“He was carrying a knife,” Frank pointed out. “What was he planning on, whittling?”
I shrugged. “Threatening her, maybe; scaring her, impressing her, I don’t know. But someone this thorough, if he’d gone out there intending to kill her, he wouldn’t have made such a bollocks of it. The attack came out of the blue, there had to be a moment when she was stunned by what had just happened; if he was aiming to finish her off, he could have done it. Instead, she’s the one who reacts first—she takes off running, and gets a good head start, before he can do anything about it. That makes me think he was almost as stunned as she was. I think the meeting was planned for a completely different purpose, and then something went badly wrong.”
“Why follow her?” Sam asked. “After the stabbing. Why not leg it out of there?”
“When he caught up with her,” I said, “he found out she was dead, moved her and went through her pockets. So I’m betting one of those things was his reason for going after her. He didn’t hide or display the body, and you wouldn’t spend half an hour looking for someone just to drag her a few yards for the hell of it, so moving her seems more like a side effect: he got her into shelter in order to conceal the light from a torch, or to be out of the rain, while he achieved his real goal—either to find out for sure whether she was dead, or else to search her.”
“If you’re right about him knowing her,” Sam said, “and about him not meaning to kill her, then couldn’t he have moved her because he cared about her? He felt guilty enough already, didn’t want to leave her out in the rain ...”
“I thought about that. But this guy’s smart, he thinks ahead, and he was very serious about not getting caught. Moving her meant getting blood on himself, leaving more footprints, taking more time, maybe leaving hairs or fibers on her . . . I can’t see him taking that kind of extra risk just out of sentimentality. He had to have a solid reason. Checking whether she was dead wouldn’t take long—less time than moving her, anyway—so my best guess is that he followed her, and moved her, because he needed to search her.”
“What for?” Sam asked. “We know he wasn’t after cash.”
“I can only think of three reasons,” I said. “One is that he was checking for anything on her that might identify him—making sure she hadn’t written down the appointment in a diary, trying to delete his number off her mobile, that kind of thing.”
“She didn’t keep a diary,” Frank said, to the ceiling. “I asked the Fantastic Four.”
“And she’d left her mobile at home, on the kitchen table,” Sam said. “The housemates say that was normal; she always meant to bring it on her walks, but she mostly forgot it. We’re going through it: nothing dodgy so far.”
“He didn’t necessarily know that, though,” I said. “Or he could have been looking for something more specific. Maybe she was supposed to give him something, and that’s what went wrong: she changed her mind . . . Either he took it off the body, or she didn’t have it on her in the first place.”
“The map to the hidden treasure?” Frank inquired, helpfully. “The Crown Jewels?”
“That house is full of old bits and bobs,” Sam said. “If there was something valuable in there . . . Was there an inventory done, when your man inherited?”
“Ha,” Frank said. “You’ve seen it. How would anyone inventory that? Simon March’s will lists the good stuff—mostly antique furniture, a couple of paintings—but that’s all gone. The death duties were massive, anything worth more than a few quid had to go to pay them off. From what I’ve seen, all that’s left is your basic attic tat.”
“The other possibility,” I said, “is that he was looking for ID. God knows there’s enough confusion around this girl’s identity. Say he thought he was talking to me and then had doubts, or say she dropped a hint that Lexie Madison wasn’t her real name: your guy might have gone looking for ID, trying to figure out who he’d just stabbed.”
“Here’s what your scenarios have in common,” Frank said. He was lying back with his arms folded behind his head, watching us, and that glint in his eye had got cockier. “Our guy planned to meet her once, which means he might very well want to meet her again, given the chance. He didn’t plan to kill her, which means it’s highly unlikely that there’s any further danger. And he came from outside Whitethorn House.”
“Not necessarily,” Sam said. “If one of the housemates did it, he—or she—might have taken Lexie’s mobile off her body, to make sure she hadn’t called 999 or recorded anything. We know she used the video camera all the time; they could well have been worried that she’d put the attacker’s name on there.”
“Prints from the phone back yet?” I asked.
“This afternoon,” Frank said. “Lexie and Abby. Both Abby and Daniel say that Abby passed Lexie her mobile that morning, on their way out to college, and the prints back that up. Lexie’s are overlaid on Abby’s in at least two places: she touched the phone after Abby did. Nobody took that phone off Lexie’s body. It was at home on the kitchen table when she died, and any of the housemates could have found that out without needing to chase after her.”
