looked at the cruiser. ‘That’s my car. Your idea is I could be a dangerous person stole a cop car?’
‘Don’t take anything for granted,’ Jacobs said. ‘Used to be standard police practice.’
‘Still is,’ said Cashin. ‘And I’m the one who asks for ID. Let’s see it.’
Jacobs gave him a closed-lips smile, then a glint of left canine while he took out a plastic card with a photograph. Cashin took his time looking at it, looking at Jacobs.
‘You’re keeping the lady waiting,’ said Jacobs. ‘Need better light? Sure you don’t want back-up?’
‘What’s your job today?’ said Cashin.
‘I’m looking after Ms Bourgoyne. What do you reckon?’
Cashin gave back the card. Jacobs went around the car and opened the passenger door. A woman got out, a blonde, tall, thin, the wind moved her long hair. She raised a hand to control it. Early forties, Cashin guessed.
‘Ms Bourgoyne?’
‘Yes.’ She was handsome, sharp features, grey eyes.
‘Detective Cashin. Inspector Villani spoke to you, I understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look around? Without Mr Jacobs, if that’s okay?’
‘I don’t know what to expect,’ she said.
‘It’s always difficult,’ said Cashin. ‘But what we’ll do is walk through the house. You have a good look, tell me if anything catches your eye.’
‘Thank you. Well, let’s go in the side door.’
She led the way around the verandah. On the east side was an expanse of raked gravel dotted with smooth boulders, ending in a clipped hedge. She opened a glass door to a quarry-tiled room with wicker chairs around low tables. There wasn’t any sun but the room was warm.
‘I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible,’ said Erica.
‘Of course. Did Mr Bourgoyne keep money on the premises?’
‘I have no idea. Why would he?’
‘People do. What’s through that door.’
‘A passage.’
She led the way into a wide passage. ‘These are bedrooms and a sitting room,’ she said and opened a door. Cashin went in and switched on the overhead light. It was a big room, curtains drawn, four pen-and-ink drawings in black frames on the walls. They were all by the same hand, suggestions of street scenes, severe, vertical lines, unsigned.
The bed was large, white covers, big pillows. ‘There’s nothing to steal here,’ Erica said.
The next two rooms were near-identical. Then a bathroom and a small sitting room.
They went into the large hall, two storeys high, lit by a skylight. A huge staircase dominated the space. ‘There’s the big dining room and the small one,’ said Erica.
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘Bedrooms.’
Cashin looked into the dining rooms. They appeared undisturbed. At the door to the big sitting room, Erica stopped and turned to him.
‘I’ll go first,’ he said.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and something else. The light from the high window lay on the carpet in front of where the slashed painting had hung. The bloodstain was hidden by a sheet of black plastic, taped down.
Cashin went over and opened the cedar armoire against the left wall: whisky, brandy, gin, vodka, Pimms, Cinzano, sherries, liqueurs of all kinds, wine glasses, cut-glass whisky glasses and tumblers, martini glasses.
A small fridge held soda water, tonic, mineral water. No beer.
‘Do you know what was kept in the desk?’
The small slim-legged table with a leather top stood against a wall.
Erica shrugged.
Cashin opened the left-hand drawer. Writing pads, envelopes, two fountain pens, two ink bottles. Cashin removed the top pad, opened it,held it up to the light. No impressions. The other drawer held a silver paperknife, a stapler, boxes of staples, a punch, paperclips.
‘Why didn’t they take the sound stuff?’ she said.
Cashin looked at the Swedish equipment. It had been the most expensive on the market once.
‘Too big,’ he said. ‘Was there a television?’
‘In the other sitting room. My step-father didn’t like
‘Don’t take anything for granted,’ Jacobs said. ‘Used to be standard police practice.’
‘Still is,’ said Cashin. ‘And I’m the one who asks for ID. Let’s see it.’
Jacobs gave him a closed-lips smile, then a glint of left canine while he took out a plastic card with a photograph. Cashin took his time looking at it, looking at Jacobs.
‘You’re keeping the lady waiting,’ said Jacobs. ‘Need better light? Sure you don’t want back-up?’
‘What’s your job today?’ said Cashin.
‘I’m looking after Ms Bourgoyne. What do you reckon?’
Cashin gave back the card. Jacobs went around the car and opened the passenger door. A woman got out, a blonde, tall, thin, the wind moved her long hair. She raised a hand to control it. Early forties, Cashin guessed.
‘Ms Bourgoyne?’
‘Yes.’ She was handsome, sharp features, grey eyes.
‘Detective Cashin. Inspector Villani spoke to you, I understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look around? Without Mr Jacobs, if that’s okay?’
‘I don’t know what to expect,’ she said.
‘It’s always difficult,’ said Cashin. ‘But what we’ll do is walk through the house. You have a good look, tell me if anything catches your eye.’
‘Thank you. Well, let’s go in the side door.’
She led the way around the verandah. On the east side was an expanse of raked gravel dotted with smooth boulders, ending in a clipped hedge. She opened a glass door to a quarry-tiled room with wicker chairs around low tables. There wasn’t any sun but the room was warm.
‘I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible,’ said Erica.
‘Of course. Did Mr Bourgoyne keep money on the premises?’
‘I have no idea. Why would he?’
‘People do. What’s through that door.’
‘A passage.’
She led the way into a wide passage. ‘These are bedrooms and a sitting room,’ she said and opened a door. Cashin went in and switched on the overhead light. It was a big room, curtains drawn, four pen-and-ink drawings in black frames on the walls. They were all by the same hand, suggestions of street scenes, severe, vertical lines, unsigned.
The bed was large, white covers, big pillows. ‘There’s nothing to steal here,’ Erica said.
The next two rooms were near-identical. Then a bathroom and a small sitting room.
They went into the large hall, two storeys high, lit by a skylight. A huge staircase dominated the space. ‘There’s the big dining room and the small one,’ said Erica.
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘Bedrooms.’
Cashin looked into the dining rooms. They appeared undisturbed. At the door to the big sitting room, Erica stopped and turned to him.
‘I’ll go first,’ he said.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and something else. The light from the high window lay on the carpet in front of where the slashed painting had hung. The bloodstain was hidden by a sheet of black plastic, taped down.
Cashin went over and opened the cedar armoire against the left wall: whisky, brandy, gin, vodka, Pimms, Cinzano, sherries, liqueurs of all kinds, wine glasses, cut-glass whisky glasses and tumblers, martini glasses.
A small fridge held soda water, tonic, mineral water. No beer.
‘Do you know what was kept in the desk?’
The small slim-legged table with a leather top stood against a wall.
Erica shrugged.
Cashin opened the left-hand drawer. Writing pads, envelopes, two fountain pens, two ink bottles. Cashin removed the top pad, opened it,held it up to the light. No impressions. The other drawer held a silver paperknife, a stapler, boxes of staples, a punch, paperclips.
‘Why didn’t they take the sound stuff?’ she said.
Cashin looked at the Swedish equipment. It had been the most expensive on the market once.
‘Too big,’ he said. ‘Was there a television?’
‘In the other sitting room. My step-father didn’t like
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