"Gill, B.M. - Death Drop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gill B M)

"No -- not really."

"You'd tell me if there were?"

"Yes, of course."

Had the inflection been right? Had he listened hard enough to find a note of doubt, of false brightness? Had he just hoped everything was all right and been too quick to accept David's word for it?

Surely he had known his own son well enough to be aware that he was putting on one hell of a cover-up.

As he must have been.

But these books were normal.

Inside the main folder was another smaller one with the words Project on Maritime History written carefully across it. There were drawings of Aegean Bronze Age vessels and Phoenician biremes. Then came a drawing on graph paper showing the measurements of a Viking ship. He had been given high marks for these and the written comment in red ballpoint: Good. You have done your research well. He turned to Brannigan. "How many times did David go to the Maritime Museum?"

Brannigan noted that he had himself well in hand again. His voice was toneless and his eyes showed nothing.

"The boys were taken on a preliminary visit before each section was written about. The section on cargo vessels was the fourth."

"So it was on his fourth visit that he was killed?"

"Yes."

Fleming closed the folder and then ran his fingers up and down the edges of it as if he were loath to part with anything that David had touched. At last he pushed it aside.

"How would you rate his work?"

Brannigan answered honestly. "Average. He could do very well indeed if he set his mind on it."

"And you would expect this sort of work from a twelve-year-old ?"

"Yes. As I told you, he was average. Not brilliant --just a good, steady, middle-of-the-road ability. The sort that sometimes surges ahead in early adolescence."

"Not the sort that drops back six years and regresses to the intellect of a child of six?"

Brannigan was startled. "I don't understand you."

Fleming took the sketch out of his wallet and handed it to him without a word.

Brannigan looked at the drawing of the caterpillar and the unformed writing under it. WOLLY BEAR ON D'S BED.

"What is this supposed to be? Some of David's early work from his kindergarten?"

"Some of David's most recent work -- during his period in the infirmary when he had mumps."

"I don't believe it!" It came out explosively. What Brannigan saw as an attack from a totally unexpected quarter not only unnerved but astonished him. What the hell was Fleming playing at? This sketch he was holding was the work of an infant. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the books on the desk. And what was that about regression? To this? Fleming must be out of his mind if he thought he could con him that easily.

He handed it back. "You've kept this a long time."