The Depths of Solitude (3 page)
The next day was Saturday.
It was rarely possible for Brodie to shut the office at six o’clock on Friday evening and stay away until nine on Monday morning, but she tried to organise weekends around her daughter. On Sunday mornings Paddy had her riding lesson, and Brodie clung to the fence round the sand school hardly daring to look as the child bounced around on top of an elderly piebald pony, her hands up under her nose, her face wreathed in smiles.
On Saturdays they did different things. Sometimes they went shopping. Sometimes Paddy visited her father and his new wife. And sometimes she kept Brodie company as she trawled antiques fairs and second-hand bookshops or travelled the south coast looking for the various items which people employed her to find. It was a precious time for both of them and Brodie saved tasks a five-year-old might enjoy for these weekend treasure hunts.
She knew Paddy would enjoy meeting Geoffrey Harcourt. She thought Geoffrey Harcourt would enjoy meeting Paddy.
It should have been a pretty cottage, sited as it was in a pretty lane in Cheyne Warren, one of the more picturesque hamlets nestled among the downs behind Dimmock. But the roses round the door were overgrown, the honeysuckle gone to seed, the paintwork peeling. Even Paddy noticed. “Doesn’t Mr Harcourt like his house?”
Brodie squeezed the little girl’s hand. “Mr Harcourt’s not very well. He can’t go outside.”
“Has he got a cold?”
“Not that sort of unwell. More – Well, remember when Daniel was hurt? And after that crowds bothered him and he had to give up teaching? It’s more like that. There’s a big word for it – agoraphobia.”
Paddy considered. “Did someone hurt him too?” She understood more of Daniel’s situation than might be expected of a child – more, perhaps, than her mother would have liked. But Daniel never lied to anyone. When Paddy asked about his scars, quietly and without fuss he told her.
“Not exactly. His wife died, and for a long time he didn’t want to see anyone. Then when he was ready to go out again he found he couldn’t.”
“What does he want to see you for?”
“He’s a collector. He wants me to buy some things for him.”
“What sort of things?”
“Wait and see.”
Geoffrey Harcourt was taken aback when he answered the knock at his front door to a five-year-old girl in pink dungarees. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr Harcourt,” said Brodie, “but I hoped you’d show Paddy your models.”
He looked like a man embarked too soon on middle age. His clothes had the same faded air as the house, and he hunched his shoulders and kept his gaze low. None of this mattered to a five-year-old. Most adults stooped when they talked to Paddy. Except Daniel, who wasn’t very tall to start with.
“Delighted,” said Harcourt solemnly. “Is Miss Farrell interested in machinery?”
“Tractors,” the child said firmly. “Have you got any tractors?”
“I’m afraid not,” admitted the collector. “I’ve got a showman’s engine. Would that do?” He led them through the cottage to a room that opened before Paddy’s eyes
like Aladdin’s cave. On tables and shelves at every level were jewel-like models, fashioned in wood and brass and steel, gleaming with oil. The smallest would have fitted in her palm; the largest would not have fitted on her bed. Struts and wheels and belts and gears wove complex patterns like filigree.
like Aladdin’s cave. On tables and shelves at every level were jewel-like models, fashioned in wood and brass and steel, gleaming with oil. The smallest would have fitted in her palm; the largest would not have fitted on her bed. Struts and wheels and belts and gears wove complex patterns like filigree.
“Coo!” she whispered, tip-toeing along the bright rows, longing to touch and yet afraid, partly that she might do some damage, partly that the tiny engines might without warning leap into action and nip her finger. The aura of industry was such that they seemed merely to have paused in their labours and would clatter on, hammering out pixie spades, grinding fairy corn, spinning cotton and wool as fine as gossamer, at any moment.
At the end of the room she turned, face aglow, and raised shining eyes to the man with the stoop. “Did you
make
them?”
make
them?”
“Some of them. But some were made by engineers two hundred years ago to show how their ideas would work.”
He found what he was looking for, lifted it onto the workbench where she could see. “That’s a showman’s engine. Steam powered, of course. They hauled travelling shows round the country, then when the fair was set up they powered the rides. That’s from about 1890, pretty much the peak of steam engine technology.”
