‘One of them.’
‘Then you know what those guys are like. In their heads they’re never out of the classroom. Socratic, or whatever they call it. He was yanking my chain, for the sake of it. He was arguing for the fun of it, because that’s what they do. You left, and then he said he was going to file the paperwork as soon as he finished his toast. He intended to all along. But straight answers aren’t his style.’
‘I don’t believe you. No paperwork was filed this morning.’
‘The last I saw of him he was walking out of the dining room. About two minutes after you.’
‘So you’re denying this one too?’
‘Think about it, counsellor. My aim was to get Major Turner out of her cell. How would attacking Moorcroft help me? It would set me back at least a day, if not two or three.’
‘Why do you care so much about Major Turner?’
‘I liked her voice on the phone.’
‘Maybe you were angry with Moorcroft.’
‘Did I look angry?’
‘A little.’
‘You’re wrong, major. I didn’t look angry at all. Because I wasn’t angry. I was sitting there quite patiently. He wasn’t the first classroom guy I ever met. I went to school, after all.’
‘I felt uncomfortable.’
‘What did you tell Podolski?’
‘Just that. There was a dispute, and I felt uncomfortable.’
‘Did you tell him it was heated?’
‘You confronted him. You argued.’
‘What was I supposed to do? Stand up and salute? He’s not exactly the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.’
‘The evidence against you appears to be considerable. The clothes, in particular. That’s classic.’
Reacher didn’t answer. He was listening again. He heard footsteps in the corridor. Two people. Both men. Low voices. Short, uncontroversial sentences. A succinct and everyday exchange of information. The footsteps moved on. There were no door sounds. No click, no grind, no swish.
Sullivan said, ‘Major?’
Reacher said, ‘Do you have a wallet in your briefcase?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Why would I?’
‘Because you’re not carrying a purse, and if you don’t mind me saying so, your uniform is tailored very close to your figure, and there are absolutely no bulges in your pockets.’
Sullivan kept her hands on her briefcase and said, ‘Yes, I have a wallet in here.’
‘How much money is in it?’
‘I don’t know. Thirty dollars, maybe.’
‘How much was your last ATM withdrawal?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Got a cell phone in there too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there’s as much evidence against you as me. Clearly you called an accomplice and offered him a hundred and seventy bucks to kick your old teacher’s ass. Maybe because your grades weren’t perfect, all those years ago. Maybe you were still angry about it.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’
Sullivan didn’t answer.
Reacher asked, ‘How were your grades?’
Sullivan said, ‘Not perfect.’
Reacher listened again. Silence in the corridor.
Sullivan said, ‘Detective Podolski will order a landfill search. He’ll find your clothes. It won’t be difficult. Last in, first out. Will they stand up to DNA analysis?’
‘Easily,’ Reacher said. ‘It wasn’t me.’
Then: more footsteps in the corridor. Soft, quiet, two people. A procession, maybe. One person leading another. A halt, an explanation, a casual, low-toned, ten-beat sentence. Maybe:
