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With a tap, the screen filled with thumbnails, a mosaic of antiquities and grandeur. Finn scrolled, eyes flickering as he absorbed the images: a mahogany grandfather clock, its intricate carvings a testament to a craftsman's pride; a porcelain vase, blue patterns dancing across its curved belly; a tapestry, woven with the vibrant threads of history.
"Look at this," Finn said softly, almost to himself. He took in the grandiosity captured in the photos—the sprawling lawns, the imposing facades. These were places steeped in time, each frame a window into England's storied past.
He switched back to the images stored on the phone, noticing the abrupt shift in quality. Reinhardt's attempts at photography were akin to a child's crude finger paintings compared to the masterful strokes on an artist's canvas. Fingers clumsy, focus askew, the images were devoid of the finesse that marked the online collection.
"Amateur hour, isn't it?" Finn chuckled dryly, the sound hollow in the relative quiet.
Switching once more, he scrutinized the online images. "Someone knows their way around a camera. And these places..." His voice trailed off as he zoomed in on a photo, tracing the lines of a stately home's architecture with his eyes. "Not just snapshots. Studies."
"Reinhardt's work is...lacking." Finn's gaze was unyielding as it darted between the two sets of images. "But this other person—there's intent behind the lens. Skill apparent in every shot."
The wheels in his mind churned, piecing together fragments of a puzzle that grew more complex with each swipe. The disparity was too stark, the skill gap too wide. There was another player in this game—one who saw through a different lens, quite literally.
"Who are you?" Finn whispered, trailing a finger along the edge of the phone. The question lingered in the air, unanswered but heavy with implication. Whoever this photographer was, they held the key to unraveling the mystery that had entangled itself around the grandeur of England's heritage sites.
Finn hunched over the phone, his fingers navigating through the pictures again, wanting to be sure. The sleek device felt incongruous in his calloused hands, a reminder of the digital breadcrumbs that could either forge connections or sever them entirely. His eyes narrowed as he flicked back and forth between the amateurish shots stored locally and the polished images held in the cloud.
"Two photographers," he murmured to himself, "as different as chalk from cheese. Better run this past Amelia," Finn decided, pocketing the phone once again. "There's more to this than meets the eye—or Reinhardt's clumsy trigger finger."
With purpose in his stride, Finn headed towards the interview room, the images burned into his brain, the dichotomy between them fueling his determination. It was a silent symphony of clues, and Finn Wright was ready to conduct his search for the truth.
He pocketed Reinhardt's phone into his jacket pocket. The observation area outside the interview room was silent, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of activity elsewhere in the station. Finn shook his head slightly, a silent rebuke of the shoddy workmanship in Arron's photographs. Whoever had shared those online images had an eye for detail that Arron sorely lacked.
Pushing open the door to the interview room, Finn caught Amelia's gaze; she was poised, her attention never straying from the man across the table. Arron Reinhardt looked like a bird caught in a snare, his posture rigid, eyes darting around the room—a stark contrast to Amelia's calm demeanor as she sat watching.
"Who took these photos, Arron?" Finn asked, his voice threading through the tension in the room.
Arron's Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to form words, his lips parting and closing with no sound emerging.
"Because these," Finn continued, pulling out the phone and sliding it across the table towards Reinhardt, "are not the work of the same person who has access to this online collection."
His tone was light, almost teasing, but his eyes were sharp. "Come now, surely you must know your own limitations with a camera. These snaps are... well, let's just say they’re not winning any awards."
Arron's hand trembled visibly as he picked up the phone, his gaze flitting between the two detectives. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple.
"Someone else is quite the shutterbug, aren't they?" Finn leaned in, resting his forearms on the cold metal table. "A partner, perhaps?"
The silence stretched, filled only by the soft whir of the air conditioning unit. The question hung between them, laden with implications. Finn observed Arron closely, reading the man's every micro-expression.
"Who is it, Arron?" Amelia prompted gently yet firmly, tipping the scales.
Arron's mouth opened again, but this time a faint whisper escaped, "I—"
"Your artistic friend," Finn interjected smoothly, "they're really quite talented. It would be a shame if their real work went unrecognized and someone else was held responsible, would it not?"
Arron's eyes flickered, a flash of fear—or was it resignation?—passing over his features. Finn's pulse quickened as he sensed the breakthrough within reach, each second drawing out like the ticking of a clock counting down to revelation.
Arron Reinhardt sat, the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly that they twitched. His hands lay flat on the table, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor himself against the tide of accusations.
"Arron," Amelia's voice sliced through the tension, her words deliberate and clear. "We're not here to play games. We know there's someone else involved." Finn loved how quickly Amelia caught on, often it was him playing catch up with her, but either way as detectives, they kept pace with each other.
"Even if I knew, why would I tell you?" Arron spat out, defiance laced with a hint of desperation.
"Because," Amelia leaned in closer, her gaze unwavering, "if you don't, we'll have no choice but to assume you're just as guilty of murder as you are of smuggling." She paused, letting the gravity of her statement sink into Arron's consciousness.
Finn noticed the subtle shift in Arron's posture, the way his shoulders hunched slightly inward. He was breaking.
"Look, Arron," Finn chimed in, his tone a mixture of empathy and authority, "this isn't about pinning everything on you. It's about finding the truth. Help us help you."
