* * *
Tom Culhane was drinking the hot water that went by the name of coffee, staring out at the ocean from the window of the office. He was thinking again about last night’s barbecue, about how he had dozed off—had they really drunk that much?—and how he had found Rosemary later on the bed in their room, in tears.
Disconcerted—he had the impression they’d had a good time before he’d fallen asleep—and fearing one of her sudden mood swings, he had tried to find out what was upsetting her, but she had refused to tell him. His tender words didn’t seem to have any effect. But she had swallowed her tears, turned out the light, and pressed herself against him. Not quite believing what was happening, he had let her guide his hand under her dress. He was filled with emotion, but hadn’t let it show. They hadn’t made love in weeks, and now here they were, doing it in silence, with a kind of desperation.
He hadn’t washed this morning. He felt as if Rosemary’s ass was still rubbing against his stomach. He had kept the smell of it, a strong smell, a mixture of him and her, like the old days, a scent that clung to him, wouldn’t let go of him . . .
Osborne arrived about noon, looking wrecked, barely saying hello. His eyes red with burst blood vessels, he lowered himself into his swivel chair like a sick bird and lit a cigarette that smelled like medicine. The windows in the office were open, yet he was dying of heat. Culhane thought he looked really bad. Right now, last night’s dinner seemed a long way away.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I must have dozed off. I don’t understand it. Working too hard, I guess.”
Osborne gave him a black look. “Drop it.”
He was just emerging from a nightmare, and the hours to come seemed equally threatening.
Culhane thrust the knife in a little more. “You know they found a body over in New Lynn?” he said. “A girl.”
Staring out at the Pacific, Osborne massaged his temples.
“This morning,” Culhane went on, “near a disused sawmill. Definitely homicide. The body’s just been identified.” He threw a photograph on the cluttered table. “Ann Brook,” he said. “Twenty-five years old.”
Ann.
Dead.
His eyes fixed on the photograph, Osborne swallowed back a sludge of tears. Ann. Ann Brook. Her shattered head, surrounded by rubble. Sergeant Culhane’s voice was nothing now but a sinister echo. Ann was there, on glossy paper, frozen forever, her beautiful face distorted in death. The adrenaline climbed up his legs, and fragments of memory passed through his skull like comets.
“Right,” he said pushing the photograph away.
Culhane gave him a sideways look. “We don’t have much for the moment,” he said, “but the whole department is on it. Captain Timu’s just arrived. He looks furious. Gallagher has gone to question the victim’s parents. The case is already causing a stir. It’s the only thing they’re talking about on the radio. They even sent a TV team to the scene of the crime this morning.”
A draft blew Ann’s photo across the desk. Osborne was floating in the ether.
Noticing how alarmingly white he had become, Culhane broke off his monologue. “Listen, are you sure you’re OK? You look really pale.”
Osborne looked up. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
* * *
“Amelia?”
“Yes!”
“It’s Paul. Paul Osborne.”
“I recognized your voice.”
“Can I talk?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you alone?”
“For the moment, yes. I’m at the lab. Did you get my letter?”
“Yes. Good work.”
“Thanks. But you sound strange. Is something wrong?”
“Any news about the postmortem on Joanne Griffith?”
“It was Moore who dealt with it.”
“Weren’t you involved in the tests?”
“No. But I’m used to that, it’s not the first time I’ve been excluded.”
“So you haven’t read the report?
“No. All I know is that it was sent to Lieutenant Gallagher, according to procedure.”
“There must be a copy.”
