Cemetery Lake (27 page)

‘The timeline. See, we know the timeline, Carl, but the problem is the guy who planted the hammer there didn’t.’

Schroder says nothing. He knew I’d figure it out, but was

hoping it wouldn’t be this quickly. Or he was hoping to rattle me enough that I’d give him something more, maybe tell him about

Sidney Alderman.

‘You think he died around midnight,’ I say, not because he told me, but because that’s when I saw the person leaving the church, the person who I thought was the priest. The killer knew my car was there, but he didn’t see me because I was covered in ground fog. He probably figured I was passed out drunk in the front

seat because that’s what I was used to doing. He stayed in the shadows where he thought he was out of sight.

‘But I didn’t make it home. Only the killer couldn’t have

known that. He drove to my house and replaced the hammer

he had stolen to kill the priest. He didn’t know I was following him. What he couldn’t know was that I would be involved in an

accident. Your boys came and locked me up. My car was towed

away, and after you found Julian was dead, you would have had

it re-towed, this time as evidence in a murder investigation. You had it brought here and every inch of it has been gone over. No blood from Father Julian and, more importantly, no hammer,

right? And it’s not like it got logged along with my wallet and cellphone. I didn’t have it on me. And you would have searched the area of the crash, would have searched the roads between the graveyard and accident. You found nothing. Until tonight. So

how’d I put it there?’

‘You could have dumped the hammer, picked it back up

tonight. Maybe that’s why you’re covered in dirt.’

‘Why would I dump the hammer? I couldn’t know I was going

to crash. What would be the point of dumping it, just to come

back tonight to retrieve it and hide it in my garage?’

Schroder says nothing.

‘Then the whole tongue thing. Like I said earlier, why the

hell would I cut it out? Because I didn’t want him talking? That’s the sort of message you want to leave when there are others who can still talk, right? A gang thing. But not in this case. This time it was designed to make me look guiltier. It would look like I was pissed at him for talking to you guys and complaining that I was following him.’

He starts tapping a pen against the table in a slow rhythmic

pace, then smiles. ‘Well done,’ he says. He leans forward and starts packing up the photographs.

‘So you know I didn’t kill him, but you haul me down here

anyway’

‘Come on, Tate, you know how it is.’

He’s right. I do know. There are two things that bug me.

The first is, why plant the hammer in my garage, and not the

tongue?

‘Somebody still killed him,’ Schroder says.

‘Uh huh.’

‘You can help us out there.’

‘You shouldn’t have fucked me around, Carl. You should have

just asked for my help.’

‘Hey, don’t go playing the victim here, Tate. You almost killed a woman last night. Hell, maybe you still did — last I heard she was stable, but that don’t mean shit and you know it. Father Julian had to take a protection order out on you and you kept breaking it. You were there the night he died. You’re involved, Tate. Julian died, and if you’d been upfront a month ago maybe he’d still be alive now. Sidney Alderman is nowhere to be seen and you’re

acting like he’s dead. Same goes for Quentin James. You need to start giving me some answers. Look, you know that by keeping

these from us —’ he leans forward and touches the bags with the jewellery and the articles — ‘you slowed down our investigation.

Things would be different. We might have looked further. We

might not have pinned all our beliefs on Alderman. Fuck, Tate, we needed this one. There’s been so much shit lately with the

fucking Carver case, and that’s just the tip. You’d know that if you gave a shit, or if you read a newspaper.’ He pauses, takes a pencil out of his shirt pocket, rolls it across his fingers, then snaps it in half. ‘Look, you get the point. We needed something to work out, not just for the victims and for their families, but for us. People don’t have faith in the police any more, Tate. Jesus, it’s hard to blame them. That could have all changed, but you held back on

us.’

‘Was I in the news today?’

‘What?’

‘The papers, Carl. Was I in them? The accident?’

‘Not the papers. The accident was too late for that. But you’ve been on the news all day’

‘Since this morning?’

