Flawed (3 page)

‘You have it,’ replied Deacon, a shade shortly. She hadn't exactly asked if he meant to shield Walsh, but clearly that had been her worry. Deacon wasn't new to this job, and he hadn't been a starry-eyed idealist when he was. He knew that police officers were flawed individuals like everyone else and that things like that happened. And he didn't know Alix Hyde and she didn't know him: she was entitled to wonder if he could be trusted. It still felt like an insult.

‘I wasn't expecting anything different,’ she said. ‘Before I talked to you I talked to people about you. At Division, and other places. A lot of them thought I was crazy targeting Walsh, but none of them thought I'd have a problem with you.’ And then, just as he started to blossom in the warmth of the compliment, she added in an undertone: ‘At least, not in that way.’

Deacon blinked. ‘What way, then?’

Alix Hyde laughed out loud. ‘Superintendent, you don't need me to tell you what kind of a reputation you've got at Division. I assumed you'd spent the last ten years cultivating it.’

The slow, bashful grin made him look like a schoolboy caught out in a bit of surreptitious intelligence. ‘I can't imagine what you mean,’ he lied.

She didn't elaborate. There really was no need. Both of them knew that Detective Superintendent Deacon's superiors had him down as a hard, difficult, occasionally unpredictable, wholly ungracious man who – regrettably enough – was very good at his job. And both of them knew that Deacon would be content with that on his tombstone.

Hyde sat back in her chair. ‘Fine. Well, there's one more thing to settle, and I've one more favour to ask you. How closely do you want me to keep you informed as the inquiry proceeds? And, can you spare someone to help me?’

Mercurial was not a word commonly associated with Jack Deacon. He was a big, heavy man now well embarked on middle-age, and he tended both to move and to think ponderously. Except in absolute need, when he could still move like the county-class rugby player he once was and think with both speed and precision. By the time she'd finished the questions he knew the answers, and the same answer served for both. ‘I've got just the man for you. Charlie Voss, my sergeant. He's smart and he's sharp, he knows this town inside out, and he's as straight as a die.’

What he thought and didn't add was, And he'll keep me as closely informed as if it was me doing your legwork.

Daniel walked home through the park. A scant three days before the winter solstice – and coincidentally, or possibly not, his birthday – the light had gone from the afternoon by three o'clock and by four it was dusk. Street lamps glimmered like a string of beads along the Promenade, and on the shore the three black fingers of the netting-sheds were silhouetted against an English Channel bright with moontrack. The one nearest the old pier was his home.

From the outside, all that distinguished it from its sisters were the gallery he'd built at upper-storey level and sometimes a couple of milk-bottles waiting politely at the foot of the iron steps. But inside he'd got as much space and comfort as a single man needs, and when he took his telescope out onto the gallery the night sky was a perfect dome above him.

But though it was almost dark enough for astronomy he had something to do first. He walked on another hundred yards, then turned left up Fisher Hill and left again into Shack Lane.

When he first came here from Nottingham three years ago, Shack Lane was about as salubrious as the name. There were boarded-up windows and lock-up garages, and an Anglo-Chinese takeaway whose
tour-de-force
was sweet-and-sour
chips. But about the same time he was moving into the netting-shed – and it was still a netting-shed then, complete with ancient lobster-pots in the boathouse underneath – still unknown to him, Brodie Farrell was setting up her new business round the corner.

It was two rooms and a broken window, and the day she went to look at it someone had been sick on the step. But it was central, it was cheap, and it was just enough off the beaten track to be discreet, which mattered because some of her clients would be shy of seeking her out.

She called it Looking For Something? She'd had it inscribed in dull gold lettering on a classy slab of slate, painted the new front door a glossy burgundy, replaced the broken glass in the boxy little bay-window and hung burgundy velvet curtains to protect her callers’ privacy. Word raced up Fisher Hill that she was a high-class prostitute, and immediately property prices began to climb.

