“He warns me about people.”
“What does he say?”
“He says they’re trying to poison me.”
“What people?”
“It’s in the air.”
“Why did you really go to the farmhouse, Augie?”
“To get my wages.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Augie puts his bandaged hands together, as though pleading with me. A flush on the back of his neck spreads to his hairline.
“God will judge me if I’m lying.”
“God can’t help you now.”
“He can. He must.”
“Why?”
“Who else is going to stop the devil?”
Drury’s office is on the second floor. No posters. Minimal furniture. I expect to see commendations and photographs on the walls, but instead he has a whiteboard with timelines, names and photographs—a murder tree as opposed to a family tree.
Condensation beads the window and tiny splinters of ice seem to be trapped within the glass. The DCI leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, brushing lint from his trousers.
“So what do you make of him?”
“He’s delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”
“You diagnosed that in an hour?”
“I diagnosed that in five minutes.”
Drury drains a plastic bottle of water, tossing it towards the bin. “How do I interview him?”
“Right now he’s locked into damage control. He’s strong physically but not psychologically. Keep the sessions short with plenty of breaks. Don’t hammer certain points—let him reveal the story in his own way. If he gets upset, let him retreat. Treat him like a victim not a perpetrator.”
“Will he confess?”
“He’s saying he didn’t do it.”
“But that’s bullshit, right?”
“He’s hiding something but I don’t know what that is.”
Fierceness fills the detective’s eyes and he looks at me with a mixture of impatience and irritation. He gets up, walks round the desk, his body humming with tension.
“It was the worst blizzard in a century yet this kid drives a mile through the storm. I think he went there for revenge. He was obsessed with the daughter. He was angry about being sacked. We can put him at the scene. He had the motive and the opportunity.”
“Whoever did this didn’t panic. They tried to destroy any evidence with bleach and fire. This is organized thinking. Higher intellect. That doesn’t sound like Augie Shaw.”
“How did his hands get burned?”
“He tried to save her.”
“He fled the scene.”
“He panicked.”
The DCI has heard enough. “This is bullshit! Augie Shaw murdered the husband and then raped the wife. He wanted revenge. He killed those poor people and I’m going to prove it.” Drury opens the door. “Thanks for your help, Professor. I’ll have a car drop you back to your hotel.”
I pick up my jacket and look at my shoes. A line of mud has dried on the leather uppers above the sole.
“Didn’t something about the scene strike you as odd?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“The Heymans weren’t drinkers. The only alcohol they had in the house was that bottle of Scotch. It was sitting on the mantelpiece, freshly opened.”
“So?”
“You don’t open a twenty-year-old single malt for a man you’ve just sacked.”
“It was cold. The power was out. Maybe the Heymans wanted a tipple.”
“There were three mugs. Only one of them smelled of Scotch.”
“What’s your point?”
“There was a blanket on the floor in front of the fire. Somebody was sitting near the hearth, getting warm. Drying her shoes. Ballet flats. Size six. Mother and daughter are both size eight.”
Drury is listening now. We’re walking down the corridor towards the lifts.
“A dress in the laundry tub was two sizes too small for Mrs. Heyman.”
“Maybe her daughter—”
“Is a size 12. I looked in her wardrobe.”
“I still don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”
“Somebody ran a bath upstairs. There was an extra towel. The bathroom window was broken.”
“You’re ignoring the obvious and fixating on an extra towel and a dress size.”
“What about the missing dog?”
“It ran away from the fire. Died in the blizzard.”
There is a long pause: an uncomfortable silence. Drury presses the lift button impatiently. A small vein on his forehead is beating out a tattoo.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” I ask.
He smiles wryly. “That’s a benefit of reaching my rank. I don’t have to like people.”