Echoes of Lies

by Jo Bannister

  “I don’t lie,” said Daniel firmly. “And I didn’t see anything.”

  “With a telescope that size? Of course you did!”

  Daniel thought for a moment. “You were a seaman, Mr Ibbotsen. You’ve used binoculars. Can you remember who showed you how to use them?”

  Ibbotsen frowned. “As a matter of fact I can.”

  “What was the first thing he said?”

  The old man grinned with no humour whatever. “He said, ‘If you see a swastika, run.’”

  “Even before that,” said Daniel.

  Ibbotsen thought. “He said, ‘Find yourself a patch of shade.’”

  “Exactly. Because if you start tracking something and find the sun you’re going to burn your eyes out. Well, my telescope’s a lot more powerful than your binoculars. There are only two ways to make solar observations. One is not to look through the telescope at all but to project the image onto a screen. The other’s to fit a good sun filter in the eye-piece. It’s very dark, and it cuts out so much light that the sun’s the only thing you can see through it. Everything else is brown fog. My eyes are nothing to write home about, but they’re still the only ones I have: I use the thickest filter you can buy. A scuffle in a playground quarter of a mile away? - I wouldn’t have seen The Hindenburg sail over the park and moor to the monument.”

  Finally Lance Ibbotsen believed him. Finally he had to acknowledge the truth he’d been avoiding: that he’d made a mistake. A simple mistake, easy to make, understandable in the circumstances. The facts before him had seemed to add up, he simply hadn’t considered the possibility of coincidence. Now he had more facts he could see how it had happened: how innocent actions had given the appearance of guilt.

  And how, because of that, he’d watched an innocent man suffer two days of agony.

  Brodie saw the understanding condense in the sharp blue eyes until it was heavy enough to sink through the man’s expression and on down through his heart and stomach. Whatever his reasons, this was not a small thing to him. He knew what he’d done. He’d thought it was justified. Now he knew it was not.

  She waited for him to try, however lamely, to apologise. She waited in vain. Ibbotsen’s gaze never left Daniel’s face, but his next words were addressed to her. “The police are coming?”

  Her nostrils flared in disgust. “That’s what I said.”

  “Then there isn’t much time. I won’t pretend I didn’t do what you know I did. But I want you to understand why. And then I want you to do something for me. Will you come up to the house?”

  “Do we look stupid?” exclaimed Brodie incredulously.

  Daniel just said, “We can talk here.”

  Lance Ibbotsen was too old for sitting on kerbstones. He leaned back against his car and drew a deep breath. “I thought you were dead.”

  “You had every reason,” said Daniel, watching him.

  Ibbotsen nodded slowly. He was tall, narrow and angular, with skin salt-tanned to hide. His voice was like gravel. “I don’t expect you to care, but I’m glad. What I did: I thought you could return my granddaughter. I thought it was worth your skin and my soul to save her.”

  “Sophie.”

  “Sophie,” nodded Ibbotsen. The polar eyes that had never filled for Daniel filled at her name.

  “Is she safe now? Did you get her back?”

  The old man shook his head. “No.” Then his brow gathered and he looked from Daniel to Brodie and back. “You knew, didn’t you? About Sophie being abducted. That’s why you’re here. How did you know?”

  “We worked it out,” said Brodie. “From the questions you asked Daniel and the photograph you gave me. Neither of us could have found you alone.”

  “Tell me about Sophie,” Daniel insisted quietly. “You haven’t made the exchange?”

  Ibbotsen shook his head. In his eyes was an ashy despair more plaintive than tears. “I think she’s dead.”

  “Are they still asking for money?” inquired Brodie. The old man nodded. “Then she’s alive. They’d kill her rather than be caught with her, but they wouldn’t contact you again.”

  Ibbotsen stared at her. “How do you know?”

  “I worked for a solicitor for seven years. He defended a kidnapper once. I read up on the subject. It isn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime: people plan meticulously, cover all the contingencies. What they’ll do if this happens, what they’ll do if that happens. Even when they intend to kill the hostage it’s the last thing they do. No one pays out for a dead hostage.”