“Or they could’ve taken her diary,” said Sam. “We’ve only their word for it that she didn’t keep one.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “If you want to play that game, we’ve only got their word for it that she even lived there. For all we know, she could have had a row with them a month ago and moved into the penthouse of the Shelbourne as the mistress of a Saudi prince, except there’s not one speck of evidence that points that way. All four of their stories match up perfectly, we haven’t caught any of them in a lie, she got stabbed outside the house—”
“What do you think?” Sam asked me, cutting Frank off. “Do they fit the profile?”
“Yeah, Cassie,” Frank said sweetly. “What do you think?”
Sam so badly wanted it to be one of them. For a moment I actually wished I could say it was, and never mind what that would do to the investigation, just to see the drained look evaporate off his face, a spark come into his eyes. “Statistically,” I said, “sure, close enough. They’re the right age, they’re local, they’re smart, they knew her—not just that: they’re the ones who knew her best, and that’s where you mostly find your killer. None of them has a record, but like I said, one of them could have done stuff we don’t know about, somewhere along the way. At first, yeah, I liked them for it. The more I hear, though . . .” I ran my hands through my hair and tried to figure out how to say this. “Here’s the one thing I don’t like taking their word for. Do we have any kind of independent confirmation that she normally went for these walks on her own? That none of the housemates went with her?”
“Actually,” Frank said, feeling on the floor for his smokes, “we do. There’s an English postgrad called Brenda Grealey, had the same supervisor as Lexie.” Brenda Grealey was on the KA list: large, with sticking-out gooseberry eyes, plump cheeks already beginning to droop and a lot of ginger curls. “She’s the nosy type. After the five of them moved in together, she asked Lexie if she ever got any privacy, living with all those guys. I get the feeling Brenda meant it as a double entendre, she was hoping for some kind of wild sex gossip, but apparently Lexie just gave her a blank look and said she went for solo walks every evening and that was all the privacy she needed, thanks, she didn’t hang out with people unless she liked their company. Then she walked off. I’m not sure our Brenda realized she’d been bitchslapped.”
“OK,” I said. “In that case, I really can’t see a way to make any of the housemates work. Look at how it would’ve had to play out. One of them needs to talk to Lexie in private, about something big. So, instead of going about it the inconspicuous way, bringing her for coffee in college or whatever, he goes on her walk with her, or follows her out. Either way, he’s breaking the routine—and those five are all about the routine—and telling everyone including Lexie, loud and clear, that something’s up. And then he brings along a knife. These are nice middle-class intellectu
als we’ve got here—”
“She means they’re a bunch of nancy boys,” Frank informed Sam, over the click of his lighter.
“Ah, here,” Sam said, putting his pen down. “Hang on. You can’t rule them out just because they’re middle-class. How many cases have we worked where some lovely, respectable—”
“I’m not, Sam,” I said. “The killing’s not the problem. If she’d been choked to death, or had her head smashed off a wall, I’d be fine with one of them as the doer. I don’t even have a problem with the idea of one of them stabbing her, if he happened to be there with the knife in his hand. What I’m saying is that he wouldn’t have the knife on him to begin with—not unless he was actually planning to kill her, and like I said before, that doesn’t fit. I’m willing to bet serious money that those four don’t make a habit of carrying knives around; and if they just wanted to threaten someone, or convince someone, it wouldn’t even occur to them to use a knife to do it. That’s not the world they live in. When they gear up for a big fight, they prepare by thinking out debate points, not picking out knives.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, after a moment. He took a deep breath and picked up his pen again, left it hanging above the page as if he’d forgotten what he meant to write. “I suppose they do, sure.”
“Even if we go with the idea that one of them followed her,” I said, “and brought along a knife to scare her with for some reason, what did he think was going to happen next? Did he seriously expect to get away with it? They’re part of the same social circle. It’s tiny, and it’s intimate. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t agree to anything he wanted, then head straight home and tell the other three exactly what had happened. Cue shock, horror, and quite possibly—unless it’s Daniel—our knife-wielder getting thrown out of Whitethorn House. These are smart people, Sam. They couldn’t overlook something that obvious.”
“In fairness,” Frank said helpfully, switching sides—apparently he was getting bored—“smart people do stupid things all the time.”
“Not like that,” Sam said. He left his pen lying across his notebook and pressed two fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Stupid things, yeah, sure. Not things that make no sense at all.”
I had put that look on his face, and I felt like crap. “Do they do drugs?” I asked. “People on coke, say, don’t always think straight.”
Frank snorted smoke. “I doubt it,” said Sam, without looking up. “They’re straight arrows, this lot. They take a drink, all right, but from the looks of them I wouldn’t say they’d even be into the odd bit of hash, never mind the hard stuff. Our girl’s tox screen came back clean as a whistle, remember?”
