At first the investigation proceeded along well-worn lines. Forensics. Interviews with people who might, but probably hadn't, seen anything significant. The establishment of a timeline.
The autopsy revealed, unsurprisingly, that Joe Loomis died of a knife driven deep enough into his armpit to sever two major arteries. The assailant was a right-handed man who'd attacked him from the front â or, just possibly, a left-handed man who'd attacked him from the rear.
The knife itself had a ten-centimetre blade and a fancy mother-of-pearl handle that was covered with fingerprints. Unfortunately, half of them were Joe's and the others were Brodie's. No record survived of the killer's hand.
Diligent police work â in this case, looming threateningly over Wally Briggs â established that the knife belonged to Loomis. That he always carried it, and often pulled it out to emphasise a point or simply to toy with. Raising the distinct, and unsurprising, possibility that Joe himself started the altercation that led to his death.
So far, so predictable. The murder of a decent law-abiding citizen is extremely unusual; of someone like Joe Loomis, less so. People who knew him only casually
spent the next few days nodding sagely at one another and agreeing it had only been a matter of time. There was no real public interest in who'd done it. The general feeling on the darker streets of Dimmock was that someone had been bound to do it sooner or later.
Events then took an unexpected turn, signalled by the visit to Battle Alley Police Station of Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) Emily Blake. She arrived without warning and asked to see Detective Superintendent Deacon, and the radio room became a flurry of activity as people who generally had no idea where he was until a complaint came in tried to track him down.
In fact he wasn't far away â up on the Firestone Cliffs, interviewing the town's other significant unconvicted criminal, Terry Walsh, about the death of his rival. Deacon and Walsh were old sparring partners: Walsh didn't mind when Deacon said he'd have to take a rain check and hurried away.
Driving back to town, he tried to work out which infringement of police procedure he was being accused of now. Not because he hadn't infringed any, but because he infringed lots of them all the time. It made it hard to prepare a defence. He didn't want to find himself explaining to the ACC some incident she didn't actually know about.
Probably
, he thought,
it was the snooker cue
. Joe may not have reported it widely â it had done little for his reputation â but there was a witness, and the bartender had little reason to be discreet after his employer was dead. All it needed was for the story to have reached someone with an interest in embarrassing Deacon â professionally:
personally he remembered the moment with enormous satisfaction â and there was a wide choice. One of them could easily have made an anonymous phone call to Division.
He toyed briefly, hurrying up the back steps from the car park, with the idea of claiming it was an accident. That he and Loomis were enjoying a friendly game of snooker when he got a thick contact and the tip shot off the ball and up Joe's nose ⦠But Emily Blake hadn't reached the pinnacle of her profession by believing lies, even lies that were better constructed than that one. Deacon thought she'd staple his ear to his own blotter for trying it. He settled for the defence that had served him best down the years: silence and a dumb expression until he knew who had what on him.
And in a way it served him this time too. She didn't know about the snooker cue. She did know about Joe Loomis's last words.
And the way she knew was that he'd reported them. He'd made a full report of everything he knew or could surmise, then he'd got on with his job which was trying to find the killer. Not for a moment did he expect what was now on its way.
âJack' â if she'd been about to tear strips off him she'd have given him his full title â âwhen you were making this report, didn't it occur to you how it was going to look?'
Deacon genuinely didn't understand. He frowned. âYou mean, my typing â¦?'
Blake breathed heavily at him. She was a couple of years younger than him, and better groomed, but otherwise they
had a lot in common. She'd come up through the ranks by sheer hard work and a leavening of inspiration, and was one of the few people that Deacon acknowledged as being capable of doing his job as well as he did. It might have been tacit, but they'd always had a lot of respect for one another.
âNo,' she said with heavy patience, ânot the typing. The fact that, to someone who doesn't know you â or rather, who knows you but not as well as I do â it might look as if Joe Loomis with his dying breath was trying to accuse you.
Deacon dismissed that with an impatient hand. âOf course he wasn't accusing me. He may or may not have been trying to accuse someone, but since he never got further than the first letter and we don't have holding cells for one twenty-sixth of the population, I didn't think it would be much help until we had a suspect.'
âThe problem is,' explained Blake carefully, âto certain sections of the community it might look as if you
are
the suspect.'
It was only then that he realised she was treating this seriously. His frown turned to a deep lowering scowl. âMe? You think I stabbed Joe Loomis?'
Now the ACC was dismissive. âOf course I don't think that. Even those at Division who are not fully paid up members of your fan club don't think it. What we do think is that it looks bad, having you as Senior Investigating Officer when Joe Public might reasonably wonder if you
should
be a suspect. That this particular investigation should be led by someone else.'
Deacon stared at her in frank astonishment. âWho? Charlie Voss is a
sergeant.
But if I go on gardening leave, he's still the best detective in Dimmock.'
Blake shook her head. Her hair was as long as Brodie's, but tamed in a businesslike pleat at the back of her head. âIt's not just a question of rank. As you well know, we have reservations about DS Voss's judgement. Well, he's a young man, he may prove us wrong â but he's not getting the chance to do it on a murder investigation where his own superintendent could be in the frame. We'll bus someone in.'
âWho?' Already outraged, Deacon was ready to be offended as well.
âNo one you know,' said Blake briskly. âSomeone with no connections to Dimmock. Someone you've never worked with and who doesn't owe you any favours. I want this clearly above board.'
Deacon didn't know what to say. If Blake had been a man he'd have got inventively unpleasant; but after that he'd have come to where he was now, seeing that she was probably right and it was stupid of him not to have expected this. âDo you want me off the premises?'
