Breaking Faith

by Jo Bannister

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Brodie, growing tired of the discussion, ‘why don’t you ask him? Haul him in and ask him.’

  ‘We will have to interview him,’ agreed Voss, ‘but I’m damned if I know how. If I tell the governor about this he’ll do it himself. But if Daniel’s right, that’s what Chandos wants – a stand-up fight on tape in the interview room. Once their hostility and the reason for it are public knowledge – ie, the topic of meetings at Division – no one, not even his staunchest supporters, will go on backing Mr Deacon’s judgement on the subject of Eric Chandos. They’ll think he can’t possibly maintain a professional detachment, that whatever suspicions he has about Chandos come from …’

  He glanced quickly at Brodie. When she refused to look away, he did. ‘On the other hand, if I question Chandos without checking with the governor first – well, if he didn’t hate me before he would then.’

  ‘You mustn’t stick your neck out any further.’ Brodie was aware how difficult Voss’s position was becoming. ‘I’ll talk to Eric. Jack’ll be angry with me too but he can’t sack me.’

  Voss’s eyes saucered. Daniel shut his altogether.

  Brodie was determined. Humiliation made her reckless ‘If you can’t question him and Jack mustn’t, I will. Eric thinks he can use me as a stalking-horse, does he? We’ll see about that. I allowed this situation to develop, it’s for me to resolve it. If I don’t Jack will, and we all know what that means. I won’t let that happen.’

  ‘You can’t confront an unpredictable man with his back to the wall either!’ exclaimed Voss.

  ‘I’m not going to make a citizen’s arrest,’ said Brodie scornfully. ‘But I can do what neither you nor Jack can: talk to him off the record, without him even knowing he’s being questioned. If I can get some idea what he’s covering up you’ll know what to do about it. If it’s murder you’ll go after him whatever the consequences. If it’s drugs, could Drugs Squad take over and keep him and Jack apart? But if he’s been fiddling his VAT you can safely back off till everyone calms down.’

  Daniel took a deep breath. If he’d learned nothing else in the last year, he knew not to tell Brodie Farrell what she could and couldn’t do. But he wanted her to think about this. ‘Whatever he’s covering up, clearly it matters to him. He could be facing prison. Or maybe he stands to lose everything he’s worked for. If he realises you’re onto him he’ll be scared and angry. He may become violent.’

  Her lip curled. ‘I can handle Eric Chandos. Daniel, he’s used me in the most cynical way imaginable. And he’s going to pay for that.’

  ‘How did you part?’ asked Voss. ‘Did you send him home with a flea in his ear? Or …’ He couldn’t find a safe way to finish the sentence.

  ‘Or,’ she agreed. ‘I suddenly realised there was another agenda. I didn’t call him on it: I wanted to think about it first. I accepted his apology, said I’d consider his proposition and saw him out.’

  ‘Whether he’s trying to keep Mr Deacon on the back foot,’ said Voss carefully, ‘or he really does want to take you away from all this, he should be happy to see you again. As long as you don’t call him a liar you shouldn’t be in any danger.’

  Daniel remained uneasy. ‘If you start quizzing him he’ll get suspicious. We can’t guess what he’ll do because we don’t know how much trouble he’ll be in if it all comes out.’

  But Brodie wouldn’t be deterred. ‘I won’t quiz him, I’ll just … steer the conversation. I’ll say that before I can make a decision on the future I need to know more about him, and listen out for things he should be saying and isn’t. Charlie, you’re the detective. If you were also a stunningly attractive woman whose mere presence was enough to make men indiscreet, what would you ask?’

  Voss considered. ‘He was pretty upset when Daniel came between him and Fry. What if it’s not him that’s in trouble but Fry? What if all this is to protect Fry, because Chandos stands to lose a packet if he can’t keep Fry out of prison?’

  ‘For the drugs?’

  ‘Maybe. I mean, yes, he breaks the law every day and he could go down for it. But it’s not exactly a secret, is it? I’d have thought anyone who was interested in prosecuting Jared Fry for possession of Class A drugs would have done it long ago.’

