The only thing making him hesitate was Maurice’s assertion that he, too, sought forgiveness. Maybe he was talking about the way he had treated Randall as a child, but Randall wondered if it went deeper than that. “OK,” he said. “I’ll stay for now.”
“Splendid,” said Maurice. His smile came and went, and they both stood back from the rising heat of the fire.
Randall briefly matched his smile, all the while wondering what it was Maurice truly needed forgiveness for.
Chapter Fourteen
Laurie knew immediately what she was looking at and as she edged nearer she drew out her firearm in case the perpetrator was watching her.
Wary of disturbing the crime scene, she took pictures before treading carefully toward it. Removing a plastic bag from her coat pocket, she picked it up: a size 8 Asics running shoe, purple and pink, the same make and size Grace had been wearing the night she went missing.
Any lingering optimism evaporated. Laurie’s mind began spinning in a number of directions: the body must be nearby, why had the sneaker been left in plain sight, this was the same location where Annie Randall was found, Frank Randall would become an obvious suspect, she would need to cancel the press conference. And, worse than all of it, she would soon have to tell Sandra and Glen Harrington that their daughter was dead.
The noise in her mind was distracting, and she shook her head to dislodge the thoughts before calling it in. She had to focus. It was hard not to think the worst, but it wasn’t over yet. She battled through the vines and moved further into drier land, her gun held out in front of her. She didn’t get the sense that she was being watched, but wasn’t about to take the risk.
In the distance, the surf roared. It felt as if the waves were nearby, ready to crash down on her, but the tide rarely reached this point. She stopped, frozen, as something brushed past her ankle, glancing down to see a grass snake disappear into the undergrowth. A vision of Annie Randall popped into her mind, the side of her face eaten away by wildlife, and Laurie shuddered before moving further inland.
Laurie was torn between two conflicting thoughts: she wanted to find Grace, but finding her would almost definitely mean the girl was dead and the thought of all that hope draining through her fingers was difficult to bear.
Fifty yards further in, the decision was made for her. Grace’s second sneaker was standing unattended in a patch of open scrubland, the toe of the shoe pointing to a veil of branches and vines, as if playing a part on some lurid treasure trail.
She didn’t bag the shoe this time but followed the line of the pointing toe to the tangled foliage, circling around it with her gun to make sure she wasn’t being lured into it by someone on the perimeter, before pulling back the vines to reveal a second open space, where Grace Harrington’s corpse lay.
At first glance, she appeared to be at rest, lying on her side, but as Laurie approached, she could see the violent dislocation of the ankles, the ghastly way her lower right leg dangled from the broken patella, and the zigzag mark around her neck where she had been cut. Laurie took an involuntary step back and fought to calm her breathing. The scene before her precisely mirrored the images of Annie Randall that had taken up permanent residence in her mind. Like David’s mother, Grace Harrington had been brutally manipulated into this unnatural position, her arms and legs fashioned to give the impression that she was running. It reminded Laurie of the type of figure you would see on top of a sports trophy or on the hood of a luxury car, a stylized pose that bore little resemblance to real life. As she called it in, she wondered if Grace had still been alive when she’d been placed into the pose.
Laurie set about securing the scene as she waited for backup to arrive. She kept her distance from Grace. It was clearly the girl, and getting close to confirm her identity would only risk destroying potentially crucial evidence.
It was a surreal few minutes. It felt like time had slowed within the bubble of her vision as she heard the emergency vehicles arrive, and the teams followed the path she’d taken. She had seen dead bodies countless times before but had never come across one in such an odd way.
It was Lieutenant Filmore who emerged first from the barnyard grass, bulldozing his way through it. “What the hell?” he said by way of greeting, sweat pouring from his shiny scalp.
Laurie pointed behind her. “Grace Harrington.”
Filmore stepped over and took little more than a cursory glance before returning to Laurie’s side. “You OK? How did you know?”
Only the words hunch and gut feeling came to mind, so Laurie nearly chose to say nothing. But she trusted Filmore and could see no reason not to come clean. As the CSIs began working on the scene, she told him about the similarities between the Annie Randall investigation and Grace’s disappearance.
“That is a hell of a leap,” said Filmore.
Laurie couldn’t tell if he was suspicious or impressed. “I got lucky. Shame it was too late.”
Filmore sucked in a deep breath, as if he was savoring the sea air, his jacket tight against his stocky frame. “Murder weapon?” he asked, glancing at the red line along Grace’s neck.
Laurie shook her head. “No sign of it, but I can’t claim to have combed the area.”
“We need to keep everyone away from her until CSI gets here.” Then, without segue: “I understand you’ve been to see Frank Randall since his return from prison.” He was staring with an intensity that dared her to ask him how he knew.
Not that she needed to ask. “Warren,” she said, her grandfather-in-law being the only person other than David who knew she’d been to see him.
Filmore continued staring at her, his bushy eyebrows inching up his forehead again.
“Yes, I went to see him. He’s an ex-con returning to the area.”
“And he’s your father-in-law.”
“He didn’t do this, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she heard herself say.
“Is that right? Sure looks like he did.”
“You haven’t seen him. He doesn’t have the strength to carry off something like that. He’s a tired, scared old man now.”
Filmore squinted. “He may be tired and old, but we can’t ignore the connections. The bodies have been staged identically.”
“Just telling you how I see it, Lieutenant.”
“I appreciate your opinion, but we’ll need to take him in for questioning. As soon as the press gets word of this, it won’t take them long to piece things together.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“This changes everything, of course. We’ll need to cancel the press conference and . . .” Filmore was clearly alluding to the fact that Sandra and Glen Harrington would need to be informed of their daughter’s murder. His unsubtle pause suggesting Laurie be the one to break it to them.
“I’ll go there now,” she said.
Filmore nodded, wiping beads of moisture that had reached his nose.
“And I would appreciate it if I can be the one to bring Frank Randall in for questioning.”
Filmore pursed his lips, indicating he was thinking. “He’s a family member.”
“Hardly, Lieutenant.”
“You’re married to his son, Laurie. We can’t risk being accused of bias, one way or another. I’m happy for you to remain in charge, but Remi should bring him in.”