by Jo Bannister
She was making a joke of it but Marta knew it wasn't funny. Not to Brodie, not right now. ‘But something has you worried. You think maybe it's just a phase of the pregnancy, like morning sickness? That it's hormones?’
‘Could be,’ allowed Brodie. ‘But I didn't feel…’
‘…This way with Paddy,’ finished Marta, her voice a mocking sing-song as she picked up her coffee again. ‘Brodie, how many times you got to be told? You're older now, and you're on your own. You got no one to share the responsibility with. Naturally you worry more.’
Brodie was regarding her with a mixture of irony and affection. ‘No, don't spare my feelings,’ she murmured, ‘tell it like it is.’
Marta snorted a laugh into her cup. ‘You're waiting for me to feel sorry for you, you gonna wait a while. You could have had Jack – you could have married him if you'd wanted. You could have had someone else. You're doing this alone because this is what you chose.’
‘I didn't choose to split with Jack,’ objected Brodie.
‘You chose your independence, which comes to the same thing. You could have him back tomorrow. You know that. You go to him and say, “I'm scared about the future, I need help raising this child, will you marry me?” and you and me both know he would. Are you going to?’
‘No,’ said Brodie in a low voice.
‘Of course no,’ nodded Marta. ‘Nobody thought yes. Not me, not Jack. But there's a price to pay for independence: it's called Loneliness. I don't think there's anything wrong with your baby. I think you're just feeling lonely.’
Brodie would have walked barefoot over hot coals rather than admit it. ‘I don't think so!’
Marta nodded, complacently spraying crumbs. ‘Of course lonely. Everyone feels lonely sometimes. The only difference between single people and married people is single people got the time to think how they feel. All you need, girl, is a good night out.’
‘Oh sure,’ growled Brodie. ‘Let's fix a date. About six months from now, when I can get back into any dress I'd be seen dead in.’
‘You look fine. And you don't need to get rendered to have a good night out.’ She meant plastered. ‘You and me've had some damn good nights when neither of us could afford to get rendered. What about it? Ask Daniel to babysit one night and you and me'll go paint the town.’
It was a tempting offer. And maybe Marta was right. Maybe she was doing too much navel-gazing. ‘Red,’ she added absently.
‘What?’
‘We could paint the town red.’
Marta looked puzzled. ‘Why would we do that? I don't really mean we should paint anything. I mean, we should hang out in bars and flutter our eyelashes a lot.’
Brodie laughed. She really had had some good nights out with Marta, mainly because the woman was incapable of being embarrassed. And there was this to be said for it. However unlikely it was that a pregnant woman in a little black sack was going to pull, at least she wouldn't suffer the indignity of having all the talent in the place cluster around her friend. Probably not, anyway.
She grinned. ‘You could try your luck as a Pole dancer.’
CHAPTER TEN
On Monday morning Charlie Voss was at the office before eight. He still found Detective Inspector Hyde waiting for him. It wasn't an entirely new experience: when there was a push on Deacon often looked as if he'd slept at his desk. At least Alix Hyde looked as though she'd been home for a shower.
‘Has something happened, ma'am?’
She lowered a well-shaped eyebrow at him. ‘Don't call me Ma'am, Charlie - I'm not the Queen and I don't teach in a two-room schoolhouse. I'm comfortable with Alix; if you're feeling formal you can call me Boss. And the answer to your question is, yes and no. Nothing's happened. But I've had an idea. About Susan Weekes.’
She saw Voss trying not to blink and chuckled. ‘Don't worry, Charlie, I'm not stupid. I know Susan's evidence is never going to nail Walsh. That doesn't necessarily mean she's lying. Maybe she was his mistress, maybe she wasn't, but we do know she worked at the casino. She could still be right about The Dragon Luck - that Walsh uses it to meet people he doesn't want coming to his office to talk about things he doesn't want overheard.’
Even a habitual liar doesn't lie about everything. Somewhere in all the dross could be a nugget of gold. The difficulty would be finding it. ‘But who's going to tell us about it? None of the people Walsh does that kind of business with. And if Caroline Walsh owns a slice of it, no one at the casino either. Susan was a fluke - she had even more to lose by keeping quiet than by talking.’
