Echoes of Lies

by Jo Bannister

  Ibbotsen snorted derisively. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

  But David shook his head. “I will never understand how a man can be so successful in life without learning anything about other people,” he said bitterly, swinging on his father. “Have you forgotten what was done here? He almost died. He must have wished he would die. And you want him to pretend it never happened, because that way we get away scot-free.

  “And the amazing thing is, he’s actually considering it. Oh, not for you; and not for me either, and why should he?” He looked once more at Daniel. “You’re thinking about Sophie, aren’t you? You’re thinking that bringing her home will be a hollow victory if everyone she cares about is behind bars.”

  The turmoil in his heart frayed Daniel’s breathing. The decision had troubled him when he’d faced it before. He’d deferred it until Sophie was safe, but it wasn’t any easier now. He’d spent time with these people, shared their fears and their hopes and the glorious, unmanning moment when the phone rang and it was Brodie reporting success. Now he had to choose. Either he let go of the pain and the anger, let them float away unacknowledged, or he redeemed them at the cost of two men’s freedom and a little girl’s happiness.

  “I don’t know,” he said again. Behind the thick lenses his eyes began to fill.

  David saw and turned away. “All right,” he said quietly. “This isn’t something we can settle now. Dad, if you phone the police you’re mad. You’ll go to prison, and so will I. Forget the money. If Daniel goes to the police you’ll have a lot more to worry about than half a million pounds.

  “Also if he doesn’t. Because there’s a debt there. We owe him. We know what he thinks of your chequebook so I don’t know how we’ll set about paying it, but somehow we have to. It’s going to be hard enough looking at one another over the breakfast table from now on: if we don’t even try to make things right I think it may be impossible.

  “Thank God we’re getting Sophie back,” he said. “But the price wasn’t just half a million pounds: it was every shred of honour either of us possessed. I don’t know about you, Dad, but I’d quite like to salvage just a little - just a few rags to keep myself decent. Daniel, can we maybe talk about this again, when the dust’s settled? If you won’t take something for yourself, maybe we could set up a charitable trust of some kind - something to help people in trouble?”

  “You spending my money again, son?” rumbled Ibbotsen softly.

  “You’d sooner go to jail?” demanded David. “Fine - I dare say that’s Daniel’s preferred option as well. You call the police, I’ll pack us a bag each.”

  “Please.” It was Daniel. Now the tears were coursing openly down his cheeks. “Please, don’t shout. I don’t want anything from you. Not your money, not your promises, not five minutes of your time let alone five years. I’m glad Sophie’s safe. Maybe if you’d done things differently she wouldn’t be. Maybe that’s what - what you did - bought. I’m going to think so. I don’t need revenge. Just call me a taxi, I want to go home.”

  They stared at him for a couple of minutes before they could bring themselves to believe it. Generosity was not an Ibbotsen family trait. They seemed nonplussed by it. But there was no catch, no hook beneath the bait; Daniel added no conditions or qualifications, and nothing they knew about him suggested he’d change his mind once he was away from here.

  Lance Ibbotsen cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to wait for Mrs Farrell?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Tell her I went on. If you like, you can tell her what I said.”

  The old man went on regarding him for a moment longer. Then he nodded. “I’ll drive you.”

  “I’d rather have a taxi.”

  This was an occasion. Brodie drove straight to the front door, gravel crunching under her wheels. They heard her coming: the door flung open and David raced down the steps, his father following in his wake.

  Nothing she could say would be worth hearing. She opened the rear door of her car and stood back, and David Ibbotsen swept his child up into his arms without even waiting to see if she was awake.

  Sophie blinked and looked over his shoulder at the familiar scene around her. Every light was ablaze, the forecourt as bright as day. “Home,” she mumbled, a note of satisfaction in her little voice. Then she went back to sleep, and no amount of rocking and hugging and stroking would disturb her.

