Hermit Page 18

  Mike shifted slightly. ‘I think that’s more solid ground than the first one, isn’t it? I mean, beyond knowing that we have his cave, there’s no need for questions about how Whittler ate or crapped. It’s not, uh, germane to the investigation. Unless we find DNA or something incriminating about the stuff he owns, and we’re just starting on that. Maybe focus on the history with Pringle?’

  For a second time Dana found herself questioning whether it could be, once again, the prurience of incredulity.

  ‘I get you, Mikey. But a lot of this is about Whittler’s fragile state and ego. We’re still treading a fine line to stop him lawyering up. I’ve puffed up his ego and built up a rapport. If I ask anything that shows we know his cave, without telling him first that we’ve found it, I lose some of that trust. Praising him for the home he built increases the trust. Plus, as Bill says, there’s going to be conflict sooner or later. He’ll lash out for his own reasons. I’d rather have that happen in relation to something that isn’t, as you say, necessarily germane. That way, I can reward him by backing down once his tantrum blows out, without actually losing anything relevant to the investigation. As we’ve said this morning, we may well have no witnesses at all, and only circumstantial forensics. We have to get Whittler’s full story from him – if that’s a confession, so be it.’

  Mike cogitated for a few seconds then gave a thumbs-up. ‘Yeah, yeah, I can see that. Put that way, I’m in.’

  Bill beamed. ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’

  Dana raised a finger. ‘Can I ask a wider strategy question? Are we still thinking Whittler might have committed other crimes? I mean, besides this one and maybe burglaries? I ask because if we think he’s an experienced killer, I need to cast a wider net with my questions.’

  Bill palmed the question off. ‘Mikey? Thoughts?’

  ‘Yeah, initially, I was with you, Bill. Whittler threw me with his strangeness and his lack of any history. I still think that isn’t an accident – he’s hiding something deep. All that talk earlier about “doing terrible things”? If he had killed previously, then all that jazz of being a hermit loner is great camouflage. But I haven’t seen any evidence, aside from potential burglaries, that might be criminal. And I still like other angles – the Alvarezes, Megan, maybe Lynch. They still make sense to me as viable people and motives; Whittler still doesn’t. Yeah, no . . . if it was him who killed Cassavette, he was very accurate. When he’s that proficient at wielding a knife, it’s hard to believe it’s his first time.’

  Bill nodded slowly, and Dana waited. Bill steepled his fingers.

  ‘Yeah, I still have that same reservation, too. I’m not putting him down as a serial killer or anything, but it’s hard to see one stab, literally in the dark, that just happens to be perfect. That reeks of practice, and there’s no nice way to practise that. However, as you say, other than the burglaries, we have nothing: fingerprints and DNA don’t connect him to anything.’

  ‘So,’ asked Dana, ‘I stay focused on the Cassavette killing in interviews; don’t try to broaden it?’

  ‘Yeah, stay fixed on that.’

  Mike went off to face the Cassavettes’ lawyer, Spencer Lynch, who was holed up in Interview Three. No doubt, thought Mike, stewing at being hauled in after Lucy’s intervention.

  ‘Following on from that, Dana,’ continued Bill, ‘are you finding Whittler convincing? I mean, if he’s survived in the wild like he says, it makes him resourceful and capable. Are you certain he’s channelled that into something legal?’

  ‘You still think he has a credibility gap? I’ve been asking myself that. It’s easy to get thrown by his body language, his reluctance. Put it this way, boss. Everything he’s admitted stacks up to what we know; everything he’s claimed, that we can verify, has come back a yes. But whatever is still inside his head remains a maybe. There’s a big something we haven’t unearthed yet. My gut says his ingenuity and ability are all directed inward – he’s been totally focused on himself and on avoiding others. But while we don’t know that big something, we need to hedge our bets. That’s why Mikey and Luce are tracking down alternative options: just in case Nathan Whittler isn’t the guy.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Bill, ‘I appreciate how much you’re letting others work on this.’

  ‘Of course. Team game.’ Dana stood.

