All at once Deacon needed to sit down. Any evidence on the bed would need to be collected from the imprint of his backside. The springs creaked under him. âWhat happened?'
Voss was cold. Someone had put a blanket round his shoulders. âI'm not sure. He got the drop on us but Dave lied for England, told Daoud we were all on the same side. I thought he'd got away with it. But Daoud did the revolving door thing and nailed us while we were mopping the sweat from our brows.'
âHe shot you?' Deacon's voice soared. âThen what the hell are you sitting here for? Why aren't you in that ambulance?'
âI wanted to see you first. I'll catch the next one. They were in a hurry, I didn't want to hold them up. I'm OK.' He moved the corner of the blanket gingerly away from his leg and there was a blood-blackened tear in his jeans. âHe almost missed me. It's just, I'm a bit chilled.'
It was the middle of a mid-September night but that wasn't the reason. When Deacon put the back of his hand to Voss's forehead his skin was cold and waxy and dewed with an icy sweat. âTell me about it later. You need to be
in hospital.' He turned on the paramedic, still rubbing his throat. âWhat the hell were you thinking of? There's room in an ambulance for two. And if there wasn't, you could have left the other one on the pavement.'
It wasn't just professional ethics that made the paramedic's eyebrows climb. âI thought â¦'
Voss realised there'd been a misunderstanding. âEr â boss?' He actually flinched as Deacon's gaze seered round at him. âYou're not thinking that was Daoud in the ambulance, are you? It's Dave. He's got a bullet in his lung. Daoud's under the sheet.'
Deacon moved the impromptu shroud carefully and stood looking down at the man. He'd come within a gnat's whisker of killing two good officers but failure had cost him his own life. There were finger-sized craters in his left thigh and his left cheek, and Deacon knew that if he risked SOCO's wrath by rolling Daoud over he'd find fist-sized exit wounds on the other side. It was too late to hate him. But Deacon despised him. He despised all who talked loftily about causes but left the world poorer and in pain.
He had a number of regrets about tonight's work. A lot of man-hours and a big slice of budget had gone into spotting Daoud early enough to manage his arrest safely; but they'd missed him, and because of that Dave Salmon was being rushed to hospital with a chest wound, and Charlie Voss was shivering with shock, and a man who could have answered vital questions wasn't telling anybody anything ever again. All these things were regrettable. But at a personal level, all he felt about the violent death of
a violent man was relief. Any way a wolf dies, the lambs breathe a little easier.
He turned and looked at Voss. âIf Daoud shot Salmon, who shot Daoud?'
âI did,' admitted Voss.
âYou weren't armed.'
âDave was armed. Daoud knocked the gun out of his hand.'
âAnd you picked it up.'
âYes.'
âAnd shot him. Twice.'
Voss blinked. âDid I? I fired a lot of rounds. I didn't know how many hit him. I just kept firing till he went down. I didn't think I had a choice. He'd have killed us both.'
âYou don't have to explain it to me, lad,' said Deacon with a kind of gruff kindness. âYou did the right thing. Remember that. Anyone tells you otherwise, they're wrong. They weren't there, they don't know. You did what was necessary.' He sniffed. âNow will you for God's sake get off to hospital and stop bleeding on my crime scene?'
Â
If Joe Loomis had had a wife, or a mistress, or even a casual companion, Brodie would have spoken to her. So far as she could discover he hadn't. She wondered about that. No one who knew him would have described Loomis as the answer to a maiden's prayer, but even the most unpromising men can usually find a partner if they play their cards right. And there are plenty of women for whom money, even dirty money, is the ace in the hole.
So his lack of attachment was a puzzle. Brodie wondered briefly if it wasn't women's names she should be looking for but men's. But nothing she knew about him suggested he was easily embarrassed, and when you rule a criminal empire â or perhaps more a criminal emporium â essentially by fear, you don't have to worry about people poking fun. If there'd been a man in Loomis's life Brodie was pretty sure she'd have got wind of it by now. There must be another explanation.
And there was; and it was so obvious she felt foolish for not spotting it sooner. The man didn't just deal in drugs, he dealt in prostitutes. And he was exactly the kind of man to think that you don't need to buy a box of chocolates when you've got the key to the pick-and-mix.
The Rose in Rye Lane was not the sort of pub where respectable unaccompanied women take lunch. It was the sort of pub where respectable women, and men, do an about-turn, mutter something about their parking meter and beat a hasty retreat if they wander in by accident. It was dark, it was dirty, and the best that could be said of the regular clientele was that when they were adding to the fug in The Rose they weren't making the rest of Dimmock nervous.
So when Brodie came inside, appropriated a high stool and slapped her handbag on the bar in front of Wally Briggs, the background mutter of nameless crimes being reminisced over stopped dead. Every eye in the place was on her.
She waited about ten seconds â which in such circumstances is longer than it sounds â before half-turning
on her stool and saying calmly over her shoulder, âDon't get your hopes up, guys. I'm here on business but not that kind of business.'
She turned back to the bartender and took from her bag a handkerchief that wasn't much more than a large, rusty stain with a lace edge. âDo you want to guess what that is, Mr Briggs?'
For a lot of years Wally Briggs had stayed safe in dangerous company by never venturing an opinion on anything. He wasn't about to break the habit of a lifetime for a woman who looked like a princess, talked like a hooker and was clearly up to no good. He shook his head.
âIt's Joe Loomis's blood. Your boss's blood, Wally. Someone stabbed him and he came to me for help. Do you know what his dying words were?'
Wally shook his head again, so quickly it looked like a tic.
