“Of course I know him,” snapped the man. “I'm Tom Sessions, I work for
The Sentinel.
I wrote the front page lead for our Tuesday edition. âLocal teacher murdered: body dumped in skip'.”
“Ah,” breathed Daniel. So he wasn't going to die; or not now. Still the situation was a tricky one. Denial wouldn't work. He wasn't sure what would. “Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated?”
Sessions looked as if he'd quite like to put that right, as if it might be more fun than running a correction. “What happened?”
“I can't tell you,” said Daniel.
“Well,
someone's
going to tell me,” snapped Sessions. “I put my name to a lie. That's not something I make a habit of. If I don't hear a damn good reason in the next thirty seconds, you're going to be front page news again.” He straightened up. “And will you get out of the damn car? You're giving me back-ache.”
Slowly, Daniel did as he was told. He straightened with a wince that was not lost on the reporter. “When you wrote that story, actually it was only a slight exaggeration. It could have been true by the time
The Sentinel
hit the streets. Someone tried to kill me. I don't know who and I don't know why. Inspector Deacon thought they'd try again if they knew they'd failed. I'm sorry he lied to you. He was trying to protect me.”
Tom Sessions was still breathing heavily. But he was an intelligent man: his eyes took in the pallor of Daniel's skin, the marks still visible on his face, the way he moved. He didn't like being used but nor did he want to put anyone in danger.
Brodie saw him vacillate and stepped swiftly into the breach. “I know you want to put the record straight. But if you do, among all the people who ought to know they were misinformed are a handful who mustn't. Who must be prevented at all costs from knowing. If they find out he's still alive, they'll come back and they'll kill him.
“You want to know what happened to him? I'll show you what happened.” She'd sidled between the bonnets of the two cars while Daniel was speaking, now she was at his side. Before either man could guess what she intended she reached for a handful of Daniel's sweater and tugged, baring his chest with its burden of hurts. The worst were covered by dressings, the rest in plain view.
The reporter's jaw dropped. But it wasn't the horror in his eyes that stabbed at Brodie's heart, it was the pain in Daniel's. “I'm sorry,” she muttered, letting go, not looking at him.
Daniel said nothing, quietly straightened his clothes. He didn't need to yell at her to underline the extent of her trespass: Brodie knew. For the same good reasons she'd done what Deacon had done: used his abused body to get what she wanted. At least Deacon only did it while he was unconscious.
Sessions licked his lips. He was a man in his mid-thirties, he could have been working in London for ten years if he hadn't decided this was more important: writing for a small town newspaper where fifty thousand readers believed what he said. He slumped down on the bonnet of his car. “And you don't know why?”
“No,” said Daniel.
“And Deacon doesn't.”
“No.”
“But he does know you're alive.”
“Yes. He's the reason I'm alive. Him and you.”
Sessions flicked him a worried look. “You're going to ask me to keep this quiet, aren't you?”
Daniel smiled. “No.”
Brodie had no such scruples. “Well I am. Listen, Mr Sessions, I know you feel used. I was used too. You were used to protect him - I was used to hurt him. Believe me, it isn't the same thing.”
“How long?” asked the reporter. “How long am I supposed to pretend I still believe what I wrote?”
Brodie shrugged. “Ideally, until these people are behind bars. But that may not happen. How about, until someone else notices?”
Sessions went on regarding her, without much affection. Finally he nodded. “All right. I don't want anyone's life on my conscience. But it's my career if this blows up in my face.
“This is the best I can do. I didn't see you in the park and I didn't follow you here so I have no idea that Daniel Hood is still alive. If someone else sees you, or brings their suspicions to my editor, I'll do what I'm paid for - I'll write the truth. I won't be able to keep your secret then.”
“I understand,” said Daniel. “It's as much as I could ask.”
It wasn't as much as Brodie could have asked, but she recognised it as all she was going to get. She nodded. “Thanks. If the shit hits the fan I'll make sure people know why you helped us.”
“If the shit hits the fan,” said Sessions grimly, “you'll have your work cut out keeping your head above it.”
When the red fastback had gone, clearing the way, still Brodie looked at the road ahead. The alternative was looking at Daniel. “I'll take you home - my home - then I'll pick up some things from your place. Clothes, shaving gear - anything else?”
Daniel said, “What about Pound Street?” His voice was thin and level.
It could have been worse. He could have asked her to explain why shocking Sessions and humiliating him had seemed like a good idea.
“This has to stop,” she said unsteadily, “right now. That man's put his career on the line to keep you safe. Deacon did the same. You can't go swanning around town waiting for someone else to recognise you.”
He thought about that. Obligation was something he took seriously. “If I'm spotted,” he said slowly, “I'll call Sessions so he can break the story before anyone else does.”
“Fine,” gritted Brodie. “Unless the person who spots you is the one who wants you dead.”
