by Jo Bannister
Daniel realised Marianne Selkirk was watching him, curiously, her head a little on one side like a bird's. ‘Where's this going, Mr Hood? It wouldn't be that you give lessons in maths and you just happen to have a vacancy?’
Daniel coloured so violently that, outside, he'd have confused low-flying aircraft. ‘That isn't what I was saying. I just wanted…’
Seeing his embarrassment, Marianne thought she'd misjudged him. ‘I'm sorry,’ she smiled. ‘I asked because, if you're willing to tutor Noah, I'd be interested.’
Which was exactly what Daniel had been hoping for. He hadn't expected to feel so humiliated by his success. He didn't know what to do now, what to say.
But the bottom line was the same. He thought the boy needed his help, and this was a way to give it without anyone knowing that Noah himself had made the first move. If that meant being taken for a snake-oil salesman, Daniel didn't suppose that in the grand scheme of things it was too high a price to pay.
Mrs Selkirk was waiting for a response. He'd have to say something. ‘We've been a little at cross-purposes. It's my fault: I have this habit of expecting people to read my mind. No, I wasn't really suggesting that Noah needs a tutor. He's smart, and he gets good teaching at school. I just wanted to encourage him, and you, to see that maths could offer him a good future, to keep it up and keep his options open while he thinks about a career.
‘But if you want to get him extra help, that's not a problem. I used to do a bit of tutoring. If you like, I could come to your house for a couple of hours some evening and let's see if it does any good.’
Marianne Selkirk looked at her son. ‘What do you think?’ But the boy wasn't volunteering an opinion. Perhaps volunteering an opinion wasn't a wise move in the Selkirk household.
The woman smiled back at Daniel. ‘It's a good offer, Mr Hood, and we'd be foolish not to take advantage of it. I'll be going up to town on Monday. Would you be free tonight?’
CHAPTER NINE
‘Al Capone,’ observed Detective Inspector Hyde, entirely out of the blue so far as Voss could judge, ‘went down for tax evasion.’
‘Did he?’ said Voss carefully. Caution was his default position when he didn't know where something was leading.
Hyde nodded. ‘The dogs in the street knew he was a gangster, but the authorities couldn't prove it. But they could prove he fiddled his income tax.’
Voss supposed there was a moral to the story. ‘Honesty is the best policy?’
Alix Hyde chuckled. ‘Indeed it is, Charlie. And the other thing to remember is, there's more than one way to skin a cat.’
Voss considered. ‘You mean, if we can't get Terry Walsh through the front door we should see if he's left a back window open?’
Hyde liked that. ‘Exactly. It's no use sending the cavalry after him if he's going to see them coming a mile off. But maybe an Indian scout could sneak up behind him without being noticed.’
Voss had seen that film. He remembered what happened to the scout. ‘It could be risky. He's an affable villain, but maybe only when he's got nothing to worry about. Maybe not so much if he's cornered.’
‘Then we'd better be ready for him,’ said Hyde briskly, ‘because one way or another I intend to corner him. Front door, back window, Indian scout or Inland Revenue, I mean to have his head on my wall.’ She paused a moment, frowning. ‘Where the hell did all these metaphors come from?’
‘A metaphor shower?’ murmured Voss.
Hyde wasn't listening. She was planning. ‘So we can't use Susan Weekes. What can we use?’
It needed saying, and Voss was the only one who was going to say it. ‘The one who knows him best is Superintendent Deacon.’
Hyde's jaw rose in a way that, in a man, would have been described as pugnacious. ‘He might know, Charlie, but can we count on him to share his knowledge? I think we're on our own.’
There were drawbacks to working for Deacon. Voss had been warned of every one of them when he drew the short straw. But there were advantages too. The man was a damned good detective, and someone wanting to learn the trade could do worse than watch him closely. And Voss had always felt he knew where he was with Deacon. That he could be relied on. Yes, he could be relied on to shout a lot, and be inventively unpleasant at the least provocation. But also to hold the line between good and evil if it took every ounce of strength and every drop of courage he possessed. He didn't tolerate laziness, sloppiness or lack of commitment in others because he'd have quit the job rather than do it that way himself. No one believed him, but Voss felt privileged to work for someone who in so many ways – just not in all of them – was an outstanding police officer.