  Daniel shook his head stubbornly. ‘Jared hasn’t the time or emotional capacity for another hobby. He performs, he tries to write songs and he takes drugs. That’s about all he has the energy for. I don’t think he’s hiding any terrible secrets.’

  ‘But you never think the worst of people,’ said Brodie. ‘He helped you and you’re grateful. But I could believe there’s something in his past that needs covering up. He’s a haunted man. The question is, what’s he haunted by?’

  ‘Maybe that’s what you should ask Chandos.’ Voss heard himself and his eyes shot wide. ‘No! I didn’t say that. This whole thing is a terrible idea and I want nothing to do with it. In fact, I’m not even here.’ He got up to go. ‘And I never was.’

  Though Daniel was no happier with Brodie’s plan, he knew from the glint in her eye that her mind was made up. ‘Don’t let him …’

  ‘What?’

  His voice was low. ‘You said yourself, there’s something about this man that makes you behave like an idiot. Don’t let him convince you that we’ve misjudged him, he’s just a fool for love too. Don’t end up in bed with him because this time he wanted to take your mind off the job.’

  She almost struck him. Just in time she recognised it as fair comment. She nodded tersely. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘When are you going up there?’ Voss really wanted to be somewhere else, was kept here only by a kind of horrid fascination.

  Her smile was as bright and brittle as crystal. She felt she’d been stupid and she felt she’d been used, and now she felt like fighting back. ‘There’s no time like the present.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was on the way to The Diligence, Chandos was on his way to her office. They met on the Guildford road, in a flurry of brake-lights and u-turns.

  ‘Brodie!’ Even knowing what she did, the smile was as handsome, as winning, as ever. His hands fastened on her shoulders and he stared into her face as if seeking answers there. ‘You were looking for me?’

  It was not only the truth, it was what he wanted to hear. ‘Yes, I was. Eric, you – well, to be honest you rather floored me last night. We need to talk – properly, not in the hall, not in my office between appointments, just us with the time to say what we want from one another. I have time now.’

  There was no way he could turn her down and maintain the illusion of desire. His eyes were warm and his hands tightened on her arms in a way that, if she hadn’t come here knowing his duplicity, would have turned her knees to jelly. ‘What do you want to do? We could drive. Or go somewhere …’

  She didn’t want to be driving round the open countryside with him, just in case he recognised her for a spy. ‘I could use a coffee. There’s a tea-shop I know …’

  He was half puzzled, half charmed. ‘You want to discuss our future in a tea-shop?’

  Brodie shrugged ruefully. ‘It’s all old ladies with hearing-aids, nobody will overhear us.’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘Coffee it is.’

  In the event, though, they didn’t get that far. Passing Poole Lane the car behind her suddenly began flashing its lights, and when she pulled over Chandos’s face was dark with anger. ‘I’m sorry, Brodie, but we’re going to have to do this later. Jared’s in trouble.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I just had Miriam on the phone. The police are at The Diligence. They’ve arrested him for murder.’

  ‘You understand,’ Deacon intoned woodenly, ‘you are not under arrest. You are free to leave at any time. You are merely helping me with my inquiries. Of course, if you should refuse to help in a murder inquiry I’d have to wonder why, and it’s not impossible that I could find something to arrest you for. Doing something – possessing something – who know
s? But right now you’re here of your own free will, meeting your obligations as a good citizen. Yes?’

  Jared Fry stared back at him defiantly. But his hands were unsteady, and clasping them together on the table-top only drew attention to the fact. ‘Get on with it, Deacon.’ His voice was rough.

  ‘Mr Deacon,’ Deacon corrected him gravely. ‘Or Detective Superintendent Deacon. Do let’s try to stay civil, shall we, Mr Fry?’

  There’s nothing cosy about a police interview room. There isn’t meant to be. This one was four walls, a table and four hard chairs, a tape-recorder. It was like a stage set with a minimum of props so as not to distract from the performance.

