“With that piece of misdirection, you could then proceed with the murder. You shot him using your crossbow from the safety of your own shop, through the open door. You waited until he was standing in front of the place where you had shot the bullet and then you killed him.”
He was trembling, I noticed. Was that something new?
“But what of the bullet you used? The police found only one, of course, so where is the other?”
Which, since I hadn’t told her, was when Max joined in. “Yes, Lance, where is it?”
I had brought the charred metal fragments with me and, opening a newspaper on the bed, I poured them out. “I was hoping that these might be parts of a crossbow, but I think not. I think that they’re pieces of barometers. You ordered several in May, didn’t you?”
“And fluffy dice,” pointed out Max
I shook my head. “No, Max. Not fluffy dice. Not car dice, but cardice.”
She looked none the wiser so I explained, “Cardice is solid carbon dioxide. It has a temperature of minus seventy degrees centigrade, and that is quite cold enough to freeze mercury solid; mercury that you might get out of barometers, say.”
She saw the implications of what I was saying, and gasped. I looked at Peter Carlton and for the first time I knew that he was listening to me and that I was right. She said, “He made the bullet out of solid mercury.”
“He made several, I should think, just to be on the safe side. He fired the mercury bullet with the silent crossbow through the open doors of both shops as Harvey stood in front of the shelves where he kept his barometers. It passed through his eye, through his brain and through his skull, and then melted to join the rest of the mercury on the floor around the body.”
There was silence for a moment, and it took a while before I realized that Peter Carlton was crying.
Officially Masson solved the case but he hid his gratitude well. The next time I saw him, he rather curtly confirmed that, with the aid of a speech and language therapist, Peter Carlton had been helped to make a voluntary confession that fairly accurately mirrored what I had conjectured.
“I don’t know, Doctor, but I’d be worried if my brain were devious enough to have worked all this out.”
That sounded suspiciously like sour grapes to me but I smiled sweetly and pointed out, “It’s just as well somebody’s devious enough, isn’t it?”
I walked away before his scowl could excoriate me.
My father had invited us to another barbecue but I only accepted after his reassurance that he would not get his crossbow out of his suitcase until we arrived. Nevertheless, I had a faint feeling of trepidation as I opened the back garden gate and peered carefully around. Dad was sitting reading, apparently completely weaponless, but he jumped up at once as we walked up to him and produced his beloved crossbow. “I decided on arrows,” he announced. “Much more aesthetically pleasing than solid projectiles.”
He showed us his arrows; as usual with my father, they were exquisitely well made.
“Now, what you do is turn this handle, which draws the bowstring back, then you press that switch there and, by doing that, you lock the string into place under tension. You place the arrow there, and then pulling the trigger releases the string which projects the arrow forward.”
Max said, “Go on, then.”
He began to turn the handle. At first, it was quite easy, but it quickly became harder and harder. Within a few seconds there was a frown on his face and the string was only two-thirds of the way back. He persevered, though.
“Careful,” I advised.
He looked up at me whilst continuing to wind. “Lance, don’t fuss. This is a precision instrument and I know exactly the tolerances that can be applied. There is no danger…”
The snap was loud and sudden and somehow sad. Dad looked down to see his precious crossbow in two pieces, split through the stock.
A moment of silence ensued; if any neighbours were watching, that was the moment they would have opened the champagne.
“Bugger,” said Dad.
THE GOLDEN HOUR by Bernie Crosthwaite
17 August, 20.05 hours
THE DOMESTIC is a real downer. Wife attacks husband with a cricket bat. Apparently it’s been going on for years. It started with punching him, then pulling his hair out in handfuls, then stubbing cigarettes on his bare back. While he’s telling us all this the guy is sitting on the floor, whimpering like a dog. That really gets to me.
“What a loser,” says PC Lowery on the way back to the station.
I don’t say anything, just take one hand off the wheel and release a strand of hair that’s got trapped in my plait. I glance out of the window. After a wet day it’s turned into a beautiful evening. The sun is streaking out from under the clouds like fingers. I feel sorry for the kids on their school holidays. It’s been a lousy summer.
The duty officer is talking on the phone as we come in. He puts a hand over the mouthpiece. “Helen – you can take this one. A misper. Caller’s name – Mrs Sally Hunter. Try and get some sense out of her.”
He hands me the phone. Brett Lowery pushes past me on his way to the canteen.
“Hello, Mrs Hunter? My name’s Sergeant Brandling. What seems to be the-”
“My little – girl – my little – girl…” There’s a catch in the woman’s voice like hiccups.
“Hold on, Mrs Hunter.” I signal for a notepad and pen. “Tell me exactly what’s worrying you.”
“She was playing outside – she’s – not there – I don’t know – I don’t know where-” The words are being pulled out of her forcibly. “She’s… disappeared.’ I can barely hear the last word. It’s whispered like it’s an obscenity.
“Is there anywhere she might have gone?”
“She knows not to leave the garden.”
“Did you check up and down the street?”
“She’s as good as gold.”
“Have you looked for her indoors, Mrs Hunter?” It’s surprising how many don’t, how quickly panic sets in. They’re on to the police before they’ve even searched the house.
“I called her. She always comes when I call.” Her voice is getting higher, close to hysteria.
Obsessive mother, rebellious child? Maybe. But my gut twists. I have a feeling about this one.
“Okay, Mrs Hunter. I need a few details. What’s your address?” All I get is a weird noise like a howl. “Try and keep calm, for your little girl’s sake.”
She takes a deep breath. “Thirty-seven Gunnerston Road.”
“And your daughter’s name?”
“Natalie.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight and a half.”
“Can you tell me what clothes she’s wearing?”
“A pink-and-white sundress and pink sandals.”
“And what does she look like?”
“She’s quite small for her age. Light-brown hair. Green eyes.” Her voice falls away as if realizing she’ll never see those green eyes again.
“Okay. I’ll get her description circulated straight away and I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. Please listen carefully, Mrs Hunter. As soon as you put the phone down I want you to have a good look round the house, and check the garden and any outbuildings or sheds. Will you do that, please?”
“But she isn’t-”
“The most likely thing is that Natalie’s hiding. Let’s hope you find her before we get there. That’ll be the best outcome for everyone.”
As soon as the call ends I give the duty officer my notes and he starts logging them into the system. “And can you check the database for known paedophiles in the Gunnerston Road area?”
I’m up the stairs two at a time. Brett’s in the canteen, just about to stuff a bacon sandwich down his neck.