14

After sending Tara a heartfelt electronic thank you for the photos, printing off copies, and shutting the computer down, Matt found the prospect of DIY even less attractive. His head was buzzing with the implications of this new information, so he pulled on boots and a coat and took the dogs for a good long walk.

What occupied Matt's mind was not so much what the photos revealed, because the suspicion had been there for some time, but more what to do with the information, now he had proof. Or could he actually do anything? After all, Tara had said that she was turning the originals over to the police, so, presumably, Bartholomew would be having further words with Kenning about his relationship with the dead girl.

Another session on the golf course? Matt wondered. It was hard to imagine how the conversation would go. With irreverent amusement, he pictured Kenning and the DI strolling down the fairway, and Bartholomew asking, 'So where did you get that lingerie? Would they have it in my size, do you think?'

For his own part, he couldn't see how to make use of the knowledge, but it occurred to him that there was one person who might, and so, when he returned to the cottage, he scribbled a note and put it, with the prints, into an envelope to post.

After Matt had done the evening rounds of feeding horses and dogs, he found himself standing in front of the fridge with the door open, completely devoid of any inspiration as to what to have for his own meal. Part of the trouble, he knew, was that he wasn't looking forward to spending another evening alone. If Kendra had been away on holiday or out with friends, he would have settled down, quite happily self-sufficient, with the dogs for company, but the knowledge that they were separated by emotional issues made it much harder to accept.

'Sod it!' he muttered aloud, slamming the fridge door. They were both missing each other – why should they be apart? If Charlie Brewer didn't want Matt at Birchwood, he would take Kendra out for dinner – somewhere romantic, with candlelight and music.

He lifted the telephone receiver and selected the phonebook entry for Birchwood Hall.

'Hello, Matt.'

It was Grace. Damn!

'Hi, Grace. Can I speak to Kendra?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. I don't think she wants to speak to you at the moment.'

Her tone was apologetic, but it didn't occur to Matt for an instant that it was sincere. He gritted his teeth.

'Well, could you at least ask her?'

'She's in the bath at the moment. I'll ask her when she gets out, but it won't do any good.'

'Just ask her, OK?'

'Of course.'

Matt put the phone down feeling even more unsettled than he had before. There was no way he was going to sit down to a solitary supper now. He wasn't too worried about what Grace had said, because he knew her for a troublemaker, but it rankled that she should get away with interfering in their relationship. Had her father encouraged her to do so? he wondered. Charlie's readiness to try and break Kendra's bond with Matt had, quite frankly, surprised him. Although Matt had always known the businessman didn't think he was good enough for his daughter, as Matt's career had taken off, Brewer had seemed to become reconciled to their relationship.

He looked at his watch.

Half past six. Dinner at Birchwood Hall was normally at eight, so Kendra wouldn't have eaten yet. If he changed and set off straight away, he could ask her out in person. Immediately feeling more positive, Matt headed upstairs.

Having taken a little time to smarten up, it was nearly half past seven when Matt parked the MR2 in front of the Hall, and he was in a thoughtful mood. Thinking about Brewer's animosity of late, it had occurred to him that, having frightened Kendra away from Spinney Cottage, the mystery caller had not repeated his threats. Had the separation been his goal? Surely it couldn't have been Charlie Brewer's doing, could it? Matt well knew the businessman's colossal determination when he set his mind on something, but why the sudden resolve to ruin Matt's life? Arrogant he could certainly be, but Matt had never suspected him of being cruel or vindictive.

Greening answered the front door promptly, and Matt thought he looked a little surprised at the identity of the visitor – as well he might, Matt thought, on reflection. As a long-term employee, he would be just as aware of the goings-on in the household as anyone else. However, the butler recovered his calm composure, returning Matt's greeting, but adding the unwelcome information that all three girls had gone out.

'Oh.' Matt felt a stab of disappointment. 'When?'

'About half an hour ago, sir.'

'For the evening, would you think?'

'They were all dressed up.' Greening hesitated, then ventured the information that he had heard mention of a fashion show.

'Ah.' Kelsey Grange, perhaps. Ironic. 'Did Mrs Brewer go too?'

'I think Mrs Brewer is in her workshop, sir.'

'OK, I'll go and find her, then. Thanks, Greening.'

Turning away, Matt descended the steps and set off along the front of the building. In the yard, he found the doors to the Brewers' huge garage standing open, and a glance into its lighted interior showed him that several of the cars were missing. It seemed that the girls weren't the only ones out tonight. Suppressing the urge to switch the light off, he turned his back on it and headed for the Hattery. The house had had lights glowing behind almost every window, too – typical of a family who had presumably never had to worry about the electricity bill. It had taken him several weeks to train Kendra out of the habit at the cottage.

