I touched Henry’s arm. It wasn’t stiff, just . . . still.
“The chill of the river delays rigor mortis,” explained Cage.
A sob pulsed in my throat. I swallowed it down as best I could.
Cage pulled the sheet back up over Henry’s face with a finality I hadn’t been ready for.
“We found the killer’s DNA on the safe ’andle and on Mr. Wilkinson’s body, as well,” Bryant said. “Still and all, we can’t seem to find a cause of death for the killer, can we, Dr. Cage?”
“Not as yet,” Cage confirmed.
“Mr. Solomon,” said Bryant, “from what I’ve been able to piece together, you and Mr. Wilkinson were mates. That fair to say?”
I nodded.
“So, if ’e were involved in anything unsavory, anything that might make a fellow want to ’urt ’im, it would stand to reason that you might know something about it, wouldn’t it?”
I thought about punching Bryant in the face. He knew nothing about Henry, and just the suggestion that my friend was involved in something made me angry as hell. “Henry was honest.”
Bryant paced back and forth on the other side of the table. “And yet, ’is body was sittin’ there at the bottom of the Thames, inside a safe, mind you. ’Ardly seems a crime of passion, does it? No sir, someone went at this long and careful-like.”
I was breathing so loud it sounded to me like it was coming from a PA. “What do you want?”
Bryant scratched the side of his head with his pencil. “Most days, such a straight line between a victim and ’is killer would put a smile on me face. And while I should like to ’ave seen ’im dragged into court by his thumbs, I s’pose, this is, after all, justice of a sort, isn’t it, Mr. Solomon?”
“If he killed Henry,” I said, “God forgive me, but I’m glad he’s dead.” “A perfectly reasonable response from a chap who so fortunately escaped ’is mate’s fate.” Bryant rounded the table and got so close I could see the flecks in his irises. “It’s too neat, Mr. Solomon.”
He was looking for a tell: a shimmying leg, a sweaty lip. But growing up around Rollin’ 100s soldiers, you learn to get quiet and still when the police ask their questions. The way I did it was booting up some Thin Lizzy in my mind, and listening to the music inside.
“I ’ave a good many more victims who’ve turned up in the very same way as your friend Mr. Wilkinson,” said Bryant. “And in most cases, the murderer is still at large. Bit of a coincidence, innit?”
Thin Lizzy played on.
“Yet, today,” he continued, “we ’ave a victim and killer with an embarrassment of evidence tying them together. Case closed, as we say.”
“Well, at least—” began Cage.
“The real perpetrators,” Bryant went on, ignoring the coroner, “are always gettin’ away with it, Mr. Solomon . . . but not forever. I ’ope you can appreciate wot I’m saying.”
It almost sounded like he wasn’t completely veiled like most humans. But I said nothing, as Lizzy’s “Waiting for an Alibi” hit the chorus in my head. “Let me put it another way.” Bryant tapped my chest with his pencil.
“I think you know more than you’re sayin’, Mr. Solomon. And that ain’t good for your friend, his murderer, or you. Because these things aren’t typically a one-man job, if you know what I mean—one man gettin’ another into a vault and sinking ’im into the Thames. So, maybe I don’t find out the ’ole story without your ’elp . . . and you and me find ourselves on opposite sides of the fence down the line, when more shenanigans get done. TheYard’s got long arms, Mr. Solomon, so my advice is you come clean now, so’s you don’t ’ave to test our reach later.”
I let the song in my head fade. “Thank you for your service.”
Cage cleared his throat. “If you’re about finished, Detective, I’ve got some paperwork I need Mr. Solomon to sign so he can take possession of certain personal items belonging to the deceased.”
Bryant scoffed deep in his throat.
The wall phone next to the inner-office door rang. Cage bustled over and picked it up. “Yes. Oh, of course. We’ll be right there.” He hung up. “Come, Detective, you and I need to pop up to reception, which reminds me I’ve some papers for you to sign, as well.”
Bryant scoffed again.
“Official business,” Cage told us, “I’ll be right back. Please wait, though, because I’ve some things for you.” He escorted Bryant out of the room. The detective gave me a sidelong look on his way out and shut the door hard like a warning.
The coroner’s lab fell silent. We’d been standing there in that silence less than a minute before a soft knock came at the door, and Muster Brach, Henry’s old friend, stepped into the autopsy bay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
