“I’m just ducky,” I said. I already knew this was going to be bad.
Scorcher leaned over his poofy briefcase, fiddled around inside and came up holding a clear plastic evidence bag. “Don’t open it,” he said.
It was one small sheet of lined paper, yellowish and quartered by deep creases where it had spent a long time folded. It looked blank till I flipped it over and saw the faded ballpoint, and then before my brain worked out what was happening the handwriting came roaring up out of every dark corner and slammed into me like a runaway train.
Dear Mam and Dad and Nora,
By the time you read this I’ll be on my way to England with Francis. We’re going to get married, we’re going to get good jobs not in factories and we’re going to have a brilliant life together. The only thing I wish is that I wouldn’t have had to lie to you, every single day I wanted to look yous all in the eye and say I’m going to marry him but Dad I didn’t know what else to do. I knew you would go mental but Frank is NOT a waster and he is NOT going to hurt me. He makes me happy. This is the happiest day of my life.
“The lads at Documents will need to run some tests,” Scorcher said, “but I’d say we’ve both seen the other half of that before.”
Outside the window the sky was gray-white, turning icy. A cold swipe of air whipped in through the window and a tiny swirl of dust specks rose from the floorboards, sparkled for a second in the weak light, then fell and vanished. Somewhere I heard the hiss and rattle of plaster disintegrating, trickling away. Scorcher was watching me with something that I hoped, for the sake of his health, wasn’t sympathy.
I said, “Where did you get this?”
“It was in your brother’s inside jacket pocket.”
Which rounded off this morning’s set of one-two-three punches beautifully. When I got some air into my lungs I said, “That doesn’t tell you where he got it. It doesn’t even tell you he was the one who put it there.”
“No,” Scorcher agreed, too mildly. “It doesn’t.”
There was a silence. Scorch waited a tactful amount of time before he held out his hand for the evidence bag.
I said, “You’re thinking this means Kevin killed Rosie.”
“I’m not thinking anything. At this stage I’m just collecting the e vidence.”
He reached for the bag; I whipped it away. “You keep collecting. Do you hear me?”
“I’m going to need that back.”
“Innocent until proven guilty, Kennedy. This is a long, long way from proof. Remember that.”
“Mmm,” Scorch said, neutrally. “The other thing I’m going to need is you keeping out of my way, Frank. I’m very serious.”
“There’s a coincidence. So am I.”
“Before was bad enough. But now… It doesn’t get much more emotionally involved than this. I realize you’re upset, but any interference from you could compromise my whole investigation, and I won’t allow that.”
I said, “Kevin didn’t kill anyone. Not himself, not Rosie, not anyone. You just keep collecting that evidence.”
Scorcher’s eyes flickered, away from mine. After a moment I gave him his precious Ziploc and left.
As I went through the door Scorcher said, “Hey, Frank? At least now we know for a fact she wasn’t planning on leaving you.”
I didn’t turn around. I could still feel the heat of her writing, reaching right through Scorcher’s prissy little label to wrap round my hand, searing me to the bones. This is the happiest day of my life.
She had been coming to me, and she had almost made it. There had been about ten yards between us and our hand-in-hand brave new world. It felt like freefalling, like being shoved out of a plane with the ground rushing up hard towards me and no parachute cord to pull.
I opened the front door a crack and closed it loudly, for Scorcher’s benefit; then I went down the back stairs, out to the garden and over the wall. I didn’t have time to deal with my family. Word spreads fast on the job, specially when the gossip is this juicy. I switched my mobiles off and headed for the squad, fast, to tell my super I was taking some time off before he could tell me the same thing.
George is a big guy, pushing retirement, with a droopy, exhausted face like a toy basset hound’s. We love him; suspects make the mistake of thinking they can love him too. “Ah,” he said, heaving himself out of his chair, when he saw me at the door. “Frank.” He held out his hand, across the desk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“We weren’t close,” I said, giving him a good firm grip, “but it’s a shock, all right.”
“They’re saying it looks like he might have done it himself.”
“Yep,” I agreed, watching the sharp assessing flash in his eye as he sank back into his chair. “They are. It’s a head wrecker, all round. Boss, I’ve got a lot of holiday time saved up. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to cash it in, effective immediately.”
George passed a hand over his bald spot and examined it mournfully, pretending to consider that. “Can your investigations afford it?”
