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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: True Witness
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Somewhere in the clutter of sheds a dog began to bark. A light went on and someone shouted a curse. Deacon sniffed. It was time to announce himself anyway. He hammered his fist on the back door. “Mr Cochrane, it's the police. Will you come down and open up, please?”
Jack Deacon would have recognised Neil Cochrane across a busy street anywhere in the world. The converse was probably also true. It had been years since they last talked, but Deacon had never gone more than a week without thinking of the sheep-farmer living alone in his fastness in the secret heart of the Downs. He believed Neil Cochrane was a serial killer, and that he'd almost managed to prove it.
Ten years ago Deacon was a keen new Detective Inspector who thought he would make Chief Inspector, Superintendent, Chief Superintendent. He was a big man then, as tall if not quite as broad, making up for his limited experience with a wealth of confidence. Now he knew more, and he knew better. He knew that every murder isn't solved, that every murderer isn't found, and that every murderer who
is
found doesn't go to prison. Ten years ago his failure to make Neil Cochrane pay for the murder of three teenage boys had stuck in his throat till he almost choked.
The man who opened the back door in corduroys and his pyjama shirt was also ten years older. He hadn't got broader, he'd grown gaunt, but the framework was the same – the long bones, the powerful muscles knotted over them, the strong square jaw and the oddly light eyes at bay under the heavy, beetling brow. He looked at Deacon as if he'd been expecting him. “What now, Inspector? Somebody tripped over a kerb, have they? Wandered in front of a bus? So you thought you'd find out what I know about it.”
“Can I come inside?”
“Have you got a warrant?”
“Do I need one?”
“No. You could do with a new watch, though.” He turned inside, leaving the door open. Deacon took that as an invitation and followed him into the kitchen, Voss at his heels.
Cochrane neither took a seat nor offered one to his visitors. “What d'you want, then?”
“Have you been out tonight, Mr Cochrane?” Deacon's tone was uncommunicative, his face expressionless.
“Been out to check the sheep. That what you mean?”
“No. Have you been into Dimmock?”
“Yesterday evening. Needed some drench from the vet.”
“What time did you get home?”
Cochrane shrugged. “Dunno. Middle of the evening.”
“Seven? Eight?”
“Maybe.”
“Your vet works late,” commented Voss.
“The money I pay him, he'd better work any time I want him to.” He glared at the younger man, then switched his gaze to Deacon. “All right. What's happened?”
But Deacon wasn't ready to talk about that. “Who is your vet?”
“John Cummings,” growled the farmer.
“And if I ask Mr Cummings, what time will he say you called with him?”
There was a pause. Then: “About seven. I went to the pub afterwards.”
“Which one?”
“The one in Rye Lane.”
The Rose
– the only pub in Dimmock that never tried to get a theme, attract a younger clientelle, or even sweep the floor on a regular basis.
“When did you leave?”
“About eight. What's this about, Mr Deacon?”
The policeman fell back on the old mantra that served as both shield and weapon. “Routine inquiries, Mr Cochrane.”
“Routine inquiries?” Cochrane's accent was thicker than
the standard south coast argot, with a bit of a Devon burr in it. “In my kitchen, at four o'clock in the morning? That's not routine, Mr Deacon, that's personal. And if you're accusing me of something, maybe I'd better call my lawyer.”
Deacon shrugged. “Your prerogative, Mr Cochrane. But it's an expensive way to get rid of me when just answering a few questions would have the same result.”
“I answered your questions.” The lantern jaw came up. “You're still here.”
Deacon nodded. “So you were in Dimmock earlier but you came home about eight and you haven't been out since except to check the sheep. That about the size of it?”
The tall man nodded.
“So if somebody says he saw you on the pier at two o'clock this morning he's mistaken.”
Neil Cochrane's expression turned wary. “Not necessarily.”
Deacon's heart thumped. Surely to God the man wasn't going to confess? After ten years of taking everything Dimmock CID, first led by DCI George Ennis, later by Deacon himself, could throw at him? “No?”
“No,” said the farmer. “He might be mistaken. Then again he could be a damned liar.”
Deacon swallowed his anger, nodded slowly. “All right, Mr Cochrane, that'll do for now. I'll drop by again if there's anything more.” He headed for the door. “Oh – one thing. Could I have a look in your Land Rover?”
Cochrane didn't even blink. “You got that warrant in the last five minutes?”
“Not.”
