I Am Pilgrim(145)

There was no answer to the bell and Cumali opened the door with her pass key. Inside, it was as gloomy as ever and, though I hadn’t been in this part of the house, I led them through a baronial dining room and into the library. The only thing that had changed since the previous evening was that the curtains had been drawn and I assumed that, after I left, Cameron had spent time in the room with the memory of her dead husband. Unless, of course, I really had heard a door close and whoever else was in the house had come and sat in the library for the evening.

I drew the curtains back, let the light flood in and turned to face the four Turkish cops. ‘I told Detective Cumali that I don’t believe Dodge was alone on the night he died. I think a visitor came into this room – somebody he knew.’

‘How did they get on to the estate?’ the guy I was calling Officer asked belligerently. Typical.

Frightened we were going to waste time down that rabbit hole, I went back at him just as hard. ‘Go with it for a minute – assume the visitor knew how to beat the system, say he knew a place where the cameras didn’t mesh, figure he found a way over the wall, think anything right now. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Okay, hurry up then,’ said one of the gumshoes.

I ignored him. ‘The lights are off, the curtains are open – it said so in the crime-scene report.’ I pointed at the leather armchair. ‘The two of them are here – the visitor standing, Dodge sitting next to his stash. He’s on a binge and he’s not leaving.

‘But the visitor’s got a plan – he’s going to induce Dodge to go down to the gazebo then tip him over the cliff.’

‘What does he say to get him down there?’ the officer interrupted.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

‘Sheesh – what do you know?’

‘I know that while the visitor is speaking to him, the fireworks start,’ I said. ‘It begins with a white star exploding over the headland. Everybody says it was huge—’

‘Yeah, you could have seen it in Istanbul,’ the other gumshoe offered. I smiled politely – Istanbul was five hundred miles away.

‘But that was the one thing the killer hadn’t thought about,’ I continued. ‘The nature of fireworks.’

The cops all looked at each other – what was the FBI idiot talking about now? Fireworks were fireworks.

At least I had their undivided attention. ‘To be bright enough to be seen in Istanbul, it would have contained shredded magnesium. That’s common in big fireworks – for a moment, it turns night into day. That’s why old-time photographers used it in their flashguns.’

‘Look,’ Cumali said. ‘Fireworks, magnesium – does this mean anything?’ It got a chorus of agreement from the others.

‘It means we’ve got a flash and we’ve got a subject – Dodge and his visitor,’ I replied. ‘All we need is film.’

I pointed at the two huge mirrors next to the fireplace. ‘Mirrors are glass backed with a coating of silver nitrate. What is silver nitrate? It’s another name for film stock – it’s exactly what they once used in movie cameras.’

Nobody said a word; they just stared, trying to compute it.

‘It was all here,’ I said. ‘A flash. A subject. Film. I believe we’ve got a photograph of whoever was in this room. I think it’s imprinted on the back of the mirrors.’

Still they said nothing, continuing to look at me in disbelief. I can’t say I blamed them – even I thought it was pretty wild.

Cumali recovered first. ‘Just to be clear – you think you’re going to “develop” the mirrors?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Where – One-hour Photo?’

I smiled but, before I could respond, the officer launched in. ‘This is ridiculous – photographs on the back of mirrors,’ he sneered. ‘We’re wasting our time,’ and he motioned to the others to head out. He probably had some criminals he needed to shake down.

I couldn’t help it, I turned on him. I’ve never had much stomach for corruption. ‘Why do you say it’s ridiculous? Because it’s never been done before? The FBI are the guardians of the best crime lab in the world, you hear me? The best. We’re accustomed to pioneering things. How would you know what’s ridiculous and what isn’t?’

The spark in his pudgy eyes and the curl of his lip told me I had made an enemy for life. I didn’t care. Before things spiralled down any further, my phone went again and, glancing at the screen, I saw that it was an Italian number.

‘That’ll be the Uffizi Gallery in Florence,’ I told them. ‘I’m going to ask for their help in recovering the image.’