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Authors: Jo Bannister

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BOOK: Requiem for a Dealer
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‘Getting hurt goes with the territory.' He was speaking from experience here. ‘The only way to avoid it is giving the whole damn business a miss. Is that what you want him to do?'
Brodie stared at him, detecting a moment too late the minefield she'd wandered into. ‘Of course not. I don't mind if Daniel has a girlfriend. I think it would be a very good thing. But I'd sooner he didn't take up with a bunny-boiler!'
For a moment Deacon came perilously close to confronting her. Just in time he pulled back. It would achieve nothing except animosity between them, and anyway he'd already said most of what he wanted to. She knew what he was saying. She'd come back to it when she was ready.
‘Maybe we should try to establish once and for all who's actually telling the truth here,' he said. ‘You thought there might be something between Alison and Windham that would explain her anger. We never got round to finding out. Maybe we should.'
She was mollified at being consulted on what was, after all, his job. ‘Apart from the two of them, who would know?'
‘Mary Walbrook,' said Deacon. ‘But she might be too close to Alison to give us a straight answer.'
‘I could ask Dieter Townes,' said Brodie. ‘He knows both of them and has done for years. As everyone keeps telling us, this is a small world. If there was a relationship between them before the problems started, I bet he'd know.'
‘Who's Dieter Townes?'
Sometimes Brodie forgot that Deacon wasn't actually part of her family. ‘He owns the riding school. Paddy's going to marry him.'
Deacon grinned. Then the grin faded. ‘Dieter Townes?'
‘Yes. Why?'
‘Dieter
Townes?'
‘What?'
He breathed heavily at her. ‘Don't you watch
any
war movies? It's not exactly an English name, is it?'
It hadn't even occurred to her. It did now. She said, very carefully, ‘It's German, isn't it?'
Brodie wasn't the only one who was unclear how things stood between Daniel and Alison Barker. Alison wasn't sure either. At first it hardly seemed to matter. He'd been kind to her, and if he had reasons beyond the desire to do good he kept them to himself She noticed right away that the bed in the guest room was a single. Admittedly, there wasn't room for anything bigger, but she still didn't think she was suddenly going to be presented with the bill for his assistance.
But it's human nature to look for the fly in the ointment. A man she didn't know, who owed her nothing, probably not even an apology, had chanced upon her in straitened circumstances and took it on himself to help. At first, with the hospital psychiatrist wanting to know if she'd tried to kill herself and the police wanting to know where she got the drugs, she was just so grateful for the quiet, undemanding presence of Daniel Hood that she didn't care if there were strings attached. She needed someone to believe her, or if he didn't believe her at least not to call her a liar to her face, so desperately she'd probably have paid whatever he asked in return. But he asked nothing. Now she was living in his house and eating his food, and even getting the occasional privileged glimpse through his telescope, and still there was no hint of an accounting to come.
At some point, the selfless wish to help others without reward becomes downright sinister. For Alison, that point came on the Sunday. She almost wished he'd try to jump her bones. At least she'd know then why he was doing this.
All her instincts urged her to have it out with him. To ask him to his face what his agenda was, what he hoped to get from her. If the man was no more than he appeared to be – a decent, kind, possibly simple individual who thought people should try to help one another – it would be embarrassing. But even that would be better than being afraid to ask.
Twelve months ago she'd have said she wasn't afraid of anyone. Subsequent events had made her revise that judgement, but the fact remained that she had, and knew she had, physical courage – what riders call nerve – to burn. It was the only way to
get the job done. Only one thing persuades a horse, weighing in at maybe 500 kilos and capable of travelling at forty miles an hour, to do as it's asked by a slip of a girl balanced on top, and that's the belief that she's stronger and smarter and braver than it is and will always win any battle between them. Riders learn to be good at tackling obstacles head on.
What stopped her from confronting Daniel was the knowledge that if she didn't like what she heard her only option was to leave. And she really didn't want to do that. She felt safe with him. She would rather take the risk he would betray that confidence than analyse it too deeply.
Instead she watched him covertly, waiting for a sign that he was about to make his move.
He was marking test-papers when he became aware of her observation. Without glancing up he said, ‘You're making me nervous.'
‘Sorry,' she said quickly, and looked away. Then she steeled herself and looked back. ‘I'm feeling a bit twitchy myself.'
