‘That’s all?’
Hodges shrugs.
‘Then I’m coming with you.’
‘Me, too,’ Holly says, and grabs a substantial book called Wild Plants and Flowering Herbs of North America. She holds it as if she means to swat a stinging bug.
‘No,’ Hodges says patiently, ‘you’re going to stay right here. Both of you. And race to see which one can dial nine-one-one first, if I yell for you to do so.’
‘Bill—’ Jerome begins.
‘Don’t argue with me, Jerome, and don’t waste time. I’ve got an idea time might be rather short.’
‘A hunch?’ Holly asks.
‘Maybe a little more.’
Hodges takes the Happy Slapper from his coat pocket (these days he’s rarely without it, although he seldom carries his old service weapon), and grasps it above the knot. He advances quickly and quietly to the door of what he assumes is Andrew Halliday’s private office. It’s standing slightly ajar. The Slapper’s loaded end swings from his right hand. He stands slightly to one side of the door and knocks with his left. Because this seems to be one of those moments when the strict truth is dispensable, he calls, ‘It’s the police, Mr Halliday.’
There’s no answer. He knocks again, louder, and when there’s still no answer, he pushes the door open. The smell is instantly stronger: blood, decay, and spilled booze. Something else, too. Spent gunpowder, an aroma he knows well. Flies are buzzing somnolently. The lights are on, seeming to spotlight the body on the floor.
‘Oh Christ, his head’s half off!’ Jerome cries. He’s so close that Hodges jerks in surprise, bringing the Slapper up and then lowering it again. My pacemaker just went into overdrive, he thinks. He turns and both of them are crowding up right behind him. Jerome has a hand over his mouth. His eyes are bulging.
Holly, on the other hand, looks calm. She’s got Wild Plants and Flowering Herbs of North America clasped against her chest and appears to be assessing the bleeding mess on the rug. To Jerome she says, ‘Don’t hurl. This is a crime scene.’
‘I’m not going to hurl.’ The words are muffled, thanks to the hand clutching his lower face.
‘Neither one of you minds worth a tinker’s dam,’ Hodges says. ‘If I were your teacher, I’d send you both to the office. I’m going in. You two stand right where you are.’
He takes two steps in. Jerome and Holly immediately follow, side by side. The fucking Bobbsey Twins, Hodges thinks.
‘Did Tina’s brother do this?’ Jerome asks. ‘Jesus Christ, Bill, did he?’
‘If he did, it wasn’t today. That blood’s almost dry. And there’s the flies. I don’t see any maggots yet, but—’
Jerome makes a gagging noise.
‘Jerome, don’t,’ Holly says in a forbidding voice. Then, to Hodges: ‘I see a little ax. Hatchet. Whatever you call it. That’s what did it.’
Hodges doesn’t reply. He’s assessing the scene. He thinks that Halliday – if it is Halliday – has been dead at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. Probably longer. But something has happened in here since, because the smell of spilled liquor and gunpowder is fresh and strong.
‘Is that a bullet hole, Bill?’ Jerome asks. He’s pointing at a bookshelf to the left of the door, near a small cherrywood table. There’s a small round hole in a copy of Catch-22. Hodges goes to it, looks more closely, and thinks, That’s got to hurt the resale price. Then he looks at the table. There are two crystal decanters on it, probably Waterford. The table is slightly dusty, and he can see the shapes where two others stood. He looks across the room, beyond the desk, and yep, there they are, lying on the floor.
‘Sure it’s a bullet hole,’ Holly says. ‘I can smell the gunpowder.’
‘There was a fight,’ Jerome says, then points to the corpse without looking at it. ‘But he sure wasn’t part of it.’
‘No,’ Hodges says, ‘not him. And the combatants have since departed.’
‘Was one of them Peter Saubers?’
Hodges sighs heavily. ‘Almost for sure. I think he came here after he ditched us at the drugstore.’
‘Somebody took Mr Halliday’s computer,’ Holly says. ‘His DVD hookup is still there beside the cash register, and the wireless mouse – also a little box with a few thumb drives in it – but the computer is gone. I saw a big empty space on the desk out there. It was probably a laptop.’
‘What now?’ Jerome asks.
‘We call the police.’ Hodges doesn’t want to do it, senses that Pete Saubers is in bad trouble and calling the cops may only make it worse, at least to begin with, but he played the Lone Ranger in the Mercedes Killer case, and almost got a few thousand kids killed.
He takes out his cell, but before he can turn it on, it lights up and rings in his hand.
‘Peter,’ Holly says. Her eyes are shining and she speaks with utter certainty. ‘Bet you six thousand dollars. Now he wants to talk. Don’t just stand there, Bill, answer your fracking phone.’