âHe said, “Find out who did this. Tell my old mate Wally to give you any help you need.”'
Wally Briggs felt his jaw dropping. Being helpful was even worse than offering an opinion, even more likely to blow up in your face. But Joe Loomis was his boss. Well, strictly speaking
had been
his boss, but Wally wasn't a man who adjusted to change quickly. Other people had taken over the pub, and other aspects of the Loomis enterprise, but down at gut level where survival depended on jumping for the right voice, Wally still reckoned to work for Joe. In the man's unavoidable absence, he owed his allegiance to Joe's blood on a bit of cotton.
Brodie would have sworn the bartender was actually
speaking to her handkerchief. âWhat do you want to know?'
âWho's running his stable now?'
Wally avoided her eyes. âI don't know what you mean.'
âOf course you know what I mean,' said Brodie impatiently. âJoe kept a stable of prostitutes upstairs at The Rose. Everybody knows that. Now, I don't believe they all went into convents first thing last Wednesday morning, so someone's taken up the reins. I want to speak to him.' She pushed the stained handkerchief across the bar. Wally recoiled. âIt's what Joe wants.'
âHer,' muttered Wally.
âHer?'
âThe girls talked it over. They didn't want none of Mr Loomis's minders telling them what to do. Donna Sugden's keeping the book.'
âThen I'll talk to Donna.'
Nothing terrible had happened to him. Wally rallied a little. âI'll see if she's free.'
âGood idea,' nodded Brodie. âI'll come with you.'
Wally couldn't think how to stop her. The prostitutes worked upstairs but the office was at the back of the rambling old inn. As he led the way he said, with awe in his voice, âDid Mr Loomis really send you to me?'
âOf course he didn't, you stupid man,' said Brodie dismissively. âThat was soy sauce on the hanky.'
Â
Donna Sugden was older than Brodie and no longer boasted the kind of looks that make a certain kind of man reach for his wallet. But her continued presence
in a working brothel didn't surprise Brodie. She could see immediately what the woman had to offer. Her face was alive with expression, the eyes intelligent, a quirk of humour lifting one corner of the mouth. Probably none of her clients came here looking for a forty-year-old woman whose laughter lines were turning inexorably into wrinkles. But men who would have trouble distinguishing one pneumatic blonde from another after they sobered up would remember Donna, and seek her out again. And she had the girls' vote. Brodie had met several prostitutes in the course of her career. They were canny about everything except their own lives.
Donna nodded a cautious greeting. âWally said you wanted to see me.'
âYes. Thanks.' Brodie hesitated a moment. âDo you know who I am?'
âYou're the one who found Joe.'
âYes. Well â Joe found me. He knew what I do for a living. I think that's why he came to my door rather than someone else's.'
Donna was obviously puzzled. âWhat do you do?'
âI find things. Sometimes, I find things out. Like, of all the people who might have wanted Joe dead, who actually stuck his own knife in him? And why?'
She saw an ambivalence in Donna Sugden's eyes. This was territory a working girl would rather avoid. Loomis was her pimp. He probably wasn't the first, and sooner or later, whatever the girls decided, there'd be another. It didn't do to get emotionally attached. Yet Brodie felt it there, hanging in the dusty air between them â the
unwise affection she'd felt for him.
âShouldn't the police be doing that?'
Brodie snorted derisively. âSeen a lot of the police since it happened, have you? Keep tripping over forensics teams and technical teams and guys going through the books â
both
sets of books â with a fine-tooth comb? I thought not. The police don't care who killed Joe. They think there are more important crimes to solve, nobler victims to get justice for. I'm not arguing â of course there are. But
somebody
should be standing up for Joe.'
âWhy you?'
Brodie gave a wry shrug. âGood question. We weren't friends. Actually, he was trying to scare me off. But now he's dead and nobody cares. I'm not looking for his killer,' she admitted frankly. âI wouldn't know what to do with him if I found him. I'm looking for something to get CID back on the job. If I can tell them it was a drug deal that went wrong or a border war that got out of hand, they'll take it from there.' She looked the other woman in the eye. âAnd I thought, maybe Joe talked to you about things he didn't discuss with anyone else.'
For a moment it seemed Donna was going to deny it. Then the blank expression cracked and she gave a reluctant little nod. Even a woman who made her living the way this one made hers was embarrassed to admit liking Joe Loomis. âI worked for him for fifteen years,' she explained defensively. âI may have been the closest thing he had to a friend.'
âWhat kind of friend?'
âYou mean, did we sleep together? Sure.' This admission
bothered her less than the other. âLike I say, we were together a lot of years. Neither of us had anyone else. So yes, we slept together. Sometimes. Sometimes we just talked, and sometimes we didn't even talk. You know someone well enough, you can do that â just watch telly and drink cocoa together. Don't get me wrong.' Her tone sharpened. âI didn't think he was a nice man. I didn't when he was alive and I don't now he's dead. But we had some nice times. For a basically crap human being, he was OK with me.'
âThen you'll help me?'
The older woman thought a little longer about that. âIf I can. Without stirring up more trouble than I can handle.'
Brodie pricked up her ears. âTrouble for who?'
âFor me; for the girls. I don't know who killed Joe. But if it turns out it was someone after his business, I don't want him thinking I'm a problem. Working girls are vulnerable, you know? I'm sorry about Joe, but not sorry enough to risk having his killer come here one night with a petrol can.
Brodie was nodding. âFair enough. But you could tell me about Joe, couldn't you?'
âWhat do you want to know?'
âIf he was worried about something, would he have told you?'
âProbably,' said Donna.
âAnd was he? In the week or so before he died?'