  Bill’s hand gestures invited her to close the door and sit.

  ‘I know that’s what I preach, and I do mean preach. I know you’re a solid player. But we both know you’d run this whole investigation completely solo if I let you.’

  Dana gnawed on a hangnail to avoid eye contact. The silence was warm and humid.

  ‘I mean,’ Bill continued, ‘it’s an essential part of your nature. The working-alone thing. The lack of chit-chat. I get it. And I can’t say you wouldn’t wrap the whole thing up in a bow – signed, sealed and delivered – without anyone’s help. That’s why you’re lead on this case. Whittler is, in some respects, you in extremis.’

  She considered disagreeing, but it would be hard to fight the weight of evidence. Bill was smart enough to nail the argument if he had to.

  ‘We’re not totally alike.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be working with your colleagues, and doing it well. You’d have overcome your squeamishness about creepy-crawlies and kicked Whittler out of his cave.’

  She smiled at the floor. ‘No TV there – disaster. Couldn’t live on cold food. Not enough bacon.’

  ‘Amen to that. I’m not criticising you. It’s very lucky for us that someone with your skills and your view of the world is right here when this case drops in. We’d be floundering without you: totally reliant on limited forensics and with no co-operation from Whittler.’ He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk and hands clasped like a prayer. ‘The flipside of that is you need to think harder than most – more consciously than most – about involving others. And I appreciate that you are. Is all I’m saying.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, flush with embarrassment. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Go get some more on Whittler.’

  At the doorway, Dana turned. ‘You know that A-Team quote dates you really badly, right?’

  ‘Don’t start with me, Dana, I swear to God . . .’

  Chapter 19

  Mike tapped the file against his hip as he approached Interview Three. Early forensics had dribbled through: enough for a first run at Lynch. Even though the store had a thousand and one fingerprints, they’d identified some already.

  It felt good to be first assist on this one, and not lead. A few years ago he’d have railed against the idea. Top-dog status was hard won, and the climb had required patience. Yet here he was, effectively splitting the seniority with Dana. That sharing thing had coincided with Bill’s arrival last year. Mike had termed his new boss Mr Collegiate. Others sneeringly coined Billy Win-Win. Mike could have dug his heels in at that point, given that many in the station thought of him as the senior detective. But he’d seen both the way the wind was blowing and what was in it for him.

  Partly, he was getting older and didn’t need the same stress. Perhaps he quite enjoyed supporting Dana a little – he knew she was happy to learn and they had complementary skills. Between them, they made one mighty detective. Individually, they were deeply flawed, but in different areas and bright enough to acknowledge it. He, for example, would have been patient with Whittler but would have got nowhere: Whittler would have shut down like a petulant child. While Mike had empathy skills and verbal agility, he found reluctant interviewees more difficult. He worked them better when they were responsive and could be moved around the chess board. Dana was a queen of outwaiting the opponent, and her bookish manner had caught and held Whittler’s attention.

  He’d even donated his office – something that apparently had never occurred before in public service history. Several people thought he’d been made to do it and called it emasculating. But for h
im, it was simply practical. Dana was an introvert who craved and fed off time alone: she needed that space to be a better detective. He didn’t – he liked bouncing ideas off Lucy and he enjoyed the energy of there being several people in the office.

  Mike still wasn’t wedded to the idea that Nathan Whittler had lived for fifteen years without speaking to another human being. Nor was he convinced Whittler was the murderer. While it seemed a reach in some ways, Mike was still wavering between a domestic issue involving the Cassavettes, or some left-field intervention around the Alvarez family. He was waiting on some more intelligence on the latter so had to make do with pursuing Lynch for now.

  Interview Three was off to the side of the main interview suite, an add-on created a few years ago when they realised that they were giving suspects too much opportunity to collude or intimidate. It was cheaply built, with inadequate insulation: it felt cold in winter and gave off a permanent musty air of disdain. Important suspects, sympathetic witnesses and victims went in One or Two. Unreliable witnesses, or those whose professional aims cut across police work, came here. Anyone placed in Three could be in no doubt what the police thought of them.