“Then no.”
 
 
Daniel was expected. When he announced himself at the front desk of Dimmock Police Station at five to eight, the
Duty Sergeant ushered him immediately into the warren of corridors and stairwells and delivered him to Detective Inspector Deacon's office on the second floor.
Deacon waved him to a chair. Daniel looked round uneasily. The last time he was in this room he was thrown out almost bodily, and Detective Inspector Deacon was not a man to gloss over past differences. He was a man to wrap them carefully in tissue-paper, store them in a dark cupboard and bring them out in mint condition time after time.
Of course, he wanted something. But Daniel wanted it too. He wanted to identify the man he'd watched beat the life out of a teenage boy. He wasn't here as a favour to Deacon: he was seeking justice.
DS Voss was in the room too. They traded a non committal nod. Daniel knew what the sergeant's presence meant. Deacon wanted a witness. He didn't want any doubt over whether Daniel recognised the murderer in the volume of photographs on his desk. He didn't trust him. Daniel felt the colour prick his cheeks. “Do you know yet who he was?”
“Oh yeah,” said Deacon. “I've got a pretty good idea.”
“The boy,” said Daniel in a low voice.
Deacon's lips formed an O that he had marginally too much tact to voice. “His name was Chris Berry. He was eighteen, working with his dad as a house-painter. In his spare time he was a runner. Won cups for it. Nice kid. And someone beat his head in with a wheel-brace. You want to look at some faces and tell me who?”
There were hundreds in the bound volume CID called the family album. But Deacon didn't expect him to look at them all: he passed the book to Daniel already open. Daniel looked.
When he'd inspected every face on the page he turned it over. Deacon and Voss exchanged a fast, worried, uncomprehending glance.
“Hang on a minute,” objected Deacon, turning the page
back. “There are twenty faces there. I want you to look carefully at all of them.”
“I have,” Daniel said, surprised.
Deacon scowled. “
And
?”
“None of them is the man I saw.”
Deacon stared at him in disbelief. Then he turned the book round and had another look himself. Could he possibly have opened it at the wrong page?
But no. The photograph of Neil Cochrane, second from the left in the bottom row, gazed up at him. For an instant Deacon could have sworn it winked.
“Look again,” Jack Deacon said through clenched teeth.
“I
have
looked,” said Daniel indignantly. Then he caught the real anger in the inspector's manner. “It wasn't who you thought.”
Deacon's eye could have set off fireworks. “Damn sure it was who I thought. I
know
who did this – I just need the only witness to identify him. If that isn't asking too much.”
Daniel looked again, mostly to appease the policemen. Then he sat back. “I'm sorry. None of these is the man I saw on the pier.”
Charlie Voss said, “Are you
sure
?” He sounded perplexed but not suspicious: a younger man than Deacon, he didn't share his general mistrust of everyone under thirty.
“Pretty sure,” said Daniel. The regret in his tone was genuine. He'd have given them what they wanted if he could.
Deacon breathed heavily. If he hadn't been a senior detective in his own office, in the presence of his own sergeant, his next move would have been to grab Daniel by the lapels and slam him against the wall. As that wasn't an option he had to think.
“All right,” he said gruffly. “That photograph's ten years old. People change in ten years – well, their appearance does. The man you saw: describe him again.”
Daniel was anxious to co-operate. He didn't like annoying Inspector Deacon. He didn't like annoying anyone, but particularly not people with the build and temperament of a bull buffalo in the rutting season. “I got the impression he was tall. Not just taller than me: when they were together he was taller than – than –”
“Chris Berry was six foot,” said Deacon baldly. He would be the last man in England to go metric. “To be noticeably taller he'd have to be six-two or above.”
“Not heavily built. Not thin, but he was a tall man rather than a big man. Aged maybe fifty, fifty-five – though he didn't seem it when he was running. Chris wasn't leaving him behind.”
“Fit, then. And strong. Someone with a physical, outdoor sort of life maybe?” He ignored Voss's warning look. “What was he wearing?”
“I couldn't see.”
“Hair?”
Daniel shook his head. “I don't know.”
“Eyes?”
“Red.”
Deacon blinked. “What?”
Daniel lifted one shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “It was a red torch. Everything looked red – his face, his eyes, the surf. Everything light looked red, everything dark looked black.”
