‘Not discreetly,’ I say. ‘He was well-off, right? He would have wanted discretion.’

‘But if it all went down like you say, where’s his body?’

I shrug. ‘The bay somewhere?’

‘And his car?’

I open my mouth and shut it again.

‘And how do you explain the phone trail to the dump?’

I’d forgotten about that part, too.

A voice behind me says, ‘Mr Blake, I’m guessing?’

I look up. A woman is standing outside Thistle’s cubicle. White, mid-forties, ash-blonde hair. Grey pantsuit. Make-up and high heels—someone not dressed for field work, but always prepared to go on camera. From that and the way Thistle has tensed up, I’m guessing this is her new boss.

‘Timothy, this is Marianne Zinnen,’ Thistle says. ‘The new field office director.’

‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Blake,’ the director says, extending a hand with nails painted a subtle shade of maroon.

‘You’re welcome.’ I shake her hand. She doesn’t seem to notice my missing thumb.

‘I do hope you can help us with this case. Gabriela Biggs is a close friend of mine. She and her daughter are frantic. And Kenneth’s colleagues at the university, too.’

This isn’t unnecessary detail. She’s telling me to tread carefully when it comes to the family. But a missing university professor is more obvious than a missing cab driver or store clerk, so Zinnen is probably under political pressure to solve this case quickly.

‘Mr Blake thinks it might be a suicide,’ Thistle says.

‘Oh, how awful,’ Zinnen says. But there’s relief in her eyes, too. The media loves pointing fingers, and if it’s a suicide, those fingers will be pointed at the underfunded mental health services in Texas. A high-profile unsolved murder, on the other hand, could be blamed on her. ‘Well, I hope you can help us find his remains,’ she continues. ‘The former director’s notes indicate that you’re the best man for the job.’

She’s buttering me up. The last director hated me—the best his notes could possibly say is that I had a good solve rate. But …

Oh. I shrivel a little inside. Thistle doesn’t want me here at all. Her boss pressured her into calling me.

‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ I assure her.

She beams. ‘Thank you. Let me know if there’s anything at all you need.’

This is an empty offer. I’m only here because the FBI’s budget is, as always, stretched to breaking point. But I play along.

‘Will do,’ I say.

‘Agent Thistle,’ Zinnen says, ‘you have everything you need for this evening?’

‘Yes,’ Thistle says. ‘Thanks.’ I get the feeling she doesn’t want me to know what this question is about.