‘Yeah, but useless. The insurance company mandates that there be cameras, but it doesn’t require them to be recording, so they weren’t. And no one saw anything suspect on the live feed.’

‘According to who? Edwards?’

Thistle slurps up the last of her shake. ‘Right. Who I don’t trust at all.’

The diner starts to disappear around me as I become more and more immersed in the puzzle. In my head, I’m still at the dump, looking around. ‘He’s hiding something, for sure. But if the perp doesn’t work there, then someone would have noticed him trashing a car and two phones, right?’

‘Him?’

‘Even if the perp isn’t Luxford, Edwards or the guy who stole the tractor, I reckon we’re looking for a man.’

‘You mean statistically.’

‘Not just that. Ruthven is a big guy. Two hundred pounds. Not easy for a woman to overpower him.’

‘You might be surprised,’ Thistle says. ‘I was on my high school wrestling team. Sometimes the weight doesn’t matter—you just gotta find the right angle.’

‘The point is that our perp either works at the dump or has teamed up with someone who does,’ I say. ‘We’re getting close.’

Thistle checks her watch. ‘I have to go. My lawyer will be shitting herself.’

‘Your lawyer? I thought you were just a witness.’

Thistle ignores this. ‘How are you getting home?’

Stealing cars is harder than it used to be. ‘The bus,’ I say.

‘Okay. I’ll see you at the field office tomorrow.’

‘Let me give you my new cell number,’ I say, ‘in case you find anything out before then.’

Warner told me not to tell anyone about the phone, but I want to emphasise to Thistle that it’s new. I want her to know that I didn’t lie to her before, when I told her I didn’t have one.

It’s stupid, because I lie to her all the time. My whole life is a fabrication. But I don’t like her thinking I’m dishonest.

‘Sure.’ Thistle gets out her phone and types in the number I give her. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’ She leaves some cash on the table and walks out the door, not even staying long enough to get a receipt.

I sit, sipping my salted, sweetened coffee for a minute. Thinking.

I should go home. Keep working the case. Do something about the bodies in my freezer.

Instead, I follow Thistle to the courthouse.

•

When I pictured the inside of Herbert W. Gee Municipal Courthouse, it always looked like a grand old hotel. Lots of wood panelling, marble floors, maybe even a chandelier. I figured there would be people in expensive suits—and me in chains.