Deacon took it one careful step at a time. The guys watching down the gun-barrels didn't know him the way his own officers did. Today, waving his arms and shouting wouldn't get him what he wanted â it would probably get him shot. All the same, he did wave. He stood up and faced the direction the danger was coming from, and waved both arms across in front of him. Then he stuck a thumb up. Sights that would let you put a bullet in a man's eye at half a mile ought to show a generous thumbs-up. Then he turned his back on the snipers and, keeping himself between Stretton and the guns, opened the blockhouse door.
A little traitor voice at the back of his mind was saying,
This is what it's all about, is it? This is part of the job description?
â
to be the meat in the sandwich between a lunatic sitting on two tonnes of blasting explosive and a professional with his finger on the trigger of a sniper rifle? Great. Well, I might live to tell the tale, if everybody keeps calm for the next thirty seconds. Starting with me â¦
âTake off your coat.' Stretton did as he was told. âAnd your shirt.' Deacon sighed. â
And
your vest. Shoes. Trousers.'
Stretton's eyes saucered. âI'm not â¦!'
âYes,' said Deacon heavily, âyou are.
They
think you're a suicide bomber. When you come through this door, I want them to see that all that's coming out is you. You're embarrassed? Tough.'
So they emerged from the blockhouse â Deacon first, coatless, his own shirt flapping in case anyone wondered what it would take to turn a suicide bombing into a proxy bombing. Then Stretton, naked, hands spread wide until Deacon told him to get down on the muddy ground and keep still as if his life depended on it. Because it did.
Across the mud, where the perimeter was being held, slowly men began to break cover and come forward. Last of all the men with the guns took their eyes from their telescopic sights, stood down and stood up.
Another minute and Dev Stretton was securely handcuffed, held by as many officers as could get a hold on him, being marched squelchily across the site to a police van.
âHang on a minute.' Deacon went back to the bunker for his coat and threw it roughly around Stretton's shaking body. By way of explanation he growled, âI know he's a stupid bastard. He doesn't have to be a freezing stupid bastard. Now get the silly bugger out of my sight.'
Â
âGo on,' said Brodie quietly.
Loomis was already there when Evie found the car park. Her headlights ran along the flank of the long silver car and a small dark-haired man got out. He was on his own. There were no other vehicles in the car park and no passers-by.
She pulled up beside him, wound down the window and said, âI'm Evie.' And Joe Loomis opened the door for her.
She'd wondered just when she should break her news. If she should declare herself right away, so they both knew what they were talking about, or if she should wait until they had the coffee in front of them and she could see his reaction. She was still wondering when Joe took the initiative. Putting an unexpectedly proprietorial arm around her shoulders he steered her towards his car and said, âSo you want to be a hooker.'
âHe thought ⦠He thought â¦' Evie could hardly get it out. Her voice shook, and her hands shook on the kitchen table, spilling the contents of her mug. Brodie fought the urge to help. The girl needed to do this. It wouldn't be the end of the nightmare. But it might be the beginning of the end.
âHe thought I wanted to work for him. Because he was a pimp and I was a prostitute. I'd gone there to meet my father, and he was talent-spotting for his cathouse!'
âWhy did he pull the knife?' asked Brodie softly.
Evie shook her head despairingly. âI don't know. There
was
no reason. It was like â¦like that was what he did with his hands. Smokers play with a cigarette, drinkers toy with a drink, geeks play with a computer mouse, and he took out a knife because he'd nothing better to do with his hands. He wasn't threatening me with it. I mean,
I thought
he was, when he reached into his coat and out it came. I thought,
Dear God in heaven, he thinks I'm here to blackmail him and this is his answer!
But I think I was wrong.'
Brodie nodded. âA woman who knew him told me he'd do that. That it didn't mean anything. He used the knife instead of his finger â to make a point, to keep his place on a page, to touch things ⦠She said it was mostly a habit, and a bit of power play. He did it because it held people's attention. He'd probably done it so long he'd forgotten it wasn't entirely normal.'
Behind the veil of her hair Evie was struggling with the emotions she'd tried so long to suppress. And the battle went on because each was as strong as another. Was that good news or bad, that though her father had drawn a knife on her he often drew them on other people too? Was it better to believe that he wasn't threatening her or worse, because that made what followed worse? If she'd turned and run away, would everything have been all right? Was that all she'd have had to do to keep the sky from falling?
âSo what happened?' Brodie prompted her gently.
Shocked and frightened, the girl had tried to explain the misunderstanding. Tried to get out the magic words: âI'm not a whore, I'm your daughter.' But she'd rehearsed this so often in the privacy of her own head, and it was different on a quantum level from this. She'd watched the puzzlement turn to hope and delight in his imagined face as she built up to her revelation. And she was reluctant to let that go. To admit that it wasn't possible to salvage it from where they now stood.
Loomis had stood grinning at her tongue-tied stammering. He used the point of the knife to lift her hair away from her face. âIt's OK to be nervous. Ask anyone who's been for a job interview. Get in the car, we'll do the
practical, then if you measure up we can talk terms and conditions.' He still had his left arm about her shoulders, the tip of the knife against her cheek.
âWhat happened?' Brodie murmured again.
âI elbowed him in the belly,' whispered Evie. âAnd stamped on his foot. And his arms flew out as he lost his balance, and I grabbed the knife out of his hand.'
