For Brodie, for Jonathan, he could have bent to the need if either of those principles had meant a little less to him. She wasn't asking him to do something wicked. What he was being asked to believe was believed in by millions of people all over the world; many of them seemed to
suffer no obvious harm and most insisted it was good for them. Or he could tell a little white lie. Recite the words in the sure and certain knowledge that they meant nothing because there was nothing out there to pray to. The only difference between his prayers and Hester Dale's would be that Daniel knew that. The snowiest of white lies, that hurt no one and made someone close to him feel a little better.
If he did as she asked, all it would cost him was sleep. He'd done things that had troubled his conscience more. It was a burden, but one he could carry. For Brodie? â of course he could. It wasn't as if there would be any consequences. There
would
be consequences if he refused. Because then, when Jonathan died â as die he was going to; Daniel knew that even if Brodie was somehow still in denial â it would be like a wall between them, denying them both the comfort they should have found in one another. Just a little bending could save them that.
He mumbled, âPlease don't ask meâ¦'
âI have to.' Brodie's voice was as hard as steel. âIt matters too much. I need every weapon in the armoury. I need everyone who gives a tinker's damn about Jonathan to pray for his recovery.'
âBut I'm an
atheist
â¦'
âAnd I'm desperate,' snarled Brodie. âDaniel, you're going to do this for me. I don't
care
what it costs you. In fact, maybe that's the point. If you're wrong, if there really is a God, maybe the prayers of an atheist are what He wants to hear above anything else. Think of it as your sacrifice. Maybe you can give Jonathan something no one
else can. Maybe the sacrifice of your principles is what it's going to take to save him. And anyway, we're going to find out.'
They'd reached that point where there was no room left for compromise. Either he did as she demanded or he refused. They looked at one another in shocked silence as an awareness of the significance of the moment grew in each of them. Right here, right now, something changed and would never be the same again. It wasn't the end of their friendship â it was too big a thing in their lives â but there was a paradigm shift in its nature, and both of them felt it. It would take time, and a calmness they couldn't currently command, to work out what it meant â how they went forward from here. Knowing that they would, but that nothing would ever be quite as it had been.
But they weren't wondering who'd blink first. Brodie couldn't afford to blink. It wasn't mere rhetoric when she said she was desperate. Principles? She'd have flayed him alive if she'd thought it would do any good. He was her best friend, but she'd have lit a bonfire under him to save her child. In the gauntness of her expression was a kind of horror at what she was reduced to.
In Daniel's misty grey eyes, behind his third-best spectacles, were pain and compassion. All the times he'd said â to her, to Deacon, mainly to himself â that he'd do anything for her came back to haunt him. Or not that, because he'd meant it when he said it and it still held true today. But he'd never expected that keeping his word would cost him his self-respect. Most people would have thought it a modest enough price to pay. But Daniel didn't, and
Brodie didn't. She knew what she was asking. Only an inner despair she could deal with no other way would have brought them to this. She felt to have no alternative. Only Daniel had a choice.
His voice was a mere murmur of sound. But it filled all the space between them. He said, âAll right.'
âLionel who?' said Terry Walsh, his wind-tanned face wrinkled in well-feigned puzzlement. It was Sunday afternoon, and he'd gone to the marina to enjoy a bit of quiet pottering aboard
Salamander
. He'd looked up from greasing a winch to find a detective looking down at him.
At which point he'd done the only civilised thing: invited him aboard and offered him a beer.
âLittlejohn,' said DS Voss again. He had the policeman's patience that Deacon had never been able to master. He didn't mind how often he repeated a question as long as he got the right answer in the end. âLionel Littlejohn. He used to work for you.'
Walsh gave a friendly, confident smile. âHe may have done, Sergeant. A lot of people have, down the years. Give me a clue. What does he do?'
Voss considered. âI believe he's done a few different things in his career. Driving. Lifting. Ohâ¦and time.' He'd accepted the beer out of politeness but he wasn't drinking it. He needed all his wits about him.
Walsh's smile went impish round the corners, his voice
reproachful. âSergeant Voss! You know I don't employ criminals. At least, not knowingly.'
âAt least,' murmured Charlie Voss, ânot those
we
know are criminals.'
Terry Walsh enjoyed the relationship he had with Dimmock CID, in the same way that a dog enjoys dancing just out of reach of its handler. He'd known Jack Deacon on and off since they were boys; he was pretty sure he was smarter than Deacon. Voss was smart too, but Voss was handicapped by wanting to do things by the book. He
believed
that stuff about protecting and serving. While Walsh wasn't getting any younger, his mind was as nimble as ever. A day might come when bad luck or bad judgement allowed them within grabbing range of his collar, but it wouldn't be today.
âDescribe him, then.'
âBig man. Late fifties now. Walks like he's just sailed round the Horn on a tea clipper.'
âMmâ¦yes,' said Walsh, as if that rang a bell. âLittlejohn? Maybe that was his name. I think he worked for a time as a doorman at The Dragon Luck. But you're going back a few years. And â as I believe you know, Sergeant Voss â it's not me but my wife who's part owner at the casino.'
