Murder in Mind (28 page)

'I'm so sorry,' Matt said, putting a hand out to cover one of hers. Words just didn't seem adequate, but his touch seemed to recall her from the private hell she was gazing into.

'It was Charlie's idea to tell people he's on pills for a migraine problem and that he mustn't have alcohol for the same reason. Alcohol makes it much harder to get the dose right.'

'And Delafield keeps an eye on him and makes sure he takes his medicine?'

'He tries to, but Deacon is getting more and more cunning in finding ways to outwit him.'

'And is that what happened when he attacked the cat?'

'We think so. It's the only explanation. I came in here early that morning and found the poor thing on the floor. Oh, Matt – it was horrific. It made me physically sick. The pin was pushed right through from one side to the other – the poor little thing . . .' Her face contorted as she recalled the gruesome find. 'And it's so sad, because he loves cats, and, once he was back on his medication, he had no memory of what he'd done. But every time I look at him now, I remember . . . Niall was marvellous, he offered to take the blame; told Deacon he'd accidentally run the cat over. There was a huge row.'

Stabbed with a hatpin, Matt thought with revulsion, remembering the jokey conversation Deacon had walked in on, the night of the barbeque. Had that, in fact, planted the idea in his subconscious? He tried to recall who had started it, and had a horrible feeling it might have been himself.

'I find it hard to believe that you've kept all this from the girls – his illness, I mean. Is that fair? Is it safe, even?'

Joy looked uncomfortable.

'Charlie insisted that we did. He dreaded the secret getting out – said, if the girls knew, then, sooner or later, one of them would let it slip and then everyone would know. He said Deacon would be all right as long as he took his meds. Oh, I argued with him, I can tell you. I thought it was wrong – but he was adamant; you know what he's like.'

'It
was
wrong,' Matt stated with conviction. 'What if it hadn't been the cat he turned on? What if it had been one of his sisters?'

'I know,' Joy said miserably. 'I've thought of nothing else ever since, but you have to understand, this was the first time he'd been violent. He'd never done anything like that before. But now even Charlie has admitted that something has to be done. Niall's adjusted his medication, but that worries me too. I mean, Niall's been very good, but he's not a proper doctor, or even a trained psychiatric nurse, and sometimes I think Charlie forgets that. Anyway, Deke's been fine on the higher dose, until . . .'

'Until what . . . ? What's happened?' Matt was watching Joy closely and saw her eyes flicker towards the window, almost involuntarily. Suddenly all the individual anomalies of the evening began to connect in his mind. Greening's surprise, the missing cars, and Joy's obvious anxiety; seen together they became ominous. With a chill premonition, he asked, 'Joy –
where's Deacon now
?'

'That's just it,' she admitted, miserably. 'We don't know. He was in his room resting and then he was gone. Niall says he was upset and asking about the cat again this afternoon. He wonders if he was beginning to remember – can you imagine how terrifying that would be? Oh, Matt, I'm so scared! He's such a gentle person – knowing he'd done something like that would tear him apart. I'm afraid . . .' She didn't finish the sentence, her face crumpling as a desperate sob broke past her guard.

Matt was pretty certain he knew what she couldn't bring herself to say. She was worried that, for someone with Deacon's sensitivity, the knowledge that he was capable of doing such a thing might prove impossible to live with. Much as he would have liked to reassure her, Matt couldn't. He was very much afraid she could be right. He turned, instead, to the practicalities.

'How long has he been gone?'

Joy took a deep shuddering breath and pulled a tissue from a box on the worktop.

'Um ... we think he must have gone about the same time as the girls did. With all the commotion of them setting off, he must have slipped out without anyone seeing him. Niall and Charlie are out looking for him now.'

Matt consulted his watch.

'So, about forty minutes or so. Is he – I mean, has he taken his medication?'

'Yes, I think so. Niall says so, anyway.' She sniffed and wiped her nose. 'I just thank God Niall's here.'

Matt wished he shared her faith in the ex-army medic and wondered whether her husband had told her about Delafield's sexual tastes. He shrugged the thought away. After all, it had no bearing on the present problem.

'Has Deke taken a car?'

Joy shook her head.

'No.'