If she'd been a sixteen-stone bouncer with a tattoo he'd never have let her close enough to hurt him. But he wasn't expecting trouble. He'd thought all he had to do was put the fear of God into her. But Evie was her mother's daughter; and actually, she was her father's daughter and her brother's sister as well. Pushed like that, her instinct was to push back. She held the knife out at arm's length, crouching behind it, keeping him at bay. âKeep your fucking hands off me!' she yelled. âI'm not what you think! I'm your â¦'
But if Joe Loomis had been scared of kids waving knives he'd never have got where he was today. He lifted his narrow shoulders in a negligent shrug. âI know what you are.' He didn't keep his distance. He came towards her, reaching for the knife.
The long car was at her back: she couldn't have run now if she'd tried. Doing anything would have involved lowering the knife, and then he'd have had her. She swung at him.
She thought, she really thought, he'd dance back out of range. That he'd see she was serious and back off. When the knife buried itself in Joe Loomis's side, they were staring at one another from a range of inches and it was impossible
to say which of them was most surprised. Evie gave a little yelp, and letting go of the knife cringed back against the car. Loomis went on regarding her in mute astonishment until he sank to his knees.
âAnd I ran,' whispered Evie. â
Then
I ran. Two minutes earlier I could have run, and he probably wouldn't even have chased me. Now when I ran I left my father on the ground with a knife in him, and I didn't even call for help! I ran back to my car, and I drove home, and it was two days before I even told my mother!'
Brodie found herself fighting back sympathetic tears. âListen to me. There are two things you need to know. What happened wasn't your fault. You were defending yourself against what you believed to be an imminent assault. Joe Loomis died with his own knife in his lung not because of what you did, but because of who he was. He was
always
going to die pretty much like that. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else.
âAnd the other thing is â¦' She paused. But the girl had a right to know. It wouldn't make things easier now, but later it might. âEvie â Joe knew who you were. He knew who you were when you phoned and asked to see him. He knew because your mother told him. Do you remember that day Dev brought her home? She was upset and had a bruise on her face. Did she tell you why?'
Silently, Evie shook her head.
Brodie sighed. Secrets, secrets; and between them they'd destroyed a decent family. âShe'd been to see him. She knew you intended to approach him, and she didn't want him drawing you into his world. She warned him off.
She wanted him to lie to you. To say you'd got it wrong. To laugh in your face, and send you away so embarrassed you'd never want to see him again. She thought she was protecting you.'
Evie's eyes were perplexed. She didn't understand. And if it was true, didn't it make it worse? He was going to
rape
her â¦!
Brodie reached across the table and folded her hands over the girl's. âI think she succeeded. I think Joe recognised that, though he'd been no father to you for twenty years, at least he hadn't done you any harm. And that could be about to change. I think he decided the best thing he could do was scare you off. Everything he said and did was to that end. He thought you'd scream and run a mile, and avoid him like the plague ever after. Evie â I think he was trying to help.'
They were still sitting there, holding hands across the table, eyes locked â Evie's hollow pits of slow comprehension, Brodie's tear-bright with compassion â when there was a knock at the door. After a moment Brodie freed her hands and stood up. âThat'll be the police.'
Â
There were now three separate parties converging on Battle Alley: Detective Superintendent Deacon and his prisoner; Stretton's mother and, apparently, his father in the care of Detective Constable Huxley; and his sister and, to no one's surprise at all, Brodie Farrell accompanied by Detective Constable Jill Meadows. But free flow of transport was still a problem. It was going to take time for any of the cars
to find a way into the town centre, and only when they could get together, under one roof if not in one room, could all the little bits of information be glued together into something that â if it didn't actually hold water â at least looked like a pot.
(Detectives and archaeologists have a lot in common. Both dig deep in awkward and often dirty places, and may not know how the sherds they find will fit until the very end. All the same, Deacon hadn't the patience to be an archaeologist. It's hard to intimidate a midden.)
At the same time Superintendent Fuller had his people on the streets, actively promoting calm and breaking up any gatherings large enough to look like a target. Even with Stretton in custody, it was too soon to say there would be no bombing here today. So the police station was manned essentially by Sergeant McKinney and the radio room staff when SOCO called in from Romney Road. McKinney was wondering what to do with the call when DS Voss limped up the back stairs and became the station's CID presence. He waved the earpiece at Voss and Voss took it.
Daniel was still with him. He'd no reason to go anywhere else and in any event no way of getting there. But he could make no sense of that half of the conversation that he could hear.
Voss said: âWhere had it been? Which is pretty much what he told the cousins, of course. So when it turned up they sent it to the address on the label. What's it like â soft, rigid?'
There was a pause in which Daniel could hear the sound of the other voice without being able to pick out words.
Then Voss said, âNot until I'm sure it's necessary. The state this town's in, an Army truck driving up Romney Road will send it ballistic. Don't handle it. Put it somewhere it won't be disturbed â and if Hux turns up, don't let him in the same room! I'm on my way.'
Finally: âNo â I'm not an ATO, and I don't have a death wish. But I don't want to throw petrol on the flames if it's just a souvenir-stall camel from the family back home. Do nothing. I'm on my way.' He was heading for the door as he gave the earpiece back. Daniel fell into line behind him. They'd reached the steps before Voss realised. âWhere do you think you're going?'
âI have no idea,' said Daniel honestly. âBut you're not exactly overmanned at the moment. I may not be much help, but I ought to be better than no one at all.'
Voss gave a grin and gave up. âCome on then. There's no reason to suppose you'll be in any more danger there than here.'
âNo,' agreed Daniel. âEr â¦where?'
Scene of Crime Officer Billy Mills had still been working in the Dhazi cousins' house when the parcel van drew up outside. âPackage for Mr Salma.'