Hyde shrugged. ‘If a week is a long time in politics, it's an eternity in our business. Allegiances change. Some of the people who worked for Walsh in the past may have moved on to other things. Some of them may have seen enough to know what he was up to and know they wanted no part of it. If we found someone like that - someone with a reputation to protect, someone who got out and wants to stay out - and applied just enough of the right kind of pressure, we might get something back.’
Voss was thinking about Al Capone again. T suppose, like any businessman, he'll have had professional advisers. He'd need accountants, if only for the bulk paper side. I can find out who. But even if they had suspicions about a set of books they weren't being shown, I can't see them wanting to talk about it.’
‘There are limits to client privilege. Especially where money laundering is involved.’
Voss wasn't convinced. ‘This is Terry Walsh we're talking about, boss. Love him or loathe him, you've got to admit he's smart. He'll know that. I can't see him leaving himself vulnerable. He'll have made sure of the loyalty of anyone in a position to hurt him.’
‘I'm sure that was his intention,’ agreed Hyde. ‘However, the best-laid plans… Somewhere out there is someone who knows about Terry Walsh's business - his other business - and who might be persuaded to talk to us. I don't know if we can find him, but I do know we won't find him without looking. So let's give it a shot. Track down and talk to everyone who left his employment within, say, the last two years. See if you can find someone who left because he didn't like the way Terry works. Who knows he should have done something about it at the time, and didn't, and could be encouraged to do it now in his own best interests.’
Voss was pretty sure he knew what she meant. But some things you want in words of one syllable. ‘You want me to cut him a deal?’
Detective Inspector Hyde gave an aloof smile. ‘We don't do deals, Charlie, you know that. But we do have limits to work within - limits of time, money and manpower. Frying big fish is a better use of limited resources than frying little ones. Tell him that.’
Though they weren't all one-syllable words, it was clear enough. ‘I'll get on to it then.’
Hyde nodded. ‘You do that, Charlie Voss.’
The Vestigial Virgins’ night out was planned for Wednesday evening. Marta coined the term. Brodie wasn't sure if she was being witty or just playing fast and loose with the English language, and also didn't care. She was in the mood to have as much fun as you can on a glass of fizzy orange and a packet of salt-reduced crisps.
Daniel was going home with her to babysit, so neither of them had any intention of working late. Brodie had been in Worthing, searching through church records for evidence that the wealthy but childless Colesworths of Maine were fruit of the same family tree as the impecunious but relentlessly fertile Cogglesworths of Dimmock's Woodgreen Estate. She got back soon after four and at half five they were ready to shut up shop. Brodie was reaching for her car keys when there was a knock at the door.
She glanced at it in irritation. ‘I'll see who it is. If it's going to take long I'll get them to come back tomorrow.’
It was a large man in an expensive overcoat, and he seemed to fill not only Brodie's doorstep but half of Shack Lane. ‘Mrs Farrell.’
‘Mr Selkirk,’ she said, surprised. ‘How are you? I don't believe we've spoken since the Civic Ball three - no, four -years ago. Are you still dancing?’
A la
rge frame, a florid face and an expansive manner all conspired to add years to Adam Selkirk. Brodie knew he was a contemporary of John's - he might have been forty by now, he wouldn't have been older. But the body language suggested a man in his fifties. He had an ICBM of a voice pitched to echo around courtrooms, but just now it was low, his chins on his chest, his eyes reproachful. ‘I did apologise for that at the time.’
‘Of course you did,’ said Brodie generously. ‘And I grew a new toenail. And the shoes were the most glamorous thing in Oxfam for weeks.’ Seeing his discomfiture she relented and held the door open. ‘Are you coming in? I have to go soon, but I can always find five minutes for a man with more left feet than a centipede.’
Sometimes she meant to be rude, sometimes it happened naturally. Sometimes what she thought of as a pleasantry was perceived by others as rudeness. She got away with it mainly because people who are offended by rudeness worry that it might be rude to say so.