Now, almost for the first time, he wasn't sure where he stood with Deacon. He found it hard to believe the Superintendent was putting a childhood friendship ahead of his duty, but to someone who didn't know him – to Detective Inspector Hyde, for example – it could have looked that way. And Voss felt like a toy they'd been told to share nicely by an adult who had then left the room.
Hyde went on: ‘What I know about Terry Walsh is what's on the record, and if it wasn't enough before there's no reason to suppose it will be now. But you're the local man, Charlie. Everything you've heard about him won't be on the record. It won't seem terribly relevant, some of it – off-the-cuff things Walsh has said, things people have said about him, maybe some things Deacon has said – not even about his activities so much as the man. I can't tell you what I'm looking for because I don't know what there is. But you have an instinct for this job, I know that already. The sort of thing I'm looking for, you'll know it when you see it. Think, Charlie. What can you tell me about Terry Walsh that might give us a way in?’
Voss knew a few things that weren't on the record. The problem was, most of them were to Walsh's credit. When he wasn't being a crime magnate he was a good husband and father, a good employer, a good neighbour. And at least once he'd put himself out to help Deacon in a personal crisis, one man to another. Part of Voss would be sorry when Walsh finally got his comeuppance. Though it wouldn't stop the rest of him joining the celebrations at The Belted Galloway.
He said slowly, ‘There's one thing. A scam Mr Deacon told me he used to pull when he was starting out.’ And he explained the doppelgdnger fraud.
Like Deacon, like Voss himself, Alix Hyde had a struggle to contain her admiration. ‘So he went round selling people their own goods. That was…’
‘Reprehensible,’ said Voss, straight-faced.
‘Yes. Thank you, Charlie, that's exactly the word I was looking for.’ She thought about it. ‘And – in a reprehensible sort of way – witty. I'm not sure how it's going to help us. But one day it may. One day it very well may.’
He was on his way back to his own office when he heard the sudden laugh behind him and turned back, startled, to see Alix Hyde grinning at him. ‘A metaphor shower indeed, Charlie Voss!’
Marianne Selkirk was waiting with coffee and homemade buns when Daniel arrived at the big house on River Drive at seven o'clock. She showed him into the sitting room. There was no sign of her husband.
‘This is very good of you, Mr Hood,’ said Noah's mother. ‘I'm afraid I rather hijacked you this morning. We still have to come to a proper arrangement.’ She meant talk about his fees.
Daniel shook his head. ‘This one's on me. If you want to do it again, I can quote you some figures. I'm not expensive. I love maths and I love teaching. Events have conspired to keep me from doing it at the moment but I hope to get back to it. In the meantime, I'm glad of the chance to keep my hand in. And please, call me Daniel.’
She did the bird-like tip of the head again. ‘Not Dan?’
He shrugged, self-conscious. ‘No one's ever thought I looked like a Dan. All the others are six feet tall with Army boots and tattoos.’
She laughed, a light sound like the tinkling of little silver bells. ‘Danny, then.’
Daniel restrained himself. ‘Do you know what it was that set Napoleon on the path of world dominati
on? It was people calling him Nappy.’
Half-hidden behind a blueberry muffin, Noah was starting to relax. His nerves had been screwed as tight as wire when Daniel arrived. But these easy, friendly exchanges were reassuring him. Daniel thought he'd been dreading this all day, and now he was beginning to enjoy it.
‘Did you mind?’ asked Daniel when they were alone. ‘Being button-holed outside the junk shop? If you did, if you want me to mind my own business, I will. But I thought I saw a chance to help so I went for it. Did you mind?’
Noah had closed the study door as soon as they'd gone in, shutting out the rest of the house. It was his father's study: the boy had permission to use it for serious purposes only. And you can't get more serious than doing extra maths on your own time.
‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘I did at first. I thought you were going to get me into trouble.’
‘That's the last thing I want,’ Daniel said quietly.
‘I know. I figured it out. You made friends with my mother so you could talk to her without it seeming like it came from me.’
Daniel nodded, impressed. ‘That's pretty sophisticated thinking for a twelve-year-old.’
Noah gave a solemn smile. ‘My dad says I'm only twelve on the outside.’
Daniel laughed. ‘Do you want to know something? I'm still twelve on the inside.’
He wanted to ask about the bruises but knew it was the last thing he must mention, that there was no surer way of making the boy clam up and never trust him again. ‘Is your dad still working?’
‘A client needed him.’ The reply was at once so grown-up and so wistful that Daniel felt the words in his heart.
‘I suppose it goes with the job,’ he said. ‘Clients who don't need their solicitor won't pay many bills.’
This was not a stupid boy. He looked up from the desk, his eyes both surprised and wary. ‘How do you know he's a solicitor?’
‘Didn't you tell me?’ would be the easy way out, for someone who didn't mind bending the truth. ‘My friend – the one I work for – knows him. She was married to a solicitor.’
Noah's brown eyes flared with concern. ‘Were you talking about me?’
‘No,’ Daniel said immediately. ‘We saw you in the cafe. Brodie said she knew your father, slightly. I said I'd taught you in a class once. That's all.’
Noah believed him. The habit of honesty hung about him like the smell of old books, worthy if a little fusty. ‘OK.’
Daniel had brought some books with him, piled them on the desk. ‘What does your mother do?’
‘She makes money.’ When Daniel laughed the boy looked taken aback. For a bright child he hadn't much sense of humour. ‘No, really. For a charity. African Sunrise. It's her job to raise lots of money for them so that they can give it out where it's needed. She's very good at it. Her bosses say she saves a million lives every year. Imagine that. Doctors save a patient and everyone's impressed. Firemen save a family and they're heroes. But my mum saves a million lives every year, by raising money.’
‘You must be very proud of her,’ said Daniel.
‘Oh yes,’ said Noah enthusiastically. Then his face fell. ‘Only…’
Daniel waited a moment before prompting him. ‘Only?’
‘I wish she was home more. I know what she does is important. I know people would die if she stopped doing it. But it takes a lot of time, and when she gets home she's tired. I wish…’ He let the sentence peter out as if embarrassed to finish it.
Daniel said quietly, ‘What do you wish, Noah?’
There was a lot of guilt and a note of defiance in the boy's voice. ‘I wish she'd save half a million people a year and spend more time with me!’
Daniel's heart gave a little twist within him. He nodded sympathetically. ‘I bet you do. Noah, it's all right to feel like that. She's your mum: of course you want her here. And I'd bet every penny I own – which, admittedly, wouldn't take you much further than Bognor – that she'd rather be here than working. That if it came to a straight choice between those million people and you, a lot of people would be in an awful lot of trouble.
‘But we all end up making compromises. A million people in Africa with not enough to eat do matter, and people like your mum give them the hope of a better future. She doesn't want to let them down. So she tries to do both – to be an effective fundraiser and an ace mum. I don't suppose she manages to do both all the time. Which of us could?’
Noah cast him a grateful look. It wasn't that he was being told anything he hadn't heard before. It was that Daniel understood. Understood and didn't judge: neither him nor his mother.
‘At least your dad works in Dimmock,’ said Daniel casually. ‘Maybe you see more of him than some kids do.’
‘Mm,’ said Noah pensively.
‘Or does he work late a lot and come home tired too?’
‘It works both ways,’ the boy said honestly. ‘Sometimes he's home when other fathers are working. If my mother's up in town he tries to work from home.’
‘That's nice,’ said Daniel. ‘Isn't it?’
‘He can be pretty grumpy when he's working,’ admitted Noah.