Paddy Farrell liked being talked to as a fellow enthusiast. “Did you make that one?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Here.” He took her small hand in his and led her down the gallery. “Here’s one I’m working on. Can you guess what it does?”
She studied it intently. There was a wall. On one side was a wheel standing up, on the other a wheel lying down. A channel ran from the wall to a piece of mirror-glass. “Is that a pond?”
“It’s a water-mill,” nodded Harcourt. “The pond holds the water until the miller’s ready to grind corn. Then he opens the sluices” – a thick finger showed her where to look – “the water turns the wheel and the wheel turns the grindstone.” He saw her rapt little face and sighed. “Would you like to see it work?”
Paddy nodded, her pigtail dancing.
He filled a jug from the kitchen tap and placed a plastic bucket to receive the tail race after the water had done its work. The stream poured down the channel, turning the tiny wheel as it went. Gears meshed, the grindstone ground. The water dropped into the bucket, the pond emptied, the wheel stopped.
“Do it again!” demanded Paddy, enthralled.
Dutifully, Geoffrey Harcourt did it again.
“Do it—”
Brodie clamped a deft hand over her child’s mouth. “She means, Thank you very much, Mr Harcourt, that was lovely, and now she’ll sit quietly while the grown-ups talk.”
Brodie knew nothing about engineers’ models, but after seeing his collection she would recognise one now. “I’ve got a digital camera in the car. If I see something you might be interested in I’ll e-mail you a picture. If you want to bid, tell me what I can spend. It’s not quite as good as being there but it’s the next best thing.”
“I’m more than satisfied, Mrs Farrell. Since this” – Harcourt spread a wry hand to indicate his situation — “the models have kept me sane. They occupy my hands and my time and keep my brain in working order. But it’s frustrating. I
know
the stuff is out there, I know the interest in it is limited. I know that important models are lost because no one seems to want them. Well,
I
want them. I have the time and skill to restore them. But I can’t get out there and find them!”
know
the stuff is out there, I know the interest in it is limited. I know that important models are lost because no one seems to want them. Well,
I
want them. I have the time and skill to restore them. But I can’t get out there and find them!”
“Well, that’s the bit I can do,” said Brodie. “I know nothing about the subject, but doing it this way I don’t have to. I’m just your eyes in the marketplace.”
He looked at her sidelong, chewing his lip. “Can we give it a trial run?”
She felt herself quicken like an unhooded hawk. “You’ve heard of something.”
“A Nasmyth’s steam hammer. In the Woodgreen estate.”
She was pretty sure she didn’t let anything you could call an expression cross her face. “Yes? Fine.”
Geoffrey Harcourt didn’t go out. But lots of people who did go out, who went out all the time with every sign of enjoyment, didn’t go to the Woodgreen estate. It wasn’t just the youth gangs that congregated on street corners, it wasn’t just the drug culture. It wasn’t even the risk of domestic appliances coming at you from upstairs windows. It was the difficulty of finding anywhere to leave a car where it would still have wheels on when you came back.
It would have been easy for Brodie to say that she didn’t go to Woodgreen. But that would be as good as telling a client that she could only do some parts of her job – the easy, safe, convenient bits – because she was a woman. He wouldn’t get that admission out of her with red-hot pokers.
So she would do it. She would find the address and photograph the model, and negotiate a price with the owner, and with luck most of her car would still be there when she returned to it. She had one thing going for her. Half of Woodgreen knew she was at it like knives with Dimmock’s senior detective.
But she wouldn’t go there with Paddy in the car. “I’m free this evening. Will you …?”
She managed to stop short of voicing the stupid question, but not soon enough that Harcourt didn’t hear it anyway. If he was offended he didn’t let it show. He gave a gentle, solemn smile that reminded her of Daniel’s. “Yes, Mrs Farrell, I’ll be in all evening.”
She went early, hoping to be in and out of Woodgreen while the residents were still sharpening their flick-knives. By eleven these streets would be unsafe for anyone
but
drug-pushers. The police, when they had no option but to enter the estate, went in threes.
but
drug-pushers. The police, when they had no option but to enter the estate, went in threes.
But at seven on a November evening you could drive through Woodgreen and wonder what the problem was. Yes, there was some graffiti, and a certain amount of rubbish, and a number of empty houses people should have been keen to rent. Dimmock was, after all, a pleasant little town on the south coast of England, and this estate was less than two miles from the sea. Boarded-up property was unexpected.
