‘Okay,’ she says finally. ‘Let’s say Luxford tried to blackmail Biggs. Biggs pretended he was gonna pay. He even withdrew the cash. But actually he was planning to kill Luxford.’

‘Two-sixty isn’t blackmail money. And his gun was still in the safe.’

‘Maybe there was another gun. A knife. A car. For all we know, Biggs was a black belt in karate. Or thought he was.’ I think of Biggs’s muscles. Soft, fatty. Not accustomed to exercise. ‘Go on.’

‘But it goes wrong somehow,’ Thistle continues. ‘Luxford overpowers him, or brings a gun of his own. Then he buries the body somewhere, leaves Biggs’s car and phone at the dump, and then goes home.’

I chew my nails for a bit. ‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘How did he access the dump, and get the car into the crusher?’

‘He might know someone there. Maybe the same guy who ran away from us.’

Her theory covers everything. Except how Biggs’s body ended up naked in the forest. The part she doesn’t know about.

She glances over. ‘You’re supposed to ask how his hand ended up back on campus.’

Whoops. Keep it together, Timothy. ‘That’s him trying to lead us off-base, right?’ I say. ‘We already know he didn’t leave the state.’

Thistle’s phone rings. She answers. ‘Yeah?’

After a pause, she says, ‘Thank you, Your Honour.’ She ends the call. ‘Our warrant just came through.’

•

It isn’t hard to figure out which car belongs to the plainclothes surveillance agents. It’s parked facing Luxford’s house, close enough for a clear line of sight to the front door, but far enough away that it’s unlikely to be noticed. There’s a frozen puddle under a nearby tree, and given the topography of the land, that only makes sense if someone has pissed on it. The driver, a black woman in her forties with army-short hair, is sitting there with her hands in her lap, like she’s texting—except her gaze stays on the house. The passenger seat is tilted all the way back, like someone is asleep in it. Probably a man, judging by the piss puddle.

The house itself looks surprisingly up-market for a TA. Two storeys, brick veneer, big windows covered by drawn curtains. And Westbranch is a good neighbourhood. Maybe Luxford shares it with somebody. Or maybe he inherited some money.

We walk up to the car, and Thistle raps on the passenger-side window. A fifty-something white man with a moustache sits up, rubs his eyes and wipes some drool off his chin. He looks around, sees Thistle. I watch him take note of my clothes and Thistle’s race. ‘Get lost,’ he says, his voice muffled by the glass.

His partner nudges him.

Thistle flashes her badge. Embarrassed, the man fumbles with his window for a bit. Eventually it buzzes down.

‘Sorry, agents,’ he says. ‘What can we do for you?’