After a pause—a gravid pause, Rhyme thought wryly—the assistant commissioner said, “Very good, Captain. You perhaps can come to my office now to discuss this matter?”

“Provided my associate is there too?”

“Your associate?”

“Corporal Poitier.”

“Of course. I’ll arrange it now.”

Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

THE ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE at the Royal Bahamas Police Force was opulently shabby, more residential than official.

The chamber exuded colonial ambience, which made Rhyme feel right at home. His own working space, the laboratory née parlor, dated back to the era of Victoria. Here, though the RBPF building was newer, McPherson’s office too was cast in an earlier time—with a chintz sofa, a washbasin and pitcher, a large oak armoire, yellow-shaded lamps and, on the wall, pictures of men who had to be governors-general or similar officials. Several formal uniforms—one spotless white, one navy blue—hung stiffly on racks.

Some touches of modern times were present, of course: battered gray file cabinets, three mobile phones sitting on the functional beige desk and two impressive computers. Dominating one wall was a detailed map of New Providence Island.

The climate in here was warm—the air-conditioning was struggling—and the humidity intense. Rhyme deduced that McPherson kept the windows open most of the time and had artificially cooled the room in honor of his visitors this morning. The deduction was supported by another attendee—a chameleon sitting on the sill inside.

The large man, in a pressed khaki uniform, rose and shook Rhyme’s hand carefully. “You’re well, Captain Rhyme?”

“Yes. Some rest was just what I needed.”

“Excellent.”

He shook the hands of Pulaski and Thom as well. A moment later Mychal Poitier walked uncertainly into the room. Greetings all ’round.

The assistant commissioner sat and suddenly he was all business, regarding Rhyme with narrow, focused eyes. “Now, the student. Please, sir. You said murder.”

Rhyme said, “She was definitely killed intentionally, yes. It was planned out beforehand. And she was beaten before she died, I think.”

“Beaten?” Poitier tilted his head.

The criminalist said, “The clue is her jewelry. In the crime scene photos I noted that her bracelets, watch, finger and toe rings were gold. But her necklace was silver leaves. That seemed out of place, mixing the two.”

“What does—?” the assistant commissioner started. Then fell silent. Rhyme had frowned at the interruption.

“I think her assailant beat her badly and wanted to hide that fact. When he was finished, he drowned her and put the necklace on. He knew that scavenger fish’d be attracted to the shiny metal—I read about that on the flight here. I assume it’s in all the guidebooks: warnings not to wear anything flashy. Silver is particularly attractive because it resembles fish scales, more so than gold. The fish took care of the evidence of the beating by removing most of the facial skin.