by Jo Bannister
As always, the sheer timeless scale of it amazed him. For all he knew, any one of those distant blazing suns was history now, exploded or cold and shrunken, news of its demise patiently trudging across the void at a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. It made his problems seem paltry by comparison. Except for one of them, which was immediate and unavoidable.
After a while he got up and went outside, onto the gallery. The telescope – the ugly love child of a tin bucket and a bit of garden trellis – was tucked away in its corner. He let it be, instead pulled up a deckchair and leant back, gazing and gazing.
If the psalmist had spoken of lifting up his eyes unto the skies, he might have made a convert. Or perhaps not. Daniel had spent his life trying to make sense of things. He was a mathematician because numbers are quintessentially logical, not open to interpretation. He was an astronomer because the cosmos is maths’ grandest stage. So much, and yet still measurable; so far, and yet still in some measure knowable. Studying the stars had taught him two remarkable truths. That there is so much more out there, and much of it so much stranger, than anyone could have imagined for most of human history. And that people in his generation and the couple preceding it had been smart enough to find out. People. Extraordinary people perhaps, giants standing on the shoulders of giants, thinking brilliant thoughts and devising ways to test them, but people nonetheless.
And if people could work out what was happening on the furthest edge of the universe, which is in any event receding so fast that it’s vastly further away now than when you started reading this sentence, Daniel simply couldn’t see what need there was, what room was left, for a god. It seemed to him that all the attributes believers used to define deity were being steadily assumed by people who were curious enough to ask questions and clever enough to find the answers.
But still not clever enough to save one small boy from the ravages of a disease he was born with.
He’d promised to do something to try to help. He’d made the promise most unwillingly, feeling foolish and sure it would accomplish nothing, before the child’s mother had made him the butt of her anger and frustration. Before she’d pulled out every stop she could reach to humiliate him. Before he’d left her house bleeding invisible rivers from the wounds she’d inflicted, knowing that a place where he’d found ease in his own hopelessness was somewhere he could not now return, and would not be welcome if he did.
It altered nothing. He’d given his word. Nothing that had happened since could erase the promise. He’d said he’d pray for Jonathan’s recovery, and pray he was going to have to. Not because he thought it would help, and not because he thought Brodie would check, but because he’d promised and he’d rather break his right arm than a promise.
Well, the night sky was Daniel’s cathedral. Anything he could achieve with a bunch of earnest devotees in a suburban sitting room, with wine waiting in the kitchen in case it might cause offence, he could certainly achieve here, alone, under the spangled dome of the cosmos. He gave his yellow head a fractional shake, incredulous at where events had brought him. Then he made a start.
Briefly he considered, and dismissed, the agnostic’s prayer: Oh God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul. He wasn’t an agnostic. He’d never sat on a fence in his life. If he was going to do this he was going to do it honestly. Alone on the iron gallery above the beach, the only sound the whisper and chink of the tide among the stones, the nearest human activity a hundred metres away on the Promenade, his lips moved on words he’d never thought to utter.
‘If I’m wrong about this,’ he murmured, ‘and there’s somebody out there listening, I suppose what I want to say is, Please can you help?’
It seemed only polite to wait for a response. But no comets flashed across the sky so he continued. ‘I wouldn’t ask – I don’t have any right to ask – but there’s a little boy who’s going to die if you don’t. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to you. Children die all the time for want of a miracle. And a miracle’s what we need. If there was a medical treatment that would save his life, his mother would have found it. She’s good at finding things.’
The problem was, he had no frame of reference. He wasn’t sure how you were supposed to do it, and whether how you did it was supposed to matter. He vaguely remembered RE lessons at school, the general import of which was that there was a beard in the sky watching everything that little boys did but not usually stopping them, or at least not in time. All the same, the beard gave him an idea. The grandfather who raised him did not in fact have a beard, but he was a kind, gentle, thoughtful individual who had given Daniel much of his moral code and to whom Daniel had continued turning for advice until his death six years before. He could do worse than talk to God as if he was his grandfather.
‘She thinks this is his last chance. Brodie – the child’s mother. She’s a friend of mine. More than a friend, actually.’ He gave a wry little snort. ‘Being omniscient I guess you know that. And she thinks that getting the two of us talking about it might somehow help. I wasn’t keen. But…
‘Do you remember a man called Cromwell?’ he asked, apparently changing the subject. ‘He killed a king and overturned an order that had been established for a thousand years – so long that most people considered it an expression of divine will – because he thought it was the right thing to do. Not a terribly attractive man in many ways, but he said one thing I’ve never forgotten. He said: “In the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you may be mistaken.”’
He flicked an uncertain little grin into the darkness. ‘I’m guessing the oath isn’t one of your favourites, but for what it’s worth, that’s what I’m trying to do now. To consider the possibility that I’ve been wrong. That everything I’ve reckoned to know for the last twenty years was based on a fallacy. That it was arrogant, conceited and wrong. That those who’ve clung to essentially the same belief for the last four thousand years, whose faith is stronger than sense, stronger than science, were right – you were there all along. You don’t show yourself openly because you choose not to, and you make the rules. Absence of evidence, as someone reminded me recently, is not evidence of absence. Oh… sorry. I guess you were there when she said it.’
