`Go on,’ Finlay said again.
`Close range shot into the left temple,’ I said. `Could be the victim was in a car. Shooter is talking to him through the window and raises his gun. Bang. He leans in and fires the second shot. Then he picks up his shell cases and he leaves.’
`He leaves?’ Finlay said. `What about the rest of the stuff that went down? You’re suggesting a second man?’
I shook my head.
`There were three men,’ I said. `That’s clear, right?’
`Why three?’ he said.
`Practical minimum of two, right?’ I said. `How did the victim get out there to the warehouses? He drove, right? Too far from anywhere to walk. So
where’s his car now? The shooter didn’t walk there, either. So the practical minimum would be a team of two. They drove up there together and they drove away separately, one of them in the victim’s car.’
`But?’ Finlay said.
`But the actual evidence points to a minimum of three,’ I said. `Think about it psychologically. That’s the key to this thing. A guy who uses a silenced small-calibre automatic for a neat head shot and an insurance shot is not the type of guy who then suddenly goes berserk and kicks the shit out of a corpse, right? And the type of guy who does get in a frenzy like that doesn’t then suddenly calm down and hide the body under some old cardboard. You’re looking at three completely separate things there, Finlay. So there were three guys involved.’
Finlay shrugged at me.
`Two, maybe,’ he said. `Shooter could have tidied up afterward.’
`No way,’ I said. `He wouldn’t have waited around. He wouldn’t like that kind of frenzy. It would embarrass him. And it would worry him because it adds visibility and danger to the whole thing. And a guy like that, if he had tidied up afterward, he’d have done it right. He wouldn’t have left the body where the first guy who came along was going to find it. So you’re looking at three guys.’
Finlay thought hard.
`So?’ he said.
`So which one am I supposed to be?’ I said. `The shooter, the maniac or the idiot who hid the body?’
Finlay and Baker looked at each other. Didn’t answer me.
`So whichever one, what are you saying?’ I asked
them. `I drive up there with my two buddies and we hit this guy at midnight, and then my two buddies drive away and I choose to stay there? Why would I do that? It’s crap, Finlay.’
He didn’t reply. He was thinking.
`I haven’t got two buddies,’ I said. `Or a car. So the very best you can do is to say the victim walked there, and I walked there. I met him, and I very carefully shot him, like a pro, then recovered my shell cases and took his wallet and emptied his pockets, but forgot to search his shoes. Then I stashed my weapon, silencer, flashlight, mobile phone, the shell cases, the wallet and all. Then I completely changed my whole personality and kicked the corpse to pieces like a maniac. Then I completely changed my whole personality again and made a useless attempt to hide the body. And then I waited eight hours in the rain and then I walked down into town. That’s the very best you can do. And it’s total crap, Finlay. Because why the hell would I wait eight hours, in the rain, until daylight, to walk away from a homicide?’
He looked at me for a long moment.
`I don’t know why,’ he said.
A guy like Finlay doesn’t say a thing like that unless he’s struggling. He looked deflated. His case was crap and he knew it. But he had a severe problem with the chief’s new evidence. He couldn’t walk up to his boss and say: you’re full of shit, Morrison. He couldn’t actively pursue an alternative when his boss had handed him a suspect on a plate. He could follow up my alibi. That he could do. Nobody would criticize him for being thorough. Then he could start again on Monday. So he was miserable because seventy-two hours were going to