“The cock-up part, yes. Not the part about you.”
Bea turned away from the expression of friendly compassion on his face. She stared at the window that in daylight would have looked upon a bit of her garden, or what went for her garden, which, she knew, should have been mulched by this time of the year but was instead offering itself to whatever stray seeds were dropped by skylarks and linnets in flight. Those seeds were germinating into weeds, and in another month or two she’d have a right royal mess of work on her hands. Good thing all she saw in the window was her reflection and Ray’s behind her, she thought. They provided a bit of distraction from the work she’d created for herself through lack of attention to her garden.
She said, “I was set to blame you.”
“For?”
“The cock-up. Inadequate incident room. No MCIT blokes for love or money. There I am, hanging out to dry with Constable McNulty and Sergeant Collins and whomever you deign to send me?”
“That’s not how it was.”
“Oh, I know that.” Her voice was weary because she was weary. She felt as if she’d been swimming upstream for far too long. “And I’m the one who sent Constable McNulty to tell the Kernes the death was murder. I thought he’d use sense but of course I was wrong. And then when I’d learned what he’d told them, I thought we’d surely uncover something more, some scrap, some detail…It didn’t matter what it was. Just something useful as a trip wire for the moment the killer came sauntering by. But we didn’t.”
“You may still.”
“I doubt it. Unless you count a remark made about a surfing poster, which isn’t likely to amount to anything in the eyes of the CPS.” She set down the container of sponge. “I’ve told myself for years there’s no perfect murder. Forensic science is too advanced. As long as there’s a body to be found, there are too many tests, too many experts. No one can kill and leave not a single trace of himself behind. It’s impossible. Simply can’t be done.”
“There’s truth in that, Beatrice.”
“But what I failed to see is the loopholes. All the ways a killer could plan and organise and commit this…this ultimate crime…and do it in such a way that every bit of it could be explained. Even the most minute forensic bits could be deemed a rational part of one’s daily life. I didn’t see that. Why didn’t I see that?”
“Perhaps you had other things on your mind. Distractions.”
“Such as?”
“Other parts of your own life. You do have other parts to your life, no matter your attempts to deny that.”
She wanted to avoid. “Ray…”
Clearly, he didn’t intend to let her. “You’re not a cop to the exclusion of everything else,” he said. “Good God, Beatrice, you’re not a machine.”
“I wonder about that sometimes.”
“Well, I don’t.”
A blast of music came from upstairs: Pete deciding among his CDs. They listened for a moment to the shriek of an electric guitar. Pete liked his music historical. Jimi Hendrix was his favourite, although in a pinch Duane Allman and his medicine bottle would do just fine.
“God,” Ray said. “Get that lad an iPod.”
She smiled, then chuckled. “He’s something, that child.”
“Our child, Beatrice,” Ray declared quietly.
She didn’t reply. Instead, she took the sticky toffee sponge and tossed it in the rubbish. She washed the spoon she’d been using and set it on the draining board.
Ray said, “Can we talk about it now?”
“You do choose your moments, don’t you?”
“Beatrice, I’ve wanted to talk about it for ages. You know that.”
“I do. But at the present time…You’re a cop and a good one. You can see how I am. Get the suspect in a weak moment. Create the weak moment if you can. It’s elementary stuff, Ray.”
“This isn’t.”