Darkroom by Graham Masterton

across the grass.
    â€˜Oh, yes?’
    â€˜Detectives Mead and Bross have interviewed dozens of bums and itinerants who spend their nights by the seashore. One of the bums was camping less than fifty yards away from the Tubbs’ beach house.’
    Detective Mead flipped open his notebook. He was black and handsome as a TV actor. He wore a gray lightweight suit, immaculately cut, and a red and yellow silk necktie. ‘Hayward Mitchell, aged 48, unemployed dishwasher of no fixed address. Says he was settling down for the night when he saw two young people coming down the ramp to the beach. Says they were laughing and joking and generally horsing around.’
    Detective Bross was well over 6ft 5in tall, with a head that looked as if it had been sculpted out of raw granite with a jackhammer. He had a gray buzzcut and deep-set eyes, and a hook-shaped scar around the side of his mouth. He said nothing, but he stared at Jim as if he were trying to remember his face from a recent armed robbery.
    Lieutenant Harris took two color photographs out of his pocket and held them up. ‘Mitchell admitted that he was nine parts intoxicated, but he identified both Bobby Tubbs and Sara Miller. He gave a reasonable description of what they were wearing and we don’t see any reason why he should be shooting us a line.’
    Detective Mead turned over another page. ‘The vics went into the beach house, and about ten minutes later Mitchell says he saw a third individual coming down the ramp. Says this individual appeared to be dressed in white and gray. This individual climbed the steps outside the beach house. When he reached the verandah, he turned around, as if he was making sure that nobody was watching him. Mitchell says he was definitely African-American, no question about it. Possibly late middle-aged or elderly, too, because his hair was white. We took Mitchell down to the station and had him sit with our best composite artist. The artist used ImageWay computerized ID and came up with this … which Mitchell agrees is a very accurate likeness.’
    Jim took the paper and opened it out. Looking back at him was a square-jawed black man with a shock of white hair and white eyebrows.
    â€˜Ever seen him before?’ asked Lieutenant Harris.
    Jim shook his head. ‘Nope. Never have. It’s not the kind of face you’d be likely to forget, is it? You don’t mind if I keep this, though? Maybe something will come to me.’
    â€˜According to Mitchell, this individual was very well-built,’ said Detective Bross, in a thick, concrete-mixing voice. ‘About the same height and weight as me.’
    Jim looked Detective Bross up and down. He must have weighed all of 275 pounds. ‘Well-built? You don’t exaggerate, do you?’
    â€˜Let’s just say that his mother must have made him eat his greens.’
    Jim stared at the ImageWay picture closely. He found it oddly unsettling. It was like seeing a friend in a mirror for the very first time – a friend whose face you know well, but when his features are reversed left-to-right, looks unfamiliar, even creepy.
    â€˜Mitchell says he never saw this individual leave the beach house, although obviously he must have done. He probably waited until later, when Mitchell was asleep.’
    â€˜So it looks like Bobby and Sara might have been murdered?’
    â€˜Almost certainly. So, if you can get something out of that face that we can’t, don’t hesitate to call me.’
    â€˜Sure thing,’ said Jim.
    He nodded goodbye to Detectives Mead and Bross. He could tell that they were deeply unimpressed by his psychic abilities, but that was their problem. He had picked up no vibrations from the crime scene, nothing at all, even though today’s visitation by Brenda’s sister Mary had shown him that he was still capable of seeing spirits. He couldn’t identify the suspect in the Image Way picture, either. At least it