The car stopped and a uniformed officer climbed out. He was tall, in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a moustache. He came towards them with the phlegmatic, shambling gait of a basketball player. As she shook his hand and looked into his eyes, Vivien realized that the judgement she had formed when she had heard his voice on the telephone had been a hasty one. He inspired confidence, the sense that he wasn’t a man who abused the position he occupied.
‘Captain Caldwell.’ His handshake was firm and resolute.
‘Detective Vivien Light. This is Russell Wade.’
The two men nodded to each other. The urgency that was driving them seemed to have also infected Hornell’s chief of police. He immediately pointed to the car.
‘Shall we go?’
They got in, and the vehicle pulled out while they were still putting on their seat belts. They drove out of the airport, leaving the lights of the runway behind them, and took Route 36 heading south.
‘Fulton Street isn’t far. It’s in the north part of Hornell. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
There wasn’t much traffic at that hour but Captain Caldwell nevertheless put on the flashing light.
Vivien insisted on one thing. ‘I’ll need you to switch it off when we get closer. I’d prefer to arrive unannounced.’
‘Sure.’
If he, too, was dying of curiosity, he didn’t let it show. He drove in silence, his face illuminated by the dim light of the dashboard. Vivien felt the presence of Russell in the back seat, silent, apparently absent. But judging by what she had read on his computer, that dreamy air of his concealed the ability to capture aspects and moods in a very involving way. After participating in something, he was able to make the reader feel as if he had actually been there with him. It was a completely different way of treating a subject, different from anything she had seen before in a newspaper article.
What they needed now was the truth. The press, once they’d had enough of reporting the attacks and their aftermath, and speculating on the possible perpetrators, would soon launch a virulent campaign against the police and the other investigating bodies, accusing them of not doing enough to guarantee the safety of the public. Criminal acts like those that were devastating the city would soon have political repercussions, offering a valid pretext to anyone who wanted to attack Willard or the mayor or whoever. Anyone with the slightest involvement in the investigation, her included, would be caught up in the storm, which, although starting at the top, would inevitably affect those at the bottom, too.
The cellphone in her pocket started ringing. On the display she saw Bellew’s number.
She replied, with the absurd hope that he would tell her it was all over.
‘Hello, Alan.’
‘Where are you?’
‘We just landed and now we’re on our way to the subject’s house.’
By now names were gone, as were all traces of identity, replaced by cold, impersonal words that referred to a human being only as ‘the subject’ or ‘a suspect’.
‘Great. We discovered something strange at this end, and I’m not sure what to make of it.’
‘What is it?’
‘We checked out Wendell Johnson’s apartment. Obviously, no one was there. But get this: the guy knew he was terminally ill, but just before he was admitted to hospital he paid a year’s rent.’
‘That is strange.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Captain Caldwell switched off the light on the roof. Vivien realized that they were nearing their destination.
‘Alan, we’re there. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’
‘OK.’
The car turned left onto a short street called Fulton Street, drove past a row of identical houses and stopped at the end, outside number 88. It was a small house that, from what they could see of it, could have done with a coat of paint and some repairs to the roof. There were lights on in the windows. Vivien was grateful she wouldn’t have to drag anyone from their bed. She knew that when that happened, it usually took a while before people were in a fit state to talk.
‘Here we are.’
They got out of the car in silence and walked in Indian file down the short drive. Vivien let Captain Caldwell lead the way, so that he could feel he was still in charge.
Caldwell rang the bell next to the door. A few moments later, light filtered through the frosted glass. There was the sound of bare feet approaching quickly and lightly. The door opened and a blond, freckled boy of about five peered out. He was surprised to see a man in uniform towering over him, but did not seem afraid.
Caldwell bent slightly. ‘Hello there, champ,’ he said in a calm, friendly voice. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy reacted suspiciously to this attempt at communication. ‘I’m Billy. What do you want?’
‘I need to speak to Lester Johnson. Is he home?’
The boy ran away, allowing the door to swing open. ‘Grandpa, the police want you.’
Straight ahead of them was a corridor ending in a staircase that led to the upper floor. To the right was a small lobby, and to the left a door, through which the boy disappeared. Before long, a man came out. He was an energetic-looking man in his sixties, wearing a blue shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He still had a thick head of hair and alert eyes that looked them rapidly up and down. It struck Vivien that this was the way prison inmates sometimes behaved.
She let Captain Caldwell take the initiative. It was his territory and Vivien owed that to him. She hoped that when the time came he would be shrewd enough to step aside.
‘Mr Lester Johnson?’
‘Yes, that’s me. What do you want?’
That phrase seemed to be part of the family’s linguistic heritage: the boy had used it, too.
‘I’m Captain Caldwell. I-’
‘Yes, I know who you are. Who are these people?’
Vivien decided that this was the moment to step forward. ‘I’m Detective Vivien Light, from the NYPD. I need to speak with you.’
Lester Johnson gave her a quick, self-satisfied appraisal, which above all took in her physical appearance. ‘OK. Come on in.’
He led them to the door through which he had emerged and the boy had disappeared. They found themselves in a large living room, with couches and armchairs. On one of these Billy was sitting watching cartoons on a flat screen TV. However rundown the exterior of the house might have looked, the interior was neat and tidy, with an excellent choice of fabrics and wallpaper, all in natural colours. Vivien saw a woman’s hand in the matching shades.