Whispers of the Dead - Страница 36

‘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.’

And any arrest looked better than no arrest. Politics and PR were the same the world over.

Except that York hadn’t waited around to be arrested. When TBI agents went to pick him up that afternoon, there had been no sign of him either at the cemetery or his home. His car was missing, and when the TBI had forced entry into his house they’d found signs of hurried packing.

They’d also found human remains.

‘We’d have discovered them sooner, except for a foul-up with the paperwork,’ Jacobsen admitted. ‘The original warrant only covered the funeral parlour and grounds, not York’s private residence.’

‘Are the remains recent?’ I asked.

‘We don’t think so. But Dan would rather you see for yourself.’

That had shocked me even more than York’s disappearance. It seemed that Paul had been unavailable. Sam was having a bad night. They’d thought she was going into labour, and while that had proved to be a false alarm he wasn’t prepared to leave her on her own.

So he’d told Gardner to ask me instead.

Paul had sounded tired and frazzled when I’d called him. Not that I doubted Jacobsen, but I wasn’t about to go without speaking to him first.

‘I’ve told Gardner I’ll take a look first thing tomorrow, but if he wants an opinion tonight then he should ask you. Hope you don’t mind,’ he’d said. I told him I didn’t, only that I was surprised Gardner had agreed. He gave a sour laugh. ‘He didn’t have much choice.’

He obviously hadn’t forgiven Gardner for siding with Hicks against Tom. While Paul was too professional to let his personal feelings get in the way of an investigation, that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn the screw a little.

I wondered how Gardner felt about it.

Jacobsen hadn’t stayed at Steeple Hill. After dropping me off she’d gone to check on the forensic team’s progress with the payphone. I’d been directed to a van where I could change, and then made my way to the house.

Gardner was outside the front door, talking to a grey-haired woman in white overalls. He was wearing overshoes and gloves, and though he gave me a glance as I approached he didn’t break off his conversation.

I stood at the bottom of the path and waited.

With a last terse instruction to the white-clad agent, Gardner finally turned to me. Neither of us spoke. His displeasure was almost palpable, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He gave me a curt nod.

‘It’s upstairs.’

The house had the typical upside-down design of its style and era, so that the bedrooms were downstairs and the living quarters on the first floor. The once white walls and ceilings had been stained a dirty yellow by decades of cigarette smoke, and the same ochre patina clung to the doors and furniture like grease. Underlying the pervasive stink of stale tobacco was a musty smell of old carpets and unwashed sheets.

The sense of neglect and dilapidation was made worse by the turmoil of the search that was under way. Forensic agents were poring through drawers and cupboards, pulling out the detritus of York’s life for examination. I felt their eyes on me as we went upstairs. There was an air of anticipation that I recognized from other crime scenes when a significant find had been made, but there was also open curiosity.

Word of my reinstatement had obviously got around.

Gardner led me up a staircase whose corners were felted with dust. The whole upper floor was open-plan, with kitchen, dining and living areas all combined. Most of the fittings looked original: partition shelf units and frosted glass cupboards straight from a 1950s advert for the domestic American dream.

But the furniture was a mishmash from the intervening decades. A rusted fridge hummed loudly in the kitchen, while an imitation chandelier with candle-shaped lightbulbs hung over a scuffed dining table and chairs in the dinette. An overstuffed leather armchair sat in the centre of the living area, its split cushions patched with peeling electrical tape. Positioned in front of it was a huge flat screen TV, the only recent piece of furniture I’d seen.