Knocking softly on the showroom door, Matt let himself in. He could see Joy bending over her bench in the workshop beyond, apparently not having heard him.

'Hi,' he called.

Joy started and looked up quickly, a length of stiff blue ribbon in her hands and a couple of pins between her lips. She was wearing a red guernsey jumper and a Puffa waistcoat, her blonde hair caught up in a loose knot at the back of her head. Seeing her visitor, she removed the pins.

'Hello, Matt.'

After her initial surprise, she seemed almost disappointed, he thought.

'Were you expecting someone else?'

'No – that is – I wasn't expecting anyone. You startled me a bit, that's all. I'm afraid Kendra's not here. They've all gone to a fashion show at Kelsey Grange.'

'Yes, Greening said he thought they had. I'm surprised to find you here. I would have thought Joseph Wintermann would be right up your street.'

'You've heard of him, then?'

'Saw it in the paper.'

'Well, I probably would have gone, but I've got an order to finish for a wedding at the weekend.'

Matt leaned one hip on the bench and watched her quick fingers at work.

'Do you enjoy doing that?'

'Sorry?'

'Hat-making – millinery.'

'Oh, sorry. Yes I do – when I'm not under pressure.'

Picking one of the ornamental hatpins out of the ceramic vase, Matt examined it absent-mindedly.

'I rang earlier. Grace said Kendra didn't want to talk to me . . .'

Joy didn't answer, and, after a moment, Matt glanced at her. She appeared lost in her work.

'Has she said anything to you?' he asked.

'Who?'

'Kendra. Grace said she didn't want to speak to me.'

'Oh, you know what Grace's like. I shouldn't say it of my own child, but she's a troublemaker. I don't know why she's got like that, unless it's jealousy.'

'Jealousy?' Matt stabbed the pin into an offcut of polystyrene foam.

'Yes. Of you and Kendra. Grace has never been very good at relationships – mainly because she goes into them for the wrong reasons.'

'For status?'

'Yes. She takes after Charlie in that. In fact, that's part of the problem. She's always trying to win her father's approval; I think she thinks Kendra's his favourite. But, anyway, I wouldn't worry too much about what she says.' She finished arranging the ribbon and selected a silk flower from a pile on the bench.

'I wouldn't, normally,' Matt said. 'It's just that things are so weird at the moment, I don't know what to think.' He jabbed at the foam extra vigorously, enjoying the texture of it.

'It'll be all right, Matt. I'm sure of it. You have to remember that her hormones are all over the place with the baby, and, of course, there's been a lot happening lately. It's not surprising that she found it all too much and ran for the family home. She's still young and she's had a fairly sheltered life until now. Just be patient and I'm sure things will turn out fine.' Joy gave him an encouraging smile and, for the first time, he noticed that she was looking tired. For once she actually looked her age. He wondered whether she had problems of her own. Maybe Charlie's uncharacteristic behaviour of late had its roots in some deeper crisis.

'Joy, is everything OK?'

She looked up sharply.

'Why shouldn't it be?'

Matt shook his head.

'No reason, I just wondered.' He picked the polystyrene up on the end of the pin and looked at it. 'Actually, I thought you seemed a little stressed . . .'

'Just working too hard, I expect,' Joy said lightly. After several attempts, with fingers that shook slightly, she threaded a needle with blue thread and began to sew the flower onto the hat, next to the blue ribbon bow.

There was silence for a short while as she worked, and Matt slid the foam off the pin and began to perforate the other side, his mind drifting. He supposed he'd better call it a day and return to the cottage – maybe pick up a takeaway en route. He'd worry about working off the excess calories in the morning.

'Oh, for God's sake, stop doing that!' Joy snapped suddenly, then rubbed a hand over her face. 'Sorry, I'm tired.'

'No, I'm sorry.' Contrite and a little taken aback, Matt removed the hatpin from the foam and put it back in the vase with the others. 'I didn't realise – I mean, I thought it was just an offcut.'

'It is; it's just – you kept stabbing it with that bloody pin and it reminded me . . .'

Watching her closely, Matt saw her eyes begin to fill with tears. He straightened up and put out a hand to touch her arm, deeply concerned.

'Something is wrong, isn't it? What did it remind you of?'

Joy shook her head, shrugging his hand off and bending over her work again.

'Nothing – just leave it, please Matt.'

'No. You can't tell me it's nothing. You're all on edge. What's the matter?'

After a moment's silence, Joy gave in.

'It's Deacon's cat. Did Kennie tell you about that?'

