I want to share my thoughts with Alfonse but I can tell he is struggling with the news. He is too respectful a person to mock the dead or speak ill of them, but I have no doubt that in any circumstances other than a murder investigation, I’d have been slaughtered with one-liners and half-assed witticisms.

He’d always liked Kira and while he’d never been intimate with her to my knowledge, I’ve long suspected he carried a torch for her.

I wait until we are in his kitchen with coffee brewing before I seek his opinion. ‘You’ve had longer to think about it than I have. What do you make of it?’

‘Without blowing smoke up your ass, my first thought was that it was a jealous rival who wanted you for herself. Then I remembered what Emily said about the manner of her death. While there were a lot of wounds to make it look like a frenzied attack, the cut that killed her was delivered with precision. That suggests a deliberate attack by someone who knows how to use a knife. My next thought was that it might be a boyfriend who’d flipped after being compared to you. Following this line of reasoning, I went through her journal looking for the names of anyone local she’d dated.’

‘And?’ The sooner Alfonse arrives at the point the better, I’m tired after a long day, and the added mental strain from learning the victim was supposed to have been in love with me has done little to improve my temper.

‘I found she’d only dated three locals in the last eighteen months. Checking the dates against my memory, I figure she only dated when you saw someone more than a couple of times.’

If what Alfonse says is correct – and I have no reason to doubt him – it appears Kira was hedging her bets whenever she thought I might be in a relationship. When my brief sojourns ran their course, she would find a reason to dump the guy.

While Alfonse’s logic may well be sound, I don’t like it. I’m not egotistical enough to think anyone would behave that way over me. I’m nothing special, just a guy who likes hanging out with his friends, reading and earning an honest buck. On the flip side I also like getting into fights and once in a while drinking until I lose days.

Not enjoying this subject, I decide to move on from it. ‘So who’d she date?’

‘Pete Lester, Terrel Upson and George Chalmers.’

I know two of the names. Pete Lester is a builder who runs a small business, Terrel Upson works in a butcher’s shop on Main.

‘Do you know anything about this Chalmers guy?’

Alfonse passes me a sheet of paper across. ‘He’s an accountant. Works by himself and looks after local businesses. Small time and seems to be happy with it from what I’ve learned.’

The paper has a few details on Chalmers and a picture that looks like it has been lifted from a social media site.

While not great leads, they are the best we’ve got. We agree I’m to speak with them in the morning while Alfonse continues his digital excavations of their lives.

25

He waits until the sliver of moon is hidden behind a cloud and moves from his hiding place in the manicured hedge.

Each step is hurried but silent as he crosses the garden and approaches the house’s back door. Using a set of picks, he is through the door and inside the house in less than a minute.

He knows which room she’ll be in. He’s watched the house for hours, observing her movements. A trail of lights being switched off identified her bedroom at the rear of the house.

He is striking when the night is darkest. When the target is deepest in sleep.

She fits the pattern. She will die tonight. Her death will be a quick one. Painful for a brief spell, but quick compared to the Niemeyer slut.

As he moves towards the stairs he’s startled by the angry hiss of a cat. Inside the lounge a mangy tabby with fierce eyes arches its back.

Taking two steps forward, he reaches the lounge door and closes it while the cat is still deciding whether or not to attack.

Step by step he tiptoes up the stairs, keeping his feet against the left wall to minimise the risk of a creak betraying his presence.

The strong aroma of muscle liniment fills his nose, telling him the old girl has overdone it at the gym.

Reaching the top of the stairs he identifies the correct bedroom from the gentle snores.

His gloved hand clasps the door handle and he slips into the bedroom, taking care not to make even the tiniest sound.

Three brisk steps have him towering over her bed, the scalpel in his hand poised ready to strike.

26

I swing the Mustang into a parking bay and step onto the street. Four paces later, I feel the first prickles of sweat begin to encase my body. It isn’t usually this hot at this time of year, but it’s not unknown.

The growing heat causes me to be uneasy for another reason altogether. A friend has decided to take advantage of the good weather. He’s called with an invitation to an impromptu barbecue and pool party.

Claude is a lousy cook at the best of times. As a rule, his barbecuing produces more charcoal than a forest fire. Add to that a thirty by twelve hole filled with water and drunk people and you have a recipe for disaster.

I’d made vague promises, saying how busy I am, but I’ll try to get there if at all possible.

Before entering George Chalmers’s office, I take a moment to assess what I can see through the window.

Chalmers is seated at his desk with a vast ledger in front of him. To his left, nearer the door is the cleanest cut young man I’ve ever seen. He’s staring into a computer screen with serious intent when I hear the muted tones of a telephone.

Clean Cut lifts the telephone on his desk and speaks for a moment before transferring the call to Chalmers. Figuring Clean Cut is some kind of intern or trainee, I wait until the phone call ends then enter the small office. It’s the tidiest office I’ve ever stepped into. Nothing seems to be out of place. Even the papers on the desks are ordered and straight. A hint of cologne hangs in the air rather than the dusty smell of old files.

Before I can say a word, Clean Cut is out of his chair. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Chalmers Accountants. How may I help you?’

Not only is he too polite for words, he is even more clean-cut when close up. I reckon he’s never yet used a razor and won’t need to for at least ten years.

‘I’m here to have a word with Mr Chalmers.’

‘Do you have an appointment, Mr…?’

‘Boulder. No, I don’t.’ I look across the room to where Chalmers is pretending to look at the ledger while earwigging our conversation. ‘It’s to do with a case I’m working on for Devereaux Investigations.’

Give Chalmers his due, he doesn’t flinch at my words.

A shot of excitement fills Clean Cut’s face before professionalism and breeding remove it. He turns to his boss. ‘Mr Chalmers, do you have a moment to speak to a Mr Boulder about a case he’s investigating?’

Chalmers looks up from the ledger on his desk. ‘I have five minutes, Mr Boulder. I am afraid we are rather busy just now.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ I give a sideways nod at Clean Cut. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

He frowns then pulls a dead president from his billfold. ‘Michael, would you be so kind as to walk down to Sherri’s and get me my usual? I will take lunch at my desk today.’

Listening to Chalmers’s educated voice and his mannered speech pattern, the presence of Clean Cut begins to make sense to me. The younger man will be either a relative or a carefully vetted protégé.

As soon as the door closes, I pull up a chair ready to pepper Chalmers with questions about his relationship with Kira.