Die Trying by Lee Child

“You want anything else, you let me know, OK?” he called.

He got no reply because everybody was staring at the screen as McGrath

started inching his way through the tape. Every time he hit the

frame-advance button, a broad band of white snow scrolled down the

screen and unveiled a new picture, same aspect, same angle, same dim

monochrome gray, but the time code at the bottom jumped ahead ten

seconds. The third frame showed a woman behind the counter. Milosevic

touched the screen with his finger.

That’s the woman I spoke to,” he said.

McGrath nodded.

“Wide field of view,” he said. “You can see all the way from behind

the counter right out into the street.”

“Wide-angle lens on the camera,” Brogan said. “Like a fisheye sort of

thing. The owner can see everything. He can see the customers coming

in and out, and he can see if the help is fiddling the register.”

McGrath nodded again and trawled through Monday morning, ten seconds at

a time. Customers jumped in and out of shot. The woman behind the

counter jumped from side to side, fetching and carrying and ringing up

the payments. Outside, cars flashed in and out of view.

“Fast-forward to twelve o’clock,” Milosevic said. “This is taking way

too long.”

McGrath nodded and fiddled with the remote. The tape whirred forward.

He pressed stop and play and freeze and came up with four o’clock in

the afternoon.

“Shit,” he said.

He wound back and forward a couple of times and came up with eleven

forty-three and fifty seconds.

“Close as we’re going to get,” he said.

He kept his finger hard on the frame-advance button and the white snow

scrolled continuously down the screen. One hundred and fifty-seven

frames later, he stopped.

“There she is,” he said.

Milosevic and Brogan shouldered together for a closer look. The still

frame showed Holly Johnson on the far right of the picture. She was

outside, on the sidewalk, crutch in one hand, clothes on hangers in the

other. She was hauling the door open with a spare finger. The time in

the bottom left of the frame was stopped at ten minutes and ten seconds

past twelve noon.

“OK,” McGrath said quietly. “So let’s see.”

He hit the button and Holly jumped halfway over to the counter. Even

frozen on the misty monochrome screen her awkward posture was plain to

see. McGrath hit the button again and the snow rolled over and Holly

was at the counter. Ten seconds later the Korean woman was there with

her. Ten seconds after that, Holly had folded back a hem on one of her

suits and was showing the woman something. Probably the position of a

particular stain. The two women stayed like that for a couple of

minutes, heads together for twelve frames, jumping slightly from one

shot to the next. Then the Korean woman was gone and the clothes were

off the counter and Holly was standing alone for five frames. Fifty

seconds. Behind her on the left, a car nosed into shot on the second

frame and stayed there for the next three, parked at the kerb.

Then the woman was back with an armful of clean clothes in bags. She

was frozen in the act of laying them flat on the counter. Ten seconds

later she had torn five tags off the hangars. Ten seconds after that,

she had another four lined up next to the register.

“Nine outfits,” McGrath said.

That’s about right,” Milosevic said. “Five for work, Monday to Friday,

and I guess four for evening wear, right?”

“What about the weekend?” Brogan said. “Maybe it’s five for work, two

for evening wear and two at the weekend?”

“Probably wears jeans at the weekend,” Milosevic said. “Jeans and a

shirt. Just throws them in the machine, maybe.”

“God’s sake, does it matter?” McGrath said.

He pressed the button and the Korean woman’s fingers were caught

dancing over the register keys. The next two stills showed Holly

paying in cash and accepting a couple of dollars’ change.

“How much is all that costing her?” Brogan asked out loud.

“Nine garments?” Milosevic said. “Best part of fifty bucks a week,