From another man, the words would have been meant to elicit a laugh. But another man was not the deputy commander. In a minute, Gorrie knew, he would begin to cite the Constabulary’s unprecedented detection rate—62 percent, up four percentage points from the year before and, more importantly, four points higher than that of the Central Constabulary. Not that there was competition, mind.

“I believe a review of my methods will pass any muster,” said Gorrie.

“You’re trying to connect a traffic accident involving a respected council member—a legate holder, a man descended from heroes, Frank—an unfortunate accident to a tawdry suicide?”

“At least one was murder,” said Gorrie.

“Cameron slept with the wife?”

“No evidence of that. I didnae even think it has been suggested.”

“Where’s the connection then?”

“It would be premature to connect them, sir. Inquiries are being made.”

“Inquiries, lad! I’m not the bleeding press. What is it you have?”

“The dead men met together the night they were murdered,” said Gorrie. “That’s it.”

The walrus pounced. “One was murdered by his wife. The other died in an accident.”

“Manslaughter, at the least.”

“Pending an investigation—and that is not your case,” Russell reminded him.

“I didna ask to be assigned it, sir.”

“You made hints.”

“I followed strict procedure when I met with the detective sergeant in charge,” said Gorrie sharply.

He had. The hints were made in a pub later on.

“Frank.” The walrus leaned to one side, then slid back in the desk chair. With appropriate adjustment for specifics of geographic locale, the speech that followed could have been given by nearly any police supervisor in the islands of Great Britain since the Romans. Crimes to be solved, yes, but flights of fancy not to be indulged. Connections sought, but fantasies nipped in the bud. Investigation to be pursued, but wild-goose chases to be foreclosed.

In some cases, the obvious was the obvious. And there was the detection rate to consider.

Finally, Gorrie couldn’t take any more of it. “Her hand was at the wrong angle,” he said. “I didnae think it could be suicide.”

“What?” asked the walrus.

“She was holding the gun the wrong way to have killed herself. If she were a man, perhaps, or stronger, but to have fired it the way she did, the bullet would have traveled further to the right of her head. To fire it the way she had”—Gorrie held his own hand to demonstrate—“her arm would have had to have been twisted.”

“The autopsy says that?”

“The report only notes the angle of the wound.”

“And the body might not have been moved? Or the arm jerk back as a reflex?”

“You’ll have to trust me on this, Nab. My instincts—”

“Frank, instincts?”

“I helped you out of the traffic division—”

“For twenty years you’ve held that over my head. Twenty years, lad.”

“And I’ll hold it twenty more, God willing.”