But still the place didn’t look like a wild-west town. If her life was in imminent danger the old lady walking a cocker spaniel seemed unaware of the fact. A group of under-tens were playing on bicycles, undeterred by the fact that they outnumbered their transport by two to one - and that was being generous to the bike with one wheel. Someone was washing his car by the light from his porch. It was all curiously normal. For sure, a lot of troublesome people congregated in the Woodgreen estate; but so did a lot of people who wanted nothing more than to get on with their lives in peace. The only thing they’d ever done wrong was not make enough money to move somewhere smarter. Brodie regretted now her knee-jerk reaction when Harcourt asked her to come here.
Right up to the moment when, driving under a walkway
between two tower blocks, she got a split-second impression of something hurtling at her and the windscreen exploded.
between two tower blocks, she got a split-second impression of something hurtling at her and the windscreen exploded.
Deacon was there in five minutes. He found her sitting on a doorstep, a bloody handkerchief pressed to her lip and the mandatory cup of hot sweet tea in her other hand, while a middle-aged woman fussed over her and a fat man stood guard over her car. A small crowd had gathered.
Deacon left the two constables he’d brought to organise the recovery of the car and went immediately to Brodie’s side. “What happened?”
She shook her head dazedly. Blood leaked from a deep cut to her lip. “I think someone threw something.”
“Dropped, more like,” said the woman plying her with tea. “Off that walkway We keep telling the council to shut it before somebody gets killed. But it’s a short cut and people in the tower blocks don’t want it shut. But they won’t stop their kids using people for target-practice either.”
Constable Batty appeared with half a brick in his hand. “That’s what did the damage, sir.”
Deacon stared at it. “Jesus! What kind of people do that?” He glared around him. “Did anyone see who it was?”
Like adding drain-cleaner, suddenly the knot of people thinned and dissipated. Ten seconds later there were only the policemen, Brodie and the couple from the house. Deacon sighed. “Take that as a no, should I?”
“I was in the house,” said the woman apologetically.
Her husband shrugged. “I was washing my car. But I didn’t see anything.”
There was no way of knowing if it was the truth. And it
would have been poor reward for their kindness to subject them to the third degree when answering his questions could put them in danger. “Batty, will it drive?” The constable nodded. “Then take it to Battle Alley. I’ll take Mrs Farrell to the hospital.”
would have been poor reward for their kindness to subject them to the third degree when answering his questions could put them in danger. “Batty, will it drive?” The constable nodded. “Then take it to Battle Alley. I’ll take Mrs Farrell to the hospital.”
Brodie waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no need …”
“You haven’t seen your face,” said Deacon, with more honesty than tact. “I’ll have you home for supper.”
Brodie rescued her handbag from the car. “Will you make a call for me? A man called Harcourt – I was doing a job for him, he’s waiting to hear from me.” She scribbled down his mobile number and Deacon told him what had happened while she was having her lip stitched. He rang off while the man was still apologising. Then he took her home.
Paddy exclaimed in awe over the damage to her mother’s face. Brodie knew the child would bring any number of friends home for tea during the week ahead, and by next Saturday have a new toy tractor.
“I’ll let you have the crime report number,” said Deacon. “For your insurance claim.”
Brodie nodded cautiously. “I’m sorry to add to your workload.”
“It won’t take a minute. Batty’ll fill in the forms.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean hunting the sod who did it. It’s not like I can give you a description – I didn’t see him.”
Deacon said, “Um.”
His tone made her look up. “What?”
He shrugged broad shoulders. “I’ll be honest with you, Brodie – we haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting someone for this. We won’t get a print off half a brick and there won’t be any witnesses. Fill in your insurance claim and put it down to experience.”
Other books
IGMS Issue 11 by IGMS
Heart of Time (Knight Traveler) by Black, Regan
Are You There and Other Stories by Jack Skillingstead
The Apprehension: Unexpected Circumstances Book 6 by Shay Savage
The Tension of Opposites by Kristina McBride
The Baby Blue Rip-Off by Max Allan Collins
Nightfall Over Shanghai by Daniel Kalla
The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel
My Sort of Fairy Tale Ending by Anna Staniszewski
