Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Were you expecting us, Professor?’ asked McQuarry.

‘Expecting you?’ inquired Sorenson angelically.

‘The coffee cups all laid out, sir,’ explained McQuarry, not taking her gaze from him.

Sorenson beamed mechanically. ‘I’m always prepared for guests, Agent McQuarry. Now what can I do for you? Have you found my car?’

‘Car?’ The agents exchanged a knowing glance.

‘Yes, my beloved Dodge Ram 250. Stolen in South Lake Tahoe. Outside Safeway of all places.’

‘The FBI don’t make house calls over stolen vehicles, sir,’ put in Drexler.

Sorenson chuckled, with a tinge of feigned guilt. ‘Of course not. Stupid of me. Then why are you here?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

‘We were hoping you could provide some information about an employee of yours. George Bailey.’ Drexler dropped in the question effortlessly and waited for the reaction.

For a few seconds, Sorenson said nothing but merely looked from one to the other. The music came to an end but another piece started up immediately. Drexler didn’t know it.

‘Faure’s Requiem,’ said Sorenson, waving a hand at the French window. ‘Imagine listening to this as you die. How would that be?’

‘A good way to enter the next world,’ replied Drexler, before he’d given himself time to think.

Sorenson’s eyebrow raised and his mocking smile intensi-fied. ‘The next world?’ Drexler’s smile turned to stone and he berated himself again — another free piece of information. ‘I wouldn’t have thought someone familiar with the works of Albert Camus would have believed in the next world.’ Sorenson’s smile disappeared. ‘After all, death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death.’

Drexler nodded, the anticipation rising in him. Sorenson may have seen him looking at his book, but the phrase he’d just quoted was Wittgenstein, not Camus. He racked his brains to finish the passage. ‘Eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.’

‘A good philosophy, Special Agent.’ Sorenson stared into Drexler’s eyes. His dead-eyed grin was unnerving.

Drexler looked over at McQuarry, but she seemed not to have registered her partner’s excitement.

Drexler tried to figure it. The way he’d floundered, everything he’d said to Sorenson since they’d arrived, even the faint glance of recognition at Sorenson’s reading material had been logged, had handed their host an advantage. But despite all that, and under no pressure, Sorenson had made a coded confession to Drexler, had revealed knowledge of Wittgenstein that told Drexler he was the killer they sought. Not a confession for a judge and jury maybe but, sure as eggs is eggs, Sorenson had killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell.

Drexler narrowed his eyes. But why give it up so easily? As an opponent, Sorenson was holding a good hand. Opponent. Is that what he was? Yes, like this was a game. If the notion weren’t so absurd he could have sworn that hidden away behind the mask of civility, Victor Sorenson was like a child with a new toy, unable to hide his glee. Drexler was desperate to glance over at McQuarry to see if she’d read him the same way, but was unable to unlock his gaze from Sorenson’s lifeless, black eyes.

‘Drexler? Drexler?’ said Sorenson, suddenly taut with concentration. ‘Why do I know that name?’ Drexler stiffened and looked over at his partner. Sorenson must have read about the Board of Inquiry’s report in the papers. Drexler sipped at his coffee and tried to regain some equilibrium. It was cold.

‘We’re here to talk about George Bailey, sir,’ insisted McQuarry, tapping a diversionary finger on the glass table.

Their host smiled but this time it was a sad expression, suffused with unexpected tenderness. ‘George. You’ve found him, then?’

McQuarry sat up straight. ‘Found him?’

‘He’s missing, is he not?’

Drexler smiled at the overemphasis of the present tense. Their host was trying a little too hard to avoid a timeless trap, one that they hadn’t even set. It was odd. Whichever way the conversation turned, Sorenson was trying his best to encourage suspicion with his manner. Usually suspects tried to feign sincerity and deflect further inquiry and although they frequently failed, at least they tried.

‘You know he is, sir. You reported it. Would you care to remind us of the circumstances?’

Sorenson nodded. ‘George was on holiday — vacation, sorry — for a month. He’d been out here in California for a couple of years, helping to set up the American end of the business. Sorenson Pharmaceuticals. One of my best people and also a friend. It was a big wrench for them to come out here, what with two young daughters. But they loved it, once they’d settled. He didn’t get much of a break the first two years so he wanted to make up for it. The family had always wanted to see what your astonishing country has to offer, particularly California, so they packed their gear into a Volkswagen camper van and set off … Yosemite, Death Valley, Big Sur, the Mojave. For the final week they were supposed to be coming here to my house as my guests. I was in LA on business and as I say, George was a good friend…’

‘Was?’ said McQuarry.

Sorenson took a sip of his inky black coffee. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Please don’t patronise me. You’re not from the local Tahoe office. You’ve come all the way from Sacramento to pay me a visit and there can only be one reason.’ McQuarry and Drexler stayed silent to confirm Sorenson’s speculation. ‘So it’s true. Tell me.’

‘We’ve found the body of George Bailey, his wife and one of his daughters.’

Sorenson nodded. ‘I see. How were they killed?’

‘Shot in the head,’ said Drexler.

‘Mother and daughter were raped,’ added McQuarry to Drexler’s surprise. The details seemed unnecessary but perhaps she had reason, perhaps she was searching for a careless response, an unguarded word. ‘And the little girl was tortured.’

Sorenson hung his head. ‘Poor Tania. Poor…’ he stopped abruptly and looked up at McQuarry with a raised eyebrow.

‘We believe the girl’s body is his youngest — Sally.’ He looked away and shook his head. ‘Poor little thing.’ ‘Being from England their dental records are problematic and we wondered if you’d know about next of kin. For the purpose of identification, you understand,’ added McQuarry.

Sorenson closed his black eyes in tribute, an unscheduled moment of near silence. But the music played on.

‘Sir?’ Now McQuarry and Drexler were able to look at each other and manage a quick acknowledgement. McQuarry had arrived at the same page as Drexler. They’d found their killer, a vigilante who’d chanced upon the very spot in the middle of remote Northern California where a personal friend and employee had been slaughtered alongside his young family.

‘I believe there’s a grandmother in Derbyshire. England,’ he added finally.

‘What about brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles?’ asked McQuarry.

Again Sorenson seemed lost in thought. ‘George was an only child,’ he answered at length.

‘Unlike in the movie.’ McQuarry threw the observation away, expecting nothing.

But instead Sorenson smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’ The sadness returned. ‘If you need a provisional identification, I’d be glad. I mean, if it would help speed things up.’

McQuarry had already removed a photograph from her attache case and placed it in front of Sorenson. ‘Sally was killed well after her mother. She should be easier to recognise.’

Sorenson looked at the photograph of the tiny body without picking it up. Drexler and McQuarry watched him closely, but his stony expression didn’t waver; he merely stared at the image of the frail corpse for what seemed like an age. No wincing, no averting of eyes, no exclamations of shock or outrage. Nothing. Eventually, aware of his audience, he relented.