know where the hell she is.’ James dipped his head, exhausted.
But the detective was not to be diverted. ‘You rush out of the restaurant, shouting and screaming. People hear that too. You chase after him, following him home. You watch the house and then later — while his wife is sleeping upstairs — you kill the guy, trying to make it look like he killed himself.’
‘His wife?’
‘That’s right. His wife and his new baby.’
‘But I thought-’
‘I know what you thought. That he was a pervert with obscene pictures in his bag. You told me already.’
‘But I saw them!’
‘Well, they weren’t in his bag when his wife found him dangling this morning. A wife, incidentally, who swears her husband was making plans for the future and would never, ever contemplate suicide.’
‘He hanged himself? Bloody hell.’
‘Or you hanged him and made it look like a suicide. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.’
James rubbed his temples. None of this made sense. A wife and a baby? Now that he thought about it, such things were not unknown: there was a legendary Classics professor at Oxford who used to joke about buggering the more promising undergraduates. His wife was utterly devoted to him.
Riley closed the door, then returned to his seat. ‘You still want to stick to this crap about the homo pictures? Are you sure about that? Much better to change your story now than when you’re in the dock at a murder trial, believe me. You plead guilty, tell the judge you were going crazy looking for your wife, maybe he’ll be lenient with you. But you mess us around, he’s going to be measuring you up for the electric chair. Oh, you didn’t know that? Yep, that’s how we do it these days in Connecticut. Three years now. Not a nice way to go, I can tell you. They strap you in, so you can’t move. Then they pass electric currents through you — two thousand volts, I think it is. The first current’s meant to knock you out and burn up your brain, and the second’s meant to blast all your vital organs, your lungs and heart and what have you. But it doesn’t always go right, see? Maybe the charge is not enough: the brain might stop, but the man’s still breathing. These new machines, something always goes wrong, you know how it is. We had a man whose blood vessels, under the skin, they starting popping and bleeding; then his head was on fire. His head! Oh, that was awful. Took him eight minutes to die. Imagine that. You’d just cry out to be hanged, wouldn’t you? I would. Get it over with.’
James knew what the detective was doing, that he was trying to break his spirit, to force him into some spurious, panicked confession. He knew it, but he would not succumb to it. He knew the evidence the police had was circumstantial at best. But he also knew that juries were unpredictable. Who knew what might be his fate before a dozen Rileys, pumped up by some fast-talking lawyer to fear this strange Englishman, abandoned by his wife and deemed too mentally unstable to wear his nation’s uniform? They would hear that this foreigner was the last person to see Lund alive and that he had been seen chasing after him in anger only hours earlier.
Riley was sitting back now, staring at James silently. James recognized this trick too. He had deployed it himself during some of his clinical interviews: say nothing and let the subject squirm until they eventually revealed themselves, if only to break the silence.
James would not fall for that. Instead he would use the pause for his own purposes, to think. He tried to put aside the question of how things looked and to focus on reality. What had actually happened here? It was conceivable that Lund had taken his own life, perhaps in shame at his deviant urgings. His wife could have come down in the morning, seen his body, discovered the photographs and then destroyed them, for fear they would disgrace the reputation of her late husband and taint her family name.
But the same was true if Lund had been murdered, the killer merely disguising it as a suicide. In that situation, Lund’s widow would still have destroyed the photographs to save her shame. Or perhaps the killer had taken them for some reason.
James pinched the bridge of his nose, as he did whenever he was struggling to untie a knotty problem. The best method, he had found, was discussion with his wife. She had a fine logical mind, ordered and rigorous, but she also had a creative intellect: she could generate new ideas, wholly new possibilities that he had not considered. So often a conversation with her would unlock a puzzle that had seemed insoluble. The irony of it did not elude him: to find Florence, he needed Florence.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me something?’ Riley said. ‘’Cause I’m watching you, closing your eyes, frowning, holding your nose and all that and I’m thinking you look like a man with a lot on his mind. Lot on your conscience.’
‘I’m thinking, Detective, that’s all. Just thinking.’
‘Looks painful.’ Riley leaned back, assessing. His lips adjusted a fractional amount, a gesture that somehow, like a silent clearing of the throat, signalled the imminent introduction of a change in topic.
Riley let his fist open to reveal a glint of metal inside, like a magician producing a coin from an empty hand. ‘Is this yours, Dr Zennor?’
James leaned forward.
‘Go ahead, pick it up.’
At first James thought it was a tie-pin but it was too small and the pin at the back was the wrong shape, long and thin, like a needle. This was to be worn in the lapel. It took the form of an Egyptian cross, a crucifix with a loop rather than a vertical line at the top. In this case, the loop was filled with the image of an animal head. As he peered at it, he could make out the face of a wolf.
‘Well,’ said Riley. ‘Is that yours?’
‘I’ve never seen this before in my life. What is it?’
Riley was staring at him, trying to read his face for signs of mendacity. ‘Never seen it?’
‘Yes, I’ve never bloody seen it. What is it?’
‘You really are going to have to learn to control yourself, Dr Zennor,’ the detective said, though this time, James noticed, the edge in his voice had softened. ‘This was found in the deceased’s mouth.’
‘In his mouth? I don’t-’
‘The coroner says that’s where you’d hide something if you wanted it to be found after your death. Least, that’s what a medical man would do. He’d know there’s no point holding it in your hand. Muscles relax when you die and the thing drops out. Seems Lund was pretty determined: the pin was stuck right into the inside of his cheek.’
‘Did it belong to him?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The pin. Was it his?’
Riley let a hint of a frown pass across his forehead, before chasing it away. ‘I asked the widow exactly that. Turns out Lund did have one just like it, but that’s still upstairs in the bedroom. In its case, just like always. She showed it to me. So this belongs to someone else.’
‘His killer.’
‘Are you asking or telling?’
James bit down hard, a technique that always used to help him suppress his anger, though it had fallen into disuse in recent years: too feeble a weapon. ‘You think Lund might have ripped this off his killer’s jacket during a struggle. Then put it in his mouth so that you would find it, to identify the man who murdered him.’
‘You’re getting carried away, Dr Zennor. We leave the theories to you gentlemen in the university. Facts is all I want. Facts.’
‘Well, do you know what this is, this badge? Or why Lund had one?’
‘Leave the questions to me, OK? Let’s go back to Pepe’s restaurant. You say-’ He was interrupted by an urgent knock on the door. Riley called out and another police officer came in, bending down to whisper in the detective’s ear. Riley nodded, whispered another question to his colleague, then nodded again. The officer left.
Riley leaned across the desk to retrieve the pin, placing it on top of a pile of papers he now squared up. ‘I guess this is your lucky day after all. The guy behind the bar recognized your mug shot. Says he remembers serving you six double whiskys and telling you to get lost, just after eleven. And the butler at the Elizabethan Club says he put you to bed last night: you were so drunk, he had to take your pants off. Which is embarrassing but also an alibi. The old boy says he slept downstairs on a camp bed and would have heard if you’d left during the night. Which means you’re no longer an official suspect in the death of George Lund.’
James let out a long sigh, a sensation of relief he had not felt since completing that last, agonising row on
