“My God, I didn’t think it was still around,” said Tom.

“It’s definitely around in our local book shop. According to the owner, when the book first came out it flew off the shelves. He had to keep reordering. His customers were fascinated. It’s the recounting of a lot of your cases they liked, not too heavy on the technical details. It actually makes forensics both accessible and intriguing. What’s astounding is how broad your knowledge is. You know things in so many different areas—”

“Grandad knows something about everything,” said Sydney. “Except horses.” She smiled.

“My favorite so far,” said Melrose, “is the case about the drummer in the ’90s band called ‘Liftoff.’ The drummer, Johnny Hamm, was found dead in the garage where he did his practicing. Drumsticks thrown against the wall, mixer overturned, speakers upended. A tape recorder was still playing. To the medical examiner, it was clearly suicide: he’d shot himself with the gun in his hand. The SOCO people, the forensics team agreed that all of it indicated suicide. Except Tom Brownell, who pointed out that the tape playing was of a concert that was the only one of Liftoff’s failures, and that particular song was the only one Hamm had written that wasn’t a smashing success. ‘Johnny Hamm would never have killed himself while listening to that tape. Check it for prints.’

“They found several prints on the tape that belonged to Liftoff’s former drummer, Earl Cooper. He’d been let go when Hamm came along. Cooper had been furious for years at Hamm for the loss of the job and his failure at getting a new one with another group. He had failed, of course, because he was a mediocre musician. You—” Melrose was looking at Tom now “—discovered Cooper had form for several incidents of violence, gave him high priority as a suspect. Cooper was finally arrested and found guilty of shooting Hamm. Cooper apparently found it ego-gratifying to play this piece of music. Dumb sod didn’t realize it might point to him.” Melrose shut the book. “That’s pretty good, Tom.”

“There’s one case you won’t find in there, Mr. Plant. My daughter’s. I might have helped with the others, but Sydney’s right, I couldn’t save her.”

Melrose looked down at the book again and looked back up at Tom Brownell. “Maybe you can save somebody else, though.”

12

Jury did not recognize the old Aston Martin parked at the top of the Watermeadows drive. He parked Plant’s Bentley behind it and went to the front door.

The door was opened not by Flora Flood but by the last person Jury expected to see: the old butler Crick.

Crick was no more wasted than he had been years before, yet wasting away he still seemed to be, as if having left yet another fuller outline of himself behind like a shadow on the walk.