  “Is that what happens?” breathed Ibbotsen. “They kill the hostage?”

  “Not always. It can depend on how good a witness they’ll make. Young children don’t remember much, and can’t always recount what they do remember. Sophie may well be safe.” Against her will Brodie found herself wanting to reassure him.

  Daniel said, “You do know, don’t you, that I wasn’t involved?” The words were considered but his voice shook.

  After a moment the old man dipped his head. “I do now. I believed you were involved when we took you. I believed it, absolutely, every minute that you were here. I swear it.”

  Daniel said nothing.

  The old man filled his lungs and squared his shoulders. “I presume the police are coming here to arrest me. I can’t blame you for that.”

  Daniel’s voice was low. “You said you wanted me to do something for you. What?”

  Brodie interrupted before Ibbotsen could answer. “It doesn’t matter what he wants, Daniel. He’s no right to ask anything of either of us.”

  “Maybe not. But I want to know.” He looked at the old man, his chin coming up. “I won’t lie for you.”

  Ibbotsen shook his head. “I don’t expect you to. I know you want revenge for what happened to you. What I want - what I need - is for you to understand is that it was my responsibility. David had nothing to do with it.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “There were three …”

  Ibbotsen leaned forward suddenly, caught his wrist in a bony hand. “If the police arrest us both there’ll be no one left to negotiate. The kidnappers will kill her. She’s five years old and they’ll kill her if there’s no one left to sign a cheque. Please: I’m begging you. There were two.”

  Daniel freed himself with an effort; then he rose and stood swaying slightly. His breathing was ragged. “Mr Ibbotsen, what I understand is that only one thing matters to you right now. Getting your granddaughter back safely. Well, I have news for you: right now that’s the only thing that matters to me too.” Before Brodie could stop him he went on: “The police aren’t coming. They don’t know about you or Sophie. If it’ll help we’ll keep it that way, for now.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Daniel!” exploded Brodie. “Now he can kill us both with impunity!”

  Somewhere Lance Ibbotsen found a grim chuckle. “Not in front of the neighbours. That kind of thing plays havoc with property values. Will you come to the house now?”

  “Where the neighbours can’t see?” There was the ghost of a smile on Daniel’s lips.

  Ibbotsen nodded. “Also, I need a drink. If my word’s worth anything” - he looked at Brodie - “you’re free to leave any time you want.”

  “That makes all the difference,” she grunted gracelessly. “The word of a torturer.”

  Lance Ibbotsen shuddered as if she’d slapped his face. Without another word he got back in his car and turned it.

  Brodie and Daniel stood for a moment at the kerb.

  “We could just go home,” she said. “Wait and see what happens. If it ends in tears, at least none of it will be our fault.”

  “We might be able to help.”

  Brodie shook her head dismissively. “A man like that can buy any help he needs. And the sort of help he buys we don’t want to mix with.

  “Daniel, you’ve done what you set out to do. You’ve found the man who hurt you and talked to him about why. You’re right, he’s not a monster - but he’s not somebody you�
��d want to spend much time with either. Walk away. He isn’t big enough to haunt you. When this is over we’ll talk to Deacon together, and then neither of us need waste another moment thinking about these people. It’s not the past that’s a foreign country, it’s the monied class. They’re the ones who do things differently.”

  “But they hurt the same. It’s a little girl, Brodie. It’s not her fault her grandfather behaves like Genghis Khan. It’s not her fault he has enough money to make kidnapping her worthwhile. Maybe there’s nothing I can do, but if I don’t try I’ll never know. I want to see it through. If you’d rather go home I’ll walk. I’ll call you later.”

  Brodie knew that any further argument would be futile. Gentle and adamantine, when he decided what was right he was immovable. She got into the car, Daniel got in beside her and they followed Ibbotsen up to the house. The wrought iron gates closed behind them.

