the other Son

Chapter 13

The look on Sorcha's face was nothing short of accusatory and he was lucky she wasn't actually his mother or else she'd surely taken his Playstation by now – not that he owned something like that, but theoretically speaking. She was the epitome of a disappointed parent.

Lesza gave her a brilliant smile and she rolled her eyes.

Since he couldn't really tell her about the nightly emergency that had kept him on his feet well into the early morning hours – vengeful ghosts were a pain in the ass – and didn't have any energy to come up with some sort of excuse Sorcha would have to accept his late arrival. It was quarter past eight which wasn't that late in his books anyway.

She handed him some papers. "Begbie's notes. He's thorough, I'll have to give him that."

Lesza raised his brows. "Was that a compliment?"

"No."

"Good, I was worried for a second." Lesza shimmied his way behind his desk and placed the cup of coffee down before flicking through the papers. Begbie had done a good job although Lesza didn't expect any big revelations. No one had seen the victim on the island which left the question of how he even got there. Guttman hadn't owned a boat himself and Lesza very much doubted he had swam through the freezing cold water therefore someone must've brought him onto the island, or at least his body since they still hadn't found the place where he bled to death.

Lesza downed the rest of the coffee and gathered the papers strewn across the desk. "Okay, let's go, Lisa Guttman should be here any minute."

Sorcha had no other choice but to run after him although she didn't sound out of breath when she asked, "Has she got anything to do with it?"

Lesza contemplated the possibility momentarily and shook his head in the end. "No, I don't think so. She's surely hiding something but she didn't kill him or aid in his murder. Why?"

"Just wondering." Sorcha shrugged her shoulders and smiled briefly in thanks when he held open the door to the staircase for her. "In most cases the victim knew the offender personally."

"We still don't know what he did on that island. How did he get there? Is it coincidence he was killed there or was it planned? If you wanted to dispose of a body in the sea would you go through the trouble to get them on an island when there's plenty of opportunities along the coastline?"

They had reached the ground floor of the building where Lisa Gutman should be waiting in the lobby already. A few days had passed since she had been notified about her husband's passing and Lesza was curious whether her behaviour had changed. For some people it took a long time for the realization to kick in and their first almost unbothered reaction appeared very alien – possibly why she hadn't shown any signs of shock when they had visited her at home.

Lesza opened the door to the lobby and waited until Sorcha had stepped through before following her. The room was far from grand and had as much appeal as a dingy train station with plastic chairs and an Officer behind bulletproof glass but everyone still insisted on calling it lobby as if to expect chandeliers and velvet and gold.

Maybe it was because of her surroundings but Lisa Guttman looked washed out, more glass than honey, faded like a once colourful sweater after too many times of washing it. Her actual sweater was of a woolley white and she wore her hair in a tight ponytail, showcasing pearl earrings – real, he would say if forced to guess. Lisa Gutman wasn't someone to wear fake pearls or diamonds or jewelery altogether.

"Good morning, Mrs Guttman." Lesza offered his hand to shake and she took it, fingers cold as ice.

"Lisa," she corrected almost absentmindedly, a reflex.