‘What can I tell you?’ she said plaintively. ‘They poke you, they prod you. They smear your belly with jelly and expect you to coo lovingly over a screen full of static. It's a pretty surreal experience.’
‘Any pictures?’
Brodie shook her dark head. ‘Nothing worth keeping. Everybody else seemed to think it showed a baby. To me it really did look like a bun in the oven.’
Daniel had known Brodie Farrell long enough and well enough to know that her manner wasn't always the best guide to how she was feeling. This slightly world-weary cocktail of coolness and flippancy just might have been a cover for an excitement she wasn't ready to admit to. But he didn't think so. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked quietly. ‘Not getting the same buzz this time?’
She glanced at him gratefully. He'd summed up in a sentence things she'd been fretting to make sense of. T guess. When Paddy was on the way…’
‘…It was different,’ said Daniel. ‘You were twenty-six years old, you hadn't been married long, the pair of you were happy, a baby was the next step. Of course it was exciting. This time it wasn't what you'd been hoping and planning for.
It took you by surprise. And then, you've other things to worry about now. Paddy for one, the business for another. Even if you and John had stayed together, you can't hope to capture the same thrill about a second pregnancy that you had with your first.’
His earnestness, and the way he could talk authoritatively about things he knew nothing about, always made Brodie want to giggle. She felt her mood lightening. ‘I suppose that's it. I expect the whole maternal instinct thing will cut in when it arrives.’
‘Of course it will. And probably long before that. Are you still feeling sick in the mornings?’
‘A bit queasy sometimes. Nothing dramatic’
‘You'll be better disposed towards it when it stops making you want to heave.’
Brodie nodded, hoping he was right.
‘Have you given any thought to names?’
She shook her head. ‘Doesn't seem any point till I know what sex it is.’
Daniel's pale eyebrows arched in a surprise that amounted to criticism. ‘There's only two options. You could be ready with alternatives.’
‘I'll call it Danny.’
‘Don't you dare,’ he said, and meant it. ‘How did you settle on Patricia?’
‘It's John's mother's name,’ Brodie said, with an unconscious little scowl. ‘I never liked it. That's why I called her Paddy from day one.’
‘It didn't occur to you
not
to call her Patricia?’
She gave a fierce little grin. ‘You should have known me
then, Daniel. I'd go along with anything anyone suggested rather than make a fuss.’
He thought about that. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I'd rather know you now. So what kind of names do you like? English classic? Biblical? Trendy?’ He couldn't have made it clearer with a placard that Trendy was the wrong answer.
She considered. ‘I suppose good, strong, non-frilly, nontwee, non-clever names. John-and-Jane sort of names.’
‘John?’ he echoed doubtfully.
‘Good point,’ she conceded. ‘I don't really want people wondering if it's named after my ex-husband or my ex-lover.’
‘David, Mark, James. Mary, Elizabeth, Amy.’
‘Shane,’ she postulated, to annoy him. ‘Jordan.’
‘Abednego,’ he countered. ‘Berengaria.’
‘You made that up!’ said Brodie accusingly.
He shook his yellow head. ‘Richard the Lionheart's wife was called Berengaria. You can't get better provenance than that.’
‘Beyoncé. Dylan.’
‘Noah.’
Brodie blinked. ‘Yeah, right. Let's go the whole hog and call him Jonah.’
But it wasn't Daniel's suggestion, and he was looking round to see where it had come from. It was a coincidence. A big man in an expensive suit and a boy in the grey and red uniform of Dimmock High were settling themselves at one of the tables. ‘Noah, what do you want?’ asked the father. ‘We'd better order if we're going to get you back in school on time. And if you keep scratching that it'll never heal.’
Daniel's gaze was returning to Brodie when suddenly it flicked back as if on elastic. So he wasn't even called Thomas.
And it wasn't his scabbed wrist he was scratching. He was absent-mindedly rubbing the top of his left arm while he studied the menu.
Brodie noticed where he was looking. ‘Do you know them?’
He shook his head. ‘I had the boy in a class once.’
‘Oh?’ She looked again, closer. ‘I wouldn't have thought he was in secondary school when you were teaching.’
Sometimes telling the truth was a minefield. ‘It was just one class. I didn't even know his name.’
Fortunately she didn't pursue it. ‘I'm surprised they sent him to Dimmock High. I'd have thought they'd hold out for Eton and Harrow.’
