On Harrow Hill

“Apology accepted.”

Gurney almost added, “No problem.” But that wouldn’t have been true. There was a problem—Morgan’s eagerness to view Russell in a favorable light and ignore the disappearances. It was a classic example of the tendency to view facts in a way that supports one’s own needs—a tendency that was always damaging and sometimes deadly.

It made Gurney wonder if Russell had installed Morgan as police chief because of his weaknesses, rather than in spite of them. Having an insecure police chief who depended on you could be useful. It was a point he’d need to explore, but this was not the time. There was a depth of misery in Morgan’s eyes that seemed to go far beyond the issue at hand.

“Has there been any change in your wife’s condition?” Gurney asked.

Morgan shook his head. “She’s on hospice. Lot of drugs. Mostly sleeps.” He sat up straighter, as if making a physical effort to change the subject. “What’s next on your agenda?”

That reminded Gurney where he’d been heading when he was sidetracked by the sight of Gant and his apes emerging from their meeting with Morgan. “I’m going back to the Kane crime scene. Sometimes on a second visit I notice things I missed on the first.”

Morgan nodded, his preoccupation obvious.

The weather was changing yet again. Dark clouds were breaking up, revealing areas of blue sky. Wind gusts were shaking the last droplets of rain from the maples on either side of Cotswold Lane. There was an herbal scent in the air. Patches of sunlight illuminated the flower beds in the village square.

Gurney got in the Outback, drove slowly around to the St. Giles side of the square, and headed for Mary Kane’s house.

When he got there, he parked across the road next to the swale. The yellow police tape outlining the site had been removed, but a strip had been placed diagonally across the front door of the cottage. Gurney got out of his car and crossed the road. After debating for a minute whether to enter the cottage, he loosened the tape and opened the door.

As soon as he stepped inside, he sensed, even in the semidarkness with the blinds drawn, that something was different. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the bird pictures that had hung above the couch were now on the floor. In their place, in dark red lettering, were the same words that had been found on the wall in Linda Mason’s house.

I AM

THE DARK ANGEL

WHO ROSE

FROM THE DEAD

29

Gurney called headquarters for an evidence tech to process the scene. Kyra Barstow arrived twenty minutes later in her van.

After donning her coveralls and shoe covers and performing a preliminary luminol examination of the living room wall, she confirmed that the red substance used for the lettering was blood and appeared to have been applied with the same type of brush used on Linda Mason’s upstairs wall. She then took scrapings for DNA analysis.

She and Gurney conducted a walk-through inspection of the rest of the cottage, but made no further discoveries. Everything appeared to be as it had been the previous day. They then made a similar inspection of the outside of the house and its modest grounds with a similar result. It wasn’t until they had completed their circuit of the property and were standing in front of the cottage that Gurney noticed a partial tire track in the soil at the edge of the lawn.

He pointed it out to Barstow. “That wasn’t there yesterday, was it?”

“Absolutely not. The body was dragged across that exact area. There’s no way we could have missed a tread mark.”

She took several photos with her phone, went to her van, got a ruler, laid it next to the impression for scale, and took a few more shots; then went back to the van and began preparing a special dental-stone plaster mixture to pour into the impression and create a solid model of the tread.

While she worked, Gurney went across the road for another look at the place where Mary Kane’s body had been found. He made his way around the bordering row of tall bushes and stepped down into the swale. The shade from the bushes and the relative lowness of the ground had left the grass sopping from the overnight rain. Portions of the large bloodstain had been washed away or drawn down into the soil, but the coating of water made the color of the remaining stain redder.

Gurney was overcome by a sudden wave of sadness. He wondered if it was for that old woman he never knew . . . or for himself and everyone else whose final traces would eventually disappear into the wet earth. Before he could fall any deeper into the fears and regrets that come with thoughts of mortality, the ringing of his phone pulled him back.

The screen told him that it was Chandler Aspern. With some misgivings, he took the call.

“Gurney here.”

“This is Mayor Aspern. We need to talk.”

“You have some information you want to give me?”

“That’s one way of putting it. How soon can you be in my office?”

The mayor’s peremptory tone was annoying. “How vital is this information to the case?”