Jacobsen was silent. I took a drink of coffee, letting her reach her own conclusions.
‘It’s reading an awful lot into one phone call,’ she said at last.
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘But I suppose it’s worth looking into.’
Tension I’d not even been aware of till then bled out of me. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved that a possible lead was being pursued, or just grateful to be taken seriously.
‘So you’ll check the payphone for fingerprints?’
‘A crime scene team’s there now, although after twenty-four hours I doubt they’ll find anything.’ Jacobsen’s mouth quirked slightly at my surprise. ‘You didn’t think we’d just ignore something like that, did you?’
The brrr of her phone vibrating on the table saved me from having to answer. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, picking it up.
Feeling easier than I had all day, I drank my coffee while she went outside to take the call. I watched her through the glass doors, her features intent on whatever was being said. The conversation wasn’t a long one. After less than a minute she came back inside. I expected her to make her excuses and leave, but instead she sat down at the table again.
She made no reference to the call, but there was a new coolness about her. The slight thaw I thought I’d detected earlier had vanished.
She moved the handle of her coffee cup minutely, repositioning it in its saucer. ‘Dr Hunter…’ she began.
‘The name’s David.’
She seemed caught off balance. ‘Look, you ought to know…’
I waited, but she didn’t go on. ‘What?’
‘It isn’t important.’ Whatever she’d been about to say, she’d thought better of it. Her eyes went to the almost empty beer glass that the waitress hadn’t yet cleared. ‘Forgive me for asking, but should you be drinking alcohol? Given your condition, I mean?’
‘My condition?’
‘Your injury.’ She tilted her head quizzically. ‘Surely you must have known we’d run a background check?’
I realized I was holding my coffee cup poised in mid-air. I carefully set it down. ‘I hadn’t given it much thought. And as for alcohol, I was stabbed. I’m not pregnant.’
The grey eyes regarded me. ‘Does it make you feel uncomfortable talking about it?’
‘There are pleasanter subjects.’
‘Did you have any counselling after the attack?’
‘No. And I don’t want any now, thanks.’
An eyebrow cocked. ‘I forgot. You don’t trust psychologists.’
‘I don’t mistrust them. I just don’t believe that talking about something is always the best way to deal with it, that’s all.’
‘Stiff upper lip, and all that?’
I just looked at her. A pulse of blood had started to tick away in my temples.
‘Your attacker wasn’t caught, was she?’ she said, after a moment.
‘No.’
‘Does that worry you? That she might try again?’
‘I try not to lose sleep over it.’
‘But you do, though, don’t you?’
I realized my hands were clenched under the table. They were clammy when I opened them. ‘Is there a point to this?’
‘I’m just curious.’
We stared at each other. But for some reason I felt calm now, as though I’d stepped over a threshold. ‘Why are you trying to provoke me?’
Her gaze wavered. ‘I’m only—’
‘Did Gardner put you up to this?’
I don’t know where the question came from, but when she looked away I knew I was right. It was only for a second, but it was enough.
‘For Christ’s sake, what is this? Are you vetting me?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, but without conviction. Now it was her turn to avoid my stare. ‘Dan Gardner just wanted to assess your state of mind, that’s all.’
‘My state of mind?’ I gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I’ve been stabbed, I split up with my girlfriend, one of my oldest friends is lying in hospital, and everyone here seems convinced I’m incompetent. My state of mind’s fine, thanks.’
Twin patches of colour burned on Jacobsen’s cheeks. ‘I apologize if I’ve offended you.’
‘I’m not offended, just…’ I didn’t know what I was. ‘Where is Gardner, anyway? Why isn’t he here?’
‘He’s tied up with something else at the moment.’
I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more, the fact he’d felt I needed assessing or that he hadn’t deemed it important enough to do himself.
‘Why bother with this now, anyway? The work’s all but finished.’
The flush was fading from Jacobsen’s cheeks. She stared pensively into her coffee, absently running a finger round the rim of the cup.
‘A situation’s developed at Steeple Hill,’ she said.
I waited. The grey eyes met mine.
‘York’s disappeared.’
CHAPTER 16
WITH LIGHTS BURNING in every window and TBI vehicles clustered outside, York’s house had the starkly surreal look of a film set. It was in the grounds of Steeple Hill, hidden well away from the cemetery behind a fold in the pine woods. Like the funeral home itself, it was a low, rectangular block of concrete and glass, a failed attempt to transplant Californian 1950s modernism to the deep south. Once upon a time it might have been striking. Now, surrounded by the shadowy pinnacles of the pine trees, it just looked decayed and sad.
A crazed-paving path led to the front door, its slabs choked by straggly weeds. The crime scene tape that bracketed it gave the house an oddly festive air, although that impression was quickly dashed by the forensic agents searching it, ghost-like in their white overalls. At one side of the house, across an overgrown rectangle of lawn, a driveway led to a garage. The door was raised, displaying a patch of oil-stained floor but no car.
That had disappeared along with its owner.
Jacobsen had briefed me on the drive over. ‘We didn’t see York as a realistic suspect for the homicide, otherwise we’d have arrested him sooner.’ She’d sounded defensive, as though she were personally to blame. ‘He fits the standard serial killer profile to some extent—right age, unmarried, a loner—and his inflated sense of self- importance is a typical narcissistic characteristic. But he doesn’t have a criminal record, not even any warnings as a juvenile. No skeletons in his closet that we could find. Apart from the circumstantial evidence, there’s nothing to link him to the actual killings.’
‘The circumstantial evidence seemed pretty strong to me,’ I said.
It was too dark in the car to see her blush, but I was sure she did. ‘Only if you accept he deliberately incriminated himself by steering us towards the funeral home in the first place. That isn’t unheard of, but his story about hiring a casual worker seemed to check out. We’ve found another former employee who claims to remember Dwight Chambers. It was starting to look as though Chambers might be a legitimate suspect after all.’
‘So why arrest York?’
‘Because holding him on public health charges would give us more time to question him.’ Jacobsen looked uncomfortable. ‘Also, it was felt that there were certain… advantages to taking a proactive approach.’