‘Why, who are they?’
Brodie indicated the man with a nod of her head. ‘He's a solicitor. Adam Selkirk. John knows him. Actually, Jack does too.’ She leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Jack calls him a high-priced mouthpiece. I'm not sure he means it as a compliment.’
Daniel chuckled. Then he glanced back at the table behind them. ‘Selkirk. Where have I heard the name?’
‘You're probably thinking of his wife. Marianne – she's big in the world of Good Works. She makes a lot of speeches, cuts a lot of ribbons. She always gets an honourable mention at Women of the Year luncheons. Daniel, if you keep staring like that I shall have to introduce you.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, chastened. ‘It's just, when you're teaching you think you know the kids – but what you know ends at the school gates. Somehow it comes as a surprise that they have homes, families, dentists…’
Brodie's shapely eyebrows arched.
‘Dentists?’
‘Sorry,’ he said again, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Thinking of something else.’
‘Well, think me up some more names. Because Berengaria isn't going to cut the mustard.’
‘Ignatius?’ he hazarded. ‘Igraine? Isadora?’
‘A witness against me?’ said Terry Walsh with a puzzled frown. ‘What witness? A witness to what?’
He was Deacon's age, rather shorter but with the same heavy frame, running a little to fat now a lot of his business was conducted by mobile phone. But his hair was still black, with a crinkly wave running through it, and his keen intelligent eyes held a subversive hint of humour. Even in winter his skin never quite lost the tan that came from close proximity to the English Channel. When he wasn't making money, honestly or the other way, he was commonly to be found on his boat.
It wasn't sailing weather today. It wasn't garden weather either, but his conservatory commanded spectacular views of garden and Channel both. When he took them there, Voss wondered if he wanted to show the police officers his rolling acres – well, acre – or to keep them out of his office.
‘Someone who was pretty close to you at one point,’ said Detective Inspector Hyde. ‘Close enough to see you doing the sort of business you don't declare to the VAT-man. You might as well give it up, Terry. You're not going to talk your way out of it this time.’
Walsh shook his head bemusedly. ‘I'm sorry, Inspector, none of this is ringing any bells. If you've got some allegations you want me to answer, you're going to have to give me a clue.’
‘All right. That casino you're involved in, The Dragon Luck. There's a safe room there, where they keep the takings and monitor the tables. Because of the sums of money involved, the security is massive. No intruders, no surprises. Which makes it an excellent venue for the kind of meeting you don't want witnessing with the kind of people who don't want to be overheard.’
Now Walsh was nodding thoughtfully. ‘I can see that it would.’
‘We have someone who was at some of those meetings. We have dates, times and the names of other people who were present. We know what you discussed and what decisions you reached.’
‘Goodness,’ said Walsh mildly. ‘That really would be quite worrying, wouldn't it? If we'd been discussing anything I didn't want you to know about. But how many secrets do you suppose a man amasses in the bulk paper trade?’
Alix Hyde laughed. The pair of them were enjoying the encounter like a couple of chess players, appreciating one another's strengths, ready to exploit the first sign of weakness. ‘I can think of one. How much space is left inside a shipping container when it's packed with rolls of newsprint.’
Walsh shrugged negligently. ‘Rolls are round, containers are rectangular. But I've never thought of anything useful to do with the space left over.’
‘Gee, Terry,’ smiled Hyde, ‘I bet you could squeeze something in there. If it was small and not too delicate, and sufficiently profitable to be worth the trouble.’
‘Oh – I know,’ said Walsh, as if it was a quiz and he was going to win the washing-machine and the cuddly toy. ‘You
could smuggle drugs in there. Little packets of drugs squeezed into all those corners. You could make a fortune. If,’ he added, ‘you weren't an honest businessman.’
‘Quite,’ said Hyde.
Walsh was still thinking about it. ‘You know, it's a wonder Customs & Excise haven't thought of that. They're usually pretty sharp with these things.’
‘Yes, they are,’ agreed Hyde.
‘No, wait,’ remembered Walsh, ‘they
did
think of it. They had those containers of mine back to bare steel. Can you guess what they found?’
‘Nothing?’ murmured Alix Hyde.
‘That's right,’ said Walsh, nodding enthusiastically. ‘The first time. Of course, that's several years ago now. So they did it again. Stripped it right down, took out everything that would move. Guess what they found that time.’