Matt nodded. 'She said it was run over.'

'Well, it wasn't. It was killed with one of those – a hatpin. Someone stuck one right through it. But you can't say anything,' she said, rushing on. 'Please Matt – you won't, will you? No one's supposed to know.'

'Why? What's going on, Joy? Who did it?' Matt's mind was racing through the possibilities. 'Oh no . . . not Deacon?'

Joy's expression confirmed his fears.

'Oh, Joy . . .'

'How did you guess? Did he say something?'

'No, I had no idea. But I did know Frances was worried about him – Kendra told me the other night. I didn't think any more of it, to tell the truth.'

Joy nodded.

'I wondered how long it would be before Frannie guessed the truth, but, to be honest, the way Deacon's been lately, someone was bound to start asking questions. I told Charlie we needed more help, but he wouldn't hear of it.'

'So what's actually wrong with him?'

Joy looked down at the worktop.

'I shouldn't be telling you . . .'

'But you've already admitted something's wrong. You can't stop there.'

Joy took a steadying breath, then looked Matt full in the eyes.

'Deacon has schizophrenia.'

He'd been expecting something of the sort, but the confirmation was still shocking.

'When? I mean, how long has he had it? When did you find out?'

'About nine months. It started while he was at university. We were getting reports that he was having problems concentrating and seemed increasingly withdrawn and depressed. The doctor on campus was worried about him, and eventually his roommates admitted that they'd been experimenting with drugs a time or two. I don't suppose it was anything more than a bit of grass, but it may just have been enough to trigger it. Apparently it can happen that way, sometimes.'

'I didn't know.'

'Nor did I. I don't suppose many people do. Deke was just unlucky. We brought him home and consulted a specialist. When he made the diagnosis, Charlie was devastated. At first he didn't believe it – didn't want to believe it, really. He's our only son, Matt, and Charlie had such plans for him. He took Deacon abroad to a special clinic so no one would know. We invented the story that there'd been kidnap threats and that he'd gone to stay with friends. It took a while to get his medication right. Deacon was gone for three months or more and, when he came back, Niall Delafield was with him.'

'Delafield's a doctor?'

'Not exactly. But he was an army medic, once upon a time. I'm not entirely sure where Charlie found him – someone's recommendation, I think – but he's been a godsend. On the surface a security man and minder, but also a nurse. You see, the problem is that, when Deacon's on his medication, he feels fine, and, before long, he becomes convinced he no longer needs it – schizophrenics can recover, you know. And, anyway, they aren't normally violent. A lot of sufferers don't have psychotic episodes at all.'

'But not Deke.'

'No.' Joy shook her head sadly. 'The trouble is, it's such a fine balance. The medication has a sedative effect and, when he's on it, he tends to be dreamy and lethargic; he seems to have no real motivation and, some days, he gets the shakes. He hates taking it but, when he doesn't, the symptoms come back.'

'What happens then?'

'Well, mostly he's very withdrawn and depressed. He'll sit for hours, apparently doing nothing except muttering to himself or rocking to and fro. But then he can become jumpy and unpredictable, and, just occasionally, he has flashes of temper. It's scary, Matt – like dealing with a stranger. He's my own child and I feel I don't know him at all. Worse still, I can see that he's in torment and I can't help him – just can't help him at all.' Her eyes filled with tears and she stood staring sightlessly at the hat in her hands.

'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.

Without medication, Deacon was prone to 'flashes of temper', his mother had told him earlier. Had he taken his medication on that Saturday night?

Reluctantly, Matt picked up his phone again. He didn't have Bartholomew's contact number with him – the card was under a fridge magnet in the kitchen at Spinney Cottage – but a directory enquiries company put him through to Charlborough Police Station. At this point he suffered a check. Asking for DI Bartholomew, he was told that he was at present unavailable. Declining to speak to anyone else, Matt gave his name and requested that Bartholomew call him back as soon as possible.

Frustrated, he cut the connection. Thinking of Joy had presented him with another dilemma. Should he tell Deacon's parents what he'd found out from Wintermann and warn them that he'd contacted Bartholomew? He shrank from the thought of Joy's distress, but it was inescapable. And what of Charlie, who was so desperate to present a normal front to the world that he had kept his son's illness a secret – even from his daughters? How would he react to the possibility that Deacon had been responsible for Sophie's death?

While Matt was debating his next move, a movement caught his eye. Away up the lane, at the dim limits of the car's headlights, a figure was climbing over a gate from one of the fields. Even though it was too distant to be distinct, the idea that it was anyone other than Deacon didn't occur to Matt for a second. Wearing only jeans and a pale tee shirt, in spite of the bitter wind, the person was slender but unmistakably male. As Matt watched, the man glanced back down the lane towards the car, shielding his eyes with his hand, and then set off, half walking, half running, in the other direction.