  David carried her upstairs to bed. The family’s doctor went with them but ten minutes later he was on his way, satisfied the little girl had suffered no ill-effects and would wake in the morning none the worse for her adventure.

  Lance Ibbotsen made some fresh coffee. He took Brodie through to the sitting room and poured. “Tell me everything.”

  But she looked around, frowning. “Where’s Daniel?”

  “He went home. He waited till we knew that Sophie was safe, then he called a cab. He was tired. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

  Brodie nodded. Suddenly reaction was making her tired too: she sat down before her knees gave way. “It was nothing to do with Marie. It was a straightforward ransom for money. In the end they played it by the book.” She recounted everything that had taken place.

  When David came downstairs she went through it again.

  He listened in silence until she was finished. Then he leaned forward and took her hand. “Brodie, I said this to Daniel before he left and now I’m saying it to you. I don’t know how we can ever repay you. For your help, or how we got you involved in the first place. But I’d like to try. We can’t hope to recompense Daniel, and it won’t be a lot easier to make things right with you. But if there’s any way we can make you feel a bit better about what’s happened, we’d welcome the opportunity.”

  Brodie shrugged and shook her head, but she didn’t shake off his hand. “David, I don’t - I can’t - Look, I just can’t think about it now. If you want to we can talk about it another time. Right now, I’m just so glad it’s over and you’ve got your little girl back safely.” She paused and gave a tiny smile. “I bet that’s what Daniel said too, isn’t it?”

  David answered with a sombre smile of his own. “Pretty much. Except he didn’t want to talk about it another time.”

  Brodie nodded. “That doesn’t mean he won’t be glad of a friend sometime.”

  Lance Ibbotsen was watching her like a hawk. She frowned. “What?”

  “Hood said he wouldn’t go to the police about this. What about you?”

  “Dad!” David exclaimed in dismay; but the old man wanted an answer.

  Brodie let him wait; enjoyed letting him wait. Then: “Is that what Daniel said?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’ll see him when I go home, that I’ll ask him?”

  David nodded. “It’s what he said. Unless he changes his mind.”

  “Oh, he won’t change his mind.” Brodie gave an exasperated chuckle. “Rivers change their courses, continents change their outline but Daniel Hood never changes his mind! If that’s what he said, you can count on it. And I won’t go against his wishes. If that really is what he wants, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  Ibbotsen nodded brusquely. David let out a long sigh. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “That doesn’t mean,” she went on, “you have nothing to fear. Jack Deacon doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to give up on his job when it gets too difficult. He won’t find you through me, but if he gets to you some other way you’re going to be in trouble. Daniel won’t lie to protect you, and if you deny his account I will tell the truth.”

  David nodded slowly. “If it gets that far, we won’t deny it. Dad?”

  Now Ibbotsen let the silence stretch. But finally he nodded too. “I said I’d pay the price if we could just have Sophie back, and I will. If I have to.”

  They sat a little longer, drinking coffee and hardly talking. Twice David tiptoed upstairs to check that Sophie was where he’d left her; the second time Brodie went with him. The child was sound asleep wi
th a little smile touching her lips.

  She caught David looking at the cropped cap of golden hair. “It’ll grow,” she whispered.

  He looked round with a smile. “I think I rather like it.”

  For a moment Brodie almost told him it made Sophie look like her mother. But she stopped herself in time, aware that wasn’t what he most wanted to hear.

  She was ready to leave. She saw him wondering whether to say something, and then he did. “Listen. This isn’t what we were talking about earlier - trying to make things right. It’s just something that, well, might be nice anyway …” He swallowed and tried again. “I’m going to take Sophie away while we get over this. We told the school we were going to be cruising in the Caribbean, I think that’s what we’ll do. I wondered, would you come? You and your daughter? The girls would be company for one another, and - and I’d like it too.”