“So light eyes rather than dark ones. Blue or grey.” Deacon folded his arms on the desk, regarded his witness over the top of them. “You're describing my suspect as clearly as could be expected in the circumstances. I know it isn't easy to pick someone out from a photograph, particularly an old photograph, particularly when you've only seen him for a couple of seconds. What about an identity parade?”
“I'll do anything you think might help,” said Daniel. “But Inspector, if your suspect is one of the men on this page you're not going to get a result. I'm sorry.”
Jack Deacon's temper was a permanently lit fuse. Smouldering quietly in the dark, it never needed more than gentle fanning to make it explode to life. He came to his feet, slamming one leg-of-mutton fist hard enough on the desk to make the family album jump. Daniel jumped too.
“Damn it, Danny,” he yelled, “you're doing it again! Why are you protecting this one? The last one only hurt you, maybe you were entitled to a say in what happened to him, but this one? This one kills boys. Four in ten years. If I
don't stop him – if you don't help me – there'll be more. Now, do you want to give a little more thought to your evidence?”
Daniel had been shouted at by experts, by people who made Jack Deacon sound like a Sunday school teacher in a pet. It had achieved nothing then, and would achieve nothing now, for the same reason: he had no more information to give. Whatever Deacon thought, his task could not be advanced by bullying his witness.
He looked up, daring the big man's scowl. “Inspector Deacon, what is it you want me to do? If you wanted me to lie you could have pointed out your suspect. Since you didn't do that I assume you want the truth. Well, inconvenient as it may be, that's it. If your prime suspect is one of the men on that page, I'm not going to be any help to you. I don't believe I've seen any of them before.”
Deacon opened his mouth for a fresh tirade but Sergeant Voss got in first: partly to protect Daniel but mainly to protect his boss. “Are you absolutely sure of that? Or are you just saying none of them looks familiar?”
Honesty was a virtue which Daniel Hood plugged away at until it became a vice. If he'd stuck to his guns, probably they'd have shown him the door and his involvement would have ended there.
“Of course I'm not absolutely a hundred percent sure! How could I be – it was dark, it was over in a few seconds, I got a glimpse of a man's face several metres above me by the light of a torch designed for another purpose. If you're asking me to ID one of the photographs you've shown me, I can't. If you're asking if there's a possibility that I'm mistaken then yes, of course there is. I'm doing the best I can but I can't give you a guarantee. I'd put money on what I'm telling you. I wouldn't stake my life.”
“But you're happy to risk other people's, aren't you?” snarled Deacon. “The fact is, Danny, you're safe enough. You're – what? – twenty-six? You're too old for him. Even
Chris there, at eighteen, was getting past his sell-by date. The others were sixteen and fifteen.
“He rapes them, Danny. He snatches them, ties them up, beats them with his fists, rapes them, then finishes the job with a wheel-brace. He's done it four times. He's going to do it again. Even though you caught him in the act, he's still going to get the chance to do it again. Chris Berry died for nothing.”
 
 
Daniel didn't go home, he went to Brodie's office in Shack Lane. He got there before she did. He wasn't wearing a watch but knew it must be nearly nine. He leaned against the wall and waited.
After six months the business was beginning to look part of the scenery. The slate shingle with her name on it was weathering nicely and the easel in the window displayed an impressive collection of discreetly edited testimonials. Behind the easel was a burgundy velvet curtain. Nobody coming here wanted to do their business in full view of passers-by
She'd called it
Looking for Something?
Combining the wistful with the faintly pugnacious, the name struck Daniel as an accurate reflection of the proprietor. He'd never heard of a finding agency before, but apparently it wasn't that unusual in London and Brodie was a Londoner. She lived in Dimmock because she'd married a local man. She still lived in Dimmock now they were divorced because she had contacts here and, unfashionable as it was, she thought it was a good place to raise a child.
Daniel thought so too. It offered fresh air, sea views and a hinterland of open countryside. Dimmock might have seen better days, the Georgian squares and Victorian terraces a little cobwebbed now, but basically it was a decent middle-class town with decent middle-class values and safe streets.
Muggers with any ambition sought out more prosperous towns. Actually, anyone with any ambition tended to leave Dimmock, so even the traffic remained manageable.
Daniel didn't have asthma, didn't have enough money to be worth mugging and didn't have a car. He also didn't have any children to consider. But though there was nothing holding him here now, he didn't see himself leaving either. He'd acquired some modest contacts of his own, and also some obligations.