Her point won, Blake could afford a little kindness. âThat's really up to you, Jack. If you think you can spend a couple of weeks looking for pirate videos and stolen bicycles, and stay out of the Loomis investigation, do it. But my guess is you'd be happier off-stage. Do a bit of decorating. Take Mrs Farrell on holiday.'
Deacon regarded her coldly. âOur son is in hospital. Neither of us is in the mood for seeing the Costa del
Something-or-other from an inflatable banana.'
Blake winced. That was something she hadn't known. âJack, I'm sorry. I hadn't heard. Is he all right â is he going to be all right?'
âHopefully,' conceded Deacon. He brought her up to date, briefly. âHe's getting over the op pretty well. We're hoping to get him home tomorrow.'
âGood. I hope he keeps doing well.' Blake nodded decisively. âSo you'll need some time off anyway. Give Mrs Farrell my best wishes. Tell her I'll get you back to work as soon as I can.' And when Deacon gave a puzzled frown the ACC responded with a little feminist chuckle.
Â
Detective Inspector Dave Salmon arrived on Friday morning. Voss helped him to move in, then brought him up to speed on the investigation. But it was a cool welcome. Salmon thought he understood. He was here because Division had decided to act on a wildly improbable suspicion: naturally Deacon's sergeant was resentful. But that was, in fact, only half the story. Last time Voss was loaned to a visiting fireman he got his fingers burnt. He was a professional, he'd work on what he was told to with who he was told to â but this time he'd be watching his back.
Salmon was younger than Deacon, a man in his late thirties with dark hair and a tan he appeared to put slightly too much effort into. He had a pleasant voice and an easy manner, but Voss detected a certain intensity in his dark brown eyes. Bush telegraph said he'd been working in London, in which case he probably thought Dimmock
would be a sinecure. Voss hid a little smirk. He'd learn.
As soon as he was settled in, Salmon wanted to interview Brodie. He asked her to meet him at Shack Lane and talk him through what happened.
The waspishness she felt on meeting him surprised Brodie. She'd known someone else was taking over the inquiry; and she could see why; and she'd told Deacon it was a good idea, that any suspicions about his role would be dissipated quicker by someone else's investigation than his own. So she wasn't sure why her hackles rose when DI Salmon walked into her office. A kind of misplaced loyalty to Deacon, she supposed. She tried not to let it affect her dealings with him.
She'd already made a full statement, and Salmon had read it. All Brodie had to do was recount what had happened â and not enough time had passed for her to have trouble remembering. She wasn't sure there was that much time left to the world.
Daniel offered to leave them alone. But Salmon had read his statement too, about the altercation at the seafront, and asked him to stay. He heard them out in attentive silence, only moving into the hall when Brodie described going to the door.
He wanted to establish exactly what Loomis had been trying to say as he bled to death on her carpet. Brodie couldn't tell him, only what she thought he'd been trying to say.
âSomething beginning with D,' echoed Salmon.
âI think so,' nodded Brodie.
âOnly think?'
She bristled and shrugged. âHe was dying. He wasn't expressing himself very clearly. I think it was a D. But I'm not a qualified lip-reader.'
âBut you thought it was a D.' Salmon's gaze on her was steady. âAnd you said so.'
That pricked her conscience. âYes.' Her jaw came up, defiantly. âBut I wouldn't have done if I'd thought he was accusing Jack Deacon.'
With the ghost of a smile Salmon turned to Daniel. âI don't suppose you had any reason to murder Mr Loomis?'
Daniel flicked him a little smile in return. âI have an alibi. I was baby-sitting.'
The detective nodded. One letter wasn't much of a case against anyone: not Daniel and not Deacon. âGoing back to the squabble you witnessed at the Promenade. You say it was Ms Stretton who was angry with Loomis, not the other way round?'
âThat's how it looked. I think she wanted him to do something for her. Or maybe to not do something for her. She needed a favour, and he thought it was funny.'
âAnd then he hit her.'
Daniel was at pains to be fair even to Joe Loomis. âHe slapped her. It wasn't a right hook.'
âWhy did he slap her? If he was amused.'
âI think she insulted him.'
âWhat did she say?'
Daniel remembered word for word. âThat she didn't care who knew she'd slept with a Pakistani. That it was Loomis she felt the need to keep quiet about.'
Salmon blinked. âDo you know what she meant by that?'
Daniel had thought it was pretty obvious. âHer son is of mixed race. I think she was saying she didn't mind who knew that she'd had a relationship with his father, she just hoped no one knew she'd also had one with Loomis. Twenty years ago.'
The Inspector raised an eyebrow. âYou know the family?'
âNo. But she told me. That she wished she'd known twenty years ago what she knew now. And I met her son when he picked her up at my house.'
âAnd he's a Pakistani?'
âNo, Inspector,' said Daniel, with that quiet precision that Brodie recognised as marking one of his lines in the sand, âhe's English. He's also Eurasian.'
Salmon nodded. âI'll need to talk to Faith Stretton. Do you know where I'd find her?'
âI'm sorry, I don't.'
Charlie Voss, who had contributed nothing since performing the introductions, cleared his throat. âThey have a cottage up on the Downs. On the far side of Cheyne Warren.'
âThey?'
âThe Strettons. Faith, and her son and daughter. No husband or partner in evidence.'
âOK, Sergeant,' said Salmon, âwe'll pay them a visit next. Thanks for your time, Mrs Farrell â Mr Hood. I'll try not to bother you again, but if I have to â¦'