by Jo Bannister
Ten metres below Daniel shouted, “Left a bit. No - my left. There. Now: what can you see?”
She raised her binoculars, scanning a narrow band up the rising town. “A couple of rows of houses, then there’s a red-brick building. In Pound Street, maybe? The top floor might have the right sort of view. I think the houses are too low. And beyond the red-brick building you’re getting a long way for photography. I know it was a bad picture but I doubt it was taken from half a mile away.”
Daniel nodded. “So let’s find the red-brick building.”
Someone followed them back to the car.
It could have been a coincidence. It wasn’t a very big park. There were only four paths radiating from the monument, everyone crossing it would use one of them. The man in the fawn tweed jacket could have been anyone using the park as a short-cut. Brodie gave him a long hard look, enough to be sure that she’d know him if she saw him again, then got into the car.
The man in the tweed jacket crossed the road to a café. Brodie vented a tiny sigh of relief. Coincidence, after all. She pulled away from the pavement.
Pound Street was two right turns from the park. A red fastback came up behind her as she made the first, was still there after she’d made the second. The red-brick building came up on her left: Brodie drove past at a steady twenty.
Daniel looked at her in surprise. “Wasn’t that - ?”
“We have company.”
He went to screw round; Brodie grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t look back. I don’t want him to know he’s been spotted.”
She was thinking fast, trying to work out the quickest route to the police station without leaving the main roads. She took a left turn, then another. The fastback stayed with her.
Then all at once it was gone. She stopped at traffic lights, her heart in her mouth, but the red car didn’t stop behind her and when she looked to see where it had got to it was turning into a yard on the right. It hadn’t emerged by the time the lights changed and she moved off.
“So he wasn’t following us,” said Daniel, relief audible in his voice.
“Or he was doing it well.”
The police station or Pound Street. She pictured Deacon’s expression if she told him she’d been followed through three junctions by a stalker who vanished when she was forced to halt, and immediately Pound Street looked the more attractive option. “We’ll drive round for a minute to make sure.”
She went on turning at random and saw nothing. Then she made a mistake. There were road-works in Dalton Street: she saw the sign but didn’t think quickly enough. The road was blocked, she had to turn round. In doing so she found herself bumper to bumper with a red fastback driven by a man in a fawn tweed jacket.
Dalton Street was a narrow residential road, there were cars parked on both sides. Maintaining a flow of traffic always required the co-operation of other drivers. But the man in the fawn tweed jacket stopped in the middle of the road and got out of his car, striding towards them.
The last time Brodie had felt this helpless was when her husband told her he loved someone else. Her life had crashed in flames and there had been nothing she could do to stop it. This was like that; and again there was nothing she could do. If she reversed the car would drop into a hole, making sitting targets of them. If she drove forwards she’d ruin two perfectly good cars and still not win clear. If this man intended murder he was going to succeed. Her heart raced, her breathing stopped.
The man went to the passenger side, staring at Daniel through the windscreen. He gestured but Brodie kept the window tight shut. He leaned closer, shouted through the glass. “I know who you are.”
Daniel moistened his lips. “Yes?”
“You’re supposed to be dead!”
Daniel didn’t recognise the voice. That didn’t necessarily mean he was safe. “You’re mistaken.”
“I told people you were dead!” insisted the man. “Detective Inspector Deacon told me you were found dead in a skip.”
Brodie didn’t know what the hell was going on, who he was, but he didn’t seem to purpose murder. She lowered her window a crack, as much to draw him away from Daniel as because she wanted to talk to him. “You know Inspector Deacon?”
“Of course I know him,” snapped the man. “I’m Tom Sessions, I work for The Sentinel. I wrote the front page lead for our Tuesday edition. ‘Local teacher murdered: body dumped in skip’.”
“Ah,” breathed Daniel. So he wasn’t going to die; or not now. Still the situation was a tricky one. Denial wouldn’t work. He wasn’t sure what would. “Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated?”
Sessions looked as if he’d quite like to put that right, as if it might be more fun than running a correction. “What happened?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Daniel.
“Well, someone’s going to tell me,” snapped Sessions. “I put my name to a lie. That’s not something I make a habit of. If I don’t hear a damn good reason in the next thirty seconds, you’re going to be front page news again.” He straightened up. “And will you get out of the damn car? You’re giving me back-ache.”
Slowly, Daniel did as he was told. He straightened with a wince that was not lost on the reporter. “When you wrote that story, actually it was only a slight exaggeration. It could have been true by the time The Sentinel hit the streets. Someone tried to kill me. I don’t know who and I don’t know why. Inspector Deacon thought they’d try again if they knew they’d failed. I’m sorry he lied to you. He was trying to protect me.”
Tom Sessions was still breathing heavily. But he was an intelligent man: his eyes took in the pallor of Daniel’s skin, the marks still visible on his face, the way he moved. He didn’t like being used but nor did he want to put anyone in danger.