Matt thought of the garage, wide open and inviting. If Deacon had doubled back, he could have helped himself to whichever of the vehicles he fancied – always supposing he could lay his hands on the keys. But then that would be the action of someone who was thinking logically and who had somewhere in mind to go, and
Matt wasn't sure either factor applied in Deacon's case.

'Have you told the police?'

'No. He's been gone less than an hour. They won't be interested.'

'But – with his condition . . .'

'No! Charlie doesn't want anyone to know.'

'But surely Deacon's safety is what matters?' Matt felt exasperation rising.

'Of course it is! I know that, but they're sure they'll find him. I mean – he can't have got far on foot, can he?'

'The longer it takes, the further he will get,' Matt pointed out. 'Look, can I help? Which way have they gone, do you know?'

Joy shook her head helplessly.

'I think Niall was going towards the town, but I'm not sure where Charlie went.'

'OK, well there's nothing I can do here, so I'll go back by way of Rockfield and up over the hill by the gallops. I'll leave my phone on, so let me know if there's any news.'

Joy thanked him and promised she would, and he left her drying her eyes and went out into the bitter wind to collect his car, scanning the vehicles in the garage on his way past. As far as he could see, they were all there except for Brewer's car, the Land Rover, and the Porsche that Grace liked to be seen in – presumably the girls had taken that. Just to be on the safe side, he paused long enough to turn the light off and operate the electronic closing mechanism on the wide rollback door.

In the MR2, he turned the heating up and, as he pulled away, a few pellets of icy rain bounced off the windscreen.

'So much for global warming,' he muttered, hoping that Deacon had found somewhere out of the cold wind.

There was little traffic on the back road to Rockfield, where Matt hesitated before turning into the drive that led to the farmhouse and yard. He thought it unlikely that Deacon would have gone there, but, for the sake of five minutes, it seemed worth checking, just to be sure.

John Leonard answered his knock, blinking slightly, as if he'd just woken up. He looked surprised to find Matt on his doorstep.

'Matt. Er . . . come in.'

'I won't, thanks. Actually, I'm looking for Deacon. I don't suppose he's been here, has he?'

'
Deacon?
No. Why?' Leonard looked understandably mystified; Deacon wasn't a frequent visitor to the yard.

Unable to think of a convincing lie, Matt opted for the partial truth.

'He seems to have gone AWOL and, as I was passing, I promised to pop in and ask if you'd seen him.'

'Good for him, I say,' the trainer growled. 'Time he showed a bit of spirit.'

'Yeah.' Matt didn't know what else to say. A couple of hours ago he would have agreed whole-heartedly. 'Well, I'll see you in the morning.'

Back in the car, Matt left the farm and took the narrow lane that led up the steep hill parallel to the gallops. Just over a car's width wide with passing spaces, it was flanked by fields fenced with barbed wire and hawthorn hedges of varying density and, to Matt's knowledge, led nowhere except to a group of isolated farm buildings standing on the very top of the rise. A couple of miles further on, the lane curved round the head of a deep valley before descending to the village of Langford Combe.

As the car climbed out of the dip, the wind drove another scattering of ice particles against the windscreen and Matt's mobile phone gave a loud
ding ding
to indicate a message left. Operating the keypad clumsily with his left hand, Matt's attempts to retrieve the message whilst on the move were interrupted by another call.

'Hello?' he said.

'Luke?'

Matt just managed to check the instinctive denial, remembering that it was the name he'd used on his visit to Kelsey Grange.

'Er, yes – speaking.'

'Is he there?' the voice demanded, and something about it sounded familiar. In the background Matt could hear the thumping rhythm of a pop track.

'Who?'

'Niall. Is he with you?'

'No. Why would he be?' Matt had placed the accent now; it was indeed Delafield's boyfriend.

'Well, he's not
here
,' Wintermann said, with an audible tremor. 'So, if he's there, you can tell him – from me – that I'm through being fucked around, and I never want to see him again! You're welcome to him, OK? He's let me down one time too many. Well, this is the last fucking time!'

Taking advantage of a pause in the emotional deluge, Matt said quickly, 'Hang on a minute, Joe. I told you, he's not here. And anyway, Niall and I are just friends.'

'Niall doesn't have friends,' came the bitter reply, 'he just uses people.'

'Well, I'm no threat to you, I promise. I'm straight – I have a girlfriend.'

'So how do you know him, then? Were you in the army together?'

