“That’s the big question. The younger generation didn’t know him, and the older generation, even if they met him at the hospital at that time, certainly wouldn’t have recognised him after nearly thirty years. And just to make sure, he changed his name. Sky said he even ran away when people tried to approach him. He did everything to keep his true identity hidden. But why?”
Collins played with a loose strand of hair, twisting it around her finger. “Someone must have recognised him… someone who hated him enough to kill him.”
“Careful. We don’t know yet whether his attacker knew who he really was.”
Thomas called Myers and arranged a meeting with him in half an hour.
“Please try to get more information about Lawson: Did he have a bank account that was not in the name of Ethan Wright? Where did his money come from? Are there still any of his former work colleagues at the hospital? And then have a look at the receipts we found in his pockets. We need to establish what he did in the couple of days before he died. Why did he go to Bohemia? Maybe he met his murderer there. I’ll go back to Turtleville and talk to Myers first, and then to this fencing equipment manufacturer. Seems to me too much of a coincidence that someone was murdered with an epee in a tiny village where they happen to produce parts of it.”
Collins showed no reaction to his words. Apparently, she was immersed in a world of her own consisting of cross referencing databases.
“Detective Sergeant Collins, I’d appreciate a response. You might even want to take notes. Did you listen to what I just said?”
She looked up with narrow eyes. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
Slowly, Thomas leaned across the table until his face was only inches from hers. “Your blind conviction that you are Sexton’s protected little puppy never ceases to amaze me, but I’m officially warning you, don’t overstep the mark. I bet there is a nice cosy place in the archives department just waiting for you. Do you understand?”
If it had not been for Sexton, he would have sent her back to HQ for disrespectfulness right away.
Collins leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest — a silent, defensive response.
“Yes… sir.”
Thomas left the room without a further word.
12
THOMAS met Myers at Café Turtle, a small family-run business on the road to Spruce Mountain. The café consisted of only three tables and had space for about twenty people, but the home-cooked lunch and home-made ice cream they served were heavenly. The walls were lovingly decorated with floral paintings from local artists, and wood-carved figures adorned each table.
Unfortunately, it was still a bit too early for lunch, so the duo just ordered some coffee and waffles. They were the only customers, and after being served, the owner, an elderly lady wearing an apron, retreated to her kitchen.
“So, any news?” Myers asked, stirring his coffee.
“I have news indeed. The victim’s real name was not Ethan Wright,” Thomas said, watching his words sink in.
“What do you mean by his ‘real name’?” Myers asked with raised eyebrows.
“We couldn’t find anybody under the name of Ethan Wright in our computer systems… nobody, at least, who fitted the victim’s age and look. His actual name is William Lawson… or rather, Dr William Lawson. He worked as a surgeon at St Anna Hospital in the seventies and eighties. You were a constable at that time, and I believe at one point or another you had to take someone to hospital, so I have to ask you this — did you know him?”
Myers flinched. “Yes. I mean no! I knew William Lawson, of course. As you said, we had to take victims from car crashes, for example, to hospital. I met him there. We weren’t friends or anything, we just knew each other. Went to Africa at the end of the eighties, and that’s it. Never heard from him again. When I met this guy in my village, or rather, in the forest two years ago, I never imagined him to be Lawson!”
Thomas paused. “Where were you two nights ago around midnight?” He looked him directly in the eyes.
“What? Am I a suspect now?” Myers threw his bulky body backwards.
“You know I have to ask certain questions,” Thomas replied undeterred.
“Firstly, I didn’t do it. Secondly, my wife had a stomach bug, and I was with her the entire night until a junior constable called me and informed me about the murder.”
“Point taken. Can you think of any connection between Lawson and Turtleville? I mean, he lived in St Anna didn’t he? Why did he come back under a false name? And why to Turtleville?”
Myers shook his head. “Look, I didn’t know who he was until now. As far as I can remember, he was a good-looking doctor who had a variety of girlfriends, but never got serious with any woman. No idea why he came back. He…” His voice drifted off.
“Yes?” Thomas asked.
“He must have recognised me, but yet didn’t reveal who he was.”
They finished their coffees, and while Myers said he needed a walk to clear his head, Thomas went on to pay a visit to Vincent Dobson.
The company, a fairly new-looking white building with long glass windows and a red-framed entrance door, was on the right-hand side of the main road to Screen Mountain. He showed his ID card at reception and was led through various long, sterile corridors.
Beneath him, Thomas heard the sound of machines munching their way through the metal and steel they were fed.
Dobson’s office was on the top floor, and the walls were decorated with all kinds of antique weapons. Numerous photographs showed him as a young man in fencing gear, and trophies told stories of his success.
Vincent Dobson was a tall, wiry man in his mid-forties who had kept his boyish youth thanks to a toothy grin. They introduced themselves and shook hands.
“Do you still fence, Mr Dobson?” Thomas asked, but the man only laughed and shook his head.