Losing sight of him round a bend in the lane, Matt put the car in gear and drove slowly in pursuit. Just as his headlights picked out the hurrying figure once more, his mobile phone began to trill. He picked it off the seat with his left hand.

'Is that Matt Shepherd?' It was Bartholomew.

'Yes. Thanks for getting back to me.'

'Well, strictly speaking, I'm off duty. I just popped back to the office for something, but my sergeant said this sounded important.'

'Yes, it is – but . . .'

Ahead of Matt, Deacon picked up speed and, worried that he was panicking the youngster, Matt pulled in and stopped the car at the side of the lane, its two nearside wheels on the verge.

'Look, can you hold on for a moment?' he said into the phone and, without waiting for an answer, dropped it back onto the seat and opened the car door. Stepping out into the biting wind, he shouted, 'Deacon wait! It's Matt. Wait for me.'

To his relief, Deacon slowed and turned, squinting against the lights as he continued to walk backwards with short, jerky steps.

Realising that the lights were intimidating, Matt reached in and switched them to dipped beam, turning the hazard warning lights on at the same time.

'Deacon, stop! I just want to talk.'

This time Deacon hesitated.

'Who is it?'

'Matt – you know, Kendra's boyfriend.'

Leaving the car door open, he stepped round it and walked forward a few paces.

Deacon looked blankly back.

'Where's Kendra?'

'She isn't here, Deke. She's gone out with Grace.'

'I can't see you – I can't see your face. Who are you? Stay away from me!' Panicking, Deacon started to back away again, his own face sheet-white in the glare.

'It's all right. I'll stay here. I won't hurt you.'

Through the open front of his leather jacket the wind was cutting through the fabric of Matt's sweatshirt as if it didn't exist and, even at a distance of several feet, he could see that Deacon was shuddering with cold, hunching his back and hugging his bare arms, his dark hair whipping around his head. Matt remembered that he had his new fleece in the back of the car.

'Deke, stay there. I'll get you a coat. Just hang on.'

Keeping an eye on the figure outlined by the lights, he retraced his steps and reached in. On the passenger seat his phone was emitting a tinny voice and he picked it up.

'I'll be with you in a moment,' he told it, without preamble. 'Please hang on. It's really important.'

Moments later he was advancing cautiously towards Kendra's brother, the navy fleece, with its red and white logo, held before him, invitingly.

'This'll be warm, Deke. Come on, take it. Put it on.'

Although Deacon looked longingly at the garment, he made no move to reach for it, but neither did he move away as, approaching as if to a nervous horse, Matt drew closer. Finally, stepping slightly to the side, he held the fleece up and Deacon obediently slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves.

'Good. That's better,' Matt said.

'Matt?' The word was spoken on a note of discovery.

'That's right. What are you doing out here, Deke?'

Deacon looked away across the darkened landscape and, for a moment, Matt thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he said, through chattering teeth, 'I had to try and find her.'

'Who? Kendra?'

Deacon shook his head.

'The girl. She was pretty – really pretty. She was dancing.'

Matt was touched by dread.

'Do you mean Sophie, Deke?'

'Sophie . . . ?'

'The dancing girl. Was her name Sophie?'

Deacon looked away again.

'Where's Frannie?'

'She's with Kendra,' Matt said, beginning to shiver himself. He wasn't sure whether Deacon's slightly irrational state of mind was the result of too much medication, or not enough. 'They've gone out for the evening. They'll be home later.'

'Frannie's kind. She's my favourite.'

'Why don't you come and sit in the car and I'll see if I can get Frannie on my mobile,' Matt suggested. 'It'll be warmer in there.'

The temptation was to try and lead Deacon back onto the subject of the dancing woman, but he wasn't at all sure it was either wise or in the lad's best interests. As it turned out, his thoughts drifted back that way without prompting.

'She wouldn't wake up,' he said suddenly.

'Who wouldn't?' Matt's heart began to thump heavily.

'The dancing girl. She had pretty hair – long and blonde. She sat down and went to sleep. I didn't know what to do.' He turned towards Matt and there were tears running in sparkling trails down his thin face. 'She wouldn't wake up.'

'So what did you do, Deke?'

'I just wanted to talk to her. She looked so pretty, dancing.' Then, with a sudden shift, 'I was smoking – you won't tell them, will you?'

Matt assured him that he wouldn't.

'I knew you wouldn't. I like you, Matt. You wouldn't hurt me, would you?'