‘That’s what all day means.’

‘Then why the hell aren’t you asking yourself the obvious

question?’

‘Which is?’

‘Why would the guy who planted the hammer in my garage

not take it back out after seeing the news? He must have known being in jail would clear me.’

I can tell from his expression that Schroder hadn’t thought of it. ‘Maybe he didn’t see the news.’

‘Come on, Carl, you know just as well as I do that these guys

always read the papers and watch the news.’

He taps one half of the broken pencil against the table. ‘This is going to be a long night,’ he says. ‘We’re going to get this sorted.’

‘Then I’d better make myself comfortable,’ I answer, and I lean back in my chair.

Schroder was right and wrong. Right that it was going to be a

long night. Wrong about us getting it sorted. Landry showed

up on cue, but their routine at trying to shake something loose from me was ruined by the murder weapon. It was planted, they

both knew it, and that was the problem. They’d have had a better chance if they hadn’t found it. They held me long enough to go over the same questions and until they were satisfied the people going through my house had searched enough. And satisfied I

wasn’t going to offer them any further information. I could tell Landry was itching to keep me locked up, and that Schroder was tempted to go along with it, but in the end they had nothing to hold me on. Even the blood and dirt on my body I explained

away as a bad fall while I was out walking trying to clear my head.

Nobody bought it, but it didn’t matter.

A guy gives me a lift home in a patrol car. He doesn’t even

attempt conversation.

My house is locked up and I still don’t have my keys, so I get inside using the same busted window as before. Schroder never

mentioned the window, and I guess maybe he figured out why.

My house isn’t any tidier since the police have scoured their way through it. The articles and pictures from the bedroom I’d set up as an office have all gone. All that are left are pinholes in the walls.

The computer is gone, my notes are gone, even the whiteboard

has been taken. Landry will trawl through everything and he’ll get me back in to answer more questions —S maybe even later on today.

I make some coffee, and the caffeine wakes me enough to

realise I’m so tired I don’t even know what my next step should be. I haven’t had time to compile my thoughts on Father Julian being dead. Haven’t had time to consider how much it alters my investigation. Was he killed because he knew a killer’s secrets? Or for another reason?

The coffee tastes good but not good enough to consider

making another. I head down to the bedroom. Everything is

messy. The mattress has been tipped up and thrown back on the

base. All the drawers have been pulled out. The wardrobe has

been opened and everything inside pulled out.

I head down to the laundry and check the washing machine.

At some point the wash cycle was stopped. The clothes I put

in there have all gone. There are bloodstains on some of them

from the accident and from the trip into the woods, but those

bloodstains are mine.

I take a quick shower. Daxter stands in the bathroom and

watches me. I feed him and he seems appreciative.

It’s almost six in the morning before I climb into bed. I reckon Landry and Schroder will probably be going through the same

motions. I start to set the alarm, but in the end I can’t decide what time to set it for, so I switch it off. I bury my head into the pillows and try to get to sleep.

The house is full of warm colours and my neighbour’s face is

frozen with cold emotion.

‘What do you want to borrow my phone for, Theo?’

‘Because mine isn’t working.’

‘You think the police bugged it? They could have. They were

there all night. That was one stupid thing you did.’

“I know.’

‘After you losing your little girl and everything. Real stupid.’

‘Can I borrow your phone or not?’

Mrs Adams stares at me for a few seconds without saying

anything, and I can tell she’s really debating the issue. She doesn’t want me inside her house. This woman who looks like everybody’s grandmother and who brought cooked dinners to my house at

least once a week for almost a year after Emily died. This woman who I would occasionally find weeding my garden or trimming

some bushes. There was always a wave and a smile and a good

word that things would be okay, that Emily was with God, that

everything would be okay.

“I don’t know,’ she says. ‘You could have killed her.’

‘That wasn’t my intention,’ I say, as if that could possibly

excuse it. She doesn’t pick up on the comment, and instead stands aside.