âAccording to my information, he did odd jobs for you as well.'
âThat's always possible,' conceded Walsh. âHe'd work to whichever of my managers took him on â I probably saw very little of him. Listen, if it matters I can find out for youâ¦'
It did matter, but Voss knew that no account Walsh had
even five minutes to fabricate could be either relied on or broken. âMaybe later. Have you seen him recently?'
Walsh shook his head pensively. âI don't think so. Didn't heâ¦I may be thinking of someone elseâ¦it runs in my mind he went up north. Years ago â four, five years ago.'
âThat's what we thought too,' nodded Voss. âUntil he let himself into Daniel's house and bounced his head off the wall a couple of times, and then ran him down in the street.'
Walsh's eyes widened. âDaniel Hood? Is he all right?' Voss nodded. âWhose toes has he been treading on now?'
âHe didn't know he had,' said Voss. âBut what he's been working on is the Carson case. You know â Bobby Carson? Ran down a young couple outside The Cavalier in order to rob them? Daniel's been trying to find the girl's necklace. He didn't think he was making much progress, but he must have been. Lionel Littlejohn didn't come all the way down from Carlisle to put the frighteners on someone who was stuck up a blind alley.'
âQuite,' agreed Walsh pensively. âSo Daniel's looking for the jewellery, is he? Because Mrs Farrell's otherwise engaged. Is there any news, Charlie? Is she making any headway?'
Dimmock was a small community. No one here had many secrets, even from their worst enemies. And Terry Walsh was far from Jack Deacon's worst enemy. âNo,' said Voss, taking a moment off from the business in hand, âI don't think she is. It isn't looking good.'
âI've said this to Jack,' said Walsh with a kind of quiet insistence, âand now I'm going to say it to you so you can
remind him. If there's anything I can do, I want to know. I've a stake in a number of different businesses, including biomedical ones. There's a clinic in Sweden that's working on my research grant. Maybe they think they've talked to enough experts, but if they want to see another one I can arrange it. It's a fast-moving field â there are a lot of studies being doneâ¦' He gave a tight smile. âAll of which, of course, they are aware of. It's just⦠If Jack's kid dies, it isn't going to be because I or anyone I know could have helped and didn't.'
âI think the superintendent knows that,' said Voss quietly. âBut I'll make sure. Now, if you don't mind, Mr Walsh⦠Lionel Littlejohn.'
âHe denied all knowledge of Littlejohn's whereabouts or activities,' Voss reported on Monday morning. It was eight-thirty, and already the CID coffee machine was on overload.
âDid you believe him?' asked Deacon, breakfasting on biscuits.
Voss considered. âNo. He knew who I was talking about. He also knew
what
I was talking about. He admitted that Littlejohn used to work for him, but only because he knows we can prove it. He thinks it's all we can prove.'
âYou think Terry Walsh hired Lionel Littlejohn to come back here and put the fear of God into Daniel because Daniel's looking for the Sanger necklace.' It was impossible to tell from Deacon's expression whether he liked the idea.
All Voss could do was give his opinion. âYes.'
âWalsh didn't steal the necklace. We know that. Do you
think he hired Carson to steal it?'
âNo, I don't,' said Voss. âIt isn't his style. And if he'd wanted it that much he'd have hired somebody better to steal it. Someone who wouldn't have left a trail of bodies, and wouldn't have got caught.'
âSomeone like Lionel Littlejohn.'
âWell⦠yes.'
âSuppose,' Deacon ruminated. âJust for a moment, suppose you're right, and it's Terry pulling Lionel's strings. Why?'
âIf this isn't how he does business, maybe it's personal.'
âYou think he had a grudge against Tom Sanger and Jane Moss?' Deacon asked sarcastically.
Voss didn't dignify that with a reply. âCould he be protecting someone?'
The heavier of Deacon's eyebrows lifted. âI doubt it. For one thing, it's too late â Carson's already admitted the offence and gone down for it. For another, he's a nasty vicious little amateur, exactly the kind of local thug who muddies the water for pros like Walsh. Walsh wouldn't help him for the same reason he wouldn't hire him.'
Voss concurred. âHow about the fence? Somebody took those pieces of jewellery off Bobby's hands. If we knew who he was, he'd go down too. Maybe Walsh is covering for him.'
Deacon shook his head. âPeople like Walsh don't take risks to protect fences. Fences protect people like Walsh.' He scowled. âThere's something we're not seeing here. Or seeing but not understanding.'
Lacking inspiration, Voss shrugged. âMaybe I'm wrong.
Maybe Walsh wasn't involved. He isn't the only target criminal Littlejohn worked for. Maybe Lionel's helping out another of his old mates.'
âMaybe.' Deacon gave a sour sniff. âI hope not.'
âWhy?'
