front-page teaser.”
Dick returned with a pint of ale for Liz. “Have a whole pint, not just half. You’re in the big time now, kiddo,” he said and walked off to deliver another drink to Esther O’Faolin.
Over the pint, Liz asked Kinnaird, “Was it inevitable that this case would be solved, Cormac? I mean, it looks like the bodies would have been identified in any case and the timing established, but do you think there was any chance Olga Swenson might not have been identified as the perpetrator?”
“Not with the information you assembled—the photo of her tossing the cell phone into the lake, for instance.”
“But what if I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t report what you know? It might have been pinned on someone innocent, like Erik.”
“But if the evidence was only circumstantial . . .”
“Look, Liz,” the doctor said, taking her elbow and leading her across the room. As the two seated themselves at a small table across from each other on tall stools, Kinnaird leaned forward. “That way leads to disaster.”
“What way?”
“Second-guessing yourself. It’s never a good idea. It’s morally incumbent upon us as professionals to report what we know. We can’t let misguided emotions get in our way. That’s all there is to it.”
Liz looked doubtful.
“Remember, you had the guts to phone the police, despite Tom’s urging you not to.”
“It was more than guts, Cormac. There was that photograph of the wedding ring necklace on Veronica. But there was something else, too.”
She shuddered as her companion waited patiently for her to continue.
“It was the lake,” Liz said. “She never faced the lake. I had to wonder if she protected her daughter from Karl’s perversion by pushing him through the ice. But there’s no evidence to support . . .” She broke off and raised her hands to her temples.
“I’ll say it again. You can’t afford to let your emotions take over.”
The doctor held out his hands, palms up, hands that had opened countless cadavers. Slowly, he moved his right hand to grip his own pint glass of lager. Silently, he held open his left hand and regarded the calloused fingertips his companion had once kissed, one by one. His face and his voice softened.
“Actually,” the doctor added, “that’s not all there is to it, as we both know. Like me, you’ll have to find a way to make peace with what you’ve set in motion. You’ve got to find a way to live with it.” Standing up, he took her hand in his calloused grip. “Now, let’s get out of this place and find some music.”
