Walsh shuffled uncomfortably. âI didn't know that. You can believe me or not, Jack, but it's the truth. If I'd known â if I'd even suspected â do you think I'd have given it to my wife? Do you think I'd have let her wear it in public?'
And, reluctantly, Deacon did believe him. A successful
middle-aged man, Walsh was still what he'd always been â a wheeler-dealer, a man with an eye to the main chance, a man who didn't need to buy iffy jewellery from someone in a disco but probably couldn't resist the temptation. Deacon could see him in a shadowy corner of the noisy establishment, surrounded by people who had no idea what he was up to, cheerfully hammering the price down because both he and the vendor knew that stolen goods are a buyer's market.
âDid Caroline know how you got it?'
âNo.' He said it firmly enough but Deacon was unconvinced. He liked Caroline Walsh but he had no illusions about her. She couldn't
not
know how Terry had made his fortune. She knew, and she enjoyed it with him, and whether she'd ever held up a tobacconist at gunpoint or not, she was in every way that mattered a gangster's moll. If Walsh had told her about the man in the disco, she'd probably have worn the necklace at the first opportunity, out of devilment.
Right now, though, that wasn't the point. Right now â here, in the man's study â Deacon was where he'd spent the last ten years working to be: with a case against Terry Walsh that would open up his affairs as a judicious stab opens a clam. Because it wasn't just the necklace. Maybe all Walsh did was buy questionable jewellery from someone he met in a disco. He wasn't going down for murder, or as an accessory to murder. But handling stolen goods is a serious offence, and that was all the leverage Deacon needed to crack the ripe nut that was Walsh's business empire. He knew what he'd find. All he needed was a lawful excuse to look.
âDo you want to tell her, or shall I?'
There were things about Walsh which were almost admirable. There had to be, or the fact that they had grown up in the same London neighbourhood would never have tempted Deacon to tolerate a personal acquaintance that had the potential to damage him professionally. One of them was that he was an intelligent man. He didn't shrink from violence â Deacon knew he didn't, though he couldn't prove it â but he used it sparingly, as a last resort, and never as a substitute for thinking. He was thinking now, trying to see a way through this, not panicked but intensely focused.
âI will,' he said. âIf I have to.'
Deacon snorted a gruff little chuckle, half amused, half indignant. âOh come on, Terry! You're not going to appeal to my better nature, are you? You know I haven't got one.'
Walsh gave another microscopic shrug. âWe've known one another a lot of years. I've always thought of you as a friend.'
âReally?' Deacon looked at him closer. âThat's interesting. Because I've always thought of you as a pimp, a thief and a thug.'
Unoffended, Walsh laughed out loud. âNo, Jack, don't spare my feelings â tell me what you
really
think.'
That flicker in the cragginess of Deacon's expression might almost have been a tiny smile. âI think that you and I have been chasing one another around this merry-go-round for too many years for you to think I'm a soft touch. You're not going to try to bribe me, not because it's illegal or immoral but because you know it wouldn't
get you anywhere. So that's not what this is about. There's something else you need. Something you think I just might help you with.'
He tilted his head to one side. When Brodie did that she looked like a curious magpie that has seen something glitter in the grass. When Deacon did it he looked like a vulture wondering how long something would take to die. âWhat is it you're not telling me, Terry? If what you've told me already was the truth, why are you still keeping secrets?'
Walsh spread his hands innocently. âI'm not. I told you what happened. I feel bad about it â of course I do. It was just a bit of fun. I thought someone had pulled a fast one and Caroline was going to get a nice little trinket because of it. If I'd thought for one moment that people had got hurt, I wouldn't have touched it with a bargepole. If I'd known Bobby Carson was involved, I wouldn't have. You know me, Jack. You know that's the truth.'
Deacon went on regarding him speculatively. The trouble was, he
did
know Walsh. He didn't think he'd sent Carson to wipe out a couple of young lovers for the sake of their valuables, and he didn't think he'd have handled those valuables if he'd known how Carson acquired them. So maybe he hadn't. The hit-and-run, the death of the boy and the terrible injuries to the girl, had been widely reported, but details of the robbery weren't released until four days later. That had been Deacon's decision. He'd thought his best chance of finding Carson was if he tried to fence the goods, which he wouldn't if their description had been widely circulated.
As it turned out, Carson had passed the goods on while the blood was still wet in the road. They'd gone through maybe three different handlers before Walsh bought the necklace from a man in a disco.
A man in a disco? He knew they were rather different types of men. For instance, Walsh had a social life that went beyond the occasional meal with friends in a nice French restaurant. But they were the same age, and from Deacon's experience â gained mostly from arresting people with amusing substances in their back pockets â the average age of those frequenting discos was about nineteen. Wouldn't Terry Walsh have been a little conspicuous among the teeny-boppers?