‘Nothing.’ Detective Inspector Hyde wasn't smiling any more.
‘Well,’ Walsh said expansively, ‘they always say third time's a charm. So a couple of months after that…’
It didn't take a clairvoyant to see where this was going. ‘All right, Mr Walsh,’ Voss interjected hurriedly, ‘we get the point. You've been subjected to a number of Customs searches and they haven't found anything that wasn't on the manifest. But you know, and I know, and Inspector Hyde knows, there could be two quite different explanations for that.’
‘I'm an honest businessman.’ Walsh's eyes were merry.
‘That's one of them,’ agreed Voss. ‘The other is that you're a clever crook.’
Terry Walsh beamed. ‘It's good to see you again, Charlie Voss. I've hardly seen you since that business with Joe Loomis. I haven't seen Joe much either. How's he doing?’
‘I believe the inflatable cushion's a great help,’ said Voss with restraint, and Walsh roared with laughter. Joe Loomis's discomfort would always be a source of joy to Terry Walsh, and vice versa. They were rivals. And not in the bulk paper trade.
Hyde was drumming her fingernails on her chair's arm. ‘When you two have finished with the jolly reminiscences, could we get back to the point?’
‘Sorry,’ said Walsh, still chuckling. ‘What was the point again?‘
‘The safe room at The Dragon Luck, and the secret business you did there. On…’ She got out her notebook. ‘Would it be helpful to have the dates?’
‘What would be
more
helpful,’ said Walsh pensively, ‘is a bit more information about your supergrass.’
‘Oh, come on…!’ began Hyde indignantly, but Walsh interrupted her.
‘Because I can't quite see what anyone at a secret meeting to discuss illegal enterprises could possibly gain by telling the police about it. I mean, if you're hoping to arrest me for being there, presumably you think you can charge
everyone
who was there.’
Hyde tried a lazy smile. ‘Come on, Terry, you know how these things work. Someone finds themselves in trouble and tries to make it go away.’
But Walsh still wasn't convinced. ‘I don't know, Inspector. The kind of people who attend that kind of meeting don't usually get themselves into that kind of trouble. Unless…’ An
idea dawned in his face like sunrise. ‘Inspector Hyde – we're not talking about
Susan,
are we?’
Alix Hyde wasn't in the least concerned that Terry Walsh had guessed the identity of her witness. Being in custody was no guarantee of the woman's safety, but even that was a minor consideration. Susan's information was always going to be more use than her testimony, and Hyde already had the facts.
‘That's right. Susan Weekes, the croupier at The Dragon Luck. Who was also your mistress, and in that capacity was present on a number of occasions when you'd have been better sending her back to the tables. It's time to get serious, Terry. You're going down. The only question in my mind is how much work it's going to be pulling it all together. You could make it easier. It's not in your interests that I'm tired and bad-tempered at the trial.’
Walsh was regarding her calmly, still smiling though now the smile had a different quality. It had teeth. ‘Let me get this right, Inspector. You think I'm some kind of criminal mastermind. You think you've found someone who's willing to testify against me. And it's a woman I'm supposed to have had an affair with?’
‘In a nutshell,’ said Alix Hyde, ‘yes.’
He shook his head. ‘I've never had an affair with anyone.’
Hyde considered. ‘Nobody's memory improves with age. Maybe we should ask your wife.’
The sheer effrontery of it startled Voss. Trying to blackmail the man –
this
man: this strong, clever, unflappable man – in his own conservatory. For half a minute no one spoke, no one moved; if anyone breathed they did it quietly. Voss didn't know what to expect.
Then Walsh moved so quickly Voss saw Hyde flinch. But he was walking to the door. ‘Good idea.’ He raised his voice. ‘Caroline? Have you got a minute?’
Anyone, and anything, which has hunted a prey as powerful as itself knows that moment when the roles – and the rules – change. That dark dappled moment in the jungle when you're almost close enough to catch your tiger by the tail, and then you hear the crack of a twig behind you. The heart and the world both lurch, and after that it's anybody's guess who's going home to the wife with a trophy.
(‘Ooh,’ she says, ‘that'll look nice on the floor.’ ‘Just a minute,’ he says, ‘let me skin it first. These safari suits are the devil to get off.’)
And Charlie Voss, who'd never hunted tiger in his life, who'd never hunted anything except men and done it with nothing but his own wits for a weapon, felt that little lurch as the world changed gear.