Adam Selkirk said nothing because his mind was on other things. He was peering round the tiny lobby as if what he'd come here looking for might be lurking behind the hat-stand. ‘I'm looking for someone,’ he said gruffly.
‘Ah,’ said Brodie. ‘Well, that might be a problem. You see, we're called Looking for Something? If you've lost somebody, perhaps the Salvation Army could help.’
‘Hood,’ said Selkirk tersely. He spotted the door to the inner office and reached for it without pretending to seek permission. ‘I'm looking for a man called Hood.’
It was too late to stop him, even if she'd thought it necessary. ‘What a coincidence,’ she said. ‘I have one right here.’
At the sound of his name Daniel left off filing and moved towards the lobby. It was a very small office, three good strides took you from end to end, so they met in the doorway, the big man looking down, the small one looking up. ‘I'm Daniel Hood. Can I help you?’
‘Do you know who I am?’
Daniel regarded him calmly. ‘Yes. But it would probably be polite to introduce yourself anyway.’
‘Polite?’ echoed Adam Selkirk. There was a timbre in his voice that reminded Brodie of Deacon. Specifically, of Deacon too angry to shout. ‘We'll talk about polite in a minute. We'll talk about the etiquette of worming your way into someone's home and coming between the members of a family. We'll talk about using a child as a jemmy to force doors that wouldn't otherwise be open to you. But first, let's get our facts straight. Are you responsible for this?’
He struck Daniel on the chest with a fist containing a crumpled sheet of paper. Daniel took it.
It was a letter. It was a brief and to-the-point letter, because its author was conscious of the importance of other people's time. It was written in his best handwriting, and must have been copied out because there were no mistakes. It was signed with exquisite formality, ‘Your loving son.’
Daniel felt the tears pricking at his eyes. He went on holding the letter as if it were something precious. ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ he murmured.
It wasn't the response Selkirk had been expecting. For just a moment he didn't know what to say. Then: ‘What's the meaning of it?’
Daniel looked up at him. ‘Mr Selkirk, isn't it pretty clear what he means? He's saying your behaviour is making him unhappy. He's asking you to reconsider your priorities to make more time for him. He knows both you and Mrs Selkirk have important jobs, he knows you can't organise your entire lives around him, but right now the only thing he feels to be getting his fair share of is stress. I think that about covers it.’ He glanced at the letter, then up again, looking Selkirk full in the eyes. ‘Oh yes. And, he loves you.’
All Brodie knew of this was what she'd been able to glean in the last two minutes. She guessed, now, that there'd been a reason for Daniel's interest in the Selkirk family that day in The Singing Kettle, and she'd have given odds it had something to do with Daniel being a sucker for a hard-luck story.
What she knew for sure was that when large men of florid complexion actually turn purple, a stroke is an imminent possibility. She touched his shoulder. ‘Adam, why don't you sit down while we talk about this?’
He brushed her off like swatting a mosquito. T don't need to sit down because we're not going to talk about this. I came to tell him” - his eyes stabbed at Daniel - ‘that I don't want him in my house again. Stay away from my wife, stay away from my son. I promise you, there is nothing -nothing - you can tell me about my family that I don't already know. If I find you've been bothering either of them again, I'll have the police round here.’ He spared a glance for Brodie. ‘You know I can do it. You know I will do it.’
Her attempt to play the peace-maker had been rebuffed. It wasn't a natural role for her, nothing in her better nature prompted her to try again. Instead she felt her own temper rising. ‘The police are welcome to come here any time they like. If it's any help, I have Detective Superintendent Deacon's number on speed-dial.
‘But I think you've already made one mistake and you're about to make a bigger one. Whatever you think Daniel's done, I'm pretty sure it's nothing to be ashamed of. And if you go to the police and accuse him of an unprovoked act of kindness, we'll be able to hear the laughter from here.’
‘Besides which,’ said Daniel, very softly, ‘you aren't going anywhere near the police, are you?’
