She had to keep saying it again, to all three of them. Obviously they were passing the phone between them, and every new voice began, “Is she really all right?”
“Yes,” said Brodie, again and again, “she's fine. She's a little sleepy. They gave her something so she'd doze through the scary bits. Talk to her. Just don't be alarmed if she nods off mid-sentence.”
She gave Sophie the phone. The child said, “Hi, Daddy,” as if she hadn't seen him since lunchtime, and yawned, and fell asleep curled round it, ignoring the increasingly agitated questioning.
Brodie sighed and extricated the mobile from the little girl's grasp. “She's gone back to sleep. It's the best thing. With any luck I'll have her home before she wakes up again.”
“But she is all right?” It was Lance Ibbotsen. “She doesn't need a doctor?”
“I'm as sure as I can be that she's fine. But if you want your medical adviser to give her the once-over, I'll be with you in about an hour.”
David this time: “We'll come and meet you.”
“Don't do that. I'm not sure where I am, we'd end up missing one another on the road. David, she's fine, and she's coming home. We'll be there in an hour.”
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The sitting room at
Chandlers
was a tip. Every surface was covered with cups half-full of cold coffee. As if waking from a trance the three men looked around them, seeming almost puzzled to find themselves there. David made a vague effort to tidy up, but didn't keep at it long enough to achieve anything.
“I suppose - Mrs Handcock - in the morning?” He lifted one shoulder in half a shrug and sat down again, unable to organise a coherent sentence let alone an archaeological excavation.
Lance Ibbotsen rumbled, “She didn't say anything about the money.”
David just looked at him. “It's gone, Dad. That's
why
Sophie's on her way home. That's what it bought. I'm sorry. I will pay you back. It may take a little time.”
The old man dismissed that with an irritable gesture. “That's not necessary. It's not about the money; it never was. It's about stopping people seeing us as an easy mark.” He stood up stiffly, easing painful limbs. “I'll call the police.”
David stared at him. “You can't.”
Ibbotsen frowned. “Why not? Sophie's safe.”
“Yes. But we're not.”
Daniel moistened dry lips. “He means, if you report this, Detective Inspector Deacon's going to charge you with attempted murder.”
There was a long silence. Then: “Only if you tell him to. Which is, of course, your right. No one would blame you for wanting your pound of flesh now.”
Daniel lurched to his feet, padding unhappily round the room. He ended up at the window. The curtains were open but the view was limited to a couple of metres of garden; beyond that was blackness. The night was easier on his soul than this room.
He rested his brow against the cool glass. “Damn you, Mr Ibbotsen,” he said, his voice low. “This is not my fault. None of this was my doing. How dare you blame me for the consequences?”
“He's right,” growled David. “He isn't responsible for what happened to us. We
are
responsible for what happened to him.”
Ibbotsen's look set hooks in Daniel's back. “It could end here. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut.”
Goaded by his tone, Daniel spun to face him. His eyes burned. “Why don't you offer me some money, Mr Ibbotsen?”
The old man thought about it. But he'd learned that lesson at least. “Because you'd spit in my face.”
Daniel gave a wild little laugh. “Well, at least we've got that straight. Now let's see if we can make the next great leap of understanding.
“Nothing I say or don't say will make any difference. If you tell the police about the kidnapping, no power on earth will stop Jack Deacon from realising that your granddaughter is the same Sophie I was questioned about. That I was tortured and shot because of. Ten minutes after you make that call he'll be on your doorstep, and he won't be one bit interested in getting your money back for you.”
Ibbotsen's eyes were glacial with comprehension. “You could lie.”
Daniel could have said, “Deacon would know better.” He could have said, “Why should I lie for you?” He could even have said, “I want to see you pay.” Instead he said, “I don't lie.” Just that, a bare statement of fact that left Ibbotsen staring at him more in bewilderment than anger.
David stepped quietly between them. He turned his back on his father. “What if we don't call the police? Will you?”
Daniel felt the weight of their hopes as a physical burden, crushingly heavy. “I don't know.”
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.”
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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.”