Mark Mills - Amagansett

‘Tom?’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Hollis.

‘I checked each sample twice against the master. None of them match.’

‘One of them has to.’

‘They’re not even close. Believe me.’

‘Okay,’ conceded Hollis.

‘Are you on to something?’

‘I was. Thanks anyway, Ed.’

‘Any time, you know that.’

‘Sure.’

He hung up, pleased to silence the unmistakable note of pity creeping into Ed’s voice.

How much more saddened would his old colleague from the crime lab have been if he’d seen the whole pathetic picture behind the favor he’d just performed: Hollis creeping through the grounds of the Wallaces’ house in the dead of night, heart pounding, ears straining for the sounds of detection as he scraped away with the chisel, dropping the flakes of paint into the envelopes. Four motor cars, four envelopes dispatched express to the Broome Street crime lab for comparison with the sample taken at the time of the hit-and-run.

Ed had fired up his spectroscope, the two electrodes blazing white over the sample dish, the prisms seizing the light, breaking it up and firing it down the ten-foot tunnel on to the photographic negative.

The machine had spoken. It had all been a waste of time.

A match would have offered the breakthrough piece of evidence—the only piece of hard evidence so far—and a firm base on which to build a case.

He should have seen it coming. Only a fool wouldn’t have got rid of the incriminating vehicle by now. Odds were it was long gone, scrapped and melted down, a small price to pay for a man of wealth.

He had wanted it too much. Even Ed had detected the desperation in him. He could see him now, sitting back in his chair and thinking: poor old Tom Hollis, put out to pasture but still trying to make amends.

He felt a sudden urge to call Mary, but he resisted it. Thoughts of her had been clogging his head for the past two days, rushing in unbidden, demanding to be heard—the curve of her spine as she bent over the bathtub to test the temperature of the water; the way she dropped her lower lip when she sulked; her throaty little chuckle…and the unmistakable look of hurt in her eyes when he’d reneged on his promise to her, refusing to let her in on his findings.

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time, gripped by the thrill of the chase, but he had broken the trust between them and done irreparable damage. He knew that, because he’d heard it in her voice when he’d called that morning.

She was polite, gracious—he had even made her laugh—but the delicate flutter of intimacy was gone from her voice. She had withdrawn that particular favor. With the summer fair only two days off, she ended the conversation on the pretext that there was some emergency to be dealt with. It had been an unconvincing excuse.

And now even the little scenario of reconciliation he’d constructed in his mind had evaporated: a positive match on the motor car, the news breaking through the community as the case unfolded, Mary understanding his need for discretion at such a critical stage of the investigation…

Christ, he was pathetic.

As if she gave a damn about any of that.

Besides, there was no match, there was no nothing, nothing concrete.

He picked up the phone and called the Basque.

No reply.

Things were slipping away fast. He could afford to start taking some risks.

The little homestead leaked poverty from every cracked plank of the barn’s cladding, every dried and curling shingle, every fissure in the parched earth of the pasture beyond the low saltbox house, where two skeletal ponies lurked mistrustfully in the shade of a tree.

Beside the barn, a truck had lost its battle with rust and had been cannibalized for parts. Nearby, the blades of an artesian well groaned in the light breeze.

And yet there were signs of a proud hand at work. The yard was almost devoid of clutter, and what there was was well ordered, heaped up neatly against the buildings—reclaimed lumber and bricks waiting for some future purpose, and a small mound of old iron barrel-hoops, whose prospects of reincarnation seemed considerably slimmer.

The narrow border that fronted the house was a blaze of color, and there were more flowers planted out in pots around the steps leading to the front door.

A woman appeared from the house. Her hands were dusty with flour, only a shade paler than her skin. Her long copper-colored hair was tied back off her face, a few wavy strands curling free.

She waited for Hollis to approach, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Mrs Jencks?’

‘Yes?’

‘Deputy Chief Hollis.’

‘Yes?’

‘Pansies,’ he said.

She glanced down at the pots. ‘Violets. The leaf of a pansy widens to the tip.’ She looked up with her wide brown eyes. ‘An easy slip to make,’ she added graciously.

Hollis abandoned all further plans of ingratiating himself with her.

‘You’re the new policeman.’

‘Not so new any more. It’s been a year now.’

‘A year don’t count for a whole load ‘round these parts.’

‘No, I guess not.’

She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘What’s he gone done now?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Eli.’

She meant her husband, he knew that from the file.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, not that I know of.’

Her narrow lips curled into a soft smile, and he saw that she must once have been a beautiful woman.

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ asked Hollis.

If he could only work his way indoors, she’d find it harder to rid herself of him.

‘There’s elder water,’ she said, heading inside. ‘That’s the tree with the little white flowers.’ There was no mistaking the dose of irony in her voice.

She poured him a glass then returned to kneading her dough at the kitchen table. The drink was cool, refreshing.

‘Where is your husband, as a matter of interest?’

‘Digging a hole.’ She allowed the ambiguity to linger a moment. ‘Swimming pool for some city folk over on Egypt Lane. All this water and still they want more. Eli used to fish some, but the fear got him since Lizzie…’ The words died on her lips.

‘Did he ever fish with Conrad Labarde?’

She looked up. ‘You know Conrad?’

‘A little. I see him from time to time.’

‘He’s a good one, always was, even as a boy, running all over being fresh with the older folk, him and his friends, always laughing.’

It was hard to picture, and she could see he was struggling.

‘You known him late,’ she said. ‘He’s changed some since them days. Couldn’t see the Devil lying in hide for him back then.’

‘You mean, his brother?’

‘Near broke him when Antton drowned. That and the war, then losing his pa…I don’t know, you got to wonder what a man done to deserve it. Takes a heap off me just thinking about it sometimes. I don’t like to say it, but it’s the truth.’

‘He seems to be holding up okay.’

‘The moment he leaves that house of his, you’ll know.’

‘How’s that?’

‘His brother drowned off the beach there. He went and built that place right at the spot.’

Hollis hardly had time to ponder her words before she laid the dough aside and said, ‘But you’re not come here to talk about Conrad.’

‘No.’

‘Then it’s Lizzie.’

He’d worked out his line of approach on the drive over, though having got to know Sarah Jencks a little he wasn’t so sure she’d buy it.

‘It’s routine to revisit unsolved cases after a year or so,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised how often it throws up something. I just wanted to talk through some stuff.’