âBecause if it is Terry he'll draw the line at slitting Daniel's throat. He'll try to scare him off, he'll try to put him out of commission, but he won't kill him. At least, I don't think so.
âPlus, the reason he's doing this is that he feels exposed â out on a limb. He thinks that if Daniel keeps shaking the tree he could fall out. I may not know exactly how, but I know
he
knows he's vulnerable.' He gave a slow smile like a crocodile spotting the first migrating wildebeest. âAll I have to do is work it out and I've got the bastard.'
Daniel was not unaware of the risk he was running, but he'd put it to the back of his mind. Even the Carson commission seemed less important to him than it had. He went to see Margaret Carson more in a spirit of clearing the decks, freeing his mind for the even more difficult task that lay ahead.
She ushered him anxiously inside, her expression an inseparable mixture of hope and dread. âHave you found it?'
âNo,' he said immediately. He didn't want to mislead her, even for a moment. âI'm sorry. Everyone I talk to tells me it's gone â that I won't be able to find it. That it'll have been broken up by now and the stone reset in another piece of jewellery.' He gave a regretful little lopsided shrug.
Since he broke his collarbone, one shoulder didn't go as high as the other.
The disappointment in Mrs Carson's face was like a little death. There could be no doubting either her commitment or her sincerity. She desperately wanted this to succeed, whatever the cost to herself. âWhat are you saying, Mr Hood? That you're giving up?'
He bit his lip. âNot exactly. But I think it's time we looked for a Plan B. I know you wanted to return Jane's necklace. But if that isn't going to be possible, is there something else we could do to help you feel you'd made some kind of reparation?'
Margaret Carson had no idea where he was going with this. Her eyes went from puzzled to cold. âYou're not suggesting I write her a cheque?'
âNo,' said Daniel, appalled at the notion. âShe wouldn't take it. She's already slapped my face once â if I offered her money I think she'd knock me down. No, that's not what I was thinking. How would you feel about meeting her? You could tell her what you told me â how devastated you were by what Bobby did, how helpless you felt to stop him. It would make you feel better. It would also make Jane feel better, which is even more important.'
In the dark watches of the night we weigh all kinds of possibilities that aren't even genuine possibilities. Things that make winning the lottery look like an each-way bet. In the dark recesses of the soul we contemplate deeds that we wouldn't admit to knowing the names of. Even Daniel, who policed his soul like a man who believes in God, had toyed with murder in the place where neither conscience
nor consequences rule. In the privacy of your own head, anything is an option.
But Daniel knew from the way her face fell, from the way her eyes hollowed and comprehension crashed through them, that Margaret Carson had never for a moment thought she could meet Jane Moss â not in any forum, not in any circumstances. He might as well suggest that she raise Tom Sanger, Lazarus-like, from the dead. She couldn't do it. Her lips rounded like her eyes, grey in the white of her face. âNoâ¦!'
âIf you like,' he pressed diffidently, âI could be there. I've already sounded Jane out on this. She wasn't keen on the idea either but she agreed to a meeting, to see if you could lay the ghosts between you. It's absurd to talk of moving on from something like that, but it's still necessary at some point to draw a line under it. I think meeting you would help her do that.'
Mrs Carson struggled to string a sentence together. âHow could it
possibly
help her? How could she bear to be in the same room with me?'
But Daniel was speaking about something he knew. How runaway emotions cast shadows both forward and back, tainting past and future alike. Quietly, he tried to explain.
âShe must have wondered what kind of a home he came from, a man capable of doing what Bobby did. Her imagination will have run riot. If she meets you she'll see she was wrong. That he came from a decent home, and a mother who cared about him and was appalled at what he became. Who tried to stop him and couldn't. Somehow he
was born to do what he did. No one could have stopped him â not you, and if she'd been his mother, not her. I think she'll find a little comfort in that. Bobby was wholly responsible for his own actions, and now he's paying for them. End of story.'
But Mrs Carson's eyes were wild with fear. The mere suggestion that she meet Jane Moss had sent her into a blind panic. She'd found a way of dealing with the unbearable. Events which could have destroyed her had been sublimated into a cause. While she was driving the search for the star sapphire, and working out how to fund it, and wondering if she could manage by remortgaging her house or would have to sell it, she could live with the shades of the murdered boy and the broken girl. There wasn't much she could do about Bobby's crimes, but there was this, and she could do it with all her resolve, all her energy. If she did that, at the end of the day she might just be able to sleep and, if she did, to bear the dreams that would come.
Now this man she'd risked trusting, a man she'd opened her heart to, was telling her it wasn't an achievable goal â that she'd been fooling herself. That she couldn't restore the stolen necklace to its rightful owner, and would never be able to however long she kept trying. That the best she could do was face the maimed girl and tell her so. It was a flimsy hope from the start, that she could buy back the only thing Jane Moss had lost that money might find. When it collapsed, so too did the defences she'd built to shield herself from the unbearable facts. Exposed to the full force of them, she knew she would wither and die
inside. A terrible moan whispered in her throat. âNoâ¦'