He hesitated. He rather suspected this wasn’t how prayers normally proceeded. He just had to hope that the form was less important than the content and that sincerity counted for something. He was doing his honest best.
‘I don’t suppose this is the first time someone’s tried to strike a deal with you. “Please, Lord, save my child and I’ll…” – whatever. I imagine it happens a lot. You’d think that if it worked nobody’s child would ever die. But maybe it works sometimes. And if it works sometimes, maybe it can work for Jonathan.
‘I hope it doesn’t come down to what the supplicant can offer. “Save my child and I’ll build a church.” Yeah, OK. “Save my child and I’ll plant a tree.” No, sorry, got loads already. I hope it’s the value of the sacrifice to the person offering it that counts. If it is, maybe I’m not wasting your time. Because there’s something I can offer that you won’t get every day.’
He paused a moment, aware of what he was doing. He was about to make a commitment to do something he absolutely didn’t want to do. And in a way it hardly mattered if there was someone listening or not – if Daniel made a promise he was going to keep it. If Jonathan lived, he was going to have to find a way of keeping this one.
If Jonathan lived. That was the prize, and it was worth any effort to win it. All he had to do was hold on to that thought. He took a deep breath and jumped in.
‘I need you to believe that atheism matters as much to me as faith does to worshippers. I don’t know if I could die for it, but I’ve lived by it since I was old enough to make a rational choice and it’s reflected in every aspect of my life, of who I am. So this is the deal. Save Jonathan and you get me too.’ He gave an unsteady little chuckle. ‘I don’t know if that seems much of a bargain to you but it’s the best I can do. I don
’t have anything else to offer. If you accept, I won’t be the best-schooled believer you have but I will be trying hard. I won’t just go through the motions. I’ll give it everything I’ve got.’
Again he waited. Somewhere along the Promenade a dog barked. He didn’t think it was a sign of anything, unless the proximity of a cat. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, anyway, to sweeten the pot. ‘OK. Well, that’s about it. I look forward to hearing from you. Oh…and, give my love to Grandad.’
Though he’d gone along with it in a spirit of anything’s worth trying, the prayer meeting left Deacon vaguely disappointed. If the intercessors had stripped naked and daubed themselves with woad he’d have been the first to mock, but at least he’d have felt they were giving it a bit of welly. But a bunch of middle-aged, middle-class, middle-income people sitting in a suburban living room sipping wine were somehow less convincing than the zealots he was expecting.
Brodie produced a small buffet and the wine – which proved entirely acceptable – and they sat making polite conversation for half an hour. Marta brought Paddy down from upstairs. Then Hester Dale suggested they make a start.
Brodie asked if she should bring Jonathan in. It didn’t seem to be necessary, but the intercessors were generous enough to say they’d love to see him anyway. Jonathan was wan and barely stirred, and after the visitors had made the requisite admiring noises – Brodie appreciated their kindness though in truth there wasn’t much to admire – he settled on his mother’s lap and made no further contribution to the proceedings.
They didn’t form a circle. They didn’t chant, or touch the child. They didn’t stand, or kneel, or even hold hands. They sat quietly, eyes lowered, and Hester Dale said softly, ‘Lord, this is Jonathan, who needs your help. This is his mother, and his father, and his sister, and they love him dearly. And we are their friends, and we ask a blessing for them all. We ask that you make him well again, to enjoy the life you gave him. But whatever your plan for him, we accept your will.’
A man called Steven spoke in a similar vein; others just sat, eyes lowered, occasionally murmuring, ‘Amen.’ When Hester asked if Brodie wanted to say something she started but then choked up. Hester patted her hand reassuringly. ‘It’s all right. He knows what you wanted to say.’
‘I’d do anything,’ mumbled Brodie, her voice cracking.
‘He knows that too. Mr Deacon?’
Deacon cleared his throat like a bullfrog preparing to sing. Deeply embarrassed, he kept his eyes on his son. ‘This is my only child. I don’t want to lose him. Down the years I’ve done some good things. I’ve helped other people’s children – I’ve even saved a few. I’d like to think it’s my turn.’ He trailed off, afraid – for possibly the first time in his life – he might be causing offence. But Hester only smiled encouragingly.
She turned to Paddy. ‘What about you, honey? Do you want to speak to God?’
Paddy nodded solemnly.
‘What do you want to say?’
‘I want Jonathan to get better,’ she whispered, shy in front of the strange adults. ‘I could give up riding…’
‘I’m sure God appreciates the offer,’ said Hester gently. ‘But then, who’d look after His ponies? I think you should keep riding unless He tells you to stop.’
After they’d gone, after Brodie had put Paddy to bed, Deacon helped her to tidy up. ‘How do you think it went?’
Brodie shrugged tiredly. ‘No idea. We’re not going to know until either he dies or he doesn’t.’