Daniel nodded and kept his tone light. They were getting close to the heart of the problem and he didn't want to scare the boy off by pouncing. ‘Lots of people are. They don't mean to be. They get tired and frustrated, then they snap at the person closest to them. In an office that's a colleague, at home it's their family.’
‘I don't mind,’ said Noah stoutly. ‘He does lots for me too.’
‘I'm sure he does. What do you like doing together?’
But Noah couldn't think of anything. ‘Whatever he wants to, really.’
Daniel felt he'd pushed far enough. He opened a book. ‘Well, today you get to choose what we do. But what I'm really good at – and I may have mentioned this – is anything to do with space.’
* * *
Brodie tried Daniel's number but there was no reply. She gritted her teeth. Whatever his personal inclination, now he was working for her he was going to have to carry a mobile phone. She waited for the tone to leave a message but then couldn't think what to say. So she rang off.
She might have called Deacon then. After all, it was more his business than Daniel's. But she didn't want an interrogation and she didn't want an argument, and he'd already made it pretty clear that this scrap of life within her provoked about as much paternal feeling in him as a house-brick.
So when Paddy was settled for the night – at least ostensibly settled, in fact reading a book about monster trucks – she went upstairs and tapped on Marta's door. ‘Fancy coming down for a coffee?’
She struck lucky. In spite of being a tall and bony Polish piano teacher in her mid-fifties with a hit-and-miss approach to the English language, Marta Szarabeijka could not be counted on to be at home on a Saturday night. She had a long-term, casual, undemanding but mutually satisfying relationship with a jazz trumpeter and corner-shop keeper called Duncan in Littlehampton, and together they made music that – if not always sweet – was reliably loud.
Tonight Duncan must have had other plans, because Marta answered the door in her dressing-gown, her hair turbaned in a towel and nothing on her feet. Five minutes later she was folded into Brodie's armchair like a stork sitting on a nest, drying her long grey hair.
‘So what's the problem?’ she asked, the accent thick in her mouth warring for Lebensraum with Brodie's gingerbread.
Brodie shook her head decisively. ‘Nothing.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Marta, with the air of someone who'd been here before. ‘You just couldn't do without my company a minute longer.’
Brodie smiled slowly. ‘Something like that.’
‘Come on.’ The older woman helped herself to more gingerbread. ‘Tell your Aunty Marta.’
They'd known one another for three years, since Brodie bought the flat under Marta's in the big Victorian house on Chiffney Road. It was not, on the face of it, a friendship made in heaven. They were
of different generations, different backgrounds. One had a young child, the other had never wanted children. One needed her home as a quiet retreat, the other gave lessons to some of England's least talented pianists. Neither woman was particularly good at making friends, and for the same reason: neither had any reserves of tolerance.
Yet, unpredictably, they'd clicked. As a good-looking woman Brodie had always had more male admirers than women friends: for her it was a new and invigorating experience. And Marta found she enjoyed being a substitute granny to Paddy. She didn't mind children as long as she could give them back when she'd had enough of them.
There are things women say to their women friends that they couldn't say even to close family. Brodie said quietly, ‘I think there's something wrong.’
Fertile, sterile, empty-nester or cover-girl for the contraceptives industry, it doesn't matter. Some things are built in at a genetic level. When a woman with a bump out front says that, any other woman knows instantly what's on her mind. Marta put her cup down and held Brodie's eyes with her own. ‘With the baby?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Brodie shook her head. ‘No reason. Just a feeling.’
‘They said something at the hospital?’
‘Not a thing. All the tests came back fine.’
‘So…what? You think the tests were wrong? You think something's gone wrong since?’
‘I suppose not.’ But her eyes were clouded, her voice doubtful. ‘Does everything show up on the tests?’
Marta raised an angular eyebrow. ‘You're asking me? What I know about babies is they're noisy at one end and messy at the other. But maybe there wouldn't be much point doing all those tests if they missed things like the baby has two heads!’
A shade uneasily, Brodie chuckled. ‘I think even I'd have seen two heads on the ultrasound.’