  Lucy was pretty much standing guard at the door.

  ‘Ms Delaney.’ He mock-saluted. ‘We could get you a bearskin hat for sentry duty, if you think it would help.’

  Lucy gave it genuine consideration. ‘I’d prefer a red hat, to match my eyes. I thought he might be a potential runner. I can’t run, but I love tripping up those who can.’ She jerked her head at the closed door. ‘He was less than impressed by me. Imagine that.’

  ‘I physically cannot imagine that.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘You read that forensics update really thoroughly, didn’t you, Mikey? Lists and all?’

  ‘I hear ya. I was super-diligent, Luce, have no fear.’ Mike glanced in through the window. ‘Do I need a password? I’ll go with “let’s kill all the lawyers”.’

  She pushed off the wall she’d been leaning against. ‘The Bard knew what’s what. All yours, Mikey.’ She threw a final comment over her shoulder. ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands before you come back to the office.’

  He grinned at her departing back but knew she wasn’t entirely joking. Her loathing for lawyers was entrenched for some reason. He’d never found that reason.

  Spencer Lynch was flicking the edge of a silver business card with a manicured nail. His watch, Mike noticed, was so expensive it was surely one of those that was ‘looked after for the next generation’, rather than owned.

  ‘You drive a 5-series, am I right?’ Mike strode straight into it, extending a hand for a pumped greeting that suggested a mutual admiration team was about to form.

  ‘I would be impressed, Detective, but you no doubt have access to the vehicle register.’

  Lynch’s voice was like warm chocolate. Mike predicted it would slide down easily with about half the judges in the region; the other half would gag on it. He therefore estimated that Lynch won around half the time. Divorce lawyers were like baseball players – anything above thirty per cent was a good hit rate.

  ‘Ah, haven’t checked that source, to be honest. I’m Detective Mike Francis. Thank you for coming in at such short notice.’

  Lynch took a seat, smoothing down his tie and pinching his trousers to retain the perfect seam. ‘I was told to. In no uncertain terms. By a woman who let me believe she was a detective but turns out to be some kind of, uh, secretary.’

  The final word seemed to imply that Lucy’s occupation was somehow catching and wouldn’t respond to antibiotics.

  Mike breezed through it. ‘Ah, she’s a force of nature, that girl. When she’s full on, few can resist. Look, I know you’re anxious to get back to something billable, so if you can give me a couple of answers, we’ll get done as fast as possible. Deal, counsellor?’

  Lynch gave a smug inclination of the head.

  ‘So, Megan Cassavette. I’ve only seen photos. Do they do her justice?’

  Lynch smirked. Mike reminded himself to keep his composure; easy to flail about and drown in this much oil.

  ‘She’s a very attractive woman, Detective. Occupational hazard of being a divorce lawyer. You meet the good and bad.’

  ‘A little like my job, Spencer. Can I call you Spencer? I mean, we both meet people of all sorts, often at the worst moments of their lives, and at their most vulnerable.’

  Lynch crossed his legs, inching the chair back as he did so to ensure no part of his bespoke tailoring touched a police table. ‘I’m their lawyer, but often they want a . . . human touch.’

  Mike crossed his arms and gave a level gaze. ‘Must be a tricky balance, Spence, what with your iron-clad code of ethics.’

  Lynch tried to control a flicker but he had a slight blink that would lose him a fortune at poker. A little unlucky for a negotiator of divorce spoils, Mike thought.

  ‘Oh?’ Lynch asked. ‘Is there a point to this line of questioning?’

  Mike jabbed at the file with an index finger. ‘Witness: saw your BMW Fiver driving away from Megan Cassavette’s early this morning. It’s been seen near there many times before. The rubbish can on the corner of the lawn – that’s the signal, yeah?’

  Lynch’s embarrassment rose from collar to scalp in two seconds.

  ‘House-to-house, Spence. Apparently mundane and random. Actually, carefully planned and nearly always useful. We’re very diligent about that sort of thing.’

  Mike paused. Lynch coughed and glowed red, like a ripe apple.

