‘The car that picked her up. It weren’t no taxi. I assumed it was a relative.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Well, early on that Saturday. I was on my way to work. It would’ve been before six in the morning.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t a cab?’
‘I didn’t see any licence or nothing. And if the driver ain’t a…’ Grant raised an eyebrow ‘…an Asian.’ He shrugged. ‘It just looked like a private car,’ he finished, looking at the ground.
‘What kind of car?’
‘It was dark. I’m not Jeremy Clarkson, you know. More of a Harley man myself,’ he sniffed, glancing at Grant to see if she was impressed.
‘Think. What about colour?’
‘Black, I think. Or dark blue.’
‘And you couldn’t have a guess at make and model?’
‘A saloon. If I had to guess, I’d say foreign.’
‘BMW?’ asked Grant. Brook gave her a sidelong glance.
‘Maybe. No. I don’t know. Something powerful.’
‘And the driver was white?’
‘Oh, yeah. Not only that…’
Brook and Grant marched into Hudson’s temporary office. He and Noble were having a lunchtime sandwich and staring intently at the monitor of a laptop. Before Brook or Grant could get a word in, Hudson grinned up at them. ‘We’ve caught a break. We’ve got photographs of the North house the week before the killings. We may have one of our doers on film and you’ll never guess…’
Brook’s expression never wavered. ‘Is it a woman by any chance?’
Hudson’s grin faded but Noble managed a smile. ‘We think so. How did you know?’
‘Postman Pratt saw Mrs North getting picked up by a car,’ said Grant. ‘He said he thought the driver was a woman.’
‘Any description?’
‘He only got a glimpse. He got as far as petite, then he saw she was older than him and stopped looking.’
‘He and Laura hit it right off,’ said Brook.
Hudson smiled and turned the laptop round to them. Brook and Grant leaned into the monitor. The happy smiles of the wedding party took up most of the screen but there in the background was the North house. And, just as clearly, there was a figure in the back bedroom window, sitting on the bed in the exact same position Brook had been sitting earlier that morning. The face was a ghostly blur but it was possible to discern medium-length grey hair parted in the middle and a Caucasian face. The figure was turned towards the Ingham house, oblivious to the festivities taking place in the neighbouring garden.
‘It’s not very clear,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t know how you conclude that’s a woman. The hair maybe.’
‘Can we get the boffins on to it? Get it cleaned up.’
‘Just where we were going,’ said Hudson. ‘There’s something else.’ He clicked through several pictures and stopped at one, then turned the monitor back to Brook and Grant. Behind the brightly clothed revellers, sitting astride the shiplap fence, a young boy was clearly visible, mouth open to shout something and holding two fingers aloft to the photographer.
‘D’Wayne Ingham in all his glory,’ said Brook.
‘And getting maximum use of his fingers while he still could,’ observed Grant, inducing a round of bleak laughs.
‘And this one.’ The angle was slightly different but D’Wayne Ingham was still on the fence, looking not at the party but down into the backyard of Mrs North’s property. Hudson picked up a pencil and indicated a partially obscured round shape. ‘Could that be the barbecue?’ Brook nodded. ‘And this was taken three hours later.’ Several clicks stopped at an ensemble picture, which the photographer had obviously taken from a first-floor window. All the revellers stood in their vivid finery, waving happily to the camera. Hudson’s pencil indicated what could only be the Weber barbecue, but this time it was sitting up against the back wall of the Ingham house.
Hudson leaned back on his chair, hands behind his head. ‘So, a middle-aged woman. Do we know any middle-aged women connected to the inquiry, Damen?’
Brook and Noble headed for the car park. As they passed Brook’s office, Noble nodded towards a manila folder on the desk.
‘Michael Drexler, FBI. Sounds like an interesting guy.’ Brook picked up the folder and looked up at Noble. Noble shook his head. ‘No. The prints on the bottle don’t match the print on Jason’s phone.’
Brook nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks, John.’
‘Did you expect they would?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled at Noble. ‘But, honestly, I’m pleased they don’t. And you’re right. He is an interesting guy.’ But, he had to admit, so was Sorenson.
‘Nice to meet you, Jeff.’ Drexler shook the young man’s hand but stole a look at Sheriff Dupree, who returned it with an inscrutable shrug.
‘It’s okay, Special Agent,’ said Jeff. ‘I know I look young to be doing this.’
‘You look like you should be surfing in Hawaii,’ smiled Drexler, examining his bleach-blond curls and designer stubble.
‘My fee today will get me some of the way,’ he laughed. ‘My sister was born deaf so, although I’m only twenty-eight, I’ve been around this most of my life.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Drexler.
They turned into an office and Jeff continued. ‘I’ve had a couple of runs through it and I’ve got to say there doesn’t seem an awful lot there of interest. The guy buys ten dollars’ worth of gas and that’s pretty much it.’
‘Then you get an easy paycheck, son,’ said Dupree. ‘You sure it was ten dollars?’
‘No question,’ replied Jeff.
‘Mmmm.’
‘Is that significant, Andy?’ asked Drexler.
‘You can’t fill an empty tank with ten bucks’ worth of gas, Mike. Know what I think? I think Mr Sorenson stopped at every station on the way to Tahoe.’
Drexler nodded. ‘So it was no accident he happened to stop at Caleb’s. Why?’
‘Because he didn’t know who killed George Bailey. He took a stab at what might have happened and went out there looking until he got the vibe.’
‘The hunter hunting — could be. At least now we know he’s not superhuman.’
‘I already knew that, Mike.’
They sat down at a large monitor and Jeff took up a sheaf of notes. The CCTV footage of Sorenson entering the Ashwells’ gas station flickered onto the screen. ‘Okay, the guy called Caleb is welcoming him to Alpine County and telling him his name. Pretty friendly. The bald man says “Evening”, and asks if he’s on the road to Markleeville. Caleb says yes, you’re on 89 and asks where he’s headed. Then he tries to get the customer’s name. Caleb calls him Mister and waits for the customer to fill in the blank. You can see the guy thinking about it. Then he replies and says he’s headed for South Lake Tahoe.’
‘What does he say his name is?’
‘It’s very short. I made a list of possibles.’
‘His real name is Sorenson,’ said Drexler. ‘Victor Sorenson.’
Jeff shook his head. ‘That’s not what he said. It’s one syllable.’
‘And what do you think it is?’
Jeff stopped the film and reversed over it two or three times. ‘See how abrupt he is. It begins with a B or P.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘I think it’s Brook.’