‘You think, if he dies that means we did it wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. That would make Him a pretty petty God, wouldn’t it? Oh Jack, let’s be realistic here. It was always a long shot. But if a long shot’s all you’ve got, you take it. We’ve taken them all – tried everything. Now we wait.’
There was something else he needed to ask. He knew she’d be annoyed, but he didn’t feel he could let it pass without comment. ‘Brodie…what was all that with Daniel?’
She tossed her hair contemptuously. ‘I know. He promised he’d be here. I know he wasn’t happy with the idea, but still…’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Deacon, though he was pretty sure she knew already. ‘Why are you treating him like this? Why are you so angry with him?’
Brodie turned on him sharply. ‘You know how much this meant to me. So did he. But he couldn’t put his precious principles aside for the half-hour it would have taken to do what I asked.’
But Deacon knew about dishonesty, dealt with it every day; recognised it in himself sometimes and recognised it in Brodie now. ‘That’s not fair. Daniel did exactly what you asked. He came here ready to do what you wanted. As ready as I was, though it was going to cost him more. But even that wasn’t enough for you. You ripped him to shreds. You tore his heart out. Why?’
For once, the temper which was always her first line of defence wasn’t up to the task. Great rents appeared in it, and her face crumpled and suddenly tears were flooding down it. Her voice was thick with them. But all she would say was, ‘Because he deserves it!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Criminal detection is like algebra. You start off with a few facts and a lot of unknowns, and set about replacing the question marks with true values. Mathematicians do this with formulae – the degrees in the angles of a triangle always add up to one hundred and eighty, that sort of thing. Detectives are supposed to do it by numbers too, but Deacon preferred his own methods. They could be summarised as three laws:
Everyone is guilty of something.
There is no such thing as the perfect crime.
Leaning heavily on the wrong person will not solve today’s crime but may very well improve the overall clear-up rate.
The morning after the prayer meeting he took his son for a drive in the car. The doctors had said that little outings would do nothing but good, getting a bit of sunlight onto Jonathan’s skin and fresh air into his lungs. And they were a chance for his parents to enjoy something approaching the normal experience of having a baby. Also, Brodie had to open the office.
Deacon drove up onto the Firestone Cliffs and parked with a panoramic view of the Channel before him. The sea was bright blue. He settled Jonathan on his knee, and the frail child drifted between sleep and blowing contented bubbles while the detective thought.
The view wasn’t the only reason he’d come up here. Terry Walsh had a house on the Firestone Cliffs, one of just half a dozen sharing the best address in Dimmock. He wasn’t planning on visiting Walsh today, but it pleased him to plot the man’s downfall while sitting on his doorstep.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Walsh was involved in the Carson case. He had no evidence. He had a theory of a kind, but it fell far short of a case. All he really had was a well-honed instinct that zeroed in on criminality as a sniffer dog zeroes in on hash. He knew Walsh was up to his neck in this. He’d find a way to prove it.
For once, though, the three laws offered little help. Of course Walsh was guilty of something – he was the nearest thing Dimmock had to a Godfather, even if Deacon hadn’t yet been able to prove it. Walsh was a free man because he’d been both clever and careful every day for ten years. Having dealings with Bobby Carson would have been an uncharacteristic error of judgement. Then he’d tried putting the frighteners on Daniel Hood when he’d have been much safer trusting that Daniel’s lack of skill meant he’d hit the buffers sooner rather than later anyway.
There was, of course, the possibility that it wasn’t Walsh but someone else, making the same mistakes for the same reasons. This should have been a cheering thought, because Deacon had a better chance of catching someone else. But he wanted it to be Walsh.
That was why he’d taken leave. If he was detecting on public time he had to do it properly – work from the facts of the crime towards the identity of the criminal. If he was on his holidays he could please himself how he established Terry Walsh’s guilt.
‘Points in favour of Terry Walsh being behind all this,’ he observed to the top of the slumbering infant’s head. ‘One, Lionel Littlejohn worked for Terry. All right, he worked for other people as well, but he wouldn’t have come out of retirement for all of them. He would for Terry.
‘Two, most of the people Lionel might have done this for wouldn’t have been so considerate. If they were worried enough to need Littlejohn’s help, they wouldn’t have settled for giving Daniel a bloody nose as a warning – they’d have wanted him in the hospital, or the morgue.
‘Three, Bobby Carson went to prison on the basis that he was acting alone. If he was working for someone, he kept it quiet because he knew that nothing the law could do to him was as bad as what would happen if he grassed up his boss. Terry Walsh isn’t the only man on the south coast that you’d give years of your life to avoid upsetting, but he’s a front runner.’
Jonathan gave a sleepy hiccup. It might have been agreement or wind.
‘And lastly,’ said Deacon, his voice a soft rumble where his jaw rested against Jonathan’s bald spot, ‘I want it to be Terry. This probably isn’t as good an argument as the others, but there is such a thing as poetic justice. It ought to be Terry. It ought to be me that proves it.’
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the big 4x4 drawing up behind him. The first he knew was the rap of a polite knuckle on the window by his ear. Jonathan woke just long enough for a gummy yawn before falling asleep once more.