Daniel stopped what he was doing and put his pen down. ‘Anything I can do?'
‘Actually, yes.'
She didn't come straight out and say, ‘What are you expecting in exchange for what you're doing for me?' Nevertheless, he picked up the gist of it pretty quickly. She'd been afraid of making him angry, but Daniel was annoyed only with himself.
‘I'm sorry, Ally, I'm not very good at this. If I've made you feel uncomfortable I'm really sorry. I was trying to help. That's all I want: to feel I'm helping. The last thing I meant to do was add to your problems. Maybe I should find you somewhere else to stay. I have friends, I can probably call in a favour. How do you feel about the piano? Marta Szarabeijka would put you up, but it has to be admitted she teaches some very untalented young musicians.'
The girl felt a sudden flood of shame at the way her mind had been running. She shook her head, the long brown hair curtaining her gaze. ‘No. Daniel, please … I didn't mean … You've been a star. You saved me. I didn't try to kill myself. I didn't take drugs to make the world go away. But that doesn't
mean I've never wondered if suicide would be an easy way out of the mess my life has become.'
His eyes were shocked. He reached out a hand to her, then took it back for fear of crowding her. He didn't know what to say for the best.
Alison saw his distress and tried to reassure him with a smile. ‘It's all right, I'm not going to get blood on your carpet. I'm not ready to give up yet. It's just, a year ago the thought would never have occurred to me. A year ago I thought I could deal with anything the world threw at me, and people who couldn't were wimps and losers. Now I can imagine being desperate enough for suicide to start looking like an option. Until I met you I was getting more desperate every day. Now I'm not. Now I feel I've got something to hold onto.
‘I'll understand if you think you've done enough and it's someone else's turn, but if you want to know what I want, I want to stay here. I won't look at you when you're marking any more,' she offered hopefully.
Daniel laughed. ‘If you want to stay, Ally, you're welcome. If I seem to be helping, use me; if I become part of the problem, we'll make other arrangements. But talk to me. Tell me what you need. I'm not good at guessing. I'm not very good at people. I get on better with numbers.'
‘I don't know,' she said softly, ‘I think you're pretty good with people too.'
‘You'll stay?'
‘If you'll have me.'
He nodded, relieved. ‘Do you want to bring some stuff down from The Ginnell? You've been living out of a carrier-bag since you left hospital. If you want to pack a suitcase I'll help you carry it down.'
‘I can do better than that,' said Ally. ‘I've got a car parked up at the house.'
She'd managed to surprise him. ‘I didn't know that.'
‘It's not much of a car. It goes, that's about it. But it would make more sense to have it down here where I can keep an eye on it. I can park on the front?'
‘You can park right here on the Promenade. Do you want to
get it now? I'll can finish this later …'
Ally shook her head again. ‘I don't need any help. I'll walk up Fisher Hill, pack some stuff and be back in an hour.'
‘OK.'
 
You can't arrest a man for having a funny name. In an increasingly global village it's dangerous to make assumptions about people based on the vagaries of their birth. Coincidences happen all the time, and in all probability it was nothing more than coincidence that linked Dieter Townes with his riding school to a multi-national trade in drugs because of the involvement of a large animal tranquillizer manufactured in Germany.
But Deacon didn't get to be a Detective Superintendent by assuming people were innocent until proved otherwise. He got there by being a nasty suspicious bastard who took nothing on trust and assumed everyone was up to something, even if some people had yet to be caught.
The first rule of police interrogation – no, the second rule: the first is to call it
making enquiries
– is not to ask anyone a question until you've some idea what the answer should be. Before Deacon spoke to Dieter Townes he wanted to speak to someone about Dieter Townes.
Everyone kept telling him what a small world this was. Now, with questions to ask about Townes, Alison Barker and Johnny Windham, seemed a good time to put that to the test. Taking DC Meadows, he drove out to the yard outside Peyton Parvo to see if Mary Walbrook could help him understand how all these people fitted together; and if she could, whether she would.
Confirmation of one point he got very quickly, before he'd even got out of the car. It was certainly a small world. A lorry in the red-and-white livery of Windham Transport was parked in the yard.
He had one advantage and he played it. Neither Mary Walbrook nor Johnny Windham had any reason to recognise the police officers. They stayed in the car, waiting to see what would happen in the space before they had to declare themselves.
