“We want to know what you saw on that tape, but again . . .”
He put his hand up to stop her and said, “I don’t want to talk to you about what I saw. How would it help you, anyway? To this day, I don’t know who the man was, and now I’m old and . . . No, I don’t want to tell you about it, but the time has come.” He stood up. “What I would like is to show you the tape.”
Dan stood immediately and said, “You made a copy?” It should have been one of the first questions, and maybe he’d been asked it at the time, but he seemed so straightforward, so guileless, that Dan could understand why the police and everyone else had believed him and left him alone all these years.
Inger stood as well, as Bergeron said, “I never even told my wife. How could I?” And Dan understood that too—how could he ever tell his wife that he had a tape in his possession that could easily get them both killed?
Chapter Thirty-one
He took them up one flight of stairs, along a landing and then up another flight, to a room on the top floor that had been turned into an office or study. It seemed to be littered with all kinds of household accounts, but also a computer and shelves laden with books, a lot of them on country pursuits, but a fair number on genealogy too. This was clearly Bergeron’s den.
He turned the computer on, then reached up without looking and pulled a couple of books from a shelf. He reached blindly into the space and pulled out a disk before putting the books back.
“It was a video cassette, but I converted it, not so difficult as you would think.” He handed the disk to Inger and said, “It’s yours now.”
“You have another copy?”
“On here,” he said, pointing at the computer which had already booted up. “And a copy of the disk with my . . . with my lawyer, in a box.” He sat down in front of the computer, and went through a few folders before clicking on a file. As soon as it opened though, he paused it, and said, “There is another file with three hours of the camera, but this just shows thirty minutes. It’s the key.”
They nodded and he pressed Play again and tilted the screen upwards so that both of them could see it without crouching down. There was no sound, and it was a static view, covering the entrance to the bank, but also obliquely, a portion of the other side of the street, including what Dan imagined was the entrance to the alley.
For a full minute the shot was completely empty, the timer in the corner steadily clicking away. They kept their eyes fixed on the screen, even Bergeron who knew what was coming, and then two people emerged across the street, moving with an urgent disunity from left to right across the frame.
The woman was Sabine Merel, immediately familiar as she turned to face the man, and unwittingly the camera, and appeared to shout something. He heard Inger catch her breath at the sight of that face, and imagined her immediately remembering the photographs she’d looked at with Sabine’s mother.
Sabine walked on then, as if the shouted comment had settled it, picking up her pace and moving ahead of the man, moving towards the entrance to the alley. She was certainly angry, perhaps afraid, but Dan doubted she could have had any idea that she was walking with such determination towards her own death.
She was almost at the alley entrance, a few seconds from being past it, when the man picked up his pace and ran to catch up with her. She turned, that same confused mix of anger and fear, one supplanting the other as he grabbed her arm and the two of them disappeared into the dark mouth of the alley.
There was only one problem, and as they looked at the picture, once more motionless and empty, Dan said, “We didn’t see his face.”
“Patience,” said Bergeron, and used the mouse to move along the bar. “This is nearly twenty minutes later.”
He pressed Play again. For a moment, there was nothing, then a slight shift in the density of the shadows and the man emerged back into view and walked quickly out of the alley and out of shot. They’d hardly registered him, but Bergeron paused it again, wound it back and pressed Play, and this time as the man emerged, he froze the image so that the gaunt face was there, clearly visible even from the other side of the street.
Inger said, “But . . .” And offered nothing more.
“Oh my God,” said Dan. He wasn’t sure if Inger had worked it out for herself, and the shock of it was still scrambling his own thoughts. “It’s not Brabham, it’s his son, Harry. Jesus!”
Bergeron span his chair around to look at Dan and said, “You know him?”
Dan shook his head, remembering now that Charlie had known him a little, that he’d talked about him being a decent kid. And this was why Redford had focused on the whole family, because Brabham was the danger, but it was his son who’d committed the murder.