  If there was one thing Jared Fry knew about it was dominating a stage. But this mean space with its linoleum floor and small high window managed to shrink him, not only in status but somehow even physically. He sat hunched at the table like a recalcitrant schoolboy, stubborn and resentful, a gaunt shadow of the man who could fill stadia. Deacon almost felt sorry for him. It wasn’t as if he was here because of something he’d done. He was here because of something someone else had done, and even that wasn’t a crime.

  ‘Last time you were asked you said you’d never met Sasha Wade,’ said Deacon. ‘I want you to give that a bit more thought. Look at the photograph I’m showing you and tell me if this girl was a friend, or an acquaintance, or part of your circle about eight years ago.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Fry, neither looking up nor at the photograph, ‘I never saw her before.’

  ‘She was a musician,’ said Deacon. ‘She sang and played the guitar. Did you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about her.’

  Deacon ignored him. ‘She also wrote songs. This was at about the time your career was taking off.’ He managed to say it with a borderline sneer that the tape might not pick up. ‘It’s not unlikely that you’d know other people who were doing the same things you were.’

  ‘There were a lot of them,’ said Fry shortly. ‘Some of them I knew. The ones who got somewhere. Got gigs, got recording contracts. It isn’t easy, you know. For every one who makes it big – hell, for every one who makes it small – there are hundreds of wannabes.’

  ‘Wanna … ?’ echoed Deacon with a puzzled frown. He knew exactly what it meant: he wanted to show Fry that he was only important in his own world, and his world wasn’t as important as he thought.

  ‘Wannabes,’ gritted Fry. ‘I wannabe a rockstar.’

  ‘Well, it’s what you wanted,’ said Deacon reasonably. ‘You made it.’ If he’d added, ‘So it can’t be that hard,’ he could not have made his opinion clearer.

  The speed with which Jared Fry lunged across the table startled him into jerking back. Fry didn’t touch him. But he thrust his gaunt face into Deacon’s and spoke very distinctly. ‘I make a lot of money. I make more money than you. I make more money than anyone you know. It’s because I’m very, very good at what I do.’

  With difficulty Deacon resisted the urge to shove him back in his seat and after a moment Fry subsided. ‘Of course you are, Mr Fry,’ Deacon said blandly. ‘And what you do is so vital to human civilisation that if you stopped tomorrow the pillars of society would crumble as captains of state and industry proved unable to feed or dress themselves.

  ‘I grant you,’ he went on, ‘it’s funny about the money. Looking at the money you’d think that scoring a goal in a football match was more important than solving a murder. More important than preventing one. Maybe if you asked a capacity crowd at Wembley they’d say it was. But if you asked them one by one if it was more important than preventing their murder, or that of their wife or child, you’d get a different answer.’

  His head came up sharply and he pinned the demon rocker in his place with the spear of his gaze. ‘So don’t let’s confuse income with importance, Mr Fry. Don’t let’s confuse the value of what you do with real value. And let’s bear in mind that if you end up dead in a ditch tonight it’ll be me trying to find out why. And I’ll put as much time and effort into it as I am into finding out who killed the girl in your garden. Every bit as much, and not an ounce more.’

  Fry rocked his chair back and slouched, staring at the ceiling this time. ‘So what do you want to know?’ He was trying to look as if being here was cool. But it’s hard to feel cool when your body’s telling you that pretty soon it’s going to need, as a matter of urgency, something you have no way of providing.

  ‘Everything you know,’ said Deacon. ‘Everything that might help me identify that girl, work out what she’s doing in your garden and find her killer.’

  ‘That’s all? That’s easy.’ A bleak smile twisted Fry’s lip. ‘Nothing. Can I go now?’

  Deacon breathed heavily. ‘Mr Fry, when you agreed to help me with my inquiries, I hoped you’d be trying harder. Now, there are different ways of doing this. This is the nice way, where I assume we’re on the same side. If that doesn’t work, we can try the other way where I assume you have something to hide. If you haven’t, I’d recommend sticking with the nice way.’

  All the arrogance in Fry’s gaze – and there was plenty: he’d practised in mirrors – was not enough to disguise the fear that was there too. ‘I want Eric in here.’

  Deacon sighed. ‘Mr Fry, you’re too old to need a responsible adult present. You can have a solicitor if you want one.’