âWhat disco?' he asked.
âScarlett's, on the Brighton Road.'
Deacon knew the one. It was about half a mile from The Dragon Luck. âWere you there alone?'
âYes.'
âAnyone see you?'
âLots of people. I don't know how many would remember seeing me. It is nine months ago.' He frowned then, perplexed. âWait a minute. I've just confessed to a crime, albeit an unwitting one. Now you want me to
prove
it?'
âCan you?'
âI don't
have
to!
You
don't have to. I confessed. If you don't believe me, great â pick up your baby on the way out and I'll see you down The Belted Galloway sometime. But you asked me how Caroline came to be wearing Jane Moss's necklace and I told you. I didn't fence the thing for
Bobby Carson. But I bought it in circumstances that made it unlikely to be kosher, and if you want to hit me with that, go ahead. You know my solicitor. By the time he's polished my defence, Adam Selkirk will make me seem like an innocent abroad and you like a bully for taking advantage of me.'
He took a long, slow breath. âAnd I just wonder if there isn't another way of dealing with this. If Miss Moss gets her necklace back, and my company undertakes to support her financially for the rest of her life, wouldn't that do more good than you and Adam shredding my reputation between you as you try to convince a court that I'm some kind of criminal mastermind and he tells them I'm a simpleton who shouldn't be allowed out alone?'
As bribes go, it was better than most. At least Deacon didn't feel the urge to knock him down for offering it. Of course, he couldn't accept it. He didn't think Walsh thought he might. âMiss Moss
will
get her necklace back. After it's done its job as evidence.'
Walsh regarded him coolly. âSerious money isn't to be sneezed at, Jack. Not many people can afford your kind of scruples. I can make a big difference to that young woman's life.'
Deacon sniffed. âYou could anyway. As a kind of apology. From jail.'
Walsh laughed at him. âI'm not going to jail for an injudicious purchase in the back row at Scarlett's!'
âThat's
cinemas
, Terry,' Deacon growled, exasperated. âIf you're going to lie, get the details right. Discos don't have a back row, and anyone who'd been in one in the last twenty
years would know that. Wherever you got that necklace, it wasn't in Scarlett's. So why would you say that? Why would you tell me something so wildly improbable, when the man with the capacious overcoat could just as easily have been selling his wares in The Dragon Luck where you'd every reason to be?'
Walsh looked away. He still appeared quite nonchalant, but Deacon's experienced eye detected a growing unease. âI've told you what happened.'
Deacon didn't think at lightning speed, but what he lacked in rapidity he made up in perseverance. There was something else he'd always admired about Walsh. He was a good husband and father. Deacon had known that Terry Walsh would gladly lay down his life for his partner and his offspring long before he knew that, actually, he would too.
âYes, I rather think you did,' he said slowly. âExcept that it wasn't you at Scarlett's, was it? And I don't think it was Caroline. Sorry to be so blunt, but you're both too old. It was Sophie, wasn't it?'
âNo,' said Terry Walsh.
He'd been lying for long enough, and not just over trivial things but in circumstances where getting it wrong could cost him his freedom or his life, to know he had to keep his tone light. He'd have hacked his own arm off with a penknife to keep Jack Deacon away from his daughter. But right now she didn't need his blood so much as his skill as an actor. He didn't wring his hands. He didn't beg Deacon to believe him, either with his words or his eyes. He just shook his head and said calmly, âNo.' And waited.
But Deacon had dealt with lots of different kinds of liars in his time. Urgent ones, sullen ones, and some whose eyes shone with bright honesty as they told him that black was white. Civilians, and young policemen, think there's a magic to it. That you can spot a liar by the way his eyes drift off to the left, or right; by the tremor, or perhaps the unnatural steadiness, in his voice; by the unnecessary complications in his account, or else by the lack of detail. But there is no magic trick. Experience had taught Deacon to focus on the facts. If he was being lied to, sooner or later the facts wouldn't add up. Honest people make mistakes
too, but they're different kinds of mistakes.
By and large â remember this if you're asked to take part in one â that's what reconstructions are for. They're not, as you'll be told, meant to jog the memory of an onlooker. They're an opportunity for someone to settle the question of whether he's a witness or a suspect by doing something he simply couldn't or wouldn't have done. Taking a seat on the blind side of a station café, for instance, when his statement said he'd checked the time on the platform clock.
So Deacon was listening not to the timbre of Walsh's voice, not to the presence or absence of a tremor, but to what he was being told. He was being told that an intelligent, hugely successful career criminal had bought stolen jewellery from someone he didn't know in a discotheque frequented almost exclusively by Dimmock's teenagers. And that simply couldn't be true.
âWhat were you doing in Scarlett's?'
âThe pubs were closed and I fancied a drink.'
âNot the quietest place for a quick tipple.'
