Free Did Not Finish by Simon Wood Page B

had me. I couldn’t decide if Derek was lucky or a criminal genius. It was all playing into his hands and he didn’t need to lift a finger.
    ‘What’s that Mr Westlake? I don’t think I heard you.’
    ‘I didn’t think Derek was serious.’
    ‘Exactly. You can call Mr Deacon a poor sportsman, but you can’t call him a killer.’
    Brennan was dead wrong. I didn’t care what he said. It was all too coincidental that Derek threatened to kill Alex, and then, as if he’d invoked a genie’s wish, Alex died.
    ‘Let me make a suggestion to you. I would keep your remarks about Mr Deacon to yourself. You’re leaving yourself open to a defamation suit.’
    Brennan didn’t give me a chance to respond and hung up.
    No, I wasn’t going to be brushed aside by Brennan. The man was going to listen to me whether he liked it or not. I jumped out of the car and shoved my way back into the police station.
    ‘You again?’ the duty officer said.
    I bottled my frustration and put on a smile. ‘Yes, I spoke to Detective Brennan. He was very helpful. I did want to meet with him though. I was wondering if you know where I can find him.’
    The duty officer frowned. I understood it. My story was full of holes.
    ‘I just need ten minutes of his time and I don’t want to do it over the phone. I drove all the way from Windsor to find someone to speak to. I don’t want to drive back empty-handed.’
    The duty officer looked at his watch. ‘If he’s not on a call, he’ll be having lunch about now. Do you know Langley Hill?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You’ll find him at the Green Man. They do a good pub lunch there.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said and walked to the Capri.
    I floored it to Langley Hill. I was under no illusion that the duty officer wouldn’t be straight on the phone to Brennan. Brennan would either be conveniently gone or he’d be waiting there to read me the riot act. I hoped for the latter. He could bark at me all he liked, as long as he listened to my side of the story.
    I slowed when I reached Langley Hill. It had a quaint thoroughfare and all the buildings were at least a couple of hundred years old. It looked to have been a highway rest stop for anyone on their way back from London. Despite its tourist trap possibilities, it remained a well-kept secret. I’d never seen a tourist within twenty miles of this place, just the locals. I don’t know if the locals wanted it that way, but it worked. I spotted the pub on the left and parked across the street.
    I jogged across the street, which was free of traffic, and climbed the steps going into the pub. I stopped in the doorway. I realized I hadn’t asked the duty officer for the detective’s description. I searched the sea of faces for him, but no one’s manner screamed cop. My search came to an abrupt end. Derek Deacon sat next to a middle-aged guy in a suit playing with an unlit cigarette in his hand. Derek and his friend were laughing and Derek slapped his companion on the back.
    I couldn’t walk in there. Derek couldn’t see me talking to Brennan. I needed Brennan to come outside. I pulled out my mobile and redialled the detective’s number while keeping my gaze on Derek. A sense of dread came over me seconds before Brennan answered the phone. The man sitting next to Derek, sharing a joke and a pint, reached inside his suit coat pocket and brought out his mobile. He eyed the caller ID for a moment before answering. As he spoke, Brennan’s voice came over the line in my ear.
    ‘Is that you again, Mr Westlake?’

Lap Nine
    ‘ S o the cops are in bed with Derek?’ Steve said.
    ‘It sure looks that way. Who interviews a suspect in a pub?’
    ‘Good point.’
    Steve and I were sitting in the quiet and relative safety of the office at Archway. What I’d stumbled on to made so much sense. It explained why Brennan hadn’t interviewed any of us who’d been in The Chequered Flag the night Derek tossed his death threat around, the short reach of the investigation, and