Once upon a time the misunderstanding would have caused her deep embarrassment. But Brodie Farrell wasn't at all the woman now that she'd been a few years ago, and her business was a big part of why. Five years ago she was a wife and mother who hadn't gone out to work since the birth of her child. Four and a half years ago her husband left her for a librarian, and at first she didn't know how she'd survive. After she worked it out, she vowed never to be that dependent on anyone ever again, and she put her divorce settlement into buying a flat for herself and Paddy and setting up a business to maintain them.

Before she married John Farrell she worked for him. As he was a solicitor, a lot of her time was spent on research. She
was very good at it. John swore she could get information out of a paving-slab. Maybe she couldn't do that, but if it was recorded anywhere, officially or unofficially, if mention of it had ever been committed to print, or if someone remembered his uncle saying something about it fifteen years ago, Brodie Farrell would run it to ground. She could find almost anything for almost anyone. She'd always thought she could make a living doing it. Looking For Something? had proved her right.

Growing success meant that the business had really outgrown her office. But she was reluctant to leave a spot where she was just the right degree of known. She was trying to buy the building behind, to expand out that way. Three years ago she could have had either of the adjoining properties for a song, but even after the nature of her trade was better understood her presence had had a knock-on effect. One was bought by a jewellery designer, the other by a financial adviser. Today Shack Lane was an up-and-coming address.

Perhaps he was biased, but Daniel thought the burgundy livery and slate shingle, and the door that remained closed until you rang the bell and – if it suited her – she answered, still made Looking For Something? a cut above its neighbours.

It had taken him fifteen minutes to walk here from the school. With every step he'd felt the crazy happiness within him swell until breathing became an effort. He didn't care, would have continued on his hands and knees if need be. This was a day he'd despaired of seeing. Maybe it wasn't everyone's idea of a victory, being able to return to full-time, nose-to-the-grindstone, proverbially stressful work, but it was Daniel's. And maybe no one else he knew would understand
that, but Brodie would. Understand what it took to get here; understand what it meant to him. Understand and rejoice with him. He couldn't wait to tell her. He had his hands fisted in his pockets, physically restraining himself from shouting it through the letterbox.

He couldn't tell from the street if she was in, or if she was alone. That wasn't accidental: she'd planned it that way. There was no glass in the door for a shadow to fall on, so the first indication was the lock turning. Pleasure made him grin like an idiot. It wasn't that his news was urgent, or even important except to him. But everyone needs someone to share their triumphs and disasters with, and that was one of the things Daniel and Brodie did for one another. They could talk about their achievements without embarrassment. They could be honest about their fears.

So when she opened the door what Brodie Farrell saw was a grin wearing Daniel's glasses. It was a sufficiently diverting sight to distract her from her worries, and she glanced up and down the street in search of an explanation.

‘I've got something to tell you,’ he confided happily, his face aglow.

‘You'd better come in then.’ She stood back to let him pass and closed the door behind them.

‘You're not too busy?’ Even today he couldn't shrug off the habit of consideration.

‘Busy beating my head on a brick wall,’ Brodie replied grimly. ‘I could do with cheering up.’

And when he looked again it was obvious she wasn't having a good day. In fact, now he thought about it he suspected she hadn't had much of a week. She'd been quiet and withdrawn
for at least that long, the spring gone from her step and the colour from her cheek, and if he hadn't had the meeting with Des Chalmers on his mind he'd have noticed before now. She didn't look well, and she hadn't for a while.

The reason for his visit side-lined, Daniel peered anxiously into her face, noting the tiredness in her dark eyes, the fine worry-lines around them, the pallor of her skin against the extravagant cloud of curly black hair. ‘Brodie, what's the matter? What's happened?’

‘Nothing's happened,’ she said, waving him to the compact sofa, herself slipping into the generous chair behind her desk. ‘At least…’

She was five years older than him. Compared with all the other complications in their relationship it was a mere bagatelle. Besides which, Daniel was oddly ageless. Sometimes he was offered cheap fares and asked for his student pass; or you could look into his eyes and glimpse millennia. ‘Come on,’ he said softly, ‘tell your Uncle Daniel.’

She managed a smile at that. ‘I've got a problem.’

‘A big problem or a little problem?’

She considered. ‘It's a little problem now. But there's every reason to expect it's going to grow.’