  Brodie went on staring at him, dumbfounded. Whatever she’d been expecting it wasn’t this. She didn’t know how to reply. After a moment, the fact that she didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand struck her as deeply significant. “I can’t just shut up shop and disappear to the Caribbean! I have obligations, work to finish.”

  “I appreciate that,” said David. “But it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Sophie should probably have a few days to get her breath back anyway. If we left it a week, could you clear your desk by then? Finish what you can, not start anything new? I realise it’s asking a lot. The business is important to you, you can’t neglect it. But suppose I hire a temp? Someone to man the desk, field phone-calls, make appointments for when you get back. People would just think you were busy and take it as a good sign. Nobody wants to hire someone that nobody else wants to hire.”

  He seemed to hear himself babbling and broke off with an embarrassed grin. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to press you. It would mean a lot to me if you could manage it, but if you’d rather not …”

  She wasn’t sure she could; she wasn’t sure she should; but Brodie was fairly sure she wanted to. “What about Daniel?”

  David looked doubtful. “I didn’t think he’d want to spend any more time with the Ibbotsen family.”

  Brodie thought so too, but that wasn’t what she meant. “I shouldn’ t leave him. Not yet. He’s still - very raw.”

  David ducked his head but not quick enough; she saw him wince. “Well - would you think about it? Things might look different in a week.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she promised.

  Chapter 21

  In her heart of hearts, Brodie was annoyed with Daniel. She knew he was still weak, she understood that the waiting and then the news must have wrung him out like a wet rag. Even so, she thought he might have stayed to celebrate her triumph. The Ibbotsens’ gratitude was one thing: that she’d earned. But she hadn’t done what she’d done for them. She’d done it for Sophie and for Daniel; and one of them had slept through most of it and the other had gone home. Anti-climax made her tetchy.

  It also made her more inclined to accept David’s invitation than she might otherwise have been.

  When she got home there were no lights in her flat, only in Marta’s. “Is Daniel here?”

  Marta shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since you both went out. What happened?”

  There was very little of the story that her friend didn’t already know so Brodie told her. Told her all the thoughts that had been chasing through her head, all the things that could have gone wrong, everything she did to keep the show on the road. Told her about meeting the kidnappers, and how she’d made them prove the child was alive before parting with the money. Told her about hauling the crate out of the gorge though it took all her strength to do it.

  Told her, in fact, all the things she’d expected to be telling Daniel. Marta exclaimed in wonder, in horror, in admiration, in all the right places; but it wasn’t the same. Marta was her friend, she’d have done that however poorly Brodie had performed. If she’d got everyone killed Marta would have thought she’d done OK. But she’d done better than OK, and she’d looked forward to hearing Daniel say it. She felt let down. Marta fussing over her, anointing her sore hands with salve, was no substitute.

  Paddy was asleep in Marta’s spare room. Brodie didn’t disturb her, except to look at her the way David had kept looking at Sophie, to reassure herself she was still there and all was well. Then she kissed Marta goodnight and went downstairs.

  Daniel wasn’t there either. Brodie hadn’t really expected him to be. He’d said he was going home, and that wasn’t here. So she’d served her purpose and he was done with her. Perhaps he didn’t owe her any more. But she’d begun thinking of him as a friend, and friendship brings its own obligations.

  She reached for the phone, to check that he’d arrived safely, then she put it down again. Why wouldn’t he be safe? The people who hurt him before had no interest in him now. He’d been a hunted man for a week; now he was just a comprehensive school maths teacher again. She went to bed.

  Bone-tired as she was, sleep was a long time coming.

  She was in her office in Shack Lane before eight. She had a day to find Cora Burton and acquaint her of the crisis facing the family business which her shares could resolve. Brodie had expected to have this wrapped up yesterday, but once again the Ibbotsen drama had intervened.

  So Cora was a painter. If she lived on her work she must sell it, presumably through galleries. Brodie started with the Yellow Pages, moved on to the internet, then started making phonecalls.

