Jinnah looked at the picture in minute detail. It was at first completely unenlightening. The trunk of the Caddy was closed. The very top of it was scorched with the marks of the fire, its white paint bubbled and cracked and stained black with soot and ash. The face of the trunk, the very back end of the car, was almost unscathed, however. The medallion that covered the lock was skewed to the left. Around the lock itself were scratch marks. Jinnah frowned and peered more closely. On the lower edge of the trunk, where it met the bumper, there appeared to be a deep dent. It was the kind of dent Jinnah had seen quite often, mostly in cars which had had their trunks pried open.
“So, someone broke into the trunk of the car,” he shrugged. “Big deal.”
Aikens looked at Jinnah, disappointed.
“Jinnah, I believe your father was a police chief back in Kenya, was he not?”
“What has that —”
“As a policeman,” Aikens continued. “He would ask himself questions. Questions like: Who broke into Sam Schuster’s car and when? Is there, perhaps, a record of this incident? And where, given a distinct lack of co-operation from other authorities, might I find that record?”
Jinnah gazed on Aikens with something approaching worship. This man was a master of giving tips in a manner that, even if they could be traced, could not be pinned on him.
“In theory, then, and we are talking strictly theory, hmm?” said Jinnah. “My dad might have said a trunk can contain many things. Gasoline, for instance.”
“It might,” agreed Aikens. “But if this was a suicide, then why would the trunk bear the marks of a break-in?”
Damned good question, thought Jinnah. He tried again.
“It might also contain valuables,” he ventured. “Whoever killed Sam Schuster might have known he was carrying something, lured him to a remote spot and then murdered him — in a manner that suggests suicide.”
“A possibility,” said Aikens in a tone which didn’t really admit it. “In which case, he might ask: why is the trunk closed?”
“Doctor, you ought to be a reporter,” said Jinnah. “You’d be very good at it.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Aikens. “You see, I can ask myself these questions, but I could never ask anyone else, let alone record their response. You see, I ask my clientele but one question: ‘Why are you dead?’ They’re in no particular hurry to answer.”
“There are several other possibilities,” said Jinnah, returning to the issue at hand. “But it strikes me that in this case, a Cadillac trunk would easily accommodate a person — or a body.”
Aikens closed the file and tapped it down, sending the photographs into a neat, tight rectangle within their cardboard walls.
“I’m sure an enterprising reporter would find a record of such an event, no matter what obstacles were put in his path,” he said, putting the file on top of the pile.
“I don’t suppose you might have a few suggestions of where an enterprising reporter might start looking, given that the police are less than forthcoming?”
“I’m afraid not. Now if you’ll be so good as to excuse me, Mister Jinnah, I have two post-mortems to attend to — unless you care to assist me.”
“That’s okay, Doc,” Jinnah said, his mouth twisted in a badly suppressed grin. “I have other fish to fry — no pun intended.”
Aikens rose and escorted Jinnah out of the office, through the lab and to the door.
“You understand, of course, that anything we have discussed is strictly off the record?” Aikens said as he stood in the doorway.
Jinnah smiled. Dealing with Rex Aikens was often like watching a video. No matter how many different movies you saw, no matter how unique the plot, there was always that damned FBI warning at the beginning. Aikens was exactly the same, but he preferred to put his disclaimer at the end.
“Of course, Doc, of course,” Jinnah said. “Not a word.”
“Good,” said Aikens. “You appear to have especially displeased those who work upstairs over this case.”
Aikens was referring to the police who worked on the floors above his lab.
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” said Jinnah. “There is much more to this one than meets the eye.”
“When you meet those eyes, Jinnah,” said Aikens earnestly. “Remember the horrors they have seen. Good day.”
Aikens closed the door and Jinnah walked slowly towards his van. He turned what the forensic pathologist had told him over and over in his mind. Dead men may tell tales to Aikens, but they were no use at all to Jinnah. He had to interview the living. And now he knew where to start. He climbed into the satellite-guided Love Machine and turned the key in the ignition. He drove along First Avenue for several minutes, completely self-absorbed, before the computer jarred him from his revelry.
“You should be in the right-hand lane now if you intend to take your pre-programmed route,” it admonished him.
Jinnah cursed and hastened to correct his course. He had almost forgotten about the launch of the Orient Love Express.
The Hotel Vancouver is a downtown landmark, its soaring, chateau roof ringed by gargoyles who look down on busy Georgia Street like fearsome sentinels guarding the happy people frolicking in the rooftop restaurant. Underneath the gleaming silver roof, the hotel has seen many events in its ballrooms: political conventions, trade shows, film festivals, and of course, business launches. But the launch of the Orient Love Express promised to be one of the more interesting events in months, and so the Pacific Ballroom was packed with invited guests, members of the media, the merely curious, and a very nervous Sanjit over-seeing the entire spectacle. The room echoed with an excited chattering that rolled around the high, curved ceiling, mingled with the crystal chandeliers, and bounced back down over the tables and chairs where the crowd formed little cliques around punchbowls and coffee urns. There were also rows and rows of juice and tea of all kinds, but in keeping with Sanjit’s religious beliefs, not a drop of alcohol. He’d been quite firm on this point with Jinnah. Sanjit had won that battle, as he had won the battle with Jinnah over the cost of staging such an elaborate gala launch. The room itself had not come cheap. Nor had the catering or the brochures and colour media kits. But the pièce de résistance would be revealed in a few minutes. He eyed the huge, wrap-around screen nervously for the hundredth time. Jinnah was, as usual, late. Where was he? Sanjit looked up at the podium draped with a cloth bearing the Love Express logo of a giant steam locomotive puffing red hearts from its stack. He would have to climb those stairs and speak from behind that podium in a few minutes and he knew with the utmost conviction that he wouldn’t be able to do it without Jinnah present to steady him. He sensed the restlessness of the crowd and looked up at the clock on the far wall. Name of God! Ten past noon! Late already.
Sanjit was just on the point of reaching for his cell-phone to give Jinnah one last call when his cousin appeared in the huge, double-doored entrance way at the far end of the ballroom. Sanjit gave a gusty exhalation of temporary relief before politely barging his way through the crowd towards Jinnah. But Sanjit’s glimpse of his cousin was fleeting. Hakeem was almost instantly obscured by a large mob of reporters.
“Jesus Christ, Jinnah!” cried Ashley Acorn.
Acorn was business reporter with “Another Vancouver daily morning newspaper,” Hakeem’s competition. Jinnah smiled.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Acorn scolded. “Hold a launch and no booze for the press corps? Dear, oh dear, you are asking for trouble, mate!”
Jinnah was unruffled. The diminutive Acorn, yet another British ex-patriot, was grinning and holding his hand out to be shaken. He liked Acorn, who had been