âNo, it wasn't. I won't be going back.'
âWere you driving yourself?'
âCertainly not.' Thus spoke the family man, indignant at the suggestion. âColin was driving. You know Colin.'
Deacon knew Colin would say he'd driven his boss up to the front door of Buckingham Palace if that's what he was told to say. âDidn't we do him for speeding a couple of years ago?'
Walsh nodded. âI believe you did. I had a severe word with him at the time.'
âIt must have made an impression,' said Deacon, straight-faced. âIf he's now driving so slowly that you couldn't wait for him to cover the half-mile between Scarlett's and The Dragon Luck, where your wife is a major shareholder and I don't doubt the drinks are both better and free.'
Walsh shrugged. âAnd where there's always someone with a problem they want my advice on or a tale of woe they want me to listen to. Sometimes it's nice
not
to be related to the boss.'
It was plausible. But Deacon wasn't buying it. âSo the necklace was for Caroline's birthday, was it?'
âThat's right. It was the next day. She wore it that night at the function at the casino.'
âAn eighty-quid necklace bought from a man in a disco? Isn't that a bit tight for a man of substance?'
âIt wasn't the only thing I bought her. As a matter of fact I bought her a new car. It's out on the drive now, if you want a look.'
âSeen it.' Deacon was thinking. âWhat did Sophie buy her?'
Walsh blinked. It was that Cuba moment, when the protagonists were eyeball to eyeball with the missiles ready to fly, and finally one of them blinked. âErâ¦'
âCome on, Terry. You've only got two children â you must remember what they sent. Your son's in New York, isn't he? He probably got his secretary to send flowers. You bought Caroline a car and an iffy necklace. What did Sophie give her? If you can't remember we'll ask Caroline. Better still, let's ask Sophie.' He had his phone out. âWhat's her number?'
There was a tiny whine in Walsh's voice. âIt's nine months ago, Jack!'
âBut Caroline hasn't had another birthday since. I bet she and Sophie both remember. Come on, let's ask.'
Walsh said nothing. He made no move towards his phone.
Deacon's voice dropped softer. âHow old's your daughter now? Twenty, twenty-one? She works in a riding school, doesn't she?'
âAn eventing yard,' murmured Walsh.
Deacon nodded. âFor what it's worth, I approve. It's good for the kids of wealthy families to go out and earn their own crust. Gives them a sense of values. Only thing is, working with horses never pays well, does it? Which maybe isn't the highest priority if you're doing something you enjoy and learning on the job, but it does leave you without much disposable income. I mean,
you
buy a present for a member of your family and it's a car or a holiday or maybe a horse. Sophie hasn't got that kind of spending power. You told me yourself, she likes living within her means, so I expect she'd rather not come to you for a sub.
âIn that context, a pretty necklace bought from a man in a disco for eighty quid makes perfect sense. It was all she could afford. And Caroline was so proud she wore it at the first opportunity, to the charity bash at the casino. She thought it was just a trinket, but it was something her daughter had bought with money she'd sweated for instead of heading up to town with your credit card, and that made it precious to her.'
In a way Deacon was making this up as he went along. Except it was more like solving a crossword puzzle: every word he got right helped him find half a dozen more. He kept going, with mounting confidence. âThen a few days later you heard where it had come from. How it had been stolen. You told Caroline, you disposed of the necklace, and you hoped Sophie wouldn't wonder why her mother wasn't wearing it any more. Then you hunkered down behind the firewall and waited to see if there'd be any repercussions.
âAs the days and weeks passed, you felt increasingly secure. Caroline only wore the thing in public once, and if anyone had recognised it they'd have said so when the newspapers were full of the outrage at The Cavalier. The only potential danger was a picture taken by an estate agent at the casino that turned up in
The Sentinel
two months later. But it was just a snapshot; the chances of anybody noticing what Caroline had round her neck were pretty minimal. Bobby Carson was caught, charged and convicted, and still your name never came into it. It had been a close shave, but nine months later you were pretty sure you were safe.'
There was nothing cheery about Deacon's smile. âExcept then Daniel Hood started taking an interest. You'd no idea why, but he was asking questions in the very places where a connection could be made between Carson and Sophie â among the not-quite-honest, not-entirely-crooked local dealers who'd passed it among themselves, muddying its provenance each time, until one of them sold it to Sophie in Scarlett's. And you know a little about Daniel, but
maybe not quite enough. You know that he's stubborn and smart, and if he was determined to find out what happened to Jane Moss's necklace he just might succeed. And you know that a private citizen can be scared off much more easily than a policeman. He doesn't have to fill in forms in bloody triplicate to explain why he isn't following up on a lead that looked promising right up to yesterday.'