  Within half an hour she’d found two galleries - one in Brighton, one in Hastings - which had sold paintings by Cora Burton. But neither of them had seen her within the last few weeks and both still had her Dimmock address.

  Brodie tried to put herself in Cora’s sandals. This was a woman who lived quietly. She didn’t own a house, or even take a proper lease. She rented surplus farm cottages for a few months at a time. She barely saw her family, only visited galleries when she had something for them to sell.

  This was not a woman who took any pleasure in other people’s company. Dimmock had probably seemed like a city to her; Brighton must have seemed like Las Vegas. She went there only when she had to.

  So when she had to, she would do everything she could only do somewhere like Brighton. She would buy things there that she couldn’t get in country post offices, or even in Dimmock.

  “What’s the name of your nearest artists’ supplier?” she asked the man at the gallery.

  And when she phoned the supplier, they did indeed see Ms Burton every few months - every time, so far as Brodie could make out, that she took work to the gallery round the corner. She bought canvases, brushes and paint; sometimes she had them frame something for her.

  “Did you know she’s moved?” asked Brodie.

  “Again?”

  “I mean, from Dimmock.”

  “Oh yes,” said the girl, “I knew that. About three weeks ago. She bought some canvases last time she was in: they were too big for her to take with her so she asked us to keep them until she moved and then deliver to her new home.”

  Brodie nodded, feeling smug. “You have the address?”

  “Oh yes. Do you want the phone number too?”

  Brodie called Cora, explained the situation and asked her to phone Arthur Burton immediately. To make doubly sure Brodie also phoned him herself. “You’ll be hearing from your cousin Cora any minute. But just in case you don’t, this is her number.”

  She could almost hear the cider bottler mopping sweat off his brow. “I didn’t think you’d find her in time.”

  Brodie indulged in a bit of boasting. “It’s only the impossible that takes a little time. The merely difficult I try to do at once.”

  Burton chuckled appreciatively. “I won’t forget this, Mrs Farrell. I’ll gladly recommend your services to anyone I think can use them.”

  They parted with mutual expressions of satisfaction. Brodie leaned back in her chair, well satisfied, and glanced at her watch. Ten-fiftee
n: time for elevenses. She thought she might nip out for something. Down to the seafront, perhaps.

  As always, Daniel’s loft looked little different from the other five that still held rotting nets, old oars that had lost their partners, lobster creels, lengths of cordage too short to reuse but too good to throw away, and seaboots with holes in them. The only signs of occupation were milk-bottles on the bottom step and curtains at the high windows.

  Brodie parked by the kerb and crunched across the shingle. As she climbed the iron steps Chandlers came into view on the hill. Somehow it no longer looked like a toad.

  She thought Daniel wasn’t going to answer her knock. She was about to leave when the door finally opened. She’d clearly got him out of bed. It was mid-morning, but then he did still have a hole in his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “Go back to bed. I’ll see you later. I’ll pop across at lunchtime if there’s not too much happening.”

  Daniel shook his head, the yellow hair tousled from his pillow. “No, come in. I’m awake, I just haven’t got going yet.” But his glasses were on crooked and the eyes behind them were bleary. She thought he was only awake because she’d woken him.

  She followed him inside. The flat surprised her. It was both more stylish and more homely than the natural habitat of the single twenty-six year old male. There wasn’t an empty beer-can in sight and the floor was not being used as a laundry box. Unless he’d come home late last night and immediately started tidying up, this was how he lived. Perhaps it figured: chaos could have scant appeal for a mathematician.

  “I wanted to see if you were all right,” said Brodie. “Last time you were here …” She left the sentence unfinished, wished she hadn’t started it.

  He shrugged the green dressing-gown closer around his bones. “It wasn’t too bad. Of course, knowing there was nobody waiting behind the door helped. Sit down, I’ll make some coffee.” He left the kitchen door open, talking through it. “I’m sorry I missed you last night. I had to get out of there.”