  ‘We searched the Cassavette house: used bed sheets in the washing machine. We called on Megan before she could switch it on. Sheets still . . . moist.’ Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘Care to bet your lucrative career against the DNA lab? My money’s on the lab.’

  ‘I . . . we . . . is that a crime? I suppose no detective ever slept with someone other than his wife?’

  If he was hoping to guilt Mike into backing down, he’d misjudged. Mike was squeaky clean in that department; he radiated the confidence of a loyal person with a strong marriage. Not something Lynch was necessarily used to seeing.

  ‘Isn’t Megan your client, Spence? Aren’t you in a professional business relationship? Duty of care, code of ethics, position of trust, appropriate behaviour – all that stuff?’

  Mike saw Lynch hesitate. Presumably he was about to launch into some diatribe about how they were both men of the world, how these things happen, how Megan would be hard for anyone to turn down, how he would ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Then he saw Mike’s face and gave up that option as a very bad idea.

  ‘Look, Detective . . .’

  ‘When did you arrive at Megan’s house?’

  ‘What? Is this an alibi check? What?’

  ‘I’ll know if you’re lying, Spence. You have a tell, by the way. Once we’re done here, I’ll explain it to you. For now, it makes lying very foolish. Timescale, counsellor.’

  ‘Uh, around midnight. Meg made sure Lou was definitely out all night. Then she . . . well.’

  ‘Hardly the Bat Signal, is it? For future reference: if a woman puts out the rubbish can on random nights when there’s no collection, and then someone who isn’t her husband turns up late at night? Gets noticed. House-to-house lives for stuff like that: cheery anecdotes, cheesy anecdotes.’ Mike cupped a hand to his ear. ‘If we’re both really quiet, you can probably hear the laughter from the canteen.’

  ‘Look, I admit it. Me and Meg, we’ve been seeing each other for a few months. We try to, well, be discreet.’

  ‘Oh, sure. We wouldn’t want her husband to be upset, right?’

  ‘That’s over in all but name. I should know, Detective. See?’

  ‘Yeah, I see. I’m trying to work out who’s using who the most, to be honest. I mean, she’s literally getting your services, uh, pro bono.’

  Lynch frowned. ‘That’s crude.’

  Mike nodded in agreement. ‘It’s crude but in Latin, so it doesn’t count. Spence, have you ever met Lou Cassavett
e?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mike flicked through a couple of pages in the file, ran a finger down a list. ‘That’s strange, because we found your fingerprints in Lou’s store. On a shelf, near the sweeties. One of twenty-odd we’ve already sussed. Care to explain?’

  Lynch’s eyes widened.

  ‘I can’t . . . there’s no way. I mean, I . . .’

  ‘You what? Wore gloves, like a forensically aware legal expert? Took special precautions? What?’

  ‘How would you even have my prints?’

  Mike shrugged. ‘As a lawyer in this state, they’d be on file until you officially retire. In case you accidentally handle evidence, for example. Don’t you recall giving them when you first qualified? That rule came in twenty years ago, Spence.’

  ‘I, uh.’ Lynch held up his hands. ‘I wasn’t lying, Detective. I’ve never actually met Lou.’

  He paused. Lynch had been a defamation lawyer before he started swimming in the infinity pool of divorce. Mike felt Spence would like to be on his feet about now, pacing, before leaning in a folksy way towards one of the jurors – the one his assistant had picked out as the most malleable. Rooted to a chair like this, he was robbed of his sleek body language.

  ‘Last week – Thursday, actually – I was driving back from a meeting and I went past the place. I was . . . curious. A piece of me wanted to observe Lou: all I’ve ever had is Meg’s take on him. He doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground. So I thought I could, you know, take a peek.’

  Spence shook his head and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘And then I had a stupid idea that maybe I could talk to him, or whatever. Crazy. I was brave until I got in the store. Then I thought how utterly brainless it was, and what Meg would think of it. I pictured her expression if I told her I’d chatted to Lou and . . . so I left. Never saw him. Bought some chocolate so they wouldn’t think I was a shoplifter.’