In spite of that, he never saw it coming. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. Brodie watched those mild, weak, infinite eyes and knew he had no idea what she was trying to say. For an intelligent man he could be infuriatingly dense at times. Finally she despaired of dropping hints, blew out a gusty sigh and slapped it on the desk between them. ‘I'm pregnant, Daniel. I'm going to have a baby.’

For long seconds his expression didn't change. As if she'd
suddenly switched into Urdu, or produced three fish-heads and started juggling to the strains of a rugby song, he was waiting for normal service to be resumed.

And she knew how he felt, because she'd felt very much the same way when the doctor – following a check-up for something entirely different – dropped his casual bombshell. She hadn't known she was pregnant. She hadn't known she
might
be pregnant. She hadn't wanted another child. And she'd just sat staring at him, waiting for him to slap his thigh and admit he was joking. When he didn't, she imagined she looked pretty much like Daniel looked now.

‘Daniel?’ she said softly. ‘Did you hear me?’

He blinked. He swallowed. ‘I think so,’ he said carefully. His voice was flat with shock. ‘You said you're going to have…?’

‘A baby, that's right. You know, a little person? Bald, pink, no sense of responsibility at either end? A baby.’

Still he didn't know what to say. Nothing in her manner suggested that the usual congratulations would be in order. ‘Jack's?’

It would probably have been better to stick with the shocked silence. Anger sparked in her eyes like firelight on diamonds. ‘Of course it's Jack's. What do you think – I was seeing someone behind his back?’

‘I thought you two were finished,’ Daniel mumbled lamely. ‘I thought it was over between you.’

‘It
is
over,’ agreed Brodie sharply.
'Now.
It wasn't when this baby played contraception roulette and won, three and a half months ago.’

‘Then…you didn't mean…’

‘No,
Daniel,’ she said heavily. ‘Oddly enough, with a six-year-old daughter and a one-woman business, and a relationship that was looking rocky even before it hit the rocks, I never actually said to myself, “What I really need right now is a baby!” It just happened. It shouldn't have done. I wasn't trusting to luck. I suppose, even something that's 99 per cent effective still has a failure rate.’

Daniel could hardly have been more stunned if someone had told him
he
was pregnant. Of course, for a lot of his life surprises had been something that happened to other people. That had changed rather since their orbits crossed, but spontaneity still wasn't his strong suit. And then, he'd had two minutes to absorb the idea. Brodie had had six weeks.

He was still stumbling round for the right thing to say, and still getting it wrong. ‘What are you going to do?’

The firelight in her eyes flared as if someone had added petrol. ‘Do you mean, am I planning to get an abortion?’

‘No!’ he exclaimed, horrified. And then, because telling the truth was important to him, he amended that. T suppose it's an option. For some people. I don't know if it's one for you.’

‘Then I'll tell you,’ she said fiercely. ‘It isn't. It's damned inconvenient, it couldn't have come at a worse time, but that's not a good enough reason to kill it. I'm not sure it would be if it was a puppy, let alone a baby. Of course I'll have it, and of course I'll raise it. Just, right now, I have no idea how.’

At last Daniel was getting to grips with the situation. He knew he hadn't distinguished himself, wished he could have slipped more smoothly into support mode. But perhaps having reason to snap at him made it easier for Brodie. ‘We'll find a way,’ he said firmly, ‘or make one. Whatever you want,
whatever decisions you take, you're not on your own. You have me. You also have Jack.’

‘I
had
Jack,’ she corrected him, not without a hint of bitterness. ‘I let him get away.’

Daniel smiled at that. However things between them rested, it was impossible to imagine Brodie Farrell as the hunter and Jack Deacon as her elusive prey. So it was a joke. It was a good sign, that she was up to even a rather sour little joke. ‘I don't think he'll have gone far. I take it you haven't told him yet?’

Her wide brow furrowed. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because if you had you'd have a different set of problems.’

Brodie snorted a rough little laugh. ‘I'm going to tell him, of course. He's entitled to know. I kept putting it off, trying to decide how to handle it. I don't want him talking me into something I don't want to do. But I'm going to have to tackle it. I called him this morning, asked him to pop round when he has the time.’