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“Maybe we should use the computers at the constabulary in Garden City,” Finn sighed. “At least they'd have been made in this century.”
“They're not that old,” Amelia replied. “I know HQ is just another thirty minutes from here, but I think it's good to stay as local to the case as possible.”
Finn leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “If this takes any longer, I'm going to have to put this computer out of its misery.”
Time continued on again, but their conversation fell off like a cliff.
"It's got to be someone else," Amelia said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them like a heavy curtain. "If one of these blokes is our killer, then it's not Vilne standing over our shoulders."
Finn glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he digested her words. "Vilne doesn't need to bloody his own hands—not until it pleases him," he replied, his voice low and even. "He's a puppeteer, Amelia. He could have anyone on this list dancing on his strings, waiting for the moment to strike."
She leaned back in her chair, considering. "You think one of these men...?"
"Potentially," Finn muttered, scrolling through rows of names that blurred into one another, each a potential link in a chain leading back to Max Vilne. He clicked on a name, bringing up a file filled with dates and offenses. The cursor blinked a steady pulse in the dim room.
"Remember, Vilne likes control," Finn continued, tapping a key emphatically as if punctuating his point. "He's out there, moving unseen, manipulating events like a grand master."
"Maybe," Amelia conceded, her gaze locked on her screen as she cross-referenced another name against police databases. "But we have to consider every possibility. You can't just—"
"Can't just what?" Finn interjected, leaning forward so that the light caught the hard lines of his face. "Underestimate him? I don't plan to. Not anymore."
Amelia met his stare with equal intensity, her eyes reflecting the screen's glow. "Neither do I. But we need evidence, Finn. Concrete proof, not just theories."
The computer room was a sterile bubble, punctuated by the soft hum of machines and the occasional click of a mouse. Finn's gaze was locked to the screen where digits and names morphed into potential leads, each one a thread in the web that Max Vilne had spun across the Atlantic.
"Amelia," Finn said, tapping at the keyboard with a rhythm that matched his train of thought, "I've been thinking. Richmond's transport business—it was the perfect Trojan horse for someone like Vilne."
"It seems like an unlikely route into the country," Amelia leaned back, her chair creaking under the shift of weight. Her eyes, sharp and seeking, met his. "You're sure he'd go through all that trouble rather than securing a fake passport on the black market?"
"Thomas Richmond didn't just have ships and logistics at his fingertips," Finn countered, his mind galloping through facts and figures. "He had trust. The kind of trust that gets you past customs without a second glance. And Vilne, he thrives on exploiting trust. It all fits. Vilne has been known to use people then kill them once he is done with them."
"Conveniently killing Richmond to cover his tracks, but..." Amelia trailed off, skepticism lingering in her voice.
"But nothing," Finn interjected, swiveling the chair to face her directly. "Max doesn’t leave loose ends. That's what makes him so damned hard to pin down."
Amelia folded her arms, her brows furrowing as she processed Finn's words. "And what about the castle grounds? The early recon, the photographs... It doesn't fit. I mean, I don't know Vilne like you do, but he's a violent psychopath. I can't picture him skulking around with a camera days before a murder, snapping pictures."
"Ah," Finn said, a slow nod accompanying his realization that Amelia hadn't seen this side of their adversary. "That's where you're wrong. Max Vilne is meticulous; he plans every step. Those photos are part of his game. He loves to draw out the plan. Taking those pictures let him know where to break in, but it went wrong. His violence comes after the preparation. It's cold, calculated."
"Calculated enough to mess up so badly and have to improvise the killing of the Richmonds?" Amelia challenged, her tone laced with doubt.
"No one's perfect," Finn leaned back, his shadow falling across the floor behind him. "Max is sending us a message. He wants us to know he's here and that he's always several moves ahead."
"Alright," Amelia conceded, pushing herself up from her chair, her eyes once again scanning the list of names. "Let's keep going. The sooner we find the connection, the sooner we can end this. We should keep looking at the email threats sent to Gregory Harding and the phone contacts Tanner gave us of his activist friends."
"Agreed," Finn murmured, his thoughts mirroring the relentless tick of the clock on the wall—a reminder that time was both ally and enemy in the hunt for Max Vilne.
Something now caught Finn's eye as he scrolled through several names. "Here." Finn's finger jabbed at the monitor, highlighting a name that stood out like a sore thumb amid the mundane. "Frank Butter."
"Seriously?" Amelia quirked an eyebrow, her lips twitching despite the gravity of their situation.
"Go ahead, laugh," Finn said with a half-smile, some tension easing from his shoulders. "Ridiculous name aside, the man has a record. Assault. Defended some ancient stones from a property developer with more muscle than sense. And he's on Boris Tanner's list of activist associates from his phone."
"Definitely sounds like our kind of suspect," Amelia noted dryly, her attention now fixed on Frank Butter's rap sheet.
"Wait a second..." Finn in leaned closer as he delved deeper into the file, his heart thudding with a sudden surge of adrenaline. The screen was reflected in his eyes, flickering with realization. "This guy had or has an SUV impounded on another occasion. He's since got it back."
"Tracks," Amelia murmured, catching on instantly. "Like the ones at Richmond Castle we found in the woods! I think we should pay Mr. Butter a visit."
