circumstantial physical stuff connecting Tripp to the girls, yes. And he has taken a behavioral turn for the weird of late, apparently. But nothing too too unusual: nasty divorce with the missus a few years ago where she got tokeep the kid, followed by some fairly curious preoccupations including cut-out girlies from the Sears pajama section plastered all over the bedroom wall. And he is not the most coherent conversationalist one could hope for, particularly for a professeur d’anglais . But it isn’t charm we demand of our clients, is it Bartholomew?”
I slide my chair back from the boardroom table and stand before Graham, in part because I intend to turn and get myself a cup of coffee from the cabinet behind me and in part to get the height advantage on the tricky bastard. Don’t take my eyes off him as I pour and lump and stir. And the whole time Graham meets my gaze as Bert sets a new personal record by lighting his third cigarette within four minutes of my arrival.
“So that’s why you and Bert don’t want it,” I say, taking them both in through the gloom. “Dead little girls. And the teacher did them in to sniff the panties. No alternative suspect, no alternative theory, no alternative alibi. That’s why you’re giving it to me. It’s dirty, ugly, and unwinnable. Plus, he probably couldn’t afford either of you. So you’ll take the professional credibility kick for handling the famous client while skimming the margin between what he pays you and you pay me.”
“Bartholomew! Your suspicious streak is showing! Really! No, no, no. Not at all. I should have told you earlier. You see, there’s a very nice thing about Mr. Tripp’s circumstances you haven’t yet heard,” Graham almost giggles, and then it’s his turn to pause. “There are no bodies . Six weeks of helicopters, woof-woof police doggies and weepy search parties of concerned citizens shuffling through thetrees, and nothing. No bods to keep the lonely coroner company.”
“No girls, no case,” I say, calculating with a sugar cube between my fingers. “Even if they prove he had intent, if there aren’t dead bodies they can’t establish the actus reus , and they need both. Am I right?”
“That would appear to follow at first blush, although I suggest—”
“Did he confess?”
“No. He’s a muddle-headed fellow, but not so stupid as to tell the truth to the police.”
Graham grins up at me with his ashen face of blue eyes and fastidious wrinkles that somehow fixes him in a state of permanent childhood. Bert smokes. They’re waiting for me to say yes. But I’m not going to. I need my first murder to be a winner, and if these two are handing it to me there’s got to be something wrong with it. We work together; they’re my mentors and only friends in the world, but they’d far sooner screw me than each other.
“No,” I say, and touch lips to coffee.
“No what?”
“You can keep it.”
“Faggot,” Bert spits.
“No, Bert, that’s your partner. Maybe you can’t see for the smoke. I’m the guy over here trying to cover his ass.”
“Fucker fuck!”
“Boys! Boys! I must say for the record that I resent both of your comments.” Graham shakes his head in false injury. “And as for you, Bartholomew, it’s not a loser file, you are ready, and I’ve advisedMr. Tripp to expect you in Murdoch the day after tomorrow.”
I attempt to read their faces but it’s impossible, their features shrouded in thickening smoke. For a time nobody moves. Then it’s Bert, his voice a low, territorial growl.
“You want to keep your job, you take this file.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, pally boy.”
“Well if you’re going to be so sweet about it, Bert, then I guess I accept your offer.”
Graham throws his fists into the curdled air.
“Good! I’m so pleased! We’ll—”
“But I have to do it alone.”
“Alone? Well now, you really should consider that dividing some of the work would only