But all that happened was that a man came out of an outbuilding, walked to the lorry and climbed up. A woman watched from the doorway and waved as he drove off. Then she turned her attention to the car. ‘Can I help you? I'm Mary Walbrook.'
‘Detective Superintendent Deacon,' he replied, producing his warrant card, ‘and Detective Constable Meadows. Yes, I hope you can. In fact, you already have. I was going to ask if you'd seen anything of Mr Windham recently, and I see you have.'
Mary Walbrook nodded. ‘Mr Windham and I had some business to discuss. In fact I'll be seeing rather more of him in the future. He's going to start carrying my horses again.'
Deacon considered. ‘You don't share Alison's view, then, that Windham was to blame for your problems.'
Mary gave a compact shrug. ‘I'm fond of Alison, Superintendent, I care what happens to her, but I don't share her view of a number of things. Windham's role in our difficulties is one of them. Yes, it's possible he brought in a virus – you move stock around, that's something you risk. I don't think it happened because he was careless. I think we were unlucky, but more than that we hadn't taken steps to protect ourselves against a run of bad luck. We should have had a much bigger buffer against disasters. I shan't make that mistake again.'
Deacon looked around the yard, took in the number of doors that had horses' heads peering over them, the evidence of recent repairs and repainting – all signs of a business on the way back. ‘You've got things ticking over again, then?'
She was pleased he'd noticed. ‘It was uphill work for a while, but once I persuaded a couple of people to come back the word spread and we started seeing a few more old faces. We haven't anywhere near the turnover we once had, but we're in profit again. I think the business is safe.'
‘Safe enough to use Mr Windham again.'
Mary frowned. ‘I told you, Windham was only the problem in Ally's mind. We talked through everything that had happened, he offered me a good deal in recognition of the difficulties we've had and I took it. Alison won't be happy. But this is my yard now. She has a financial interest but not a
controlling one. What she inherited on the death of her father was a share in an empty yard with massive debts. I don't want to sound mercenary, but I turned that around and I intend to reap the benefits.'
Whatever she wanted, she
did
sound mercenary. But Deacon couldn't fault her logic. If the work had been hers and the risks had been hers, she was entitled to the rewards. ‘Before all this started – when Stanley Barker was alive, before your run of bad luck – how well did Alison know Johnny Windham?'
Mary wasn't sure what he meant. ‘She's known him most of her life. This is …'
‘A small world,' finished Deacon. ‘Yes, I know. And he was transporting horses for you. Was that all?'
‘You mean, were they ever a number?' There was a certain flatness to her voice that made Deacon think Brodie had guessed right. ‘Well – not really. As a teenager, Ally had a crush on him. Johnny used to flirt with her. She thought it meant something, he didn't. He was amused and maybe a little flattered. They went out a few times as part of a crowd, after shows and things. I think only a teenage girl would have thought it was anything serious.'
‘Could she have had a grudge against him because it never went anywhere?'
Mary pursed her lips. ‘It's possible. She seemed to shake it off and move onto other things, but maybe she felt he'd treated her badly. She wouldn't have said anything if she did: not to me, not to her father. Ally doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve. There are two sorts of girls, Superintendent: one sort spends every spare minute thinking about boys, the other spends every spare minute thinking about horses. Ally's the second sort. I was myself. It doesn't mean we're not interested in men, just that they have to wait until the horses are done.'
‘Could that explain why she was so determined to blame him for your problems?' asked Meadows. ‘Why you saw a disastrous run of bad luck and she saw a conspiracy?'
Mary Walbrook nodded. ‘It might.'
‘Just for the record,' wondered Deacon, ‘how did Stanley Barker see it? Did he blame Windham? He stopped using him, didn't he?'
‘He did.' She was working out how to put this. ‘To be honest, Superintendent, Stanley blamed everyone but himself. It was Windham's fault, he wasn't looking after the horses in transit. It was the vendors' fault, they were sending sick animals. It was the vet's fault for passing them fit to travel when they weren't. At regular intervals it was my fault – I was buying horses that any fool could see were sickly. I suggested he do the next buying trip himself, see if he did any better. That didn't suit him either. I was trying to get him off the yard so …oh, I can't even remember why it was I was supposed to want shot of him.'
BOOK: Requiem for a Dealer
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