Brodie saw him vacillate and stepped swiftly into the breach. “I know you want to put the record straight. But if you do, among all the people who ought to know they were misinformed are a handful who mustn’t. Who must be prevented at all costs from knowing. If they find out he’s still alive, they’ll come back and they’ll kill him.
“You want to know what happened to him? I’ll show you what happened.” She’d sidled between the bonnets of the two cars while Daniel was speaking, now she was at his side. Before either man could guess what she intended she reached for a handful of Daniel’s sweater and tugged, baring his chest with its burden of hurts. The worst were covered by dressings, the rest in plain view.
The reporter’s jaw dropped. But it wasn’t the horror in his eyes that stabbed at Brodie’s heart, it was the pain in Daniel’s. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, letting go, not looking at him.
Daniel said nothing, quietly straightened his clothes. He didn’t need to yell at her to underline the extent of her trespass: Brodie knew. For the same good reasons she’d done what Deacon had done: used his abused body to get what she wanted. At least Deacon only did it while he was unconscious.
Sessions licked his lips. He was a man in his mid-thirties, he could have been working in London for ten years if he hadn’t decided this was more important: writing for a small town newspaper where fifty thousand readers believed what he said. He slumped down on the bonnet of his car. “And you don’t know why?”
“No,” said Daniel.
“And Deacon doesn’t.”
“No.”
“But he does know you’re alive.”
“Yes. He’s the reason I’m alive. Him and you.”
Sessions flicked him a worried look. “You’re going to ask me to keep this quiet, aren’t you?”
Daniel smiled. “No.”
Brodie had no such scruples. “Well I am. Listen, Mr Sessions, I know you feel used. I was used too. You were used to protect him - I was used to hurt him. Believe me, it isn’t the same thing.”
“How long?” asked the reporter. “How long am I supposed to pretend I still believe what I wrote?”
Brodie shrugged. “Ideally, until these people are behind bars. But that may not happen. How a
bout, until someone else notices?”
Sessions went on regarding her, without much affection. Finally he nodded. “All right. I don’t want anyone’s life on my conscience. But it’s my career if this blows up in my face.
“This is the best I can do. I didn’t see you in the park and I didn’t follow you here so I have no idea that Daniel Hood is still alive. If someone else sees you, or brings their suspicions to my editor, I’ll do what I’m paid for - I’ll write the truth. I won’t be able to keep your secret then.”
“I understand,” said Daniel. “It’s as much as I could ask.”
It wasn’t as much as Brodie could have asked, but she recognised it as all she was going to get. She nodded. “Thanks. If the shit hits the fan I’ll make sure people know why you helped us.”
“If the shit hits the fan,” said Sessions grimly, “you’ll have your work cut out keeping your head above it.”
Chapter 10
When the red fastback had gone, clearing the way, still Brodie looked at the road ahead. The alternative was looking at Daniel. “I’ll take you home - my home - then I’ll pick up some things from your place. Clothes, shaving gear - anything else?”
Daniel said, “What about Pound Street?” His voice was thin and level.
It could have been worse. He could have asked her to explain why shocking Sessions and humiliating him had seemed like a good idea.
“This has to stop,” she said unsteadily, “right now. That man’s put his career on the line to keep you safe. Deacon did the same. You can’t go swanning around town waiting for someone else to recognise you.”
He thought about that. Obligation was something he took seriously. “If I’m spotted,” he said slowly, “I’ll call Sessions so he can break the story before anyone else does.”
“Fine,” gritted Brodie. “Unless the person who spots you is the one who wants you dead.”
“We’ve been through this,” Daniel said quietly.
“We haven’t resolved it, though.”
“I’m not going to hide,” he said, with the stubbornness of a man drawing a line in sand.
“Why not?” she demanded. “What’s so wrong with looking after yourself? Deacon lied for you; from now on that reporter’s going to be lying for you; why do you have to go round flaunting the truth?”
Daniel’s composure cracked, and his voice with it. “You really don’t understand, do you? You keep saying you understand, but you don’t at all. You think I’m trying to prove a point - to them, to you, to myself. I’m not. I’m trying to keep my life together. I’m this close” - she couldn’t see through the gap between his fingers - “to losing it. I want to stick my head under the blankets and never come out again. I want to shut the door, and lock it, and put the key in a box and lock that too. I’m afraid every moment I’m awake; and when I sleep the fear turns into things hunting me. Eating me.”
Brodie stared at him in stunned compassion. “I had no idea! You seemed to be getting over it so well.”
“Of course you hadn’t,” he panted. “Every ounce of courage I have left - and there wasn’t that much to start with, there was even less by the time they’d finished with me - has gone into keeping up the pretence. I thought, I still think, you can cope with more than you think by pretending to be more than you are. First you convince other people, then you convince yourself. It starts by being an act, ends up being the truth.
“But I can’t keep fighting this same damn battle! I can’t keep persuading you that this is what I want to do, what I have to do, only for something to happen half a mile down the road that makes you want to argue it out all over again. I’m too tired. Brodie, either help me or let me get on with it alone. I can’t keep having this same conversation.”
