James Carol: The Quiet Man

‘All this security, it’s like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

‘Maybe so, but nobody’s broken in during the last three years. On that basis you could argue that it’s having the desired effect.’

They descended the stairs in single file, Anderton still leading the way. The stairway was the same width as the basement door, the roof low, which made it feel claustrophobic. They could have been descending into an old Cold War bomb shelter, or a dungeon. At the bottom, two corridors split off left and right. Anderton turned left. They passed another two doors, both closed, both made of brushed steel.

‘Since the murder, this is where Sobek has been living,’ Anderton said. ‘He’s got a bedroom, a kitchen and an office down here. He’s even got a firing range.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

Anderton shook her head. ‘I’m totally serious. The person who owned the house before Sobek was a bowling fanatic. He had a lane built down here. When Sobek bought it, he had all the machinery ripped out and converted it into a firing lane.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘He shoots better than I do. I’ve seen him hit the bullseye six times out of six.’

‘What’s the deal with the rest of the house?’

‘Everything up there is exactly how it was when his wife died. Sobek hasn’t changed a thing. It’s like some sort of shrine.’ Anderton glanced over her shoulder. ‘I told you he was strange.’

The corridor ended at a steel door that was identical to the ones they’d already passed. Anderton went straight in without knocking. The gym was fully kitted out, the equipment arranged neatly. There was a treadmill, an exercise bike, a cross-trainer and a multigym. A punching bag hung from a steel plate bolted to the ceiling. Martial arts weapons were displayed on a large board fixed to one wall.

Sobek was lying on the bench press, pumping iron. The amount he was lifting equated to an Anderton, maybe even one and a half Andertons. Each time he pushed up he let out a long, loud grunt. His arm muscles were bulging and the tendons in his neck were as taut as piano wires. He was in his mid-thirties with a full beard and piercing brown eyes. He did two more pushes then sat up and pulled his ponytail straight. It was straggly and shiny with sweat, and fell down to his shoulders. His face was red and he was taking deep, measured breaths.

He stripped off his T-shirt, grabbed a towel and started patting himself dry. He had good muscle definition on his arms and chest, and the full six pack. He hadn’t gone overboard, though. Working out was clearly an obsession, but he was a long way from being a steroid-enhanced freak show. There was a small key on a chain around his neck. Both hands were wrapped up with white boxer’s tape that had turned grey at the knuckles from where he’d been pummelling the punching bag. The T-shirt he put on was identical to the one he’d taken off. Plain and black. He dumped the towel on the back of a chair and walked over to Winter. For a moment, he just stood there staring.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you think I murdered my wife?’

Sobek was still staring, waiting for an answer to his question. If this was an attempt at intimidation, it wasn’t working. Winter had played this particular game with men a lot scarier than Sobek. While he was with the FBI he’d interviewed dozens of serial criminals. He’d come face-to-face with the worst of the worst. To survive those sorts of encounters you had to develop a thick skin. That said, he wasn’t about to underestimate Sobek. He knew a predator when he saw one. Sobek stared for a couple of seconds more, then blinked. Winter took this as his cue.

‘The police don’t think you killed her,’ he said. ‘At the time of Alicia Kirchner’s murder you were visiting your wife’s grave. The same goes for last year when Lian Hammond was murdered. Witnesses place you in the cemetery on both occasions. They say you were there for the whole day, so, unless you paid them off, that’s a fairly substantial alibi.’

‘I do have alibis for Alicia and Lian’s murders. However, I don’t have one for Isabella’s. There are plenty of theories flying around for how I might have done it. There’s even a website: www.sobekkilledhiswife.com.’

‘I’ve seen it. Do you know my favourite theory? You killed your wife, then the next year you hired a contract killer to kill Alicia. The reason the MO was the same was because you were able to supply the killer with the details.’

‘And the following year, I was supposed to have paid him to kill Lian.’

‘And this year you’re going to pay him again to take someone else out.’

‘Do you know how crazy that sounds?’ Sobek asked.

‘I’ve heard crazier.’

‘I loved my wife. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about her. She’s in my thoughts every minute of every hour.’

‘Was that why you kept having affairs? One police report classed you as a serial philanderer. I prefer alley cat. That’s closer to the mark, don’t you think?’

‘We had our problems, but we were working through them.’

‘Was this before or after Isabella had her affair? That must have pissed you off. I mean, it’s okay for you to screw around, but there’s no way it would have been okay for her to do the same.’

Sobek didn’t respond straight away. He took a long breath. It was easy to imagine him doing a slow count to ten. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Do you think I killed my wife?’

Winter swept an imaginary dust speck from the multigym, then sat down. This was the cleanest gym he’d ever seen. He was looking up at Sobek now, but wasn’t concerned about handing him the high ground. The fact that he didn’t feel the need to keep hold of it was a power play in itself.

‘The police spent a lot of time, energy and resources digging into your background,’ he said. ‘The picture that gets painted is of someone who was obsessed with making money and didn’t care who they destroyed in pursuit of that goal. But let’s face it, you’re not going to earn a fortune trading stocks by playing nice. You screwed your customers, you screwed around, basically you screwed everyone you came into contact with. All that mattered was making a buck. If Gordon Gekko had been real he would have been first in line to shake your hand and welcome you to the club.’

‘People can change.’

‘In my experience they don’t change that much.’

‘And I’m telling you they can. When Isabella died I was forced to face up to some unpleasant truths about myself. But I faced up to them, and I sincerely believe that I’m a better person for having gone through that process.’

‘That’s good to hear, but I don’t care about your past. All I care about is that you play straight with me. Can you do that?’

‘Of course.’

Sobek was staring again. ‘So, do you think that I murdered my wife?’

‘No, I don’t.’

He dipped his head slightly. ‘Thank you for your honesty.’

‘Okay, my turn. That key around your neck, what does it open?’

Sobek led them back up to the entrance hall and took the corridor on the opposite side of the staircase. The door at the far end had a large padlock attached to it. After all the high-tech security measures, it seemed oddly out of place, more a symbolic gesture than any sort of security precaution. You could jimmy it off with a crowbar in two seconds flat. A person who was halfway competent with a lock pick could crack it in five. Sobek took the key from around his neck and unlocked the padlock. He pushed the door open then stepped aside.

Winter and Anderton went inside. Sobek didn’t. He was watching them from the doorway, his eyes following their every move. The blinds were drawn and the furniture made dim shapes in the gloom. Winter flicked on the light. By the looks of things, nothing had changed since the police moved out. There was evidence of the explosion wherever he looked. Chairs lay toppled on their sides. The walls, woodwork and floor tiles were all stained black. When he closed his eyes he could imagine the smell. The Fourth of July tainted by the stink of charred meat. The kitchen was coated with a thin layer of dust and fingerprint powder. The place where Isabella had fallen was marked with chalk that had grown faint over the years.