anything else you would like to see?”
Gabriel switched off the computer and said, “Just one more thing.”
10
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
T hey stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the landing and stared silently down at the dried blood. “I have photographs,” said the detective, “but I’m afraid they’re not for the squeamish.”
Gabriel wordlessly held out his hand and accepted a stack of eight-by-ten prints—Christopher Liddell, eyes frozen wide in death, a gaping exit wound at the base of his throat, a small entry wound in the center of his forehead. Again, Harkness watched Gabriel intently, plainly intrigued by his failure to register even a hint of revulsion at the sight of a brutally murdered corpse. Gabriel handed the photos to Chiara, who examined them with a similar dispassion before returning them to the detective.
“As you can see,” he said, “Liddell was shot twice. Both rounds exited the victim and were recovered. One from the wall, the other from the floor.”
Gabriel examined the wall first. The bullet hole was located approximately three feet above the floor, opposite the flight of stairs descending from the studio.
“I assume this is the neck shot?”
“That’s correct.”
“Nine millimeter?”
“You obviously know your weaponry, Mr. Rossi.”
Gabriel looked up toward the third-floor studio. “So the killer fired from the top of the stairs?”
“We don’t have a final report yet, but the angle of the wound, combined with the angle that the round entered the wall, would suggest that. The medical examiner says the shot struck the victim in the back of the neck, shattering the fourth cervical vertebra and severing the spinal cord.”
Gabriel looked at the crime-scene photographs again. “Judging from the powder burns on Liddell’s forehead, the second shot was fired at close range.”
“A few inches,” Harkness agreed. Then he looked at Gabriel and added provocatively, “I suppose a professional assassin might refer to that one as the control shot.”
Gabriel ignored the remark and asked whether any of the neighbors had reported hearing gunshots. Harkness shook his head.
“So the gunman used a suppressor?”
“That would appear to be the case.”
Gabriel crouched and, tilting his head to one side, examined the surface of the landing. Just beneath the bullet hole in the wall were several tiny flakes of plaster. And something else as well …He remained on his haunches a moment longer, imagining Liddell’s death as though it had been painted by the hand of Rembrandt, then announced he had seen enough. The detective switched off the crime-scene lamp, at which point Gabriel reached down and carefully dragged the tip of his gloved finger across the landing. Five minutes later, when he climbed into the Rover with Chiara, the glove was safely in his coat pocket, inside out.
“You’ve just committed a very serious crime,” Chiara said as Gabriel started the engine.
“I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
“It was.”
H ARKNESS STOOD on the doorstep like a soldier at ease, hands clasped behind his back, eyes following the Rover as it proceeded out of Henley Close at an altogether unacceptable rate of speed. Rossi …Harkness had known it was a lie the instant the angel descended from his chariot. It was the eyes that had given him away, those restless green torches that always seemed to be looking right through you. And that walk …Walked as though he were leaving the scene of a crime, thought Harkness, or as if he were about to commit one. But what on earth was the angel doing in Glastonbury? And why was he inquiring into the whereabouts of a missing painting? Higher Authority had decreed there would be no such questions. But at least Harkness could wonder. And perhaps one day he might tell his colleagues that he had actually shaken the hand of the legend. He even had a souvenir of the occasion, the gloves worn by the angel and
Gabriel switched off the computer and said, “Just one more thing.”
10
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
T hey stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the landing and stared silently down at the dried blood. “I have photographs,” said the detective, “but I’m afraid they’re not for the squeamish.”
Gabriel wordlessly held out his hand and accepted a stack of eight-by-ten prints—Christopher Liddell, eyes frozen wide in death, a gaping exit wound at the base of his throat, a small entry wound in the center of his forehead. Again, Harkness watched Gabriel intently, plainly intrigued by his failure to register even a hint of revulsion at the sight of a brutally murdered corpse. Gabriel handed the photos to Chiara, who examined them with a similar dispassion before returning them to the detective.
“As you can see,” he said, “Liddell was shot twice. Both rounds exited the victim and were recovered. One from the wall, the other from the floor.”
Gabriel examined the wall first. The bullet hole was located approximately three feet above the floor, opposite the flight of stairs descending from the studio.
“I assume this is the neck shot?”
“That’s correct.”
“Nine millimeter?”
“You obviously know your weaponry, Mr. Rossi.”
Gabriel looked up toward the third-floor studio. “So the killer fired from the top of the stairs?”
“We don’t have a final report yet, but the angle of the wound, combined with the angle that the round entered the wall, would suggest that. The medical examiner says the shot struck the victim in the back of the neck, shattering the fourth cervical vertebra and severing the spinal cord.”
Gabriel looked at the crime-scene photographs again. “Judging from the powder burns on Liddell’s forehead, the second shot was fired at close range.”
“A few inches,” Harkness agreed. Then he looked at Gabriel and added provocatively, “I suppose a professional assassin might refer to that one as the control shot.”
Gabriel ignored the remark and asked whether any of the neighbors had reported hearing gunshots. Harkness shook his head.
“So the gunman used a suppressor?”
“That would appear to be the case.”
Gabriel crouched and, tilting his head to one side, examined the surface of the landing. Just beneath the bullet hole in the wall were several tiny flakes of plaster. And something else as well …He remained on his haunches a moment longer, imagining Liddell’s death as though it had been painted by the hand of Rembrandt, then announced he had seen enough. The detective switched off the crime-scene lamp, at which point Gabriel reached down and carefully dragged the tip of his gloved finger across the landing. Five minutes later, when he climbed into the Rover with Chiara, the glove was safely in his coat pocket, inside out.
“You’ve just committed a very serious crime,” Chiara said as Gabriel started the engine.
“I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
“It was.”
H ARKNESS STOOD on the doorstep like a soldier at ease, hands clasped behind his back, eyes following the Rover as it proceeded out of Henley Close at an altogether unacceptable rate of speed. Rossi …Harkness had known it was a lie the instant the angel descended from his chariot. It was the eyes that had given him away, those restless green torches that always seemed to be looking right through you. And that walk …Walked as though he were leaving the scene of a crime, thought Harkness, or as if he were about to commit one. But what on earth was the angel doing in Glastonbury? And why was he inquiring into the whereabouts of a missing painting? Higher Authority had decreed there would be no such questions. But at least Harkness could wonder. And perhaps one day he might tell his colleagues that he had actually shaken the hand of the legend. He even had a souvenir of the occasion, the gloves worn by the angel and
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