow you’ll be talking to someone who thinks it’s funny to drop masonry on passing vehicles. How fortunate we’ve both learned to handle disappointment!”
4
Without her car Brodie couldn’t take Paddy riding. The child’s father collected her. “Are you coming with us?”
Brodie tried to see past his shoulder without making it obvious. Julia was waiting in the car. “I’d better catch up on some work.”
John Farrell nodded, not offended but also not surprised. In the last few months his relations with his ex-wife had been easier but he didn’t expect to be forgiven any time soon. He knew he’d hurt Brodie terribly, and regretted that. When they married he’d meant the words he said, couldn’t imagine meeting someone he cared for more. He wasn’t the kind of man who went around letting people down.
“Julia says, if you’re stuck she can do without the Peugeot for a few days.”
It was a kind offer and Brodie was genuinely touched. “Thank her for me. But I should get mine back tomorrow. Jack’s pulling strings, and he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
John smiled pensively, wondering whether to say what was in his mind. “I’m glad. About you and Jack.”
Nine months ago she’d have slapped him down, credited the sentiment to guilty conscience. Now she just nodded. “He’s a good man. I don’t know if we’ll ever take it any further – but if we did, would you have any objections? On Paddy’s behalf, I mean.”
“Of course not. I’d be happy to see you settled.”
Brodie smiled thinly. “Well, don’t hold your breath – we’re pretty settled as we are.”
When the tiny equestrienne had galloped down the drive and jumped into the back of the car Brodie went back to her phone and the list of numbers she’d compiled, and began dialling.
People called Hood who live in Nottingham are used to getting funny phone-calls. When she said she was trying to trace a friend, their voices took on a weary note that only lifted when his name turned out, in defiance of experience and expectation, not to be Robin. But the first four didn’t know a Daniel either.
The fifth had a brother called Daniel.
Taken by surprise, Brodie blinked at the phone for a moment. “I don’t think it can be the same one. My friend doesn’t have any brothers. At least” – she stumbled, trying to remember how much she actually knew and how much she had assumed – “he’s never mentioned any.”
“How old is he?” asked Simon Hood.
“Twenty-seven. He’s a teacher. Well, he was. He lives in Dimmock.”
“On the south coast? Yes, that’s my brother,” said the man on the phone. Suddenly he sounded wary. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just trying to speak to him. Someone said he was visiting family.”
“He was here a couple of days ago,” confirmed Simon. “Then he left. I thought he was going home, but maybe not.”
A puzzled little frown wrinkled Brodie’s forehead. There was something just a little odd about this conversation and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Nothing he’d said; nothing he hadn’t said. So it was how he’d said something. As if they were talking about a casual acquaintance, someone met on holiday who’d dropped in for a drink one evening then gone on his way. There was no note of kinship in Simon’s voice, no suggestion of concern.
Brodie framed her response cautiously. “You’ve rather taken me off-guard, Mr Hood. I’m a good friend of Daniel’s but I didn’t know he had any immediate family left. I was looking for a cousin or something. I know he used to live with his grandfather.”
“That’s right,” said Simon guardedly.
“So – who else do I not know about?”
In the pause that followed she knew he was asking himself if it was any of her business. He only had her word for this friendship: she might have been a creditor, a jilted lover, anything. But then he thought, Daniel? – and dismissed the idea. “He has three brothers. Daniel’s the youngest. And there’s our mother.”
“Mother?” It came out as more of an exclamation than she intended. Probably Simon was beginning to think she was a very rude person, but Brodie was used to that. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe he hasn’t mentioned any of you.”
The voice at the other end of the phone was growing cool. “Mrs Farrell, if you want to know about Daniel’s background you should ask him. If you were hoping to find him here, I’m afraid he’s gone. If he hasn’t gone home I don’t know where you should look.”
“Could you give me your mother’s number?” asked Brodie. “Maybe he told her.”
“That’s not likely,” said Simon firmly. “I’m sorry, Mrs Farrell, there’s nothing more I can tell you. I suggest you keep trying his house until you get him.”
“He’s selling the house. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No. Obviously you know more about his plans than I do.”
