either.
Penry looks at the photos, longer than most people do, but he looks at me too. A long, discerning, Penry-ish stare.
‘You do have a burglary. You don’t necessarily have a killer.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And the artwork came back, right? There’s nothing missing?’
‘Which makes it stranger. That wants more investigation, not less.’
‘Found any thefts like it?’
‘No. But again: that’s strange. Why we need to investigate.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Watkins.’
‘Jackson supervising?’
‘Yes.’
‘Strong team.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not happy.’
‘Not unhappy. I’m OK, actually. OK for me.’
‘But something.’
Penry stares at me again. He has one of the skull injury photos on his lap. Not one of the best ones, but still fairly explicit, fairly graphic. I have one of those moments where I’m hanging between two worlds. Can’t quite tell whether I’m in the land of the living looking at pictures of the dead, or in the land of the dead wondering how it feels to be alive.
I don’t know what I do or say, or if I do or say anything.
Then Penry says, ‘So why does anyone return four hundred thousand pounds’ worth of artwork?’
I say, ‘Exactly. Who does that?’
Penry’s thoughts change tack. He picks up one of the Plas Du pictures. Holds it up beside the Mofatt skull injury one.
‘You’re saying these are connected?’
‘I can’t be sure.’
‘But . . .?’
‘OK, let’s assume for now that Moon was murdered. I know we’re not a hundred per cent on that, but just assume it.’
‘All right.’
‘Our hypothesis is that someone met Moon on that path. Demanded something, threatened, had a fight – whatever. In any case, the attacker hits Moon with a crowbar, causing that skull injury. Moon is now either dead or badly disabled.’
‘Right.’
‘But it can’t look like the guy’s just been hit. It has to look accidental. For that to work, we need two things. Two things minimum. One, the path has to come close to the edge. Two, the cliff needs to be high enough and steep enough that everyone will just assume that the fall killed him. It’s got to be the kind of fall that simply eliminates any questions.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And most of the coast isn’t like that. Yes, it’s high, steep and rocky. But sometimes the path is just twenty or thirty feet above the waves. Other times, it’s high enough, but the cliffs aren’t properly steep. They’re not sheer. You’d have to start questioning whether a fall would be enough to kill a healthy, well-put-together guy. And as soon as you raised those questions, you’d start to look at the skull injury in more detail, which would mean the entire plot could start to unravel.’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, I’ve walked that path. Jackson hasn’t. Watkins hasn’t. And you can see the land up to the edge. You can see the sea. You can’t actually see the cliffs. Not when you’re standing on top of them. No one can see the cliffs, so how do you know where Moon has to “fall”? There’s only one type of person who has an easy answer to that.’
‘A climber,’ says Penry in a whisper. ‘The sort of person who knew how to break in at Plas Du.’
‘Correct. Those guys aren’t just familiar with these cliffs. They go there for a good day out.’
I have my left hand on a photo of Moon. Right hand on the daffodil photo. My stockinged feet in the litter of all the other pictures on the floor.
And I feel OK. I think there aren’t really two different worlds, that that whole idea is just a fraud perpetrated by the living. I think we have just one world, a continuum, one populated by living and dead alike. I’m most at ease when I feel no barrier between the two. An easy movement to and fro.
Penry says, ‘And the one real solid lead we have is that your boy Evans bullshitted you when you went to see him.’
‘Bullshitted to a detective inspector, on a live inquiry, in a signed statement.
Penry looks at the photos, longer than most people do, but he looks at me too. A long, discerning, Penry-ish stare.
‘You do have a burglary. You don’t necessarily have a killer.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And the artwork came back, right? There’s nothing missing?’
‘Which makes it stranger. That wants more investigation, not less.’
‘Found any thefts like it?’
‘No. But again: that’s strange. Why we need to investigate.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Watkins.’
‘Jackson supervising?’
‘Yes.’
‘Strong team.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not happy.’
‘Not unhappy. I’m OK, actually. OK for me.’
‘But something.’
Penry stares at me again. He has one of the skull injury photos on his lap. Not one of the best ones, but still fairly explicit, fairly graphic. I have one of those moments where I’m hanging between two worlds. Can’t quite tell whether I’m in the land of the living looking at pictures of the dead, or in the land of the dead wondering how it feels to be alive.
I don’t know what I do or say, or if I do or say anything.
Then Penry says, ‘So why does anyone return four hundred thousand pounds’ worth of artwork?’
I say, ‘Exactly. Who does that?’
Penry’s thoughts change tack. He picks up one of the Plas Du pictures. Holds it up beside the Mofatt skull injury one.
‘You’re saying these are connected?’
‘I can’t be sure.’
‘But . . .?’
‘OK, let’s assume for now that Moon was murdered. I know we’re not a hundred per cent on that, but just assume it.’
‘All right.’
‘Our hypothesis is that someone met Moon on that path. Demanded something, threatened, had a fight – whatever. In any case, the attacker hits Moon with a crowbar, causing that skull injury. Moon is now either dead or badly disabled.’
‘Right.’
‘But it can’t look like the guy’s just been hit. It has to look accidental. For that to work, we need two things. Two things minimum. One, the path has to come close to the edge. Two, the cliff needs to be high enough and steep enough that everyone will just assume that the fall killed him. It’s got to be the kind of fall that simply eliminates any questions.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And most of the coast isn’t like that. Yes, it’s high, steep and rocky. But sometimes the path is just twenty or thirty feet above the waves. Other times, it’s high enough, but the cliffs aren’t properly steep. They’re not sheer. You’d have to start questioning whether a fall would be enough to kill a healthy, well-put-together guy. And as soon as you raised those questions, you’d start to look at the skull injury in more detail, which would mean the entire plot could start to unravel.’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, I’ve walked that path. Jackson hasn’t. Watkins hasn’t. And you can see the land up to the edge. You can see the sea. You can’t actually see the cliffs. Not when you’re standing on top of them. No one can see the cliffs, so how do you know where Moon has to “fall”? There’s only one type of person who has an easy answer to that.’
‘A climber,’ says Penry in a whisper. ‘The sort of person who knew how to break in at Plas Du.’
‘Correct. Those guys aren’t just familiar with these cliffs. They go there for a good day out.’
I have my left hand on a photo of Moon. Right hand on the daffodil photo. My stockinged feet in the litter of all the other pictures on the floor.
And I feel OK. I think there aren’t really two different worlds, that that whole idea is just a fraud perpetrated by the living. I think we have just one world, a continuum, one populated by living and dead alike. I’m most at ease when I feel no barrier between the two. An easy movement to and fro.
Penry says, ‘And the one real solid lead we have is that your boy Evans bullshitted you when you went to see him.’
‘Bullshitted to a detective inspector, on a live inquiry, in a signed statement.
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