“No, my joints are worn out. I’m lucky if I have one day a week without pain.”
“When did you stop fencing?”
“About ten years ago. In my youth, I trained nearly every day and went to competitions at the weekend. I was crazy about fencing, so it was only natural that I wanted a job where I could give something back to the sport.”
“What is it exactly that your company manufactures?”
Dobson opened a drawer in his desk and took out the tip of an epee together with a little screwdriver. Thomas leaned in closer over the desk.
“See, in my eyes, this is the most important part of a fencing weapon.” He pushed the movable tip down. “There are two small grub screws.” Dobson loosened them with the screwdriver. “And inside the tip’s housing — or barrel as we call it — which is threaded to the blade, is a contact spring and a return spring and, of course, the tip itself. Downstairs we produce the springs, tips, and screws that we send to other companies to put them into the barrel.”
“That’s beautiful craftsmanship,” Thomas said and really meant it.
“Thank you.”
“Do you work with a company called Fencing Master?”
“Yes, they’re one of the largest distributors of fencing equipment. But I’m wondering why you’re asking me all these questions.”
“I’m investigating the murder of the hermit who lived at the old cabin. He was found dead on the Christmas pyramid,” Thomas replied, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes, I heard about it, but still, I don’t understand how this could be related to me?”
“He was killed with an epee.”
Dobson recoiled and let the barrel clatter onto his desk.
“I think you see the connection now, and I’m sorry, but I have to ask you where you were two nights ago.”
“Two nights ago?” He flipped through his calendar. “I was at a Christmas party with my wife, in the Spruce House on top of Spruce Mountain. We had to stay there for the night as the road was impassable because of the heavy snowfall. You can ask the receptionist.”
“Thank you, Mr Dobson, I will. Did you
know the guy from the cabin?”
“I sure have seen him a couple of times in the village, but I don’t even know his name. Never spoke to him. And he was killed with an epee, you said?”
“Unfortunately, yes, but it was broken in the middle.”
“Which part killed him?”
“The lower end, where the bell guard and handle are attached, was sticking out of his body,” Thomas replied, watching the man closely for a reaction, but Dobson did not flinch.
“Why did you come to me then? Obviously, I’m involved in manufacturing the part that did not kill him.”
“Obviously you have a great knowledge of fencing and easy access to the weapons. I’m not saying you’re a suspect, but every angle needs to be explored, and right now, you’re one of them. And the epee that killed him was from Fencing Master.”
“And? They produce millions. Everybody can buy them online. They also use tips and springs from other companies; unfortunately, I don’t have a monopoly,” he replied indifferently.
“So we’ve learnt.”
Dobson leaned back in his chair, lifting his hands and crossing them behind his head. “If you have more questions about fencing I’m happy to help, but now I have to go back to work.”
“I do indeed have one more question. Theoretically speaking, if we found the missing part of the epee, could you confirm whether the springs and tip and screws came from you?”
“I can’t promise that. It depends on their condition, but I can certainly have a look.”
“Thank you, Mr Dobson.”
Thomas got up and left the building, thinking. Something just did not feel right, but he could not quite grasp it. Clues came coded, he knew that, and often it was not the words that gave them away, but the person’s reaction and facial expression — saying one thing and feeling something entirely different.
This would certainly not be his last visit to the company.
Not paying any attention to the ground he was walking on, he lost his footing on some ice hidden under a thin film of snow, but righted himself just in time. A broken bone was about the last thing he needed.
Collins did not pick up the phone when he tried to call her for the third time in an hour, and he wondered whether she was ignoring him on purpose. Someone needed to bring her into line, and the sooner the better.
His stomach was rumbling. Two o’clock already.
He drove back to Café Turtle and ordered pasta with meatballs just before his phone rang.
“Finished sulking? What do you have?” he snapped without looking at the display.
“Hi. Erm. Yeah, I’ve finished sulking and… well, I have a child who possibly skipped art class.”
Dumbfounded, Thomas took the phone from his ear and looked at the caller ID. It showed the name Katherine Adams — Sky’s extraordinarily beautiful class teacher. He cursed inwardly.
“Hi. So sorry, Ms Adams. I expected a call from someone else. Shall I hang up and we try this again?”
She laughed. “No worries. I’m calling because I saw Sky at school this morning, but for some reason she missed her last lesson, my art class. I couldn’t find a note from David James or you that excused her. I tried to call Mr James, but his phone is off, that’s why I’m bothering you now. You know we have to inform parents or guardians when a child is missing from class without an excuse.”
Thomas took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He loved her melodic voice, and in his mind, he saw her standing in front of him — a perfect body, sporty, an angelic face with dimples, clear blue eyes, even white skin, and dark blonde hair.
She had only moved to the village in the summer, at the beginning of the new term, when ancient Mrs Philipps had retired. According to Sky, Ms Adams was “the cat’s pyjamas.” With the organisation of various extracurricular activities in each given season, she quickly made it to the top of the popularity scale.
