The Depths of Solitude Read Free Page A

the information, perhaps you’d entrust it to Detective Superintendent Deacon of Dimmock CID.”
    Mr Turnbull gave a plaintive little sigh and opened the file. “One moment …”
    She saw him blink as what he read there jogged his memory. “Mrs Farrell, I don’t think I can be much help either to you or Superintendent Deacon. Mr Hood couldn’t give me a forwarding address. He said he was going to be moving around, visiting family. He promised to phone at intervals for a progress report.”
    “And has there been any?” asked Brodie.
    “Progress? Not yet. Plenty of people have called but none have wanted to view. They’re all put off by the planning restrictions.”
    “Good,” said Brodie. “Listen, Mr Turnbull, you might as well understand the situation. Daniel put his home on the market in a fit of pique. When he calms down he’ll take it off again. I realise that’s not what you want to hear, but you probably shouldn’t spend too much time trying to round up a buyer. The sale will never go ahead.”
    The estate agent knitted his brows in a thoughtful frown and pursed his lips. “Mrs Farrell — how do I put this? — I understood Mr Hood to be unencumbered. If you’re telling me you have an interest in this property …”
    Brodie laughed out loud. “No, I’m not his wife, Mr Turnbull. Or his lover, live-in or otherwise, or his business partner. I’m just a friend. But I know him well enough to know this is a mistake. I’m trying to save you time and effort.”
    “And Detective Superintendent Deacon …?”

    “ …is my toy-boy,” said Brodie calmly. “Actually, Mr Turnbull, there is one thing you can do for me. When Daniel calls in, tell him to phone me. He knows the number.”
    The agent made a note in the file. “And in the meantime, should I show the house or not?”
    Brodie shrugged. “I’ve told you what I think, what you do is up to you. But for heaven’s sake stop calling it a house. It’s a shack!”
     
    She waited for the phone to ring. And it rang a lot, but it was never Daniel. She told herself it might take a few days. Longer than that: it could be a few days before he phoned Mr Turnbull, and a few days more while he debated whether to call her. But in the end he would. Whatever his feelings about her right now, Daniel Hood was not a man who fled his demons. All the time she’d known him, Brodie’s abiding concern had been that one day he would stand in front of a charging elephant to prove he wasn’t afraid to.
    The phone kept ringing, and it kept being someone else.
    After a week she called Turnbull again. He assured her he’d passed on her message, which meant Daniel was deliberately ignoring it. Brodie Farrell didn’t like being ignored. It didn’t happen very often, partly because she made sure it was never a cost-free option.
    “So what are you going to do?” asked Deacon.
    “Do?” she echoed coldly. “Nothing.”
    Deacon nodded. “That’s mature.”
    “What do you want me to do? Mount an expedition to look for him? I wouldn’t know where to start.”
    “Brodie,” said Deacon patiently, “finding things is what you do for a living.”

    “That’s right,” she snapped, “it’s something I get paid for. I don’t see much profit in hunting for someone whose answer to a moral dichotomy is to throw his toys out of the pram! I made the first move. If he doesn’t want to meet me halfway, fine. I wasn’t wrong, Jack, I’m not fawning after him as if I was.”
    Deacon had to erase from his mind the image of Brodie fawning after anyone. It was right up there with Pavarotti Sings Shirley Temple in the pantheon of improbabilities. “It’s not about right and wrong any more. It’s about you hurting one another for no better reason than you can’t seem to stop. Find him, Brodie. Tell him you hate what’s happened between you as much as he does. He’ll take it from there.”
    She looked at him sidelong over the petit fours . They were back in the same