Again, a lot of people use Casperton Autos. Whatever else he may be, Lunk is a fine mechanic and his rates are way more reasonable than the dealerships on the edge of town.

‘Did you have a chance to look at the accounts of Casperton Autos?’

Alfonse and I exchange knowing glances at the chief’s question. Like everything else about Lunk, his accounts will be a mess. It would surprise me if his accounts are on paper let alone a computer.

Any bill I’ve ever had from him was handwritten on cheap paper headed with nothing more than a variety of oily fingerprints. For minor jobs like new tyres or an exhaust, he’d pull a number out of his head and I’d pay cash without ever seeing a check. I’m sure the IRS are long overdue an investigation into his accounts, but that, quite literally, is his business.

‘What about you, Boulder? What have you learned today?’

I tell them of my day, the visits to the grieving families and the hour I spent with Dr Edwards.

He listens without interrupting, the pen in his hand scratching out notes onto the cluttered desk pad. His scrawled handwriting follows no logical pattern or direction. Notes are jotted at random points of the compass, the text assuming whichever direction his hand finds easiest. How he makes sense of it is beyond me, but it must work for him – he’s too experienced not to have learned the best way to work.

When I finish he lays down his pen with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve learned more from you two than I have from any four of my detectives.’

There’s nothing we can say to this so we stay quiet waiting for him to continue.

‘You mentioned Evie Starr’s family were adamant she was loved by all who knew her. It’s a cliché, I know, but did you get any feeling they were looking through rose-tinted glasses?’

‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I spoke to one of her neighbours as well. She was always the first to contribute to bake sales or to help others whenever they needed it. She was so popular the kids in the neighbourhood called her Auntie Evie.’

The chief kneads both temples at once.

Now we’ve given him his information, it’s time for him to reciprocate. ‘Have you heard anything from the CSI team?’

He nods and consults the mess of scribbles on his desk pad. ‘They found everything we expected them to and nothing we didn’t.’

I know what he means. What had happened in her house was pretty obvious, but still we’d had an idea or two, which may help the CSI team get us a suspect, our best theory being the killer may have removed his gloves to wash the blood off her body.

‘Did they find any fingerprints in the shower?’

‘Only hers. The shower controls all had partial prints, which had been smudged. Piers, who was the lead investigator, said it’s typical of what happens when someone wearing gloves touches something.’

The fact I was expecting this news doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

‘What else did they find?’

Again the chief’s fingers reach for his temples. ‘Nothing that tells us anything new. Everything they told me just confirms what we suspected.’

‘What about how he got her from the house to the reservoir?’

‘There were no tyre tracks in her driveway other than the ones from her own car. A shed at the back of the house was found to have its lock broken.’

A thought hits me. ‘Did you find the keys for her car?’

‘I didn’t know we were supposed to look for them.’

‘A dime says you don’t find them anywhere you’d expect them to be.’ The chief scowls so I keep going. ‘I’m guessing he used her car to drive to the reservoir. The broken lock on the shed is too coincidental not to be connected. Therefore, I figure he stole a wheelbarrow from the shed to carry her from the car to the bench. Once she is in place he takes the car back and walks away.’

‘Goddamn it, I think you’re on to something. If you’re right it explains why the neighbours didn’t see any strange vehicles in the area.’ He points at me. ‘You’ve been at the house – you’ve seen how easy it would be to approach from the back without being seen.’

He reaches for the telephone on his desk. Dialling a number from memory, he waits for an answer then barks out a series of instructions. Whoever is on the other end of the line is left in little doubt of how quick the chief wants them to act.

Ending the call, he turns to me. ‘That tyre print you found. I’ll bet a week’s salary it was the killer dumping the wheelbarrow into the reservoir.’

I’ve had the same thought. ‘Do you know anyone with diving equipment who can find out for you?’

A malicious gleam twinkles in his eye. ‘Lieutenant Farrage is always talking about pool parties. I’m sure he’ll be able to swim down a few feet and find out if we’re right.’

As much as I hold Farrage in the contempt he deserves, I don’t envy him the task of having to swim into the cold depths of the reservoir. Down below the surface in the shade of the trees there will be murky blackness, indistinct shapes and the pressure of the water squeezing his body.

The water will push at his closed mouth, trying to force a way into his lungs. If it finds no entry there, it will refocus its attention on his nostrils. Whatever other faults he may have, Farrage will earn my respect if he can propel himself into the depths and find the wheelbarrow.

‘Here.’ The chief passes a folder to me and one to Alfonse. ‘I got these reports just before you arrived. I haven’t had time read them myself yet.’

All three of us read in silence. It doesn’t take long to go through the pages. Not only are there few details to consider, but the detectives have shown their laziness by only recording the barest information in the briefest way possible.

I expect their training will have taught them to record only the pertinent facts using the fewest words possible, but their idleness has progressed to new levels, thereby robbing the reports of any character. Not once is a theory offered forward, there’s just fact after fact delivered as a series of bullet points.

There are statements from the young couple who found Evie Starr and the report from the CSI team who’d examined the dump site.

Nothing my eyes land on does anything more than confirm what I already know or suspect.

The chief slaps his papers onto the desk and glares at us. ‘Nothing. That’s what I get from these – absolutely nothing. Tell me you’ve got something.’

Alfonse shakes his head while I remain still and silent.

‘You found something, Boulder?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what it is.’

‘Figure quickly.’ Yet again the chief’s hands stray to his temples. ‘I want you to focus on the two women. The more I think about it, the less I believe Johnson’s murder is connected to the others.’

I disagree with his way of thinking, but I’m aware he has more experience than me when it comes to hunting killers. Besides, unlike Farrage and his cronies, I don’t have to follow his every order.

The chief looks at his watch. ‘We’ll meet here at noon unless something breaks through the night. If you think of anything, call me, regardless of the time.’

44

I get home and settle into my recliner with the reports. The thought nagging at me hasn’t come into bloom yet, but I intend to read them as often as necessary until it steps forward and identifies itself.

Finding a rhythm, I pour over page after page until I’ve read every report twice.

Inspiration eludes me as I try to reshape my questions to fit the knowledge accumulated so far.

I make some notes which I score out when I realise other facts refute their validity.

No matter which way I approach the problem it stays resolute, defiant of my attempts to solve it.