Thomas Cook - Instruments of Night

Though he had no means of knowing what Allison’s response might have been, Graves saw her suddenly turn away from Portman, stare out over the pond, the easy back-and-forth movement of her feet in the water coming to an abrupt halt.

ALLISON: Maybe she just wanted to be alone.

PORTMAN: In the woods? Way off the trail? All the way to Manitou Cave? That’s a long way to go, just to be alone.

ALLISON: Maybe she just needed to think.

PORTMAN: About what?

ALLISON: Things.

Graves saw Portman ease his enormous frame closer to Allison, resting now on his fat haunches, his eyes seeking hers, trying to find some subtle hint within them.

PORTMAN: What things would she need to think about, Allison?

ALLISON: I don’t know. Just things.

PORTMAN: Well, when I spoke to your father, he said that Faye looked troubled that morning. Do you have any idea what might have been on her mind?

ALLISON: No, I don’t.

PORTMAN: She hadn’t mentioned any particular problems to you?

ALLISON: No. But then, we hadn’t seen each other lately.

PORTMAN: Why not?

ALLISON: Faye didn’t like coming to the house.

In his re-creation of the scene, Graves saw Portman’s massive frame tilt forward heavily, heard his voice grow taut.

PORTMAN: Why not?

ALLISON: Well, maybe she… maybe it was because of the way he looked at her when she came across the yard.

PORTMAN: The way who looked at her?

ALLISON: Jake Mosley.

PORTMAN: What about Jake Mosley?

ALLISON: Just that Faye didn’t like the way he looked at her.

PORTMAN: What kind of look?

ALLISON: A bad look.

PORTMAN: You mean a threatening look? Like she was afraid of him? Physically afraid?

Graves caught it in the note and placed it in Portman’s voice, the experienced detective’s sense that the case against Jake Mosley might be built on something other than actual evidence, the workman’s lowliness and vulgarity, perhaps, the crudeness of his language, the smell of his clothes, the “bad way” he looked at people.

PORTMAN: I mean, Faye may not have liked Jake. She may have wanted to stay away from him. But was she afraid of him, Allison? A physical fear?

ALLISON: I don’t know.

PORTMAN: A physical fear strong enough to keep her from walking from her house to yours?

ALLISON: Maybe it was that strong.

PORTMAN: Well, if that’s true, then why did she walk right past him that morning, then go into the woods alone?

Graves saw Portman drag the rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mop the sweat from his brow. There was doubt in his face, more questions in his eyes. Did he have the sense that Slovak had known all his life, that he was flailing helplessly in a web of lies?

PORTMAN: I know that Jake Mosley’s no good, but being generally no good is a long way from being a murderer.

It was a line Portman had included verbatim in his notes, and according to those same notes, it had been the last thing he’d said to Allison Davies before leaving her alone to ponder it. Because of that, Graves imagined the old detective returning the handkerchief to his pocket after saying it, closing his notebook, and turning back toward the house, lumbering like a great beast down the wooden pier, a vision of that moment that came to him so full and real and richly detailed, for an instant he felt not the slightest doubt that it had happened just that way.

But that had not been the end of Detective Portman’s first day at Riverwood. For after leaving Allison on the pier, he’d returned to the main house, where he’d talked to Pearl O’Brian, the downstairs maid, Flossie Tighe, the cook, and Jesse Walters, the estate’s general handyman.

Their testimony confirmed what others present on the Davies estate on August 27 had already stated to Sheriff Gerard two days before. Flossie Tighe had seen Frank Saunders in the flower garden and Allison Davies in the dining room. Pearl O’Brian confirmed that Edward Davies and Mona Flagg had lounged on the side porch until 8:20, when Mona had returned to her room upstairs. She’d come back downstairs approximately ten minutes later, now wearing a red polka-dot dress, as Pearl described it, and carrying a “frilly” white umbrella. Jesse Walters told Portman that Mrs. Davies and Andre Grossman had spent the day in the library, that Allison Davies had “popped up” here and there all through the day, and that Mr. Davies had spent most of the morning in his upstairs office. He’d called for his car at 11:30, Walters said, then driven to Britanny Falls.

Portman had completed his interviews at 4:35 in the afternoon. By that time he’d spent the entire day at Riverwood. Graves imagined him tired and frustrated, swabbing his neck and forehead as he stared out over the silent grounds. Everyone at Riverwood had no doubt expected him to leave, perhaps return the next morning. But as his final notes made clear, Portman hadn’t done that. He remained at the estate, lumbering slowly across the lush green lawn like an old bull, head down, wet with sweat, yet coming on relentlessly, a force driven by an even greater force, as Graves imagined it, the need to know what really happened.

It was Edward Davies and Mona whom Portman had stayed to question that afternoon. The pair had driven to Kingston that morning and did not return until past six in the evening. Slouched on the steps of the’ mansion, Portman had no doubt watched as the expensive car came to a halt before him, Edward at the wheel, Mona snuggled up beside him.

It was not hard for Graves to reconstruct the dialogue that followed.

PORTMAN: My name’s Dennis Portman. I’m with the New York State Police. I’d like to talk to both of you for a minute.

EDWARD: Yes. Fine. If you can just wait until PORTMAN: No, I can’t wait.

EDWARD: Oh. I’m sorry. You’re right. Would you like to come inside?

Portman had followed Edward and Mona to the library, where Mrs. Davies’ still-unfinished portrait rested on an easel by the window. Had Portman gazed at the portrait as Slovak would have? Leeching character from posture, clothing, the shape of the mouth, the glint of the eye? If he had, he’d left no record of his impressions, but had gone directly to the interrogation.

PORTMAN: Let’s begin with where each of you were on the day Faye disappeared.

In reply, Edward told Portman exactly what he’d told Sheriff Gerard in an earlier interview. He’d risen early, had breakfast with Mona, sat for a time on the side porch, then accompanied Mona into the foyer. After she’d gone upstairs, Mr. Davies had approached him. They’d had a discussion about “family matters.” Then Mona had come down a few minutes later and they’d gone downstairs, then through the corridor to the boathouse. They’d sailed the entire day, Edward said, even going so far as to mention other boats they’d met on the river at various points during that long afternoon. The pair had returned at around seven to find everything completely normal, Mrs. Davies clipping roses in the flower garden, Allison just finishing an early evening swim, Mr. Davies watching his daughter from the edge of the pier, helping her from the water when she swam alongside.

Portman’s questions had been more or less routine as long as he’d talked to Edward. But when he turned to Mona, their nature changed slightly, as Graves noticed, concentrating on Mona herself rather than on anything she might have witnessed at Riverwood or known about Faye.

PORTMAN: You’re not a member of the Davies family, are you?

MONA: No, I’m not.

PORTMAN: You’re a guest?

MONA: Yes. Of Edward’s. We’re EDWARD: I met Mona in Boston. She’s my fiancee. We plan to be married in the fall.

PORTMAN: So you’re… unemployed, Miss Flagg?