Thomas sometimes met her while running in the woods and always admired her easy-going attitude. But today he was not too happy about the nature of her call.
“Yes, David is in Australia, so Sky is staying with me at the moment, and I did drop her off at school this morning. I did not excuse her from her last lesson, so she should have been there. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see if I can find her.”
“Thank you, Mr Thomas. Can you please give me a call once you’ve found her, or if I can help you in any way? I hope she is well.”
“Yes, of course. But please don’t worry too much about it. I think I have a rough idea where she might be.”
They ended the call, and Thomas quickly finished his lunch.
At home, Barney snoozed lazily in his basket and did not even lift his head when Thomas came in.
“You’re so useless,” he said when walking by to check something at the rear of the house.
Not having found what he was looking for, he left the car in the driveway, figuring a short walk would do him good.
At the end of “his” small alley, he turned left and walked uphill on the short but steep Station Street. Snow was piled high on both sides, covering the entire pavement, so he had to walk on the road.
A cat was enjoying the sunshine on a windowsill, and a bunch of kids had built a whole family of snow figures in a back garden. Except for the street noise echoing back from the mountains, the village was pleasantly quiet.
His shoes squeaked with every step on the solid snow, but thanks to an excellent gritting service, he did not slide back even an inch.
The road led him directly to his target — the Cannonball Mountain ski lift. People were queuing for their next ride uphill, joking and generally having a good time, while radio music played in the background.
There were fathers teaching their young how to race downhill without falling, a group of adults learning how to snowboard, three elderly couples trying to stay fit on skis, and what seemed like half of the village’s kids and teenagers bouncing over self-made ski jumps and chasing each other downhill.
The two slopes on offer were neither very long nor very steep, but they were Turtleville’s main attraction every winter.
He quickly found who he was searching for. Sky, followed by two of her friends, came racing out of the forest and looped back onto the ski track. Thomas could make her out for miles in her neon green jacket and orange trousers complete with a white helmet.
When she noticed him, she said something to her friends, who went to the lift again while she trundled towards him.
Sky’s cheeks were rosy from the cold. She took off her goggles while approaching him and looked up with wide eyes.
To not tower above her, Thomas leaned over a snow-covered fence.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, smiling.
“It’s a great day for skiing, isn’t it? I thought I’d just have a look how you were doing,” he played along.
“Just fine. Thanks for asking. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to my friends. They’re waiting for me.” She was about to turn around.
“How was art class today?”
Sky looked him in the eyes. “Fine.”
He took a deep breath. “Kiddo, you know what I do for a living, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. And right now, you should be somewhere else catching a murderer,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Let’s put it this way, I was forced to take a break. But besides catching murderers, I also have to tell apart the truth from a lie when interviewing people.” He let the sentence hang there, but Sky ignored him, doodling in the snow with her ski pole. “And right now, I think you just lied to me, because I happen to know for certain that you weren’t even near your art room today. However, the good news is you can warm up now. At home. Take your skis off, come on.”
“But I’m a lot faster when I ski home,” she mumbled.
“Firstly, you look at me when you talk to me; I told you that already yesterday. And secondly, you take the skis off now.”
Reluctantly, she fiddled with the
ski binding.
“Sky, it’s not getting any better the longer you take, you know.”
As they marched home in silence, with Thomas carrying her gear, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He decided to return the call later and instead pay attention to the road, which felt a lot steeper going downhill, especially when balancing quite heavy skis on his shoulders.
At home, Sky went to head for her room.
“Hey, I’d like to talk to you before you disappear in there!” Thomas shouted up the stairs.
“I know what you’re gonna say! You’re wasting your breath!” she spat back.
“Sit down.” He scowled at her and pointed to the couch.
After what seemed like minutes, she slowly retreated downstairs, leaving a trail of dropped gloves, helmet, scarf, and jacket behind her.
Thomas waited patiently until she had sat down opposite him, her legs pulled up close to her body, chin resting on her knees, pouting; but at least she was looking at him.
“I don’t want you to talk to me, or your father, or any other adult in that tone again. Is that clear?”
The answer came gradually. “Yes.”
“Okay, can we have a normal conversation now?”
Sky nodded.
“Good. Ms Adams called and told me that she missed you in art class today, but that she saw you in school this morning. And she couldn’t find a note to excuse you. Did you skip her class?”
Sky nodded again. “But it was just one lesson! And anyway, art is a pointless subject. Aaand you can draw at any time of the year, but you can only ski for a couple of weeks! Aaand being outside is a lot healthier than sitting in a room filled with toxic paint smells!”
Thomas denied himself a smile. He knew it was her least favourite subject, and all of his attempts to introduce her into his beloved world of art had remained fruitless. Today, he hit a new all-time low.
“You know the rules, though. And you know that they also must be obeyed when your father’s not here. Full stop.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
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