James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘Believe me, I know what it’s like to pass through the hurricane.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I guess we’ll have to agree to differ, then.’

‘Anderton tells me you spoke to Eric Kirchner yesterday, and that you tried to speak to David Hammond. Is that why you’re here? You want me to describe what it felt like to kill Isabella?’

‘Actually, I was hoping you’d tell me how you two met.’

That stopped him in his tracks. ‘And how will that help to catch her killer?’

‘Something about the victims resonated with this guy. He didn’t choose them at random. Because Isabella was his first, that resonance would have been stronger with her than it was with the other two victims. She was the catalyst for turning fantasy into reality. If we can work out how she appeared on his radar, then we can catch him. The more I know about Isabella, the more chance there is of that happening.’

Sobek picked up a flask and nodded a question. Winter nodded an answer. The coffee was strong and bitter. No sugar, but he drank it anyway. The smell of coffee wafted between them for a second before being picked up by the breeze and blown away to nothing.

‘Isabella applied for a job at my company. I was looking for a new PA. I still remember the moment I first saw her. The door opened and there she was, the most beautiful woman I’d ever set eyes on. Have you ever wanted someone so much that it feels like your heart is being cut from your chest?’

Winter shook his head. ‘I can’t say I have.’

‘Well, up until that point, neither had I. But that’s what it felt like.’

‘Did she get the job?’

‘Of course she did. It took a month before she would agree to have dinner with me. Eight months later we were married. And two years after that she was dead.’

Winter drank some coffee and went back over what Sobek had just said. It sounded plausible, but it didn’t sound like the whole truth. He thought about Isabella being a possession, something for Sobek to own.

‘When you hired Isabella she was seeing someone, wasn’t she?’

‘She was,’ Sobek replied carefully.

‘Which would have made her all the more attractive. After all, it’s the forbidden fruit that tastes sweetest. So how did you get the boyfriend out of the equation? You couldn’t just leave things alone and hope that they’d split up. That’s too passive. And you wouldn’t have been happy having an affair because you needed the world to see that you owned her. And you couldn’t just buy the boyfriend off because he might have told Isabella, and then she wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with you. My guess is you framed him.’

‘Watch what you’re saying. This is my wife you’re talking about.’

‘What’s interesting about that statement is that you haven’t refuted what I said.’

Sobek stared and said nothing.

‘If you see something you want, you’ve got to have it, right? Whatever it takes. Planes, cars, houses. Women. So how did you frame him? If I were in your position, I’d make it look as though he was having an affair, and then I’d arrange it so that Isabella found out.’

‘You’re wrong.’

Winter noted the slight tightening of his jaw. It was the tiniest of tells, but a tell nonetheless.

‘There was a white van parked near the entrance to the cemetery. I’m assuming that it has something to do with you. How many people have you hired to watch the cemetery?’

Sobek’s jaw tightened again. Tiny twitches of the muscles. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Serial killers like to visit their victims’ graves,’ Winter said. ‘It gives them an opportunity to relive the crimes. The anniversary of the murder is the optimal time for these visits because emotions are that much higher. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? This has nothing to do with honouring the memory of your wife, and everything to do with drawing the killer out. Seeing you at the gravesite would really give those memories an extra charge.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘Yesterday we agreed to play straight with one another. It’s time to fess up.’

For a moment Sobek said nothing. This silence was different, though. It was a pause for breath rather than an evasion. He sipped some coffee and looked at the stone angel guarding his wife’s grave. ‘There are private investigators watching all of the cemetery entrances. I’ve also got investigators watching the cemeteries where Alicia Kirchner and Lian Hammond are buried.’

‘And what happens if the killer turns up?’

Sobek smiled. ‘If that happens I’ll do my civic duty and make a citizen’s arrest, and then I’ll hand him over to the police.’

‘What happens if he resists arrest?’

‘Then I will match his resistance with whatever force I deem necessary.’

‘And whose face do you see when you’re using the punching bag in your gym?’

‘I can control my emotions.’

‘Of that I have no doubt. What I would question is how much you might want to control them.’

Sobek said nothing.

‘You know,’ Winter went on, ‘the most helpful thing you could do right now is keep out of the way and let everyone do their jobs. The last thing this investigation needs is a vigilante running amok.’

‘That sounds like good advice,’ Sobek replied sarcastically. ‘I’ll take it on advisement.’

Winter placed his cup on the ground and stood up to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘I’m expecting regular updates throughout the course of the day.’

‘I’m sure that Anderton will be happy to provide them for you.’

Winter walked away without looking back. His phone buzzed when he was in sight of the main gates. He took it out. The ten voicemails from Anderton covered the time he’d been with Sobek. The grave must have been in a dead spot. Literally and figuratively. Winter played the first message. The signal kept breaking up but he was able to hear enough.

Another bomb . . .

A kid . . . ten years old . . .

Call me now.

He found Anderton’s number and connected the call.

Then he started running.

There were four news trucks already on Spencer Avenue, technicians and reporters buzzing around them. The largest was black with Global BC’s logo on the sides. Charlotte Delaney was standing beside it, giving orders, arms jerking to emphasise whatever point she was making. She was smaller than Winter remembered, as though being away from the studio had somehow shrunk her.

Barriers blocked off the road on the other side of the news trucks, and beyond that police vehicles were parked nose to tail. Cruisers, vans, SUVs. The house was twenty yards further on. It was cosy looking, with crimson cladding and a tidy tree-lined front yard. Two bedrooms, probably. Certainly no more. According to Anderton, this was where Myra Hooper had lived with her ten-year-old son, Cody. It was Cody who detonated the bomb. Myra and her husband were separated.

There were ten cops in uniform on the far side of the barrier, and eight plainclothes detectives. Freeman would already be in the house. He’d want a ringside seat. For now there was only a handful of people watching, neighbours for the most part, curiosity getting the better of them. As the news spread, the crowd would grow.

Winter settled up with the cab driver, gave him a healthy tip for breaking the speed limit, then got out. He wasted no time getting into Anderton’s Mercedes. Delaney’s attention was focussed on what was happening on the other side of the barriers, but she could turn around at any moment. The last thing he wanted was to talk to her. It was early days. Information would be scarce and she’d be looking for anything she could get hold of to pad out the story. For a moment he gazed out of the windshield, hypnotised by the scene. Like ants in an ant farm, he thought, everyone scurrying around and keeping busy.