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Authors: Ian Hocking
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then, was the murderer’s hat.
Why did he take pains to shred it?
Because he could not take it with him.
Why couldn’t he take it?
Because if he had it, he could be identified.
Who could the murderer be if the hat was so crucial?
And then remembered examining her face in the mirror. Something had been missing. The burn.
Saskia collapsed into her chair. It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Everything fell into place: the burn, the hat, the timing, the secretary in her fridge, the knowledge of the computer system and the workings of FIB. She knew who the murderer was. And she knew who to call.
Jobanique.
He let the phone ring for nearly a minute. She gave him proud stare. In truth she did not feel angry. She lacked the energy. Solving the case did not lift that burden. Somehow, it made her sink inside her.
“You bastard.”
“Good morning, Detective Brandt,” he replied mildly. He waited for her to speak.
“It is two minutes to nine o’clock. I have time to spare.”
“To spare for what? I’m late for a meeting.”
Saskia erupted. She was surprised. Though her mind was calm, her body thrashed, hammered the desk, picked up the case of the broken shredder and threw it at the window, at Jobanique’s computer-generated face. “You listen to me!”
Jobanique screwed the lid on his fountain pen in the manner of a newsreader. “I’m listening.”
Saskia breathed in and out, in and out. She willed herself not to cry. He would misinterpret it. “I know who the murderer is.”
“Do you.”
Behind her, the computer bleeped to indicate that it had finished its job. “Image analysis done,” it said quietly.
“Give me a hardcopy.”
The desk ejected a sheet of paper. She scooped the computer print-out and held it high. It showed the image that had been reflected in the murderer’s upturned blade. It showed Saskia Brandt frowning in concentration.
“I did it.”
Jobanique smiled robotically, as though for the first time in his life. “I’m still listening.”
“Fine,” she said quietly. “This is what I think happened. On Friday evening I did not fly out to Marseilles. I know this because I remember Simon, my boyfriend, throwing a ladle of boiling pasta at my face yesterday morning. It made a burn. The burn, today, has gone. For a burn to heal so quickly is impossible. What is not impossible, even if it is improbable? That I was not burned. If I was not burned, then my memory of being burned by Simon must be false. If that memory is false, then it is likely that all my memories of Marseilles this weekend are false. So I did not fly out to Marseilles. That would certainly fit with subsequent facts. I would suggest that the memories were deliberately implanted. By you.”
Jobanique gestured impatiently. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”
“The murderer killed Mary, my secretary, the moment my first memory of the trip to Marseilles begins. This fits with the hypothesis that I am the murderer. The surveillance footage shows that Mary was not surprised when the murderer entered. This is also consistent. Mary was killed by a single stab wound below the ear. That, I suppose, is consistent with a female murderer. Again, when the murder tried to move the body she struggled. I would struggle. And the hat; a broad-brimmed fedora. Concealing not only the entire face but – more than most simple disguises such as a handkerchief or scarf – it concealed the sex of the wearer. I had nowhere to hide the hat where my future self couldn’t find it so I shredded it here. When I visited the hat maker he was surprised to see me. He also knew my name without examining my ID. Clearly I had warned him. And, into the mix, we must count the murderer’s knowledge of the computer system in my office. She was permitted entry to the surveillance tapes because, being me, she had clearance. By the same token she was permitted to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the computer. And…I remember now that the
Why did he take pains to shred it?
Because he could not take it with him.
Why couldn’t he take it?
Because if he had it, he could be identified.
Who could the murderer be if the hat was so crucial?
And then remembered examining her face in the mirror. Something had been missing. The burn.
Saskia collapsed into her chair. It was five minutes to nine o’clock. Everything fell into place: the burn, the hat, the timing, the secretary in her fridge, the knowledge of the computer system and the workings of FIB. She knew who the murderer was. And she knew who to call.
Jobanique.
He let the phone ring for nearly a minute. She gave him proud stare. In truth she did not feel angry. She lacked the energy. Solving the case did not lift that burden. Somehow, it made her sink inside her.
“You bastard.”
“Good morning, Detective Brandt,” he replied mildly. He waited for her to speak.
“It is two minutes to nine o’clock. I have time to spare.”
“To spare for what? I’m late for a meeting.”
Saskia erupted. She was surprised. Though her mind was calm, her body thrashed, hammered the desk, picked up the case of the broken shredder and threw it at the window, at Jobanique’s computer-generated face. “You listen to me!”
Jobanique screwed the lid on his fountain pen in the manner of a newsreader. “I’m listening.”
Saskia breathed in and out, in and out. She willed herself not to cry. He would misinterpret it. “I know who the murderer is.”
“Do you.”
Behind her, the computer bleeped to indicate that it had finished its job. “Image analysis done,” it said quietly.
“Give me a hardcopy.”
The desk ejected a sheet of paper. She scooped the computer print-out and held it high. It showed the image that had been reflected in the murderer’s upturned blade. It showed Saskia Brandt frowning in concentration.
“I did it.”
Jobanique smiled robotically, as though for the first time in his life. “I’m still listening.”
“Fine,” she said quietly. “This is what I think happened. On Friday evening I did not fly out to Marseilles. I know this because I remember Simon, my boyfriend, throwing a ladle of boiling pasta at my face yesterday morning. It made a burn. The burn, today, has gone. For a burn to heal so quickly is impossible. What is not impossible, even if it is improbable? That I was not burned. If I was not burned, then my memory of being burned by Simon must be false. If that memory is false, then it is likely that all my memories of Marseilles this weekend are false. So I did not fly out to Marseilles. That would certainly fit with subsequent facts. I would suggest that the memories were deliberately implanted. By you.”
Jobanique gestured impatiently. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”
“The murderer killed Mary, my secretary, the moment my first memory of the trip to Marseilles begins. This fits with the hypothesis that I am the murderer. The surveillance footage shows that Mary was not surprised when the murderer entered. This is also consistent. Mary was killed by a single stab wound below the ear. That, I suppose, is consistent with a female murderer. Again, when the murder tried to move the body she struggled. I would struggle. And the hat; a broad-brimmed fedora. Concealing not only the entire face but – more than most simple disguises such as a handkerchief or scarf – it concealed the sex of the wearer. I had nowhere to hide the hat where my future self couldn’t find it so I shredded it here. When I visited the hat maker he was surprised to see me. He also knew my name without examining my ID. Clearly I had warned him. And, into the mix, we must count the murderer’s knowledge of the computer system in my office. She was permitted entry to the surveillance tapes because, being me, she had clearance. By the same token she was permitted to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the computer. And…I remember now that the
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