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But he nods assent and glances nervously towards the lobby where the others are gathered; the glass doors are closed. Haltingly, guided by her questions, he gives his own account of the weekend. He denies ever having met or heard of Dana Hart or Candice White. He tells her he’s as shocked by the murders as everyone else.
‘The others think you did it,’ she says.
‘They’re crazy. I didn’t kill anyone,’ he says defensively. ‘It could have been any of them.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
He’s silent for a moment, and then says, ‘I don’t know.’
She raises her eyebrows deliberately. ‘No idea at all?’
‘I’m not a detective,’ he says stubbornly. ‘But whoever did it must be crazy. This whole situation is crazy.’ He licks his lips nervously. ‘Honestly, last night I was scared for my life. If it wasn’t for David – if it hadn’t been for him, they might have murdered me. That asshole Henry suggested it. David managed to calm him down.’
She looks back at him impassively. ‘And now Henry is dead, too.’
He looks up. ‘I had nothing to do with that, either, I swear!’
‘We don’t know how he died yet,’ she tells him. ‘There will be an autopsy, of course. That’s all for now. You may go back to the lobby.’
Sunday, 3:30 PM
Sergeant Sorensen and Officer Lachlan move to the ground-floor sitting room, where James has made them a fire. It’s more comfortable than the dining room. The others remain in the lobby, under the watchful eyes of Wilcox and Perez. Perez reports that they’ve been fed, but are getting restless. Sorensen knows there isn’t much she can do about that. She’s feeling impatient too – the police chief, the medical examiner, the forensics team – and the detectives – will get here when the roads are navigable, and not before.
She has looked at the physical evidence as best she can herself; until the forensics crew arrives, there is not much more she can do on that front. She has interviewed everyone present as far as she dared without them all clamming up and starting to ask for legal counsel. She’s not happy about being in this remote hotel without the techs to quickly and expertly secure the evidence the way it should be secured. She wishes they would hurry the hell up clearing the roads.
There’s nothing to do but watch her charges – keep them safe and make sure no one tampers with the evidence. Trapped here, without the forensics team, she has only her wits to work with.
‘At first glance,’ she says to Lachlan, sitting across from her by the fire, ‘none of these murders seems related to one another. The victims didn’t know each other until they arrived at this hotel. At least, not as far as we know. Maybe something will come to light as we dig deeper. What we don’t have right now,’ she adds, ‘is any kind of motive.’
Lachlan says with obvious frustration, ‘I hate sitting here with our feet up and our hands tied.’
She sighs and says, ‘It’s Bradley who’s bothering me.’ She continues to think out loud, but in a lower voice. ‘I knew Bradley. He was always up to something – very enterprising, always had some scheme going. He’s involved with this somehow, I’m certain of it. He saw something, or knew something, and it got him killed. What did he know?’
‘Up to a bit of blackmail, perhaps?’ Lachlan suggests.
She looks up at him and nods. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. But who was he blackmailing? Which one of them is our killer? Or do we have more than one?’ She looks into the fire for a moment, and then says, ‘Any one of them could have killed Dana. Any one of them could have killed Candice. Any one of them could have killed Bradley, except for Henry and Beverly. They’re the only ones who didn’t go outside when he was killed.’
‘Yes,’ Lachlan agrees.
‘And any of them could have slipped something into Henry Sullivan’s drink, for instance, if in fact he was murdered somehow and didn’t die of natural causes. They all admit they periodically warmed themselves in front of the fire, and Henry was sitting right there.’ She adds, ‘Not to mention, it sounds like Henry was making himself a bit of a pest with his snooping and his theories, and our killer had to be getting nervous.’
David aches all over from sitting in the chair with his muscles tensed all night. He longs to go home. But he knows it’s going to be a while before any of them can leave.
He passes the time watching Gwen – wondering if there is any possible way she might be willing to see him when this is all over – and thinking about who the murderer is. The rest of them seem convinced – or had at least seemed convinced last night – that Ian was the culprit. But he doesn’t think so.
There is only one person here who knows the truth, he thinks, and that’s the killer. And he has a pretty good idea who that is. He just doesn’t have any proof. And he doesn’t want to share his theory with Sorensen. At least, not yet.
Gwen desperately wants to know who the killer is.
She thinks uneasily about what happened in the early hours of the morning – when Henry had suggested killing Ian. How dangerous people can become when they’re scared, she thinks. She’s grateful to David for putting a stop to it. Surely a man who maintains his reason while others around him are losing theirs – surely such a man could never kill his wife or anyone else?
She needs to know who the murderer is because she has to know for certain that David didn’t do it.
Ian paces back and forth in front of the windows of the lobby, ignoring the others as best he can, but he can feel them all watching him. He’s glad there’s a police officer in the room, watching everybody, protecting him. Even so, he’s frightened. He’s insisted to all of them that he didn’t kill anyone. They don’t seem to believe him. What matters is what the police believe. He might need a very good lawyer. He thinks about David Paley, sitting over there with the rest of them. David probably saved his life. Perhaps he will represent him, if it comes to that. If he’s arrested.
Chapter Thirty-five
Sunday, 4:10 PM
THE FIRE HAS burned low in the grate, and James arrives in the sitting room to build it up again. Sergeant Sorensen and Officer Lachlan are still in front of the fire when they hear a sound in the distance. The sound of heavy machinery out on the drive.
‘The road crews must be out,’ Lachlan says, standing up eagerly.
‘Thank God,’ Sorensen says with relief, rising from her chair. ‘It won’t be long before everybody else gets here then.’
They leave the sitting room and reach the lobby, where everyone’s attention is turned towards the windows. The sound is louder out here. Through the windows, she sees a big yellow snowplough coming slowly and laboriously up the drive.
She turns away from the window and looks back at the survivors in the lobby. James has come out of the kitchen at the sound of the plough; the rest remain where they are, as if frozen in place. Sorensen looks at each one of them in turn: James, Beverly, Matthew, Gwen, David, Ian, and Lauren.
Sorensen turns back to look out of the window. She sees then that there’s a truck following behind the snowplough – and she recognizes the crime team. She feels her face break into a relieved smile.
Gwen watches as the forensics team disperses and gets to work. Officers Wilcox and Perez remain in the lobby, as if afraid that someone might try to make a run for it.
Gwen wonders what the crime team will find.
She has spent so much time with these people over this appalling weekend. She has learned their secrets – at least some of them. They have all been scraped raw. And yet, she still feels she knows them hardly at all. She has survived this weekend only to take something ugly away with her – she’s learned that you never really know anyone else. That is terrifying. Because you can’t tell, can you? When she leaves here and goes back out into the world, she will think of everyone she meets as having the potential for evil deep inside.