‘Don’t take too long.’

Mrs Adams stays a step behind me, as if suddenly she thinks

I’m not only a drunk driver, but also about to steal one of the thousand knick-knacks covering the tables and bench tops.

‘Phonebook?’ I ask.

She sighs, and I have the impression that if she’d known in the beginning I was going to be this much trouble she wouldn’t have let me in. She rummages through a kitchen drawer and pulls out the white pages.

I call the hospital and ask after the condition of Emma Green.

It turns out that’s the girl’s real last name — Donovan Green wasn’t faking it after all. The nurse tells me she can only give information out to a family member.

‘Can you just tell me if she’s doing okay?’

‘When are you guys going to learn you can’t just keep chewing

up our time with questions all day long?’

‘What guys?’

‘Reporters,’ she says, almost spitting the word out. My guess

is that if she knew who I was it would only get worse.

I make my second call, this one to the morgue.

‘It’s Tate.’

‘Tate? My God, I heard about what happened. Are you doing

okay?’ Tracey asks. She’s the first person to have done so, and it feels kind of nice.

‘Doing okay? I guess that depends on your definition. Listen,

I need to ask if you can help me out on a few things.’

‘Tate, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened, but you

know I can’t help you on anything. Not just because of the last few days, but you stole that dead girl’s ring right out of my morgue.

I had Landry down here asking me about it this morning and

I didn’t know what to tell him.’

‘I’m sorry I had to put you through that.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry too. Because now I’m the one who’s

getting a reprimand. This could end up being serious. For all I know, I could get suspended. Or worse. I gotta go.’

‘Listen, Tracey, please, it’s important.’

“I can’t.’

‘It’s the girl. That’s all.’

‘What?’

‘I need to know how she’s doing. The hospital won’t tell me.’

“I don’t know how she’s doing.’

‘But you can find out, right?’

‘You’re really pushing it, Tate.’

‘Please. It’s important.’

‘Call me back in five minutes.’

“I gotta come down there anyway. Put my name on the list. I’ll see you in a few hours.’

‘Look, I can’t just…’

‘Thanks, Tracey. I gotta go.’ I hang up before she can object.

Mrs Adams doesn’t seem too impressed that I’m taking up

so much of her time. Scattered across the kitchen are baking

ingredients that must all have come together to form whatever

fantastic-smelling thing is turning brown in the oven.

I make another call. My mother answers, slightly out of breath, as if she’s just run in from the garden.

‘I’ve been trying to call,’ she says. ‘Your cellphone isn’t switched on.’

“I lost it.’

‘And your home phone is disconnected.’

“I forgot to pay the bill.’

‘Is it true what the papers are saying?’

“I haven’t seen the papers.’

“I should have done more,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘This is my fault. I should have seen what was happening to

you ever since the accident. But don’t worry, we’re here to help you now.’

‘It’s not your fault. Anyway the reason I’m calling is I want to borrow a car.’

‘A car?’

Dad hardly uses his, right? And you two can share yours while

I’m using it.’

‘What’s wrong with yours? Oh,’ she says, figuring it out. “I

don’t know if it’s a good idea.’

“I’m not going to wreck it, Mum.’

“I don’t…’

“I need this, okay? I need you guys to trust me.’

‘Of course we trust you. But won’t they have taken your licence off you?’

‘They went easy on me because of my history’ I say, which is

a complete lie. My licence has been taken off me. If I get caught driving I’ll be heading straight back to jail. There’ll be fines. It’s the Quentin James factor.

‘I’ll bring it over to you,’ Mum says. “I’m sure Dad won’t

mind.’

We both know that he will. I hang up the phone and hand the

white pages back to Mrs Adams.

“I wouldn’t be trusting you,’ she says, then she offers me one of the muffins she’s just baked, as if some grandmotherly gene inside her can’t prevent her from reaching out. I grab one before she can change her mind, figuring it’s the healthiest thing I’ve eaten in weeks.