  ‘I want one.’

  ‘Which would be an excellent idea if you were expecting to be charged with some offence,’ Deacon continued seamlessly. ‘Now, I’m not there yet. I thought I was talking to a witness. But if you’re telling me that’s where we’re going to end up, maybe it would save time if you called your solicitor and I prepared some charges. Is that where we’re heading?’

  He was, as well he knew, straining the boundaries of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Usually he got away with it because most people who find themselves in police stations don’t know their rights. Those who do are usually guilty of something; those who are guilty of nothing are usually so relieved to get out they won’t go back to make a complaint.

  Seeing Fry waver he played his trump card. ‘Doing it all formally takes longer, of course, but I don’t suppose there’s anywhere you have to be in the next several hours. Anything you have to do?’

  And of course there was, and Deacon knew it when he sent for Fry. The singer wasn’t afraid of missing his favourite television programme. He wasn’t afraid of Deacon’s questions – at least, nothing he’d been asked so far bothered him half as much as the prospect of being here all day. Probably he needed to shoot up every twelve hours or so. The fear of not being able to when the time came would accelerate the withdrawal process.

  A good man in many ways, Deacon had a regrettable thread of cruelty running through him. He wasn’t vicious but he could be distinctly unkind when he thought people deserved it. And he wasn’t always the best judge of who deserved what.

  He wasn’t leaning on Fry because he believed he had important information. He was doing it because it was in his power to hurt Fry, and through him the real object of his enmity. Fry was vulnerable in a way that Chandos was not. But Chandos would know the trouble Fry was in, stuck in a police station for hours at a time. He’d know who was doing it and why. That was what Deacon wanted. Revenge is a primitive emotion. But as with wine, jokes and vices, the old ones are the best.

  Fry turned away with a sneer. But he reached for the photograph of Sasha Wade and looked at it properly for the first time. ‘I still can’t help you.’

  ‘She doesn’t look familiar?’

  The demon rocker shrugged. ‘She looks like all of them look. I can’t guarantee that this one didn’t come to a gig or a club or a party, and I may have bought her a drink or danced with her. I may have sat beside her half the night. But I wasn’t aware of her. I never knew her name, I never dated her, I never slept with her, and I sure as hell never murdered her.’ He looked Deacon in the eye. ‘And if I had,
and if it seemed like a good idea to bury her in the grounds of an hotel where I once stayed, I wouldn’t then have bought the bloody place and paid someone to dig her up!’

  Deacon nodded slowly. It was a valid point. ‘You wanted a swimming pool.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it on your list of requirements when you sent Mrs Farrell house-hunting? It was a long list: why leave off something as big as a swimming pool if you were determined to have one?’

  Fry looked away. ‘Eric knew what I needed. I expected him to find something suitable.’

  Deacon regarded him impassively. ‘So you didn’t bother to look at The Diligence before you bought it, and when it turned out not to have a pool you decided to have one installed. Who chose the site?’

  Fry shook his head negligently. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You wanted it so much you were prepared for extra expense and upheaval, and so urgently you started work almost as soon as you moved in, but you don’t remember who chose the location? It seems likely it would be you.’

  ‘Maybe it was.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’

  ‘Eric? The builder?’

  ‘Builders don’t tell their clients where to put their swimming pools. And Mr Chandos didn’t want a pool enough to ask Mrs Farrell for one. I think it must have been you, Mr Fry.’

  ‘All right, so it was me.’ He couldn’t see how it mattered.

  ‘You wanted the pool beside the stable-block. But Mr Wilmslow found he couldn’t dig there and started looking at other sites around the garden.’

  A sixth sense warned Fry there was a trap here somewhere, but he couldn’t see it. ‘I didn’t tell him where to dig.’

  ‘No,’ said Deacon seriously, ‘I bet you didn’t. If you had you’ve have said, “Dig anywhere you like but not at the bottom of the garden.” Isn’t that the truth, Mr Fry? That you were appalled when you saw where he’d dug his test-pit? That you knew what he was going to find before he did?’