‘Shot in the head,’ said Drexler.
‘Mother and daughter were raped,’ added McQuarry to Drexler’s surprise. The details seemed unnecessary but perhaps she had reason, perhaps she was searching for a careless response, an unguarded word. ‘And the little girl was tortured.’
Sorenson hung his head. ‘Poor Tania. Poor…’ he stopped abruptly and looked up at McQuarry with a raised eyebrow.
‘We believe the girl’s body is his youngest — Sally.’ He looked away and shook his head. ‘Poor little thing.’ ‘Being from England their dental records are problematic and we wondered if you’d know about next of kin. For the purpose of identification, you understand,’ added McQuarry.
Sorenson closed his black eyes in tribute, an unscheduled moment of near silence. But the music played on.
‘Sir?’ Now McQuarry and Drexler were able to look at each other and manage a quick acknowledgement. McQuarry had arrived at the same page as Drexler. They’d found their killer, a vigilante who’d chanced upon the very spot in the middle of remote Northern California where a personal friend and employee had been slaughtered alongside his young family.
‘I believe there’s a grandmother in Derbyshire. England,’ he added finally.
‘What about brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles?’ asked McQuarry.
Again Sorenson seemed lost in thought. ‘George was an only child,’ he answered at length.
‘Unlike in the movie.’ McQuarry threw the observation away, expecting nothing.
But instead Sorenson smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’ The sadness returned. ‘If you need a provisional identification, I’d be glad. I mean, if it would help speed things up.’
McQuarry had already removed a photograph from her attache case and placed it in front of Sorenson. ‘Sally was killed well after her mother. She should be easier to recognise.’
Sorenson looked at the photograph of the tiny body without picking it up. Drexler and McQuarry watched him closely, but his stony expression didn’t waver; he merely stared at the image of the frail corpse for what seemed like an age. No wincing, no averting of eyes, no exclamations of shock or outrage. Nothing. Eventually, aware of his audience, he relented.
‘Yes, that’s Sally Bailey. George Bailey’s younger daughter,’ he added in a formal tone, as though familiar with the routine.
Drexler and McQuarry said nothing in reply and waited for the inevitable questions, but they didn’t arrive. Instead Sorenson continued to stare at the picture. Drexler raised an eyebrow at his partner.
‘You don’t seem too interested in who did this, Professor,’ said McQuarry evenly. ‘I find myself wondering why.’
Sorenson looked up at her. ‘Death is the only detail. The rest is window dressing. She’s beyond hurting now.’
‘In a better place?’ offered Drexler, with a hint of a sneer as payback.
Sorenson smiled bleakly and Drexler wished he’d said nothing.
‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Professor?’ ‘Returning from a trip.’ Sorenson didn’t even blink or try to pretend to remember his movements.
‘Where?’
‘I drove down to Yosemite for a few days.’
‘Looking for George Bailey?’
‘Not exactly,’ smiled Sorenson. ‘Though I suppose, taking a similar route to the one George would’ve taken to Tahoe, I was more than a little interested in the terrain.’
‘And what route was that?’
‘You don’t expect me to remember tedious road names, do you?’
‘What about California 89?’ asked McQuarry. Sorenson’s face brightened in childlike recognition. ‘Actually, I do remember being on 89. The Ghost Road they call it.’
‘Make any stops?’
‘Certainly. At my age I need the toilet more often than I’d prefer.’
‘And gas?’
‘Of course.’
‘On 89?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What time would that have been, sir?’
This time Sorenson did make a bit more of an effort to play the game and stroked his chin, looking into the distance. ‘Let me see. It’s a bit hazy. I was tired.’
‘So it was late.’
Sorenson pointed a bony talon at Drexler. ‘Yes, you’re right. I stopped just as it was getting dark. Some rundown fleapit on 89.’
‘And what did you buy?’
‘Just petrol. Gas.’
McQuarry pulled another picture from her small case and placed it in front of Sorenson. It was in black and white but he was clearly recognisable. He was looking at the camera and carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.
‘That’s me,’ said Sorenson with a chuckle. ‘So the camera did work. He said it did though I didn’t believe him. You should’ve seen the place.’
‘We have,’ said Drexler.
‘You remember what else you bought now?’ asked McQuarry.
‘That’s right, I bought a knife. It had a can opener attachment. I lost mine at the camp…’
‘It also had a corkscrew.’
Sorenson grinned at Drexler. ‘I believe it did.’
‘And the coffee?’
‘Oh, I didn’t buy that. Mr Ashwell was kind enough to let me have it for free.’
‘You remember his name now?’
Sorenson smiled his assent.
‘Where did you buy the roses?’ asked Drexler.
‘Roses? I didn’t buy roses.’
‘The forecourt camera clearly shows red roses in your car,’ said McQuarry.
Sorenson smiled warmly but his eyes were cold. ‘Forecourt camera? I don’t think so. But show me a picture. It might jog my memory.’
Sorenson was sure of his ground.
‘And how was the coffee?’ asked Drexler.
Sorenson turned to him and grinned. ‘Surprisingly good.’
‘Do you still have the cup in your trash, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not. I left it in the Dodge so you’d need to ask the thief about its whereabouts. Tell me. Why all these questions about where I stopped on the road? Why don’t you speak to Mr Ashwell and his son?’
McQuarry allowed herself a soundless half-laugh this time. She wanted to punch him playfully on the arm and say,
Sorenson didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Indeed?’
Twenty minutes later, as the Chevy snaked its way back to the highway, Drexler ran his eye over the beautiful grounds again to confirm what he already knew. Victor Sorenson was a wealthy and successful man. He had a lot to lose. The game had begun.
Chapter Ten
