McGuigan, along with Dawson, had gone to the offices of SJPS to speak to Bronson Chapel once again, to be informed that he hadn’t arrived.
“When does he usually get in?” McGuigan had enquired.
The receptionist had reacted with a frown. “Nine. He’s rarely later.”
“Can you phone him?”
“Of course.” Bronson’s mobile had gone to voicemail.
“Do you mind if we wait for him?”
“Of course not. I’m sure he’ll be in shortly. There’s fresh coffee, if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
They went through to the waiting room. They each got coffee from the machine, sat on plush chairs.
They regarded the painting opposite, taking up almost entirely one wall.
“Impressive…” remarked Dawson, cocking his head to one side as he studied it. “…I think.”
“The artist is trying to tell us something.”
Dawson looked at McGuigan curiously. “Which is?”
“What every artist tries to tell. The truth, I suspect.”
Dawson took a deep breath. “You’re becoming very philosophical in your old age.”
McGuigan responded with a wry smile. “I’m not that old, despite how I look. The ‘truth’ is what we’re all looking for, don’t you think?”
“It would be nice if more people chose to tell it.”
“And our friend Bronson Chapel. I wonder how he feels about the notion of truth.”
“Which leads us nicely to the subject,” said Dawson. “Not only are you turning philosophical, but cryptic. What’s so special about Chapel? He’s our star witness. And if you don’t mind me asking, why exactly are we here? It would be nice if you shared your thoughts occasionally.”
McGuigan folded his arms, absorbed in the painting, said, “The photofit. What did you make of it?”
Dawson furrowed his brow, obviously puzzled. “It’s just a man’s face. What am I supposed to make of it?”
“But have you ever seen a face quite like that?”
Dawson seemed to consider. “I suppose there were no particularly distinguishing features. What am I missing?”
“No distinguishing features,” echoed McGuigan. “There you are. But I would go a stage further. The face in the photofit is perfect. Hollywood movie-star perfect. Too perfect, for my liking. Too… artificial. If that makes sense. It’s the face of a model, not a psychopath.”
Dawson gave an incredulous laugh. “Can’t models be psychopaths?”
“I suppose they can.”
Dawson sighed. “You’re just jealous.”
McGuigan chuckled. “Perhaps.”
“And,” continued Dawson, “with all due respect, and speaking as a friend, it looks – dare I say it – like you’re reaching. People’s recollections are often inaccurate. Or just plain wrong. But of course, we’re skipping round the elephant in the room.”
“Yes?”
“That Bronson Chapel is good at remembering faces, and the description he gave is entirely accurate.”
“Perhaps. Possibly. Probably. But I look at that photofit, and then I think back to Bronson, sitting in the interview room, keen as mustard, all charged up, and something’s off. Something which belongs in my niggling doubt category. He doesn’t look to me like a man who’ll forget a face. He looks like a man who remembers everything. But yet the face doesn’t fit.”
Now it was Dawson’s turn to fold his arms, as he fixed his attention back on the painting on the wall.
“I still don’t get it.”
“The painting or my niggling doubt.”
“Both. The question, ultimately, is why? Why would Bronson want to give us the wrong description?”
“Why indeed.”
They sat in silence. Then Dawson spoke.
“I know what this is about.”
“Enlighten me, please.”
“You just hate lawyers.”
Another chuckle. “I’m only human.”
A half hour passed, and Bronson Chapel still hadn’t appeared. They went back to the reception desk, got Bronson’s mobile number. They left their cards, asked the receptionist to pass a message on to Bronson when he arrived, that they would like him to call, then left the law offices of SJPS.
They made their way to their car, parked on the street adjacent to the building, behind an ancient Nissan Micra, bright red, significantly battered, riven with rust, its exhaust, so they noted, held in place by loops of string.
“That must be illegal,” remarked Dawson.
“I can think of worse things.”
McGuigan unwrapped some pink bubblegum and popped it in his mouth. He chewed on it thoughtfully. “Find out where our friend Bronson lives. Perhaps we ought to pay him a visit.”
“I don’t think that’ll take us very far.”
“From where I’m standing,” replied McGuigan, “any distance will do.”