‘Is this some kind of joke? Has somebody put you up to this?

I’m calling the police.’

‘Wait, wait just a second. Does Deborah know who her real

father is?’

The woman says nothing, and I don’t jab her with another

question, just ride the silence out, knowing her shock at the

question may turn to anger or denial.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ I answer.

‘What is it you’re trying to ask? Tell me.’

‘Is her real father Stewart Julian?’

Again a pause. ‘Where’s my daughter? What aren’t you telling

me?’

‘Please, is Father Julian Deborah’s real father?’

“How is this important?’

‘It’s important because it will help me find Deborah.’

‘I’m phoning the police.’

‘Good, I want you to, but first tell me. Father Julian was

murdered because he was protecting secrets. They were his own

secrets. Was he Deborah’s father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he have any other children?’

‘Other children? I… I guess I’ve never really thought about it.

I suppose it’s possible, just like anything is possible. But I doubt it.’

‘Okay, I’m going to look for Deborah. I want you to call the

police and tell them she’s missing. But first I want you to tell me where she lives and give me her number.’

I write the details down, and try calling Deborah immediately

after I’ve hung up. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message.

That leaves me with Simon Nichols. He is the last person in

the photos, the last person to be paid for in the bank statements, and the odds are that makes him the killer.

There are a few people with that name and initials in the

phone book. I ring them all but get nowhere. In the end I’m able to track down his mother, who answers on the tenth ring, just

before I hang up.

‘I’m trying to get hold of Simon,’ I say.

‘Simon?’ she says. “Erm, can I ask who’s calling?’

‘My name is Theodore Tate. I’m a private investigator.’

‘What is this about?’

‘I just have a few questions for him, just some routine stuff

that might really help me out on a case.’

She doesn’t answer at first, then there are some soft sounds

and I get the idea she is crying.

‘You’re about a year too late,’ she says, and suddenly I know what’s coming up. Suddenly I know she’s about to tell me that her son was murdered.

‘It was about a year ago,’ she says, after telling me Simon was stabbed to death in his own home. ‘The police haven’t caught the guy, not…’ She can’t finish.

Her sobs remind me of how Julian sounded when he was

listening to the confessions of his daughters’ killer. I hear her cries, but all I can do is think about how empty my suspect pool is, and I now have absolutely no idea how to find the other brother who has killed so many.

chapter fifty-three

I stare at the photographs of the girls as if somehow they’re going to rearrange themselves and reveal an answer. I look at Simon, dead now, one more unsolved murder in a city with dozens of

murders. The killer’s signature is different for his sisters and brother. I wonder whether he’d have killed Jeremy too, whether the desire is there, or whether he even knows of the other brother.

He certainly knew about Bruce. What relationship did they have for Bruce to be safe? Bruce’s last words about dignity echo in my thoughts, making me shiver. Between Bruce and Father Julian,

they thought they were giving the girls some dignity, a burial place where they could be prayed over and looked after. But what of those they took from the coffins and discarded into the water?

What of their dignity?

I keep starting to reach for something different, to move it

from one place to another, to shift about the bank statements and the logs, hoping, hoping … but there is nothing. I look at my watch. Saturday is shifting along quickly. And Deborah Lovatt

is in danger.

I head back out to the car. The mud I splashed through it last night has dried. Dad would have a heart attack if he saw it. I dial the cellphone and try for Schroder but he doesn’t answer. I hang up and dial back and get the same result. I leave a message, then decide to call Landry.

‘Jesus, Tate, you just don’t know when to let go.’

‘I might have something for you.’

‘Really? I have something for you. You left your jacket and

shoes at the church last night.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Good one, Tate, but you know what? I’m not even going to

get into it. We both know you were there and we both know that I can’t prove it. So how about you do me a favour and stay the hell away from me.’

‘Look, Landry, this is important, okay? Real important. Did

you find a tape recorder at the church?’

A tape recorder? What the hell are you on about?’

‘Did you find one or not?’

“No, there was no tape recorder.’

‘Okay. I can help you find who killed those girls.’

‘I’m listening,’ he says.

‘Where are you?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I need you to go to the church.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you missed something.’

‘Missed what? This tape recorder?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get there.’

‘Come on, Tate, stop fucking around. It’s too damn late for

your bullshit. I’m tired.’

‘Just call me back when you get there, okay?’

I hang up on him before he can reply.

I drive to Deborah Lovatt’s house, and can tell immediately

that nobody is home. Her mother said she lived with two

flatmates. If they’re around the same age as Deborah, then they’ll be out in town drinking or at the movies somewhere. I get out of the car and walk around, but nothing stands out as being wrong.

No busted doors. No broken windows. I leave a card wedged in

the door so it hangs over the keyhole. I leave a note on the back saying it’s urgent I speak to Deborah. Deborah’s mother will

have called the police, but the way things work in this city, that doesn’t mean help is coming soon.

Traffic is thick on the way back to town, full of people all

looking for somewhere better to be. Queued up at the lights,

I can hear the stereo in the car behind me, the thump thump

thump making the chassis of my car vibrate. I can see movement in my rear-view mirror — occupants of the car are treating the ride into town as a party.

My cellphone rings and I answer it. The music from the

other car drowns out Landry’s voice. I push my cellphone harder against my ear.

‘… do now?’

‘What?’ I ask.

The light turns green. The guy behind me toots his horn

even though it’s been less than a second. I move through the

intersection and pull over. There’s a guy dressed like Jesus sitting on the side of the road. He’s biting into an egg carton. He looks up at me, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine, and I realise he’s at the end of the road I’ll be driving along if I decide that maybe the drinking is for me after all.

‘You there, Tate?’

‘Give me a second.’

There are toots and yells and waves as the car behind me

passes. I pull away from the kerb and drive further up the road to find another park away from egg-carton guy.

‘Okay, go ahead.’

‘You’re really testing my patience, Tate. I’m at the church, so what do I do now?’

‘Head down to the confessional booths.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Okay, okay. You know it sounds like you’re driving?’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Yeah. Okay, I’m at the booths. Now what?’

‘Open them up.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Check Father Julian’s side. Check the roof. The back wall.

Just check all of it.’

‘Check it for what? This tape recorder you’re telling me about?