The wind hurled itself up against the window with a bang and a rattle, fell away again. “Then, unless we’re missing something huge,” I said, “they just don’t add up.”
After a moment Sam said, “Yeah.” He closed his notebook carefully, clipped the pen onto it. “I’d better start looking for something huge, then.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Frank inquired. “Why do you have such a hard-on for these four?”
Sam rubbed his hands down his face and blinked hard, like he was trying to focus. “Because they’re there,” he said, after a moment. “And no one else is, at least not so’s you’d notice. Because if it’s not them, what’ve we got?”
“You’ve got that lovely profile,” Frank reminded him.
“I know,” Sam said, heavily. “And I appreciate it, Cassie; I do, honest. But right now I’ve got no one that matches it. I’ve plenty of local fellas—women as well—in the right age group, some of them have records and I’d say there’s a good few are smart and organized, but there’s no sign that any of them ever met our girl. I’ve plenty of acquaintances from college, and a few of them tick just about all the boxes, except as far as I can find out they’ve never so much as been to Glenskehy, never mind knowing their way around the place. There’s no one who matches right across the board.”
Frank arched an eyebrow. “Not to labor the point,” he said, “but that’s what Detective Maddox and I are going after.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, without looking at him. “And if I find him fast enough, you won’t need to.”
“Better get a move on,” Frank said. He was still lying back on the sofa, watching Sam through lazy, narrowed eyes across the curls of smoke. “I’m aiming to go in Sunday.”
There was a second of absolute silence; even the wind outside seemed to have skidded to a stop. Frank had never mentioned a definite date before. In the corner of my eye the maps and photos on the table twitched and crystallized, unfurling into sun-glossed leaves, rippled glass, smooth-worn stone; turning real.
“This Sunday?” I said.
“Don’t give me that gobsmacked look,” Frank told me. “You’ll be fine, babe. And think of it this way: you won’t have to look at my ugly mug any more.” Right at that moment, this actually did feel like a pretty big plus.
“Right,” Sam said. He drained his coffee in long gulps and winced. “I’d better head.” He stood up and patted vaguely at his pockets.
Sam lives on one of those creepy housing estates out in the middle of nowhere, he was dropping with fatigue and the wind was picking up again, ripping at the roof tiles. “Don’t drive all that way, Sam,” I said. “Not in this weather. Stay here. We’ll be working pretty late, but—”
“Yeah, stick around,” Frank said, spreading his arms and grinning up at him. “We can make it a pajama party. Toast marshmallows. Play Truth or Dare.”
Sam took his coat off the back of the futon and stared at it as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Ah, no; I’m not going home, sure. I’ll head into the squad for a bit, pull a few records. I’ll be grand.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said cheerfully, waving good-bye. “Have fun. Be sure and ring us if you find a prime suspect.”
I walked Sam downstairs and kissed him good night at the front door and he headed doggedly off towards his car, hands in his pockets and head bent hard against the wind. Maybe it was just the blast that funneled back up the stairwell with me, but without him my flat felt colder, barer somehow, a thin sharp edge in the air. “He was leaving anyway, Frank,” I said. “You didn’t have to be such a wankstain about it.”
“Possibly not,” Frank said, swinging himself vertical and starting to stack up the Chinese cartons. “But, as far as I can tell from the phone videos, Lexie didn’t use the term ‘wankstain.’ In the relevant circumstances, she used ‘git’—occasionally ‘big smelly git’—or ‘prat’ or ‘dickhead.’ Just something to bear in mind. I’ll do the washing up if you can tell me, without peeking, how to get from the house to the cottage.”
* * *
Sam didn’t try to make me dinner again, after that. He came in and out at weird hours, slept at his own place and said nothing when he found Frank on my sofa. Mostly he stayed just long enough to give me a kiss, a bag of supplies and a fast update. There wasn’t a lot to tell. The Bureau and the floaters had combed every inch of the lanes where Lexie took her late-night walks: no blood trail, no identifiable footprints, no sign of a struggle or a hiding place—they were blaming the rain—and no weapon. Sam and Frank had called in a couple of favors to keep the media from jumping all over this one; they gave the press a carefully generic statement about an assault in Glenskehy, dropped vague hints that the victim had been taken to Wicklow Hospital, and set up discreet surveillance, but no one came looking for her, not even the housemates. The phone company came back with nothing good on Lexie’s mobile. The door-to-door turned up blank shrugs, unprovable alibis (“. . . and then when Winning Streak was over the wife and I went to bed”), a few snotty comments about the rich kids up at Whitethorn House, an awful lot of snotty comments about Byrne and Doherty and their sudden burst of interest in Glenskehy, and no useful info at all.