'Of course not. Why? Who's hurt you, Deke?'

Deacon's face screwed up like that of an upset child and he started to walk again, turning away from the car and its promised shelter.

'Niall said I mustn't talk about it.'

'Has Niall hurt you? What has he done?'

'He took care of her.'

'Took care of the girl?'

Deacon nodded.

'He says I mustn't talk about it or I'll be locked away. He says he'll tell everyone I'm mad and they'll take me away. Can he do that?'

Matt shook his head.

'No, of course he can't,' he said, with more conviction than he felt. Delafield could certainly set things in motion – cause questions to be asked – but, unless Matt was very much mistaken, the minder would be just as reluctant to have his charge committed to an institution as Deacon would be to go. If Matt's suspicions were correct, then just under the troubled surface of the youngster's mind were memories that could have Delafield consigned to a cell for a good few years to come. Took care of the girl, did he? Hefted her body over the side of the bridge and down into the undergrowth, more likely.

'When did he threaten you?' he asked. 'Was it today? Is that why you ran away?'

'Yes. No. It was the dream . . . Oh God! I can't get it out of my head.'

Deacon's hands flew to his temples and he stopped so abruptly that Matt passed him and had to turn back.

He saw the lad's fingers curl tightly into his dark hair and heard the tormented groan that he uttered.

'It was horrible,' Deacon said brokenly. 'And I keep thinking – what if it wasn't a dream? What then? What if I really killed Benjy without even knowing it? What kind of person does that make me? Oh, God, I wish I could just remember, instead of seeing things – pictures – that don't make sense. It's like it's all there on the edges of my mind but, when I try to look at it, it slides away. What's the matter with me?'

Matt was way out of his depth, but he felt that, whatever Deacon had or hadn't done, this wasn't the best time or place to try and exorcise his demons. He put a hand on the lad's arm, but the contact made Deacon jump as if an electric shock had passed through his body.

'Come on,' Matt urged gently. 'Come back to the car, Deke. There's nothing that can't be sorted out.'

Deacon shook his arm free, moving sideways a pace.

'You don't understand. I loved Benjy. How could I do that? How? And the girl – she's in my head, too, kissing me, smiling at me. I thought she liked me.'

In spite of himself, Matt said, 'And then what happened?'

Deacon tilted his face to the night sky, where windblown scraps of cloud scudded across the darker vault. One or two stars showed, and a three-quarter moon.

'She smelled wonderful. I tried to hold her, but she pushed me away . . .' He put a hand up to his face again, running his fingers down his left cheek.

Matt remembered the stinging blow Sophie had dealt Jamie.

'Did she slap you? Is that what happened?'

'I pushed her and she sat down. I only wanted a kiss. She wanted it, too – didn't she? She was so pretty, and now . . . now she's dead.' Deacon's gaze dropped to Matt's face, his eyes gleaming in the light from the distant car. 'Was it me, Matt? Did I do it? I can't remember.' His voice began to rise in an apparent agony of frustration. 'I can't bloody remember! Did I kill her? Oh God, I wish all this stuff would get out of my head and leave me alone!'

Deacon started to walk again, weaving from side to side as though drunk, but nevertheless swiftly putting distance between himself and Matt, who stood helplessly watching him go.

He was rapidly moving beyond the reach of the car's headlights and, fearful of losing him completely, Matt decided to go back to the vehicle and bring it closer.

Breaking into a run, he retraced his steps and slid behind the wheel of the idling MR2. Shutting the door, he shifted the gear lever into first and was about to pull forward off the verge when a glow in the rear-view mirror signalled the approach of another vehicle.

Hoping that it was either Brewer or Delafield, Matt lowered the side window and signalled for it to slow down, trusting that the driver would see his hazard warning lights and pull up alongside.

It didn't.

Barely slowing to pass Matt's car in the narrow lane, a four-wheel-drive vehicle whooshed by, its full-beam headlights instantly picking out the moving figure on the brow of the hill, the red and white target on his borrowed jacket bobbing with each stride.

Matt's first thought was to thank God that he'd loaned Deacon the highly visible fleece, his second, bewilderment that the other driver didn't appear to be slowing at all.

'Slow down . . . For God's sake, slow down!' he muttered. 'What the hell are you doing?'

Frantic, he leaned on the car's horn, watching with growing horror as the vehicle rapidly closed on the walking man. Whether Deacon heard the warning or not, Matt would never know. The bulk of the 4x4 hid him from view in the last few moments before – with no attempt to brake – it hit the youngster with a sickening thud that was clearly audible where Matt sat, frozen in his seat, some sixty or seventy yards away.