'No, we just work for the same bloke.' Matt steered the car into the side of the road, took it out of gear, and applied the handbrake, searching all the while for a way to gain the designer's confidence. To prolong the conversation, he asked, 'So what's happened?'

'Well, he didn't come, did he? He promised to be here and he didn't fucking come!'

'Your fashion show . . .'

'Yeah, of course – my show. I saved him the best seat – should've known better, I suppose. Now everybody knows I've been stood up. I feel so bloody stupid!'

'He's a shit,' Matt agreed. 'Did you try and ring him?'

'Of course I tried, but he wouldn't speak to me. Said he was sorry, but he was too busy to talk, and then he cut me off. Now he won't answer at all. Well, sorry just doesn't cut it anymore. Where does he think he gets off, treating me like that?'

'Did he tell you he was with Deacon?' Matt asked provocatively.

'No.' Warily. 'Is he?'

'Well, I know he was looking for him. You do
know
about Deacon?'

'Oh God, do I ever? It's all I hear – Deacon this, Deacon fuckin' that. When his precious Deacon calls he has to drop everything and run. It happened the other day. First time we'd had a night out for ages and then the phone rings and he's off. Left me outside the nightclub and told me to get a taxi home. We'd only just got there. Bastard!'

'He
didn't
! And you think it was Deacon who called?'

'I know it was. Niall used his name. He was trying to calm him down.'

'And why was that? Did he tell you?'

'No, but I guessed. You see, I don't think he had the night off at all,' Wintermann confided. 'I think he'd left Deacon somewhere and the kid had got himself in trouble. I reckon Niall was shitting himself in case the big chief found out he was shirking. He's onto a cushy number there, and there's no way he wants to lose it. But I'm getting sick of it, you know? It's like his bloody job means more to him than I do.'

'When
was
that – can you remember?'

'Um, I don't know . . . about three weeks ago, maybe? What's it to you?'

'Was it a Saturday?' Matt held his breath. Three weeks ago, on a Saturday night, was when Sophie was killed. Surely that couldn't be a coincidence?

'Yeah . . . Why?' The reply came slowly, cautiously.

'And that's all you heard?'

'It was a nightclub; it wasn't exactly quiet in there,' Wintermann pointed out.

'Have you ever met Deacon?'

There was a pause.

'No. Why . . . ? Look, what's all this about?'

'Did he ever tell you what happened that night?'

'Not really. I asked, but he said it was all taken care of.'

'So, what nightclub were you in?' Matt could tell he was pushing it, but he had to try. If the nightclub had CCTV, the police would have the evidence they needed that Delafield had lied to them.

It was a question too far.

'No, look – you're fucking me about! Who are you? You're not Niall's friend. Leave me alone.'

'Joe, please – it could be important . . .' Matt began, but his phone bleeped to signal a lost connection and the display showed call ended.

Lost in thought, he stared out at the section of hedge illuminated by the beam of his headlights. Twigs and brambles danced in the gusty wind and now and then the car was hit by sleety rain. The engine was still running, the heater pushing out a comfortable level of warmth, and he hoped that, wherever he was, Deacon had found some sort of shelter.

Deacon.

Why had he phoned Delafield in a panic on the night of Doogie's party? Matt would dearly have liked to know what time that had been. According to Casey's contact, the minder's story had been that he and Deacon had left the party together, and the police had apparently been satisfied that the footage from the CCTV at the garage backed that up, but what if the figure in the car hadn't been Deacon but Wintermann? The two young men were of a similar build and colouring. On grainy videotape, it would probably be impossible to tell who was who. If Joe was telling the truth – and there seemed to be no reason for him to lie – then Kendra's brother had been left at the party to amuse himself while Delafield pursued his own pleasures. Deacon had certainly been there when he and Jamie arrived, Matt remembered, but for how much longer? What kind of trouble had he got himself into that Delafield should have dropped everything – including the unfortunate Joe – to hurry to his rescue?

The answer that immediately sprang to mind was horrifying but refused to be dismissed. It was clear that – like Jamie – at the time Sophie had been attacked, Deacon's whereabouts were unaccounted for and the police weren't aware of the fact. At best, the troubled young man may have been a witness to her killing; at worst . . . It took no very great leap of imagination to see that someone who, in the grip of psychosis, could deal out a cruel death to a beloved pet, could also have been responsible for the death of Sophie Bradford.