He'd come to Dimmock to teach. Returning to school seemed impossible at the moment – the doctors called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; what it really meant was his nerve was shot – but if the time came that he could cope with crowds again, Dimmock Comprehensive was as good a school as any.
In the meantime he was taking pupils for tutoring. Daniel Hood was that rare specimen, a teacher who could make maths interesting, and what had begun as a favour to a couple of struggling thirteen-year-olds who panicked when he had to leave his job was now providing him with an income. And also the satisfaction of making a difference to a group of children who, if he turned them away, might never learn to navigate the numerical world. He had no ties anywhere else, nothing pulling him away. If tutoring was all he could do, he could do it as well here as anywhere.
On top of which Brodie and her daughter, and even her odd Polish neighbour, were the closest friends he had. Closer than what remained of his family. They were reason enough to stay in Dimmock. Also he rather liked his flat.
There wasn't much parking-space in Shack Lane: Brodie used an empty lot behind the seafront shops. She came round the corner on foot and waved when she saw him. “Have you been waiting long?”
“A minute,” said Daniel. “How's Paddy?”
“She seems fine,” said Brodie. “I left her having breakfast with Marta and she was chattering away about staying at
your place and going out in the middle of the night and seeing the moons of Jupiter. I don't think she's altogether aware she got to see a dead body too.”
“It may hit her later.”
“If it does she's in good hands. Paddy's OK, don't worry about her. Tell me how it went with Deacon.”
He told her. Brodie felt her heart sinking. “Why does God hate us so?” she asked plaintively.
Daniel chuckled. “He doesn't hate you, he hates me; possibly because I don't believe in him. I don't mind God hating me, I just wish Inspector Deacon didn't.”
“He doesn't hate you. He just doesn't understand you.”
That made Daniel laugh out loud. “When men complain their wives don't understand them, usually it means they understand them too well.” The amusement drained from his face, leaving it pale. “I can't get over what it is we're talking about. Somebody died last night. I watched one human being end the life of another. Chris Berry isn't going home to his mum any more. His dad's going to need a new assistant with the painting business. Someone put an end to his future, and I watched it happen and did nothing to stop it.”
Brodie gripped his arm. “There was nothing more you could have done. If he could have been saved, you'd have saved him. With the possible exception of Jack Deacon, who's as stubborn as you are – and that, by the by, is the reason you rub one another the wrong way – I don't know anyone else who would.” The echo of what he'd said caught up with her. “Chris Berry? That's who it was?”
“Do you know him?”
“I know who he is. Was. A fell-runner. There's a race they do round here – the Three Downs, it's about eight miles across rough country. Chris Berry's won it twice in the last three years. The first time he was sixteen, the youngest winner ever.”
Daniel was staring at her. “How on earth do you know?”
“I met his mother at the Civic Ball at Christmas, it was her
sole topic of conversation. Nice woman, bit of a one-track mind.” Remembering, she gave a vinegar smile. Mrs Berry hadn't been the only one she'd bumped into: her ex-husband had been there with his new wife.
Time had not yet erased the hurt. Though she knew – as the wife and sometime clerk of a solicitor, how could she not? – that half of all marriages end in divorce, she had felt hugely betrayed. In a way it was easier that John had wanted to marry the other woman, it saved Brodie having to try to forgive the unforgivable. The divorce wasn't messy because both of them wanted it. Brodie walked away with her daughter and enough capital to buy her flat and start her business.
Daniel gave a low whistle. “He didn't believe in making life easy for himself, did he?”
Brodie was still thinking about the Civic Ball. “Who?”
“Whoever killed Chris Berry. He was an eighteen-year-old endurance runner at the peak of his physical strength. He should have been able to take that wheel-brace off whoever was chasing him and wrap it round his neck. Why would anyone wanting to abduct a boy pick one who was famous for his ability to run for miles, who trained relentlessly, who'd know exactly where to shove a wheel-brace so it was no longer a threat to him?”
They were staring at one another across Brodie's desk. It was a small office: there wasn't room for both of them on one side. The more they considered, the more valid the question seemed. Criminals don't
want
to be caught. Why would anyone select a target so obviously capable of defending himself?
“What did Deacon think?”
Daniel shrugged. “Deacon thinks I'm wrong about who I saw on the pier. He thinks he knows who killed Chris Berry; apparently he's done it before. He was ready to make an arrest. But his prime suspect isn't the man I saw, and he isn't interested in looking for anyone else.”

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