She didn’t know what to say. He was breaking her heart. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten what he’d been through, more that it had suited her to believe what he’d wanted her to believe. The swifter his recovery, the less reason she had to punish herself. But someone with less to lose would have known it was - no, not a pretence, there was nothing phony about the courage it took, but a screen, a shield. Partly to protect his wounds, but mostly so that the blood didn’t show.
She folded her hands over her mouth and thought carefully about what she said next. “Since before I knew you I’ve been doing things that hurt you. It wasn’t from malice, it wasn’t deliberate, but that’s how it worked out. And I’m still doing it, and I didn’t even know. I was trying to look after you. I didn’t mean to drop mountains in your way.”
Daniel flicked her a tiny smile and nodded. “I know.”
“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. I am, I’m desperately sorry for all the bad decisions I’ve made, but it doesn’t change a thing. Tell me what you want and I’ll try to remember I promised not to argue.”
“I want to go to Pound Street. To look at the red-brick building. Depending on what it is, I may want to go inside.”
“You don’t suppose whoever’s behind this is still there?” Her instincts screamed, I’m not taking you within half a mile! Sheer force of will kept her from saying it aloud.
“No. They might have been, once, but not now. Whatever the building is, I think it’s a dead end and no one there will know about me or Sophie or a video-camera. In a way, that’s what I’m hoping. That there’ll be no leads left to follow. That any search I can make will end there. If it does, I can walk away knowing that I tried, that I wasn’t too scared to try. If it ends in Pound Street, I may be as relieved as you.”
Brodie sniffed. “Don’t count on it.” She hesitated a moment, wondering whether she dared make another request. “All right. We’re going to Pound Street, and depending on what the red-brick building is we’re going inside. You have to do it for your peace of mind. Will you do something for my peace of mind?”
He looked wary. “What?”
Brodie rummaged in the back of the car, came up with a bobble hat. “Put that on. If it makes you look like an anorak, so much the better. And take your glasses off.”
Daniel pulled on the hat, and covering his bright hair made him instantly less recognisable. But he drew the line at removing his glasses. “I might as well not go for all I’d be able to see.”
As she drove, Daniel looked at himself in the mirror. He sighed at what it showed. “I am an anorak,” he said mournfully. “Even without the bobble hat. I teach maths in a comprehensive school and make my own telescopes. That’s a textbook definition of anorakdom.”
The red-brick building in Pound Street was also a school. A sign on the gates announced it as St Agnes’s Preparatory School. It was Saturday morning so there were no classes, but twenty little girls on bicycles were solemnly negotiating obstacles chalked on the asphalt playground. A banner tied to the railings announced: “Cycling Proficiency Training Day”.
Brodie and Daniel exchanged a puzzled glance. “Janet And John Hire A Contract Killer?” ventured Brodie.
Daniel snorted a little chuckle. “I think we’ve come to the wrong place.”
But Brodie was peering at the wall above the school entrance. “Maybe not. What’s that?”
“Security camera,” said Daniel. “Closed Circuit TV. So?”
“And CCTV uses - ?”
“Video.” Daniel stared at her. “You think … ?”
“I don’t know,” said Brodie quickly. “But look where it’s pointing. Back at the park.” She turned in her seat, looking over her shoulder. “There are gaps between the houses. If the top of the monument’s visible through one of them …”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
Daniel’s lips pursed as he confronted the real question. “But - why? What would someone at an upper-crust primary school want with me?”
“They wanted to know about Sophie.”
“But I don’t know who Sophie is!”
“Maybe someone in there does.”
They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time.
And then she was going to have to come back and tell Daniel, and watch the disappointment pool in his eyes. He claimed he could let it go now, be satisfied that he’d done his best; but Brodie knew it wouldn’t be easy. She was going to take his last hope of understanding what happened to him and dash it in his face.
Daniel was thinking there were two possibilities. One was that it was a coincidence, the video had been taken from somewhere along the line-of-sight between St Agnes’s and the monument, one of the intervening houses, even a carefully parked car, and this was where the trail ended.
The other was that the people who’d reduced him to a quivering, whimpering knot of abused humanity and then shot him were just metres away behind a red-brick wall. If they were, the answers were there too: who they were, who Sophie was, who they thought he was, why they acted as they did. His limbs turned to jelly. He didn’t think he could get out of the car and take one step towards the wrought-iron gates.
Minutes passed. One of the little girls completed her run successfully, another fell off and cried.
Finally Brodie cleared her throat. “Sitting here isn’t getting us anywhere. Do we go in or not?”
Daniel said nothing. When she looked at him he was staring straight ahead, his lip caught between his teeth. So he’d finally run out of courage. With everything he’d pushed himself to do, this was going to defeat him.
She’d promised to help. She wouldn’t fail him now. She said quietly, “I’ll see if I can find the principal. If there’s nothing to learn here there’s no point staying.”
