but I can tell by Oliver’s eyes, the way they narrow, the rise of his eyebrows, that he has seen straight through that ploy. He glances across at Christa at the desk next to him and I see the silent message he sends her. I know what it says. What a prick.
No. I’m pretty sure we are no longer friends.
‘Well, Sarge.’ Oliver drags the word out, resting heavily on it. ‘Uniform found Dominic Newell’s wallet. It had been tossed out on the road, a couple of miles from the body. No money in it, but credit cards, ID and such were all there. Still no sign of his keys, though.’
‘And the car?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows. It’s not at his apartment, it’s not where he normally parks it at work, and there’s no sign of it in the surrounding area.’
‘Okay. Who’s on that? We need that car.’
Oliver gives me a long look. ‘You mean you haven’t used your sergeant superpowers to find it yet?’
Yeah. And I’m the prick.
I flick on the computer, ignore Oliver until the urge to punch him recedes. Think of Isaac. You look to the spouse in a murder. It’s pretty much the law. You look to the spouse first because they are the person closest to your victim and there is a thin line between love and hate. So your first consideration has to be: what makes it evident that this person is not the killer?
I think of Isaac’s raw grief, the shock, then that laughter, so out of place. Is it possible that he is a murderer? I think of his hands, large, the kind of long fingers that my mother would describe as pianist’s fingers (a comment that always prompted much hilarity when I was a teenager). I looked for cuts, scrapes, anything that would suggest that he had been wielding a knife lately, that it had slipped.
But there was nothing, no neon lights showing me the way.
Could he have done it?
Of course he could. In theory.
I think of the photos in the apartment, a gallery of couple shots, Dominic and Isaac pressed cheek to cheek. They looked happy. They looked like they were in love.
But it is impossible to judge any relationship from the outside. Like trying to reconstitute a cake when all you have remaining is crumbs. You take a picture, you smile for the camera, you set the scene for the way in which you want the world to perceive you and your love.
It’s all a lie, when you come right down to it.
My sister knows my views on this. The Facebook generation. All dedicated to capturing their version of true love’s dream. But none of it is real, I complain. That’s not for you to determine, Leah says. Their relationships may not be exactly like those pictures or those statuses suggest, but perhaps there are moments of that. You have to have a little faith, Finn. Sometimes things, people, really are as good as they seem. My sister has way more faith in people than I do.
‘Christa,’ I say, ‘did you know Dominic?’
She is concentrating on something, doesn’t hear me right away. ‘Huh?’
‘Dominic. You knew him?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, I knew him well enough to chat to in the nick, or if we saw each other out and about.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘Seemed a good guy.’
I think of Dominic Newell, living and breathing. He was, or at least he seemed to me, confident, sorted.
‘He talked about his partner a lot,’ she offers.
‘Isaac? What did he say?’
‘Oh, you know. This and that. Talked about the holidays they went on, how he was doing in school – he’s a teacher, you knew that, right?’
I study her. ‘What was your impression?’
‘Of their relationship, you mean?’ She shrugs. ‘Good. Seemed solid. If you’d have asked me yesterday, I’d have said they had a happy relationship.’
‘And today?’
She looks at me, grins. ‘Always look to the partner first.’
I grunt.
‘I still can’t believe it, you know.’ Christa has leaned back in her chair, her dark curls billowing out around her head like a pillow. ‘I mean, Dominic dead. I was talking to him on his
No. I’m pretty sure we are no longer friends.
‘Well, Sarge.’ Oliver drags the word out, resting heavily on it. ‘Uniform found Dominic Newell’s wallet. It had been tossed out on the road, a couple of miles from the body. No money in it, but credit cards, ID and such were all there. Still no sign of his keys, though.’
‘And the car?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows. It’s not at his apartment, it’s not where he normally parks it at work, and there’s no sign of it in the surrounding area.’
‘Okay. Who’s on that? We need that car.’
Oliver gives me a long look. ‘You mean you haven’t used your sergeant superpowers to find it yet?’
Yeah. And I’m the prick.
I flick on the computer, ignore Oliver until the urge to punch him recedes. Think of Isaac. You look to the spouse in a murder. It’s pretty much the law. You look to the spouse first because they are the person closest to your victim and there is a thin line between love and hate. So your first consideration has to be: what makes it evident that this person is not the killer?
I think of Isaac’s raw grief, the shock, then that laughter, so out of place. Is it possible that he is a murderer? I think of his hands, large, the kind of long fingers that my mother would describe as pianist’s fingers (a comment that always prompted much hilarity when I was a teenager). I looked for cuts, scrapes, anything that would suggest that he had been wielding a knife lately, that it had slipped.
But there was nothing, no neon lights showing me the way.
Could he have done it?
Of course he could. In theory.
I think of the photos in the apartment, a gallery of couple shots, Dominic and Isaac pressed cheek to cheek. They looked happy. They looked like they were in love.
But it is impossible to judge any relationship from the outside. Like trying to reconstitute a cake when all you have remaining is crumbs. You take a picture, you smile for the camera, you set the scene for the way in which you want the world to perceive you and your love.
It’s all a lie, when you come right down to it.
My sister knows my views on this. The Facebook generation. All dedicated to capturing their version of true love’s dream. But none of it is real, I complain. That’s not for you to determine, Leah says. Their relationships may not be exactly like those pictures or those statuses suggest, but perhaps there are moments of that. You have to have a little faith, Finn. Sometimes things, people, really are as good as they seem. My sister has way more faith in people than I do.
‘Christa,’ I say, ‘did you know Dominic?’
She is concentrating on something, doesn’t hear me right away. ‘Huh?’
‘Dominic. You knew him?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, I knew him well enough to chat to in the nick, or if we saw each other out and about.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘Seemed a good guy.’
I think of Dominic Newell, living and breathing. He was, or at least he seemed to me, confident, sorted.
‘He talked about his partner a lot,’ she offers.
‘Isaac? What did he say?’
‘Oh, you know. This and that. Talked about the holidays they went on, how he was doing in school – he’s a teacher, you knew that, right?’
I study her. ‘What was your impression?’
‘Of their relationship, you mean?’ She shrugs. ‘Good. Seemed solid. If you’d have asked me yesterday, I’d have said they had a happy relationship.’
‘And today?’
She looks at me, grins. ‘Always look to the partner first.’
I grunt.
‘I still can’t believe it, you know.’ Christa has leaned back in her chair, her dark curls billowing out around her head like a pillow. ‘I mean, Dominic dead. I was talking to him on his
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