He raised an interrogative eyebrow. Walsh made no response, by word or gesture. Deacon shrugged and carried on. âSo you called Lionel Littlejohn. You had a good relationship with him before he retired; he probably said if you ever needed him he'd come. You didn't want to use local muscle because of the risk of association. Also, you could trust Lionel not to get carried away and do the sort of damage that can't be hushed up. You didn't want Daniel hurt, just scared enough to find something safer to do with his time.
âThat's what I mean,' Deacon said then, âabout knowing Daniel a bit but not enough.
I
wouldn't have put the frighteners on him. I'd have known that there was nothing better guaranteed to keep him looking. You knew he was stubborn â you had no idea
how
stubborn.
âRunning him down with a car puzzled me,' he admitted. âThat almost put me off the scent. It seemed⦠out of character. What happened? Lionel exceed his authority? Or did someone else, who was sent to watch Daniel, get a sudden rush of blood to the brain and think he could earn a Christmas bonus by using his initiative?'
Still Walsh didn't react. Deacon thought that was probably all the answer he needed. If that wasn't exactly
what had happened, it was pretty close.
âYou almost got away with it,' he said. â
I
suspected you, but then I suspect you when someone trips over a paving stone or the weather takes a turn for the worse. I had no evidence. I thought I was going to see you get away with this too.
âBut there was that photograph. I didn't know there was a photograph, but you did. When it turned up in
The Sentinel
you must have pored over it with a magnifying glass, trying to decide if it mattered â if the stone was recognisable. But it was just a few pixels in the local rag. If I'd seen the paper I wouldn't have recognised it, and I had a picture of the Sanger necklace on my desk. It needed a very particular eye, and a very particular interest, to spot that someone in a newspaper photograph was wearing a specific piece of jewellery.
âYou were desperately unlucky.' Almost, Deacon sounded sympathetic. âAmong the people who saw that snap in
The Sentinel
was probably the only man in the country capable of identifying it. Even that mightn't have mattered, because he didn't know that the necklace his father made thirty years ago and the one Tom Sanger was killed for were the same. In the days following the murder we circulated pictures of it round Dimmock's jewellers, but we didn't know about this guy handcrafting individual pieces essentially on his kitchen table. He takes discretion to a whole new level. He doesn't advertise, he isn't in the Yellow Pages, and the slate by his front door doesn't mention jewellery. We missed him.
âDaniel found him. He wanted to get a copy of the
necklace made, so he went back to the workshop that made the original for Tom Sanger's parents. He produced a picture of what he wanted, and the rest' â he smiled lugubriously â âis history.'
While he was talking Walsh had been planning his campaign. After all, he didn't have to listen too closely â he knew what Deacon was going to say. A lot of it was speculation, but once he was on the right track he would inevitably come to the right conclusion. Walsh needed to know how he was going to deal with it. Before Deacon had finished, he did.
Even so, he took his time. He'd get one chance at this â a maximum of one chance. If he got it wrong the consequences would be unthinkable. He leant back in his chair, weighing Deacon up. âThere's only the two of us here, Jack,' he said quietly. âNo witnesses. Not even Caroline; not even Jonathan. Nothing either of us says need go any further â and couldn't in any event be proved. Unless you're wearing a wire. You're not, are you?'
Deacon answered his slow smile with one of his own. âYou know I'm going to do my job, Terry. You
know
that.'
âYes. Your job is catching criminals. Right now you have the chance to catch one you've been after for quite a while. I can make it easy for you, Jack. Not so easy that people will suspect, but easy enough that you'll get what you want. You want me in prison? You can have it.
âI can do time,' he said thoughtfully. âI've always known I might have to at some point, and this is it. I've told you what happened. All you have to do is believe me. If you do, everyone else will too.'
âBut that's the problem, isn't it?' said Deacon softly. âI
don't
believe you. It wasn't you who bought that necklace for Caroline, it was your daughter. It was Sophie.'
âIt was me,' insisted Walsh, and his face was like stone.
Deacon found himself in a terrible quandary. Walsh was right â this was what he wanted above everything else. Or nearly everything. They got Al Capone for tax evasion, and if he could get Terry Walsh for handling stolen goods it would do just as well. That was only the beginning. Everything else would follow.
But it wasn't right. He
knew
it wasn't right. He knew Walsh was never in Scarlett's, and since he believed that the story he'd been told was essentially the truth, that meant Walsh didn't buy the necklace. He'd undoubtedly handled stolen goods at regular intervals over the last forty years, but not this. Not the Sanger necklace. That was Sophie. Her father wanted to take the rap for her.
Which is a father's prerogative. You try to shield them from harm, even if it means taking the hit yourself. Deacon understood what he was doing. And he so wanted to let it happen. But it wasn't
right
. To charge Walsh with handling these particular stolen goods he was going to have to lie. And to his surprise he found he was no more willing to do that than Daniel would have been.