“We've been through this,” Daniel said quietly.
“We haven't resolved it, though.”
“I'm not going to hide,” he said, with the stubbornness of a man drawing a line in sand.
“Why not?” she demanded. “What's so wrong with looking after yourself? Deacon lied for you; from now on that reporter's going to be lying for you; why do you have to go round flaunting the truth?”
Daniel's composure cracked, and his voice with it. “You really don't understand, do you? You keep saying you understand, but you don't at all. You think I'm trying to prove a point - to them, to you, to myself. I'm not. I'm trying to keep my life together. I'm this close” - she couldn't see through the gap between his fingers - “to losing it. I want to stick my head under the blankets and never
come out again. I want to shut the door, and lock it, and put the key in a box and lock that too. I'm afraid every moment I'm awake; and when I sleep the fear turns into things hunting me. Eating me.”
Brodie stared at him in stunned compassion. “I had no idea! You seemed to be getting over it so well.”
“Of course you hadn't,” he panted. “Every ounce of courage I have left - and there wasn't that much to start with, there was even less by the time they'd finished with me - has gone into keeping up the pretence. I thought, I still think, you can cope with more than you think by pretending to be more than you are. First you convince other people, then you convince yourself. It starts by being an act, ends up being the truth.
“But I can't keep fighting this same damn battle! I can't keep persuading you that this is what I want to do, what I have to do, only for something to happen half a mile down the road that makes you want to argue it out all over again. I'm too tired. Brodie, either help me or let me get on with it alone. I can't keep having this same conversation.”
She didn't know what to say. He was breaking her heart. It wasn't that she'd forgotten what he'd been through, more that it had suited her to believe what he'd wanted her to believe. The swifter his recovery, the less reason she had to punish herself. But someone with less to lose would have known it was - no, not a pretence, there was nothing phony about the courage it took, but a screen, a shield. Partly to protect his wounds, but mostly so that the blood didn't show.
She folded her hands over her mouth and thought carefully about what she said next. “Since before I knew you I've been doing things that hurt you. It wasn't from malice, it wasn't deliberate, but that's how it worked out. And I'm still doing it, and I didn't even know. I was trying to look after you. I didn't mean to drop mountains in your way.”
Daniel flicked her a tiny smile and nodded. “I know.”
“Saying I'm sorry doesn't begin to cover it. I am, I'm desperately sorry for all the bad decisions I've made, but it doesn't change a
thing. Tell me what you want and I'll try to remember I promised not to argue.”
“I want to go to Pound Street. To look at the red-brick building. Depending on what it is, I may want to go inside.”
“You don't suppose whoever's behind this is still there?” Her instincts screamed, I'm not taking you within half a mile! Sheer force of will kept her from saying it aloud.
“No. They might have been, once, but not now. Whatever the building is, I think it's a dead end and no one there will know about me or Sophie or a video-camera. In a way, that's what I'm hoping. That there'll be no leads left to follow. That any search I can make will end there. If it does, I can walk away knowing that I tried, that I wasn't too scared to try. If it ends in Pound Street, I may be as relieved as you.”
Brodie sniffed. “Don't count on it.” She hesitated a moment, wondering whether she dared make another request. “All right. We're going to Pound Street, and depending on what the red-brick building is we're going inside. You have to do it for your peace of mind. Will you do something for my peace of mind?”
He looked wary. “What?”
Brodie rummaged in the back of the car, came up with a bobble hat. “Put that on. If it makes you look like an anorak, so much the better. And take your glasses off.”
Daniel pulled on the hat, and covering his bright hair made him instantly less recognisable. But he drew the line at removing his glasses. “I might as well not go for all I'd be able to see.”
As she drove, Daniel looked at himself in the mirror. He sighed at what it showed. “I
am
an anorak,” he said mournfully. “Even without the bobble hat. I teach maths in a comprehensive school and make my own telescopes. That's a textbook definition of anorakdom.”
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The red-brick building in Pound Street was also a school. A sign on the gates announced it as St Agnes's Preparatory School. It was
Saturday morning so there were no classes, but twenty little girls on bicycles were solemnly negotiating obstacles chalked on the asphalt playground. A banner tied to the railings announced: “Cycling Proficiency Training Day”.
Brodie and Daniel exchanged a puzzled glance.
“Janet And John Hire A Contract Killer?”
ventured Brodie.
Daniel snorted a little chuckle. “I think we've come to the wrong place.”
But Brodie was peering at the wall above the school entrance. “Maybe not. What's that?”
“Security camera,” said Daniel. “Closed Circuit TV. So?”
“And CCTV uses - ?”
“Video.” Daniel stared at her. “You think ⦠?”
“I don't know,” said Brodie quickly. “But look where it's pointing. Back at the park.” She turned in her seat, looking over her shoulder. “There are gaps between the houses. If the top of the monument's visible through one of them ⦔
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Daniel's lips pursed as he confronted the real question. “But -
why
? What would someone at an upper-crust primary school want with me?”
