Michael’s curiosity was piqued. “What about the shot told you that you might need that device?”
“The round hit the man, correct, Mr. Graham?”
Michael nodded.
“Seven hundred and seventy-eight yards, though I didn’t know the exact measurement at the time, plus the fact that the bullet ripped through the victim’s apricot tipped me to the fact that we were probably dealing with an experienced sniper. That’s why I started scouting the buildings that fit the trajectory and the field of fire.”
“‘Apricot’?”
“Yes, sir. The medulla oblongata. Located at the base of the skull. Controls involuntary movement. Ensures an instant kill. You put a bullet through that, or the second cervical vertebra, and whomever you shoot is checked out of the festivities.”
“You make the shooter sound like he was really good.”
“He was, sir. No doubt about it. To pop a man like that, while he’s on the run? Bloody good, sir, and that’s the bottom line.”
Michael watched the man and wondered what he did when he wasn’t hanging about Blackpool, helping with security. He suspected it was generally something a lot more demanding, and they were lucky to have him.
Only then did Michael realize that Paddington had been carefully watching him throughout the exchange. Michael let out a breath and shook his head. “You knew the shooter could have killed me, too.”
“The thought crossed my mind simply because the shot that killed that poor devil was so accurately placed and you emerged without a scratch.” Paddington glanced around the bedroom. “I felt you should know what you were truly facing today.”
Michael’s knees were suddenly weak. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
Watts pointed to a chair at a small computer desk. “There. Please stay out of the way. And if you’re going to be sick, please do so in the bin there.” He pointed to the small metal rectangle under the desk.
In order to forestall the sick pulsing in his stomach, Michael focused on the room. Judging from the pictures tucked into the bulletin board on the wall, the flat’s renter was a young woman interested in music. Stills of Lady Gaga were displayed prominently. “Where’s the room’s occupant?”
“At Coffey’s Garage where she works.”
“She was there during the shooting?”
“Her employer confirmed that the young woman has been at work since eight this morning. Constantly in his sight.”
Trying to forget about the sniping incident, Michael examined the pictures of a young woman on the bulletin board. He assumed that the flat was hers. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
“One whose hobby includes sniper rifles?” Paddington smiled. “It’s not going to be that easy. There is a young man, but he’s in London at the moment, applying for a job.”
“I suppose you’ve confirmed that?”
“Talked to him myself, and to his potential employer.” Paddington surveyed the hardwood floor.
Watts was down on his hands and knees, shining a torch under the bed. “I’ve checked, Inspector, but I can’t find the man’s brass anywhere.”
“Policed up after himself?”
Watts resumed standing and seemed put off by the development. “Yes, sir. The man was very thorough. And he got out of here without being seen, according to the residents I’ve chatted up.”
Those residents stood out in the hall, talking to themselves. Michael heard the constant buzz of conversation splashing around the room. If they knew anything, they would tell.
He studied the lock on the door. It was intact and apparently unmarked. So how had the sniper gotten into the room?
“WE’VE GOT A NAME for the dead man.” Paddington closed his mobile and slipped it into his jacket pocket as he trotted down the stairs inside the small building. Crime-scene investigators were still going over the flat.
Michael trailed after the inspector, knowing Paddington wouldn’t tell him anything till he was ready to. Over the past few months, the inspector had come to see the Grahams as annoyances. At least, that was the way Michael felt. Paddington tended to be closed off about his work, and Michael respected that. Unfortunately, he and Molly hadn’t had much choice about becoming involved.
More gawkers stood outside on the lawn of the building, while another crowd was kept at bay from the corpse in the parking lot by yellow crime-scene tape. The coroner was there, as well, now.
“Grady Dunkirk.” At the bottom of the stairs, Paddington looked back up at Michael.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Evidently he was quite a friend of Rohan Wallace.”
“If he was, I didn’t know about it. Wait, why did you say ‘a name’?” The inflection and choice of words made Michael curious.
Paddington was silent for a moment, and Michael didn’t think he was going to get an answer.
“I say ‘a name’ because the one he gave was false. Krebs initiated a background check on the man and the trace ended pretty quickly. He worked on one of the renovation jobs down at the marina, but his paperwork was thin. It would never have held up under a real examination.” A rueful look pinched Paddington’s broad face. “Unfortunately, with all the remodeling Mrs. Graham has got started at the marina, jobs have been plentiful and there hasn’t been time to see who’s who.”
Michael bridled at that. Molly’s vision for Blackpool was brilliant, and other people in town thought so, too, or none of her ideas would have gotten off the ground. “Inspector, with all due respect, I don’t think Molly is in any way—”
Paddington waved him off. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. That was just an observation.”
“Sounded like more than that.”
The inspector sighed and wiped his lower face with a handkerchief. “This used to be a comfortable little town, Mr. Graham, before you and your wife moved here. You can take that as you will.”
Choosing to ignore the jibe for the moment, Michael asked, “Have you been able to trace the dead man’s real identity?”
“We’re working on it.” The inspector glanced at Michael and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re a very good amateur detective, Mr. Graham, and I don’t mean to encourage you in any way.”
“Believe me, Inspector, if it were up to me, Molly and I would have stayed out of every investigation we’ve been involved with. What we’ve experienced—what we’ve all experienced—is just a bit of bad luck at being part of these situations at all.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Then what was that business
