“Detective,” the chief said sharply.
Pinker raised his hands.
“You bring up a significant point,” Sebastian said. “Are we right to assume the same person was responsible for both murders? There were no fingerprints at the first scene, were there?”
Simmons shook his head. “No footprints, either.”
“So even if the CSIs identify what they found at Monsieur Hexie’s-and they haven’t yet-we can’t be sure that killer also dispatched Loki.”
Maltravers looked at her boss. “Apart from the M.O. s, sir,” she said, in a low voice.
Sebastian held his gaze on Pinker. “We’ve already talked about the double murder weapons.”
“And what was the consensus?” Chief Owen asked, pen raised over his notes.
Pinker smiled. “Well, sir, Clem thinks maybe the killer has a thing about twosomes.” He grimaced as his partner’s boot struck his shin.
Dana Maltravers broke the subsequent silence. “It’s rare for two weapons to be used, particularly in successive cases.”
“It’s also rare for ears and kidneys to be pierced with such a degree of accuracy,” Owen said. “No practice cuts, no miscues.” He looked at the FBI woman. “What does your database tell you about that, Special Agent?”
“We don’t need a computer to tell us that this is a highly skilled operator,” Sebastian said. “That’s one reason why the Bureau is involved in the investigations.”
Pinker gave him a suspicious look. “What, in case the killer is some kind of prize exhibit?” He looked around the table. “Has it occurred to anyone here that maybe the significance of the number two is that the guy’s stopping after the second murder?”
There was another silence.
“That would be very gratifying,” Sebastian said, giving the detective a tight smile. “But it would still leave you with the task of catching that individual for these two murders.”
“Cool it, Vers,” Simmons said before his partner could answer.
“Very well,” the chief said, eyeing the detectives dubiously before turning to the FBI man. “Dr. Gilbert will be starting the PM shortly. Anything else we need to discuss?”
“Actually, there is, Chief Owen.” Sebastian stood up and passed a sheet of paper to each of them. “I took the liberty of sending one of our crime-scene people to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment.” He shrugged. “No reason not to make use of the Bureau’s resources. Anyway, he discovered a set of fingerprints on a candleholder under the bed.”
“You saying our people missed it?” Pinker said.
The FBI man shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll report it in due course. But I very much doubt that you will have any record of this person’s prints.”
“So who is this Matthew John Wells?” Simmons asked, looking up from the sheet.
“That’s where the story gets interesting,” Sebastian said.
“So, are you going to tell us?” Pinker asked, when the agent kept quiet.
Peter Sebastian frowned at him and then nodded. “Of course I’m going to give you the details. They’re already being distributed to law enforcement agencies all over the country.”
As he elaborated, the faces of Rodney Owen, Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker took on expressions ranging from surprise to sheer disbelief.
Eighteen
When the siblings were brought to the U.S., their father said they should never forget where they came from-but also that they should never mention it. After a year of lessons at home from tutors, they were allowed to attend school. Not the local institution of learning, but a private school in up-state New York, where there were many twins. It was clear from the start that they were both exceptionally able.
In a reversal of the usual way, it was the girl who proved to be better at the sciences, while the boy excelled at the arts and, later, at business studies. By the time they left school-both in the top percentile of their year-they had decided what they wanted to do. Their father supported them in every possible way, taking them on trips to the universities they were considering, and even managing a week’s holiday that summer. The three of them spent it in Washington, D.C., visiting their adopted nation’s monuments and museums. Both twins were so enthused by the city that they vowed to set up home there someday.
In the meantime, they had their studies to pursue. The boy passed at the top of his classes in both literature and business, while his sister was declared to be one of the most promising neuroscientists to appear in years. Within a decade, the boy had established the company that was now one of the biggest media corporations in America, while the girl was a full professor at an Ivy League university.
And then the tragedy happened. They were driving home for Christmas after a weekend in the Catskills, the boy at the wheel of an Italian sports car, when he lost control on an icy mountain road. The vehicle broke through a barrier and fell over two hundred feet, before bursting into flames.
Their father took the news of the accident very badly. He buried his offspring in a cemetery in Washington, D.C., remembering how much they had loved the city. He also wanted to commemorate their lives in the capital of the nation he knew they would have brought great honor to. It was said that the twins’ badly burned bodies were found hand in hand, the bones fused by the intense heat.
The old man, already suffering from prostate cancer, passed away three months after his children. He was buried in the same plot. The gravestones did not bear the names that any of them had borne in the land of their birth.
Nineteen
As Mary Upson and I walked down the road to the troopers’ station, I felt her eyes on me.
“Is this some kind of uniform?” she asked, looking at the jacket round her shoulders.
I shrugged, unwilling to go into details with a stranger.
“All right,” she said, “try this one. Why are you toting that rifle? It looks kind of military.”
I glanced at her. “Hunting,” I said. “Just caught me a pair of Texan bushwhackers.”
Mary Upson smiled. “You English and your crazy humor,” she said. “Is there anything you’re serious about?”
The lights of the state troopers’ station were close now. I was about to get very serious indeed, but taking the rifle in with me probably wasn’t a great idea. I stopped and put it down behind a bush by the steps.
“Smart,” Mary said. “Ready?”
I nodded and went up to the door. The building was a standard wooden house that had been converted. There were bars on all the windows. I shivered, remembering the wire around the camp-and the ill-fated man who had helped me get over it.
We rang a bell and waited to be admitted. I looked up and mugged at a CCTV camera. Then the door opened.
“Evening, folks,” said a young man in uniform, a semiautomatic pistol holstered on his belt. “What can I do for you?” He took in Mary’s face and clothes. “Ms. Upson, what happened to you?”
“Hello, Stu,” she said. “I was hoping you’d be on tonight.”
The trooper’s eyes moved to me. They weren’t friendly.
“This is Matt. He helped me out.”
“Oh, right,” the trooper said. The badge on his chest proclaimed his name to be Stu Condon. He had fair hair in a crew cut and his upper arms were trying to break out of his pale yellow shirt. “Come and sit down. Tell me what happened.”
We followed him into what would have been the sitting-room. There was a scuffed leather sofa and matching armchair around a low coffee table. Mary and I took the sofa.
“I’ve just made a pot of coffee,” the young man said. “You want some?”
We both nodded. When he was out of the room, Mary drew the gray uniform jacket tighter and started to sob quietly.
“Hey,” I said, touching her hand. “It’s over. Those guys aren’t going anywhere. They certainly can’t hurt you now.”
She gradually got a hold of herself and calmed down. I looked around for the trooper, but he was still behind the security door that blocked us off from the station’s interior. There was a box of tissues on a shelf.