“They wanted to know about Sophie.”
“But I don't know who Sophie is!”
“Maybe someone in there does.”
They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time.
Brodie was thinking that it wasn't possible, it couldn't be that easy: it couldn't be that forty minutes' intelligent application had achieved more than Detective Inspector Deacon with all his resources had in a week. It was a coincidence. Security cameras were springing up everywhere, even Dimmock wasn't immune to progress. Brodie thought that if St Agnes's head teacher was in her office, using the quiet of a Saturday morning to catch up on her paperwork, and Brodie asked about the CCTV, her answers would be entirely unhelpful. But she thought she had to ask anyway.
And then she was going to have to come back and tell Daniel, and
watch the disappointment pool in his eyes. He claimed he could let it go now, be satisfied that he'd done his best; but Brodie knew it wouldn't be easy. She was going to take his last hope of understanding what happened to him and dash it in his face.
Daniel was thinking there were two possibilities. One was that it
was
a coincidence, the video had been taken from somewhere along the line-of-sight between St Agnes's and the monument, one of the intervening houses, even a carefully parked car, and this was where the trail ended.
The other was that the people who'd reduced him to a quivering, whimpering knot of abused humanity and then shot him were just metres away behind a red-brick wall. If they were, the answers were there too: who they were, who Sophie was, who they thought he was, why they acted as they did. His limbs turned to jelly. He didn't think he could get out of the car and take one step towards the wrought-iron gates.
Minutes passed. One of the little girls completed her run successfully, another fell off and cried.
Finally Brodie cleared her throat. “Sitting here isn't getting us anywhere. Do we go in or not?”
Daniel said nothing. When she looked at him he was staring straight ahead, his lip caught between his teeth. So he'd finally run out of courage. With everything he'd pushed himself to do, this was going to defeat him.
She'd promised to help. She wouldn't fail him now. She said quietly, “I'll see if I can find the principal. If there's nothing to learn here there's no point staying.”
Daniel said softly, “I can't.”
“I know. Stay here: if I'm not back in half an hour, call Inspector Deacon.”
“If it's them in there ⦔
“It won't be. It's a school. We've come to the wrong place.”
“Then why go inside?”
“I suppose, because there's always the outside chance. I ought to make sure.”
“Fifteen,” said Daniel.
“What?”
“I'm not waiting half an hour while they could be hurting you. Be back in fifteen minutes.”
Â
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The children barely spared her a glance as Brodie crossed the playground and let herself into the school. A minute's wandering round and she found the door with “Principal: Miss Winifred Scotney” on it. She rapped with her knuckle and a faintly surprised voice called, “Come in.”
Brodie gave her name and her most winning smile. “I don't know if you'll be able to help me, Miss Scotney, but I see you have a closed-circuit TV camera above the door. I need to know what the field of view is.”
Miss Scotney smiled too, not so winningly. She was a woman of about fifty, as tall as Brodie and twice as far round, a headmistress in the old mould. Formidable was the word that sprang to mind. “And why do you need to know that, Mrs Farrell?”
She could lie, she could tell the truth, she could tell part of the truth. The whole truth belonged to Daniel; and while there was any possibility that St Agnes's was involved she wouldn't risk betraying him to his enemies again. And Miss Scotney looked as if she habitually flogged liars during milk-break.
“I was given a photograph and asked to find someone. That's what I do: I find things. But my client lied to me and now I'm looking for her. The picture might have been taken by your security camera. I wondered if you knew anything about it.”
So far as she could judge Miss Scotney was genuinely astonished. “What client? You're not accusing me ⦠?”
Brodie shook her head. “Of course not. I met her, I'll know her again if I can find her. I just need to know if the picture could have been taken by your camera. And what happens to the tapes.”
On careful consideration Miss Scotney saw no reason not to answer. “The camera is primarily a deterrent. I glance at the monitor
occasionally, but mostly to keep an eye on what the children are up to. Most tapes are reused without ever being played.”
Brodie sighed, torn between disappointment and relief. She'd have left then, except that she felt the burden of Daniel's hopes. “There's been nothing - unusual - going on here?”
“Like what, for heaven's sake?”
“I really don't know.”
Miss Scotney was a busy woman working on what was supposed to be her day off, and her supply of patience was running low. “Mrs Farrell, if you don't know the questions, how am I supposed to know the answers?”
Brodie gave an apologetic shrug. “I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel. Something happened to the man in the photograph, and I'm trying to find out who's to blame. Even if the picture didn't come off your tape, it's possible your camera saw something that would help explain matters.”
“In my playground?”
“In the park.”
Miss Scotney shook her head crisply. “We can't see the park from here. The camera shows the playground and the street outside. It's there for the children's protection.”