Four days later, Matt attended the funeral of Philip and Claire Finlay. He positioned himself far enough away so as not to be too obtrusive yet close enough that he could clearly observe the faces and body language of each mourner. Brain fog still lingered since that evening at Antonio’s. He remembered thinking how bad he had felt and swearing never to move his eyeballs again. At least the sawdust mouth and pulsating thud in his head had gone. Only one embarrassing question remained unanswered. How in heaven’s name did he end up back at the police station sleeping in Deputy-Commissioner, Philip Forsythe’s office?
The coffins were lowered.
Matt pushed away from the maple tree he was leaning against and scrutinized the lamenters more closely. Only one person appeared distracted. The smirk on his face noticeable to him because he was in the direct line of his vision.
“Such a sad occasion, don’t you think, Chief Inspector.”
Startled, Matt turned quickly around almost stumbling over the exposed roots of the tree. “You’ve been there long?” he asked. He felt a bit of an ass as he recovered his composure.
“A while, I guess,” Mark Dale replied with an off-handed shrug.
Through Captain Gupta’s investigations and later corroborated in his discussion with the Finlays, Matt had learned that Mark, the chauffeur, was having an affair with Louise Thompson. She was a cousin and married to Alexander Stoffer, a business partner of Sir Reginald’s.
“Isabella is quite a number,” he said with a nod toward the grave site. “I think she thinks herself more than just an aunt. Look how she fusses over that twerp of a grandson of Sir Reginald’s.”
“I gather you don’t like him,” Matt replied, remembering that the Finlays had said much the same.
“Alan? Not at all.” He scraped his boot along the ground dislodging some sort of excreta from its bottom. “Feel sorry for his mother, though,” he continued, while cleaning the dust from the top of his boots along the back of trousers.
“You do? In what way?”
“I’d love to stay and talk, but I see they’re dispersing. Got to get back to my station, so-to-speak. We’ll talk back at the estate when I’m off duty. Until then. Cheerio!”
Matt watched him run down the incline to the paved road where the limo was parked and take up a rigid stance beside it. He made a mental note of a tattoo that disappeared under the cuff of Mark’s jacket. He was sure he had seen it or something like it before. But where? No matter how hard he racked his brains, he came up empty. His cell phone buzzing in the inner breast pocket of his jacket interrupted his trend of thought. It was Sanjay Gupta. “Is the autopsy report finally in?”
“It is!” replied Sergeant Gupta. “And I think you’re going to want to see it.”
Matt noticed Susan, her son Alan, and Isobella walking towards him. And to his delight, he had recalled where he had seen Mark’s tattoo. “Bring the report to Sir Reginald’s estate. I’ll meet you there,” he glanced at his watch, “in two hours, give or take. Bring our investigative team, and for god’s sake don’t let anyone leave!”