Brodie might not have known what he meant but Selkirk did. Sheer fury contorted his face. His fists balled at his sides. His voice was a kind of whispered shout. T don't know what you think you know about me, little man,’ he snarled, ‘but either it isn't right or it isn't enough. You don't want to take me on. You'd lose, and it would hurt. Much better to admit you got it wrong, and go peddle your do-gooding somewhere else.’
Daniel was nodding slowly. ‘Well, maybe I would lose,’ he agreed. ‘I usually do. And maybe it would hurt. It usually does. But what you're forgetting, Mr Selkirk, is that - little or not - I'm a grown man. You may find it harder than you're expecting, imposing your will on someone who doesn't owe you anything, who doesn't depend on you for anything, and who doesn't give a shit whether you're annoyed.’
Brodie looked at him in astonishment. Daniel's idea of bad language was shaped by the 1950s sensibilities of the grandparents who raised him. It was a rare day she heard anything cross his lips that would be unseemly in a little girl. But it wasn't just the S-word: it was the sudden venom in his voice that startled her. Daniel didn't go in for hatred. In his time he'd managed not to hate a lot of people he'd been entitled to, including her. But that sudden edge on his voice, and the sudden diamond hardness in his weak grey eyes, could hardly have come from anywhere else.
‘So I'll stay out of your house if that's what you want. But I won't stay away from your son, and if you make it impossible for me to know whether he's safe and well I'll take my concerns to the authorities. I don't care how important you are, Mr Selkirk. I don't care what you do or who you know, you're not entitled to take out your frustrations on a twelve-year-old boy. Machinery exists to make sure you don't. It's easier to start that machinery than to stop it, so now would be a good time to start treating your son with the respect he's due. He's a child, not a punch-bag.’
So that was it. Immediately Brodie thought she should have guessed. She could hardly think of any other crime the man could have committed that would have provoked her friend to such wrath. She said quietly, ‘Is this true, Adam?’
He shrugged with his whole big body. ‘Of course it's not true,’ he said roughly. ‘I love my son. He loves me.’
‘Bizarrely enough,’ said Daniel, his mouth twisting as if on a bad taste, ‘despite the bruises that are there for the whole town to see, I know he does. Children can forgive anything. That doesn't mean they should be asked to. I'm absolutely serious about this, Mr Selkirk. You sort this out, or I'll sort it for you.’
Selkirk loomed over him like an act of God. ‘Is that meant to be a threat?’
The traditional answer, of course, is, ‘No, it's a promise.’ ‘No, it's a warning,’ i
s also a time-honoured riposte. But Daniel didn't watch a lot of popular television. He watched programmes from the Open University. He said simply, ‘Yes’.
Solicitors deal with a lot of different people; a lot of different sorts of people. But Selkirk had never come across anyone quite like Daniel before. He wasn't sure what his next move was. He barked a savage little laugh, mainly to cover his confusion. ‘I've said what I came here to say. Leave me and my family alone. I won't tell you again.’
Daniel considered. ‘I've said pretty much what I've been wanting to say as well. Noah is your son, but he doesn't belong to you. Other people care what happens to him. I'm one of them. The next time - the very next time - I see the print of your fist on his face, your chance to resolve this problem discreetly is over. Then I guess we'll both find out how influential a lawyer is after the law's had to step in to stop him beating his child.’
When Adam Selkirk had stalked off, while the burgundy front door was still vibrating on its hinges, Brodie turned to Daniel with arched eyebrows. ‘Stay away from my wife?’ she echoed.
Daniel shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I think he got that wrong.’
‘You think he got that wrong?’
Terry Walsh's accountants were the London firm of Findhorn &C Carraway. Voss made an appointment to see the senior partner and travelled up to town in the late afternoon, as everyone else was coming the other way.
Mr Findhorn greeted him with polite wariness and set about walking the tightrope between client confidence and public obligation. ‘What you must understand, Sergeant, is that I am not at liberty to discuss client affairs except where expressly required to do so by legal authority.’
‘I do understand that,’ Voss assured him. ‘What you have to understand is that these are not trivial matters. I'm not interested in whether he claimed his wife's car against his income tax or wrote off his daughter's pony as a business expense. I'm investigating matters specifically designated as serious organised crime.’