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“Is this guy into your smuggling ring?” Finn asked.
“He's an Historian, if you must ask,” Arron said. “And a damned good one. He cares about history and makes a point of documenting it.”
Finn laughed in disbelief. “So, let me get this straight, the guy isn't even a smuggler? You just have him taking pictures of places and artifacts around the UK, then, unbeknownst to him, you pick places you can plunder from his photos and info?”
Arron's color drained from his face. “I want my lawyer.”
“Oh, Buddy!” Finn said, loudly. “You thought you were taking advantage of him, but it turns out the Historian is a violent killer who'll knock people off who are, in his mind, defacing tradition. And that's all led to your smuggling days being numbered. Unlucky. You should have taken all the photos yourself.”
“I don't understand...” the man said in disbelief.
“The Historian went there to kill,” Amelia put it more bluntly.
“But he wanted to keep on killing,” Finn said. “So he didn't want to get caught. He scouted out the place as per your instructions when looking for artifacts you could steal and sell on the black market. You no doubt didn't want anyone dead, but he did. He had revenge on his mind, probably for all the renovations at the castle. It hurt how important he felt history was. But the man intended to make the kill look like an accident. Instead, Thomas Richmond entered the study at the castle suddenly, and the Historian resorted to brute force. That explains the mixed signals we were getting at the crime scene – half planned, half accidental. He killed using an old dirk that I suspect he found hidden in the study somewhere. Perhaps the very thing you wanted stolen?”
All Arron could do was shake his hands in disbelief.
“I still suspect that someone else has been prodding Steven Sandler,” Finn said. “A man named Max Vilne. You better pray you don't have any connections to him, because when I'm done with Sandler, I'll find out.”
Finn stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound that seemed to echo the urgency building inside him. It was time to act, and every second counted now. They were one step closer to putting an end to this once and for all.
"We should get moving," Finn said, his voice steady but laden with the weight of urgency as he strode towards the door. He reached for the handle, feeling the cool metal against his palm, an anchor in the storm of activity that was about to ensue.
"If you can keep up," Amelia replied, her fingers dancing across her phone's screen with practiced speed.
“Please tell me you aren't playing a game?” Finn asked.
“I'm sending a message to Rob and Inspector Wilson that they we made a breakthrough,” she said. “Keep everyone in the loop.”
“Now, we can go,” she said with a seductive smile. The air between them crackled with the anticipation of the chase.
As they burst from the interview room, Finn’s mind was a tumultuous sea of thoughts and deductions. Sandler, an historian with a grudge was masquerading as nothing more than a diminutive, harmless photographer, yet potentially harboring psychopathic tendencies. The image of the meticulous stab wounds, ascending like a sinister crescendo, played over in his mind—a morbid signature left by someone who could navigate the world largely unnoticed.
Finn looked at the phone as he ran. “Looks like the Steven Sandler contact has an address. Another damned hotel. If I see one more hotel today, I'm going to have to become a tour guide!”
“This is it, Finn,” Amelia said as they headed out of the building, down the steps and towards their parked car.
He nodded once, not wasting any breath on promises or bravado. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud behind him, sealing him within the confines of his vehicle. As the engine roared to life beneath his touch, Finn allowed himself a single thought that wasn't centered on the task at hand—Demi. Wherever she was, he hoped she was safe. Shaking the distraction from his head, he shifted into gear and peeled out from the curb, the chase for Steven Sandler consuming his entire being.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The police car’s tires bit into the gravel with urgency, spitting up tiny stones as Finn Wright brought the vehicle to a halt outside the squat structure of the travel hotel. The place was nondescript, its brickwork tinged with years of neglect—a perfect hideout for someone who didn't want to be found. Finn’s gaze swept over the parking lot, hunting for any sign of movement that might betray their quarry's presence.
"Here," Amelia said tersely, barely waiting for the car to stop before her hand was on the door handle. "This is it."
Finn nodded, his senses alert, as they both stepped out into the biting air. He followed Amelia, noting how her coat flapped against her in the wind, a silent testament to her determination. They crossed the threshold of the hotel lobby, a bell above the door jangling their arrival.
"Can I help you?" The receptionist, a young woman with an anxious expression, peered at them from behind her computer screen.
"Steven Sandler," Amelia stated, badge in hand like a talisman. "Was he here?"
The receptionist gave a start, fingers hovering over her keyboard as if afraid to touch it. "Yes, but... he just checked out. Maybe five minutes ago. You must have..."
"Driven past him in the car park," Finn finished for her, and already his mind was sprinting ahead, calculating the time lost, the distance gained by Sandler.
"Damn," Amelia muttered under her breath.
Finn's jaw clenched, the frustration a physical weight within him. This was his shot at redemption, at proving himself once more. Every second delayed was another second Sandler had to slip through their fingers.
