‘Dr Fang is performing the autopsy as we speak, sir. He’ll call when he’s finished.’
‘As efficient as always. Did you call the papers, Strachan?’
‘Yes, sir. No new poems have been sent to them this morning. At least it means no more deaths, sir.’
‘Does it, Strachan? There was no poem for the death at the undertaker’s, remember? I worry our killer has stopped giving clues since we managed to save Miss Cavendish.’
In his hands, he held the white bishop from the cold store in a clear bag, ‘Has the lab report come back on this?’
‘Yes, sir – there were fingerprints on it. They belonged to Lieutenant Deschamps and Rossana Gurdieva. No blood, though.’
‘No, with the cold there would be no blood.’ He lit his roll-up. Even the cigarette tasted bitter. ‘What about the evidence from the road this morning?’
‘Fingerprints and blood on the business card, sir. The fingerprints were those of the victim, Chief Inspector Rock and Inspector Cartwright.’
Danilov inhaled the bitterness of his cigarette. Idiots, tainting evidence; when would they ever learn? He leant forward and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He would have to buy some fresh tobacco. This bag tasted old and stale and bitter. Or maybe the tobacco was fine, and it was his mood that had infected the taste?
‘I should warn you, Strachan, Chief Inspector Rock does not believe the killer is Thomas Allen.’
‘But you do, sir?’
‘All the evidence points to him, however unbelievable it is. Somehow, he managed to survive the bullets.’
Danilov watched as Strachan ran his fingers through his black hair. ‘Well, we’d better catch him before he kills again, sir.’
Danilov took a deep drag on his cigarette to hide his discomfort behind a veil of smoke. What had he done to earn such loyalty?
‘What are we going to do, sir?’
‘The only thing we can do, Strachan. Look at the evidence and draw our conclusions from it.’
The chess pieces collected from the crime scenes lay in clear bags on his desk. What did they have to do with the murders? Why was Allen leaving one behind at each crime scene?
He lined them up on the edge of his desk in the order they had been found: a pawn, a queen, another queen, and finally a bishop.
Then he rearranged them in the probable order of the murders: a pawn, a queen, a bishop, another queen.
What was he missing? It was like a word on the tip of his tongue. A memory that was there and not there at the same time. He had played chess with Allen many times, always winning. Was Allen reminding him of those games, telling him he would lose this time.
But how could he lose? He moved the order of the chess pieces on his desk again. What did they mean?
The inspector suddenly sat back in his chair. ‘Enough, Strachan.’
‘What, sir?’
‘When a solution doesn’t come, there’s no point forcing it. Time to let the mind work on the problem in peace.’ He stood up and reached for his coat.
Strachan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘It’s always pointless forcing the answer to a question.’
Strachan stared at him.
‘Haven’t you ever had a eureka moment, Strachan?’
‘You mean, like suddenly remembering where you left your keys?’
‘Exactly. What’s happened is you’ve asked the mind to work on the problem while you get on with your life. The mind does its job and “eureka”, the solution appears.’
‘I know what you mean, sir, but what’s it to do with the case?’
‘Everything, Detective Sergeant Strachan, everything. What are you waiting for?’
Strachan looked puzzled again. ‘A eureka moment, sir?’
‘Yes. And until it happens, let’s go to look at the undertaker’s. I want to see the crime scene for myself.’