After her lesson, Paddy’s father and stepmother took her home for Sunday lunch. Brodie thought she’d go into town and check the netting-shed on the off chance that Daniel was home, just not answering his phone. She was groping in the dresser drawer for her car-keys before she remembered she had no transport. So she’d walk. It was about a mile: how hard could it be? Daniel did it all the time.
Daniel didn’t do it in women’s shoes with stupid pointy toes and stupid narrow heels. She felt the first blister burning before she was halfway.
But she’d reached the top end of Dimmock, within hobbling-range of a pub, a cafe and a taxi-office. She didn’t like drinking alone and was too embarrassed to have a taxi take her half a mile, which left The Korner Kaff. Only sheer discomfort persuaded her to go through the door. She didn’t generally patronise people who couldn’t spell.
She kicked her shoes off and ordered coffee and waffles; and when those were gone she ordered more coffee and croissants. When those too were gone she reluctantly inched her feet back into her shoes and reached for her handbag.
It wasn’t there.
Something’s there or it isn’t: you wouldn’t think the mind would have difficulty distinguishing between the two. But the mind believes what it thinks it knows ahead of what the eyes can see. Brodie knew she’d put her bag on the seat beside her and hadn’t touched it since, so it had to be there. Like rebooting an AWOL computer she went through the sequence again from the beginning. Food eaten, time to go, feet in shoes, reach for handbag …
It still wasn’t there. Not on the seat, not under it, not kicked under another table by passing feet. There was only one explanation.
“I’ve been robbed,” she told the waitress; and though the girl had heard a lot of excuses from people trying to avoid paying she was convinced by the mix of astonishment, anger and embarrassment in the tall woman’s voice. Also, she remembered Brodie had a bag when she came in. Unless the waffles and the croissants and the coffee had left enough room for her to eat a big black leather organiser as well, she was telling the truth.
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“I suppose,” said Brodie, still floundering. “Tell them it’s Mrs Farrell.”
The waitress made a note. “Why, are you” – she didn’t know how to put this delicately – “known to them?”
“One of them knows me pretty well,” admitted Brodie.
Constable Batty took the details. The duty sergeant had asked if she wanted Detective Superintendent Deacon informed but Brodie saw no point. It was petty crime to everyone but her.
“And you didn’t notice anyone hovering round you?” asked Batty.
“I didn’t,” said Brodie helplessly. “There were a number of people in here over the forty minutes, but nobody seemed to be paying me any attention and I didn’t pay them any. Of course people brush past you on their way in and out, but I didn’t suspect a thing until I went t
o pay and couldn’t.”
“OK. Well, the first thing you need to do is get home so nobody’s emptying the flat while it’s empty. I’ll take you there now, make sure they haven’t beaten us to it. Then I’ll check your office. Then you need to get your locks changed – I’ve got the out-of-hours number of a locksmith - and to notify your bank that your credit cards have been lifted. After that there’s a limit to how much damage he can do. Was there much cash in your purse?”
Brodie shrugged. “Some, not a lot. There was other stuff that’ll be harder to replace. My driving licence. Medical cards for me and Paddy. Some photographs, personal things — all of it irreplaceable, none of it worth tuppence to anyone else!”
“You might get some of it back,” said Batty, more in hope than confidence. “He’ll take the valuables and dump the rest. Someone may hand it in.”
Brodie was jotting her name and address on the cafe bill. “I’ll get back to you with this tomorrow.”
The waitress shook her head. “The least we can do –”
“I’ll settle it tomorrow,” Brodie repeated.
As Batty drove her back up the hill towards Chiffney Road it occurred to Brodie that she never had got as far as the seafront and the netting-sheds. Daniel might have been there all along. The way her luck was running, though, she doubted it.
The locksmith was there when John brought Paddy home. Brodie explained. His long face between greying sideburns was sympathetic. “You’re not having much luck just now, are you?”
Brodie had to concede that, forty this year, he was still a handsome man. A better looking man than Jack Deacon was or ever had been. Once that might have mattered to her. She was pleased to note that it didn’t now.