  Chapter 13

  Ibbotsen drove round the back of the house and Brodie followed, crossing a courtyard of empty stables. Daniel shuddered.

  Even the back door to Chandlers was of epic proportions. Ibbotsen parked beside it and waited. “Come inside.” Brodie wished she knew what he was thinking. But then, she wished she knew what Daniel was thinking too.

  Ibbotsen led them not to one of the grand public rooms poised above the Channel but a family-scaled sitting room overlooking the side garden, upholstered in worn chintz and smelling of dog.

  But nobody sat. They stood around awkwardly, tense behind crossed arms. They were here to talk, but it wasn’t an easy conversation to begin.

  Finally Ibbotsen accepted his obligation as host. “What do you want to know?” he asked Daniel. “Where do you want me to start?”

  Daniel said, “Have you paid the ransom?”

  Lance Ibbotsen stared at him, the ice-blue eyes all but lost in their deep creases, perplexed. “The ransom?”

  Daniel moistened his lips. “What did you expect me to ask? Why you abducted me? - I know. Why you tortured me? - I know that too. I know you put me through hell because someone was doing the same to you. I don’t know if that’s an excuse, and right now I’m not detached enough to work it out. I want to know if Sophie’s safe. Have you paid the ransom?”

  Ibbotsen dropped into a chair as if all the strength had drained from his limbs. “What kind of a man are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Incredibly, Daniel managed a laugh. “Flesh and blood - but you know that, don’t you?”

  “You’ve come for an apology?” Ibbotsen’s voice soared till it cracked.

  “Don’t you think he’s entitled?” hissed Brodie.

  Blue fire spat at her. “Of course. If it means anything at all coming from me, he has it. But I was afraid he’d take it as an insult. If it had been me …”

  “Oh, me too,” said Brodie with certainty. She picked a chair at a distance from Ibbotsen’s and seated herself with cat-like fastidiousness. “But then, Daniel doesn’t think like other people. Daniel doesn’ t do anything like other people.”

  That note of irritation was not lost on Daniel. He flicked her a tiny smile and lowered himself carefully onto the sofa midway between them. “Not an apology. I don’t want to be in the position of having to forgive you.”

  “I understand that. Then what?”

  It was something Daniel felt in his heart, that didn’t easily translate into words. He struggled to explain. “What passed between you and me, there’s time to sort out. It matters that the balance sheet adds up at the end of the day, but you have to get the receipts in first.

  “I don’t want to do anything to make Sophie’s situation more dangerous. I can wait. If you’re negotiating with the kidnappers on the basis that the police aren’t involved, I won’t bring them in until you’re finished.”

  Brodie said tersely, “Deacon’s not a fool. He won’t charge in mob-handed while a little girl’s in danger.”

  “Inspector Deacon has his job to do,” Daniel said quietly, “and other needs to consider. What he can do may be governed by policy beyond his control. It isn’t only Sophie he has to think about, it’s all the children who’d be at risk if kidnapping was an easy way to make money. I’m sure if he knew about this he’d do the right thing. But it might not be right for Sophie.”

  Ibbotsen hardly knew what to say, and hardly had a voice to express it. “She’s right,” he managed at last. “You don’t think like other people.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Ibbotsen nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Brodie was watching Daniel. His hands were steady and a little colour had crept back into his face. This meeting with the man who’d abused him, that he’d pursued against all reason with an obstinacy that made a credible substitute for courage: had he been right about it all along? What Brodie had taken for obsession: had it in fact been a legitimate - or even the only - way to deal with his demons? Face them and dismiss them, like other bullies? He’d gambled present safety for a future unencumbered by fear, and it looked as though he was going to win.

  If he’d taken her advice, none of that would have been achieved. Meeting Lance Ibbotsen, talking with him, had cut the monster down to size. He was only a deeply fallible human being after all, one who made mistakes, who had regrets, whose wealth had bought him comfort but also more pain than most people would ever know. Behind the horror was the banality of a man with enough money to fund all the wrong choices.

