Chapter 16: The Blind Spot

In his study, Barnaby collapsed into the chair, a ragged breath escaping from his throat. The more he thought about it, the more he wished for another call about another burglary. It would reinvigorate the case, force him back to the office—and Troy as well. That would be a place to start, a wrench in the machine to get the man away from his daughter.

He picked up one of the forensic reports again, lifting it from the top of an ever growing pile of papers describing muddy footprints, torn fibers, tool marks, and fingerprints. The footprints, present at several scenes, were similar but too smeared to be of any use. The fibers, found at several others, were identical but probably matched thousands of gloves or jumpers. The tool marks, at least, would lead somewhere—the scratches were clear enough for a match whenever they found evidence for comparison. But the fingerprints, though not smudged, were worthless without a suspect. There was no criminal record attached to them and they could hardly be conclusive since they appeared at only two of the crime scenes. After nearly two weeks, they still didn't know where to look— Not that knowing means anything, Barnaby thought, tossing the report back to his desk. Tell them what you know and they act like they didn't hear you at all. Joyce, Cully, all of them.

How many more times was Joyce going to tell him he only knew Sergeant Troy? His wife could think what she wanted—and she would—but that was enough for him, more than enough! She might even have some belated words of kindness for him—for Gavin. Even thinking of her certain sympathy drove a shudder through him. Barnaby remembered well those weeks and months, his sergeant's already somewhat troubling investigative skills worn to the bloody bone by his divorce. And what was the cause? One too many nights at the office or in the car or out at a crime scene, Troy had said. Too much for her to put up with, like that was reason enough.

Hardly. It was more like an excuse. Barnaby had nearly thirty years as a policeman behind him—years of working odd hours, sometimes for days without a break, through nights and weekends and holidays when a case gripped him and refused to let go—but his relationship with Joyce had never shaken. It had been strained once or twice, but nothing more. It was just another one of Troy's poor choices, Barnaby was certain, if his sergeant's marriage had fallen apart so quickly when it faced the inevitable.

"I only know him," he growled, curling one hand into a fist. "Only?" Barnaby let out a deep breath again and loosened his hand, his palm burning beneath the bite of his fingernails. What would she say about that, a marriage ending almost before it had begun, crushed beneath what they had both endured? Whatever she said, her glare would be enough. And he already heard her words, gentle yet firm: "Extenuating circumstances." She would see no fault in anyone.

Yet what had he seen when Cully and Troy had first met? It was an innocent, almost harmless moment—"Oh, Troy, this is my daughter, Cully. Cully, Gavin Troy." But it was a moment sullied as his sergeant's still married eyes lingered on her for a second too long when Troy surely believed he had ceased to watch. It could have been an innocent moment. That sort of man dating his daughter? No. Crossing his arms, Barnaby stared at his desk—the scattered papers, the phone, the crime scene photographs—no longer just wishing but demanding that something happen.

Nothing did.

God, perhaps the man's stupidity was tolerable but not his gaze, or the words that left his mouth without a single thought. The possibility was not acceptable—it was unthinkable—not when Troy's attention was so easily distracted...But then what of Sergeant Brierley? "He's hardly said a word to me all morning...It's not like him, sir." And she was right: no one ever acted out of character—

No. No. No. It remained unacceptable, no matter the past, no matter the reason.

Yet whatever he knew—whatever he said—sympathy for Troy and a knowing stare for himself would be Joyce's responses. What did I tell you? her face would say. Best to think about that when it came—madness from the person he relied upon most for comfort, the only one right now. Barnaby stood again, taking a few anxious steps away from his desk before turning around, following the same path to his desk. Turn, more steps, another turn, yet more steps...

God, he couldn't think! Hesitating in the kitchen a few minutes ago had been the mistake: glancing out the window, waiting, watching—and turning away. He had no longer been able to watch as his sergeant—his bloody sergeant!—clasped his daughter's fingers, kissed her, refused to release her hand, and god only knew what else. The possibilities sat like a rock in his stomach, seething and poisonous and draining.

It was not anger now, not rage, but disappointment. He could say nothing, he could do nothing, not when his daughter was about to head into something so idiotic and not worry about the aftermath again! But then, she never had, not with friends or boyfriends or lovers, neither at secondary school nor university. Why did he expect her to be wiser now? Sitting once more, Barnaby folded his hands together atop the mess of reports, closing his eyes as he already knew the answer.

He expected her to be wiser because in the past few years, she had been wiser. Ever since she had begun acting, she had almost put those years behind her, like she was ready to consider what might lie in the future. How else had her relationship with Nico lasted so long? Yet she considered this craziness now...But it was more than that: it was insanity, a bloody awful mess.

There was no way out. Barnaby wanted few things in life more than for his daughter to be happy—that had forced him to hold his tongue long enough, then and now—but not like this. Foolishness was not happiness. He saw no way out, only a way through. There was no chance of knowing which way to go, not when he was trailing after Cully blindly, certain she didn't know the path either. Sometimes Barnaby wondered if his daughter found it amusing, trying to drive him out of his mind—because she was.

Barnaby ignored the churning in his abdomen as he reached for a stack of photographs. The scraped windowsills lay frozen on the glossy paper, the images almost identical from one page to the next; the muddy footprints were indecipherable, the enlarged fingerprints cruel and taunting. So many crimes one after the other, a series of the bloody ridiculous choices of every miscreant.

Well, that was the trouble, wasn't it: choice. There was no accounting for it, no words to persuade a headstrong person to turn away from a poor one, no way to make a choice for another. Joyce was right about that, even if she remained mistaken regarding everything else.

Then I'll let her, he thought, shuffling through the photographs again, the sheen marred by his own fingerprints and the edges showing the wear of frequent examination. Cully's made it through other foolish decisions before. She'll make it through this one, too. Perhaps it was impossible for her to understand reason now, but she might one day understand the consequences even if she had to live through them again.

There was no other way.