There was nothing in the question that demanded a response. It was a thinly disguised order, and Wakeley read it as such.
‘I’ll see you before you go,’ he said to Hollis.
Gayle waited until he was out of earshot. ‘You needn’t worry, discretion’s his middle name.’
‘Oh, I don’t really care.’
‘No? Can’t they demote you or something?’
‘I suppose.’ He realized his honesty was starting to sound like swagger, or worse: self-pity. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I could help,’ he said.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’
Of course there was. Why else had she dismissed Wakeley?
‘The fishermen who found my sister…found Lilly, I’d like to meet them, to thank them.’
‘The one to talk to is Conrad Labarde.’ He couldn’t see her getting much out of the Kemp boy. ‘He lives just back from the beach off Montauk Highway, beyond Napeague Lane. No address, but I don’t think there’s much else down there, just dunes.’
‘Do you mind writing it down for me?’ Hollis scribbled down the details, tore the sheet from the memo pad and handed it over.
‘You’re left-handed. Lilly was left-handed.’
He searched for something to say, but there was no need.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I can take you over there if you like.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘To see the fisherman.’ It would be a good excuse to meet the big Basque again, survey his world, get more of a sense of the man.
‘It’s okay, I’m sure I can find my own way.’
She left, stepping lightly across the lawn, her long, narrow feet leaving impressions in the spongy grass.
Hollis returned to the house to find the florist and her assistant gone. George and Manfred Wallace were seated with Wakeley at the table on the terrace. All three nursed glasses of chilled white wine while Rosa moved around them, arranging cutlery.
‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to,’ said Manfred, meaning the wine.
‘Maybe a glass of water.’
Rosa poured him a glass from a pitcher. No one spoke while he downed it, the silence oppressive, each gulp resounding in his ears.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘The Press.’
George Wallace frowned. ‘What about them?’
‘We’ll do our best to keep them at bay, but with limited resources…’
‘It’s a good point. Richard?’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Wakeley.
Hollis drained the rest of the water and placed the empty glass on the table. ‘I’ll be in touch in a few days once everything’s arranged.’ He turned to Rosa. ‘Thanks for the water.’
She met his look with something approaching defiance, enjoying the protection of her employer. This only confirmed his suspicions. She feared him, not in the way that many feared a police officer—irrationally, believing that the uniform somehow conferred on him the power to see into the dark caverns of their conscience. No, he had rumbled her in the kitchen, creeping up on her like that, surprising her. The momentary flash of apprehension in her eyes had betrayed her. She definitely knew more than she was letting on.
As he strolled around the side of the house, his mind was racing, filtering impressions. He could dismiss the gardener for now. Rosa had displayed no telling signs of unease when he’d sprung the subject of the old man on her. Whatever her secret, it was unlikely she shared it with—what was his name?—Derek, yes, Derek Watson.
He climbed into the patrol car, lit a cigarette, and added the name to his memo pad along with that of Richard Wakeley. It was an old habit. Names on a page obliged you to consider connections your mind might normally pass over, like deciphering a crossword anagram by writing the letters in a circle.
Watson and Wakeley side by side. It was an unlikely association, but you never knew, not till the affair had played itself out.
Hollis slowed as he passed the Clinton Academy, but his courage failed him at the last and he drove on down Main Street. Fifty yards along he was given the opportunity to reconsider.
Mary Calder was walking toward the center of town, stepping through the dappled shade cast by the tall elms. He drove past her then swung the wheel, carving a long turn and pulling up at the verge.
‘Maybe I’m mistaken,’ said Mary, ‘but wasn’t that an illegal maneuver?’
‘Was it?’
‘Bylaw 18, I think you’ll find.’
Shit, maybe he’d misjudged their last exchange; there was still no trace of a smile.
‘I’m on official police business,’ he said.