  Daniel said, “Then how far have you got with paying the ransom?”

  Ibbotsen didn’t answer directly. His gaze moved across the room. “Within twelve hours of this beginning I’d consulted experts in every aspect of kidnapping. They told me that prompt payment isn’t always the best response. It’s what the kidnapper wants, but from the hostage’s point of view it can help to spin it out. There’s always the possibility that the kidnappers will be found. Even if they aren’t, the difficulty of keeping a frightened hostage safe day after day may incline them to be more reasonable. They also get to know the hostage, which makes it less likely that their final act will be murder. Children in particular are harder to kill, safer to leave alive.”

  Brodie had heard the arguments before, wasn’t sure what Ibbotsen was telling them. “So you kept them waiting?”

  “And then,” said Ibbotsen, off at a tangent again, “we thought - I thought - I had a picture of one of the gang. From the tape taken by the school camera. I thought, if I could find … well, you …”

  “What did you think?” demanded Brodie. “That they’d swap a child worth - what? What did they ask for?”

  “Half a million pounds.”

  “That they’d swap a child worth half a million pounds for a dozy look-out who couldn’t keep his own face off a security video?”

  “Maybe not,” growled Ibbotsen. “But then, if we knew where she was by then it wouldn’t matter. I didn’t expect to have so much trouble getting the information. Two days after Sophie was taken I thought I had my hands on one of the kidnappers. You were here soon after five o’clock. I expected to know everything you knew by six.”

  “You did,” murmured Daniel.

  The old man nodded slowly. Even now he was having to make himself believe it. “I didn’t allow for that. For the possibility that you knew nothing.”

  “So two days had passed,” said Brodie. “Had you heard from them by then?”

  “We heard from them before we heard from the school. They must have called as soon as they had Sophie in the car. No demands then, just that if we called the police they’d kill her. Ten minutes later St Agnes’s rang to say she hadn’t gone into her one o’clock class, they’d searched and she wasn’t in the building. When they looked at the tape it showed a woman they didn’t recognise taking her away in a car.

  “The headmistress was about to call the police - we had to lie, quickly. David said he was taking Sophie on holiday, that our new driver had picked her up, that he’d called to let the school know but the message must have gone astray.” He ga
ve a grim smile. “I never credited my son with that much imagination. It’s amazing what you can do when your child’s in danger.”

  “So instead of calling the police you asked St Agnes’s for the video tape,” prompted Brodie.

  Ibbotsen nodded. “As a reminder to be more careful in future, I said.”

  “And when you played it,” said Daniel in a low voice, “you saw me apparently watching through a telescope.”

  “I took the tape to a photographic analyst. He made the image Mrs Doyle gave to Mrs Farrell. Of course,” he added, looking at Brodie, “that isn’t her real name.”

  “Another expert?”

  “An actress. I told her what to say. She didn’t know anything.”

  “You used her to get to me, and me to get to Daniel.” Brodie felt the anger rising until it met an enigma. “Why me? I’m good at what I do but I’m not world-class. You could have hired the best.”

  “I wanted someone local. I thought local knowledge might be worth more than international expertise. And I wanted someone on the job immediately. It was a gamble. It seemed to pay off.”

  “Oh yes,” ground Brodie, despising him. “I know one thing: I didn’t charge you enough.”

  “I’ll give you more if you want it,” Ibbotsen said, and the disdain in his voice was almost too much to bear. Brodie clenched her fists at her sides to keep from hitting him.

  Daniel was regarding them as if they were bickering third-formers. He raised a finger. “Enough,” he said; and even without raising his voice there was sufficient force in that one word to make both of them subside into the upholstery. “Mr Ibbotsen,” he said, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?” That was dissemblance: plainly he knew.

  Daniel’s patience had been tempered in the flame of comprehensive school maths teaching. It was a fine thing, honed and polished, with just enough give in it to stop it shattering. “The one about the ransom. They asked for half a million pounds. Have they got it yet?”