The lieutenant pointed out towards the expanse of lake, which could be seen from where they stood. As he did so, Skinner noticed a jetty, with a small powerboat moored against it. 'A neighbour of Mr and Mrs Grace was out in his cruiser, getting set for some dawn fishing. He saw that the porch light was on, and that the front door was open. He came ashore to check the place out and found them. He called the nearest police office, in Edinburg.'
Skinner's eyes screwed up as his momentary bewilderment registered on his face. 'Where?' he asked.
'Edinburg,' Schultz repeated. 'It's the nearest township, although it's barely big enough to warrant a dot on the map.'
He shook his head wondering whether it was simply coincidence, or whether it had been the name that had first attracted Leo to this remote place. 'I see,' he murmured. 'This fisherman guy: he's been checked out, has he?'
'Yes, sir. We're satisfied that's how it really was. The guy's over seventy; even if he had a grudge against the Graces, he couldn't have kil ed them like that.'
'No, I guess he couldn't. Time of death?'
'Around 9 p.m., the coroner reckoned; give or take an hour, he said. It was very cold through that night.'
Skinner looked down at the rocking chair, at rest now on the wide porch, to the left of the front door as he faced it. A chalk circle had been drawn around it. There was a cushion on the seat, untethered but stil in place, the shape of its occupant's buttocks stil showing clearly in it.
'Nothing's been touched? That cushion's as it was found?'
'Yes, sir. You'll see the crime scene photographs, but the old man was sat in his chair just as if he had died in his sleep. That's what Mr 58
Southern, the neighbour, thought at first, til he went inside.'
The DCC nodded and walked indoors, into a big living room, with a great hearth, filled with the grey ashes of a log fire. He looked around; the place looked as if it had been turned over by an expert in a hurry.
Most of the cushions of the leather suite stood on end, left in those positions by whoever had searched under them. The drawers and doors of a big farmhouse sideboard lay open. Books had been stripped from their shelves, flipped open, he guessed, then thrown on the floor. His father-in-law's flap-front desk, which he remembered from the den in his Buffalo house, had been ripped open. The chisel which the kil er had used lay beside it. The whole scene, furniture, books, every loose object in the room was covered in white fingerprint powder. 'You've been thorough,' Skinner murmured.
'Yes, sir,' the lieutenant agreed. 'We always are.'
'Did you lift any prints?'
'Nada. We got prints of Mr and Mrs Grace, Mr Southern, and the cleaning lady, plus one or two wild ones, but we don't think that any of those belong to the perpetrator. They were in the wrong places for him.'
'One perpetrator?'
'There's no indication that there was more than one perp. There are creaking boards al over the deck outside, yet Mr Grace was taken completely by surprise; my gut feeling is that this was a lone burglar.'
'Did he get anything, do you think?'
'We'l need you or someone else to do an inventory, but as far as we can tell he got money, cards, watches, rings, other valuables: everything you'd expect in a robbery.'
The big Scots policeman shook his head. 'Not everything, Lieutenant Schultz, not everything.' He picked up a book from the floor, and held it out. 'See this? It's a first edition ofMoby Dick, and it's signed by Herman Melville.' He looked at the volumes on the floor and selected another, then turned to the flyleaf. 'That signature? James Thurber. If you root around here for long enough you'l find first editions signed by Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Margaret Mitchell and God knows who else.
'I'm no expert, but there's thousands of dol ars, no, tens of thousands, lying on the floor here. Yet this guy looks through them al , for some reason, then just leaves them here. And this, you tell me, is a professional thief, who's prepared to kill…'
He broke off. 'Where's the kitchen?' he asked, sharply.
'Through there,' said Smal, pointing to a door to the left of the hearth.
Skinner walked across and looked inside. The inevitable outline was chalked on the floor; there was blood too, a lot of blood, around where the body had lain, streaking the pine doors of the wall cupboards, and splashed across one of the work surfaces. 'Bastard!' he murmured.
'The guy cut through an artery with the strangling wire,' Schultz explained, unnecessarily. 'It must have been over in seconds, though.'
Bob thought of his gentle parents-in-law as he pictured the scene. His head swam, and for an instant it was as if he had been there, and he could see it al happening. He felt himself sway, and grabbed hold of the nearest worktop to steady himself. He knew that he could not postpone sleep for much longer.
As far as he could see, neither detective had noticed his moment of weakness. He led them out of the kitchen and out of the house. As he stepped out on to the wide porch, his cellphone sang out. Joe Doherty was on the line. 'Where are you?' he asked.
'At the cabin; by the lake. I've seen what was done and how. Thanks for Brand and Kosinski, by the way; they've been great. Right now they're down below, practising diplomacy.'
'What you got?'
'A shit-awful mess. The officer in charge here feels there was only one killer, and I agree with him. Leo and Susannah were clearly killed by the same person, expertly at that. If there had been more than one, they'd probably have taken one each.'
'Where you going next?'
'We're going back to Saratoga Springs, to see the coroner and do what's necessary there, then your guys are going to take me on to Buffalo.'
'Fine. Let me know when you get there. By the way,' Doherty added, just when Skinner thought he was going to ring off, 'did you get that stuff I sent you?'
'Yes.'
'What did it tell you?'
'What I thought it would.'
He heard a heavy sigh. 'Okay, I give in. What's with the 'Play it again, Sam'? What did you mean by that?'
Skinner chuckled, but grimly, without a trace of a smile. 'It's my suspicious mind at work; the whole thing made me think of Casablanca, my favourite movie. Remember where Bogart says, 'Of all the gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into mine'? Well, my friend, tell me this.
Of all the vulnerable lakeside cabins in the great United States of America, why did this guy have to walk into Leo Grace's?'
16
The chief superintendent's office was bigger than hers, but the view from the window was no better. Rose gave it only a brief glance and then turned her gaze back to the uniformed officers sat at the meeting table; two superintendents, clearly bristling that she was chairing the meeting, and three chief inspectors, of whom at least one was enjoying their discomfort.
'That's the way it is,' she said, briskly. 'You've all seen the ACC's memo. Anything you would normal y bring to Mr English, you bring to me in his absence; otherwise it's business as usual. I know that the Chief Super is in the habit of holding Monday morning meetings with this group. I'l continue that practice, except that for the duration of this arrangement, which hopeful y will not be long, they'll be on Friday afternoons. The Monday timing clashes with the head of CID's weekly briefing, and I have to be there.'
She caught the look of surprise on one superintendent's face, and shot the group a brief glance. 'Yes, gentlemen, I'm doing two jobs. So please: don't take the piss. Don't go bringing me decisions that you would
