THIRTY-NINE
With this journal, I am not only certain that the twenty-first-century killer inhabits Findlay, I’m also certain that I was right about why he tortured Evans. In the early notes, I see the sort of specific data plus random facts I might expect Evans to know if he’d been friendly with Findlay. Also the sort of information he couldn’t expect Evans to give him over a pint at the local pub.
What do I know about your boss? What kind of question is that, mate?
This data dump required more. It required a poor guy, terrorized and in pain, racking his brain for more to give.
Wait! You mentioned once that your boss didn’t get on with his family. That he came from money and something happened. You didn’t say what—it was an offhand comment.
That’s what I see in these pages.Tell me everything I’ve said about Detective McCreadie. About my sergeant. About my coworkers and my friends and my landlords. Every tidbit, no matter how small.
There’s more, too. The same things my grandfather would have noted about his daily life and routines. What was going through Evans’s mind when Findlay askedthesequestions? The most banal and obvious aspects of ordinary life, everything from clothing to customs to the value of currency. All the same questions I’ve been struggling with myself. The questions of a stranger in a strange land. A time traveler in a new time.
If there was any—any—possible way I could read these pages and come up with another explanation, like early memory loss, it’s erased by the terminology itself, with words like “workaholic.” This was written by someone from my world. By the asshole who tried to kill me and then ended up in Findlay’s body.
My twenty-first-century attacker is in the body of Constable Colin Findlay. Does that mean Findlay is in his body? Maybe so, but it doesn’t mean anything for this case. It’s just idle speculation.
Earlier, when I considered Findlay as a possibility, I’d wondered at everything he seemed to know—his comments on McCreadie, his job, Gray, all of which made him seem to be the real Findlay. It’s all in here. There’s nothing he mentioned, even in passing, that I don’t see in these pages.
It’s Findlay. I know it is. And I’m in his apartment.
I check the alert on the back door and peer out the kitchen window. Everything is still dark and quiet.
I hurry into the bedroom. I have what I came for, but that won’t stop me from looking for more. I find it, too. This guy might fancy himself a clever killer, leaving pristine scenes that would frustrate even a modern forensic team, but he’s shit at hiding the more circumstantial evidence.
I’m going to guess that’s ego more than carelessness. If McCreadie found Findlay’s notebook, he’d never understand the significance of it. Findlay could claim anything from memory issues to investigative practice, learning to detail observations and recollections.
No, the only person who would understand it is the woman who crossed over with the imposter. That makes it safe. It’s not as if she’s a detective or anything.
I’d bet all of Catriona’s ill-gotten gains that the imposter hadn’t evenfoundwhat I uncover next. It’s an envelope, not only hidden under his mattress but fastened to the mattress itself, so when it’s lifted, it won’t be seen unless the searcher peers up. In Findlay’s list of cases with McCreadie, a perpetrator must have hidden evidence like this, and he remembered it.
I pull out the envelope and find two notes inside. Both are penned in a cramped hand, each letter printed with care, as if by someone of questionable literacy.
Dear Constable Findlay,
Your little kitty-cat is doing you wrong. You think she is so interested in your job. All those questions she asks! She is interested… in selling every tidbit you give her.
If you want to know more, leave ten bob with the barkeep at the address below.
A friend
Davina. I’m sure of it. She calls Catriona kitty-cat, and the black-market dive bar is on the street she mentions.
Catriona sold out Findlay, and Davina sold out Catriona.
I check the envelope, but that’s the only thing in it. Odd to keep it quite so hidden. A thorough search of the mattress and under the bed confirms nothing fell out.
I’m continuing my search of the bedroom when I find a second note in the same hand, folded and lying right out on the dresser along with some coins and what looks like a shopping list—a few items Findlay must have needed to pick up. In other words, the contents of an emptied pocket, complete with bits of lint.
This is what Findlay had in his pocket the night he tried to kill Catriona. Items the imposter deemed irrelevant but had kept, just in case.
The note is in the same handwriting as the hidden one. From Davina.
Dear Constable Findlay,
Thank you for your generous donation. On Thursday night, come to the address where you delivered it, wait outside and I will deliver the proof. You will hear the kitty-cat yowl with your own ears.
A friend