‘They hadn’t seen each other in years,’ I say.
Cassie frowns. ‘Are you saying they knew each other?’
‘They went through nursing college together and worked at St Jude’s.’
Cassie is distracted by something on screen. I wave my hand in front of her eyes.
‘Sorry. Daydreaming. What did you say?’
‘They were both nurses. They worked together.’
‘When?’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘Is that important?’
‘We don’t know.’
On the corner of Cassie’s computer screen, she has taped a photograph. A wedding scene. The bride and groom are surrounded by bridesmaids and flower-girls wearing matching dresses and floral headbands. Everybody in the image is smiling, except for one small girl in the foreground, who has burst into tears.
‘That’s not you,’ I say, pointing to the bride.
‘My sister. That’s me there,’ she says. ‘I was the maid of honour.’
‘You lost her recently.’
Cassie looks surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘Dyson mentioned it.’
She brushes her fingertips across her sister’s face. ‘God, I miss her. My brother-in-law is a mess. I wish I could help him.’
‘I could give you the name of a grief counsellor.’
‘Does that actually work?’
‘For some people, yes. It can depend upon what stage of the grieving process they’ve reached.’
Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Did you see a grief counsellor?’
‘A long time ago.’ I hand her a business card with my phone number. ‘Tell him it helps to speak to someone who has experienced the same loss. It might help you as well.’
Cassie strokes the card with her fingertips and I change the subject, asking if Stephen Voigt is around.
‘He’ll be in the garage. I can take you to see him.’
We walk through a rear door and cross the parking area towards a prefabricated steel warehouse surrounded by bare trees. A train rumbles along a railway embankment, disappearing behind the roofline and reappearing on the other side. Inside the building, skylights create squares of brightness on the polished concrete floor.
Cars and trucks are dotted across the space, some twisted and torn apart by the force of impact. Forensic vehicle examiners are taking measurements, inspecting tyres, brake pads, speedometers, tachometers, on-board computers and engine wear and tear, as they piece together the last moments before each collision. What forces were at play? Who was to blame?
Cassie yells Voigt’s name. A head appears from the far side of a Ford Ranger van, which is parked at the centre of a quartet of bollards threaded with yellow tape.
‘Dr Haven.’ His eyes are magnified by his round glasses.
‘Cyrus. Please.’
I’m aware that neither Cassie nor I are suited up. Voigt is about to say something, but Cassie pre-empts him and takes me to a small kitchenette to the left of the main roller doors.
‘I have work to do,’ she says. ‘Maybe I’ll see you later.’
Voigt looks disappointed to see her leave. He unzips the top of his coveralls and peels them from his shoulders, letting them bunch around his hips, before filling an electric jug and flicking the switch.
‘On Tuesday you collected a piece of rope from the evidence archives in the city,’ I say. ‘Have you tested it yet?’
‘I gave that to Cassie. I’m still examining the van.’
‘Out of interest – who asked you to collect it?’
‘Dyson. Why?’
‘A misunderstanding,’ I reply. ‘I went looking for the rope and found it gone.’
‘Great minds.’
He has found two clean mugs and set them out on the table.
‘What have you found?’ I ask.
‘Strands of Maya’s hair – one on the headrest of the passenger seat and the other near the wheel arch on the near-side. We also pulled her DNA from the pocket of the passenger door.’
‘Foley said she vomited.’
‘That makes sense. He used bleach to clean most of it up, but he missed a small section.’
‘What about Rohan Kirk’s blood?’
‘There were traces of blood on the steering wheel and the gear stick, but those samples were too degraded to confirm the origin. Bleach will do that.’
I can see why Foley is in the frame. Locard’s Exchange Principle supposes that the perpetrator of a crime will always leave something at a crime scene and take something away. Wherever they step, whatever they touch, unconsciously or otherwise, will bear mute witness against them.
Voigt has dropped teabags into the mugs before adding boiling water, adding a splash of milk without asking. He realises and apologises. I wave it off and take the mug.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.
‘I keep asking myself why Foley took Maya back to her house. She was drugged, semi-conscious, helpless, suggestible. He could have taken her anywhere, but instead he took her home and put her on her sofa. He covered her in a duvet. He gave her a bowl in case she vomited.’
‘He did more than that.’
‘You’re right, but why did he take her home?’
‘Maybe he didn’t set out to abduct Maya – not at first – but Rohan Kirk interrupted him. They fought. The old man died. Foley couldn’t leave Maya behind – she was a witness.’
‘That makes sense, until you consider what happened next. He took Maya somewhere secret. He kept her alive for more than two days. He shaved off her hair. He bound her in a very specific way. It wasn’t accidental, or spur of the moment.’
‘What’s your theory?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t have one.’
‘Well, if you ask me, I think he’s done it before,’ says Voigt.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He did such a good job cleaning up.’ He stammers, suddenly, unsure about offering an opinion. ‘I expected to find more blood in the van. I mean, you saw the crime scene. The killer would have been covered in blood – his hands, his clothes, his shoes.’
‘You said he used bleach.’
‘Yes, but do you know how difficult it is to remove blood? We have machines that can find traces on fabric that has been laundered dozens of times.’
‘He changed his clothes,’ I say. ‘Maybe he borrowed some from Rohan Kirk’s wardrobe.’
‘We didn’t find traces of blood on the stairs or the upper floor.’
‘Then he must have brought a spare set with him, unless he left the house in his underwear.’
‘There is another possibility,’ says Voigt. ‘We found traces of Rohan Kirk’s blood on the kitchen floor and in the sink. What if he used the washer-dryer and laundered his clothes?’
‘How long would that have taken?’
‘At least an hour.’
That takes incredible nerve – to stay in a house with a murdered man and a drugged woman, while your clothes are tumbling in a dryer.
‘You’re quite good at this,’ I say to Voigt, who grins self-consciously.
‘You should tell that to Dyson. He thinks I’m a fuck-up.’
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Craig Dyson pushes a trolley through the roller door. He points at me.