“The bus station?” Green pounced on the implication. The House of Commons was a standard destination for any tourist to Ottawa, but the Voyageur bus station wasn’t. It was strictly for cheap intercity travel. “Did you—”
“Sue’s going down to the bus station this morning, sir,” Gibbs interjected. “She’s taking the photos of the DOA and the purse to see if anyone remembers her.”
Green chuckled to himself at the pride in Gibbs’s tone. Pride not only in his own investigative skills, but also in his partner. Who would have thought the mismatched pair would ever gel? “Excellent. Keep me posted. If Patricia took a bus somewhere outside of Ottawa, she was probably going to meet someone important. This was a woman on a mission, I’m convinced of it. Anything else to report?”
“Yessir!” Gibbs’s voice cracked in his exuberance. “The dead woman apparently made a number of phone calls from the payphone in the hotel lobby, and she received at least one there that the desk clerk can remember. It was a man’s voice. We’re working on getting the phone records for that payphone, which might even tell us who she was meeting.”
When Green hung up, he was energized by the progress being made on all fronts. They still had no idea what was going on, but with all the promising avenues opening up, he sensed the solution was almost within reach. He was just jotting some notes in his book when McGrath burst back into the room, brandishing her notebook. Her whole body vibrated with excitement.
“Well!” she announced, tossing the notebook down on the table. “This is an interesting coincidence. Roger Atkinson’s mother hasn’t seen him in nine years, ever since he was offered some plum job up in Ontario. According to my calculations, this job came less than two months after he opened his big mouth about Daniel Oliver’s death.”
TEN
Today, Twiggy decided, was a make or break day. No more games or stall tactics. That resolution put some energy into her flagging muscles as she trudged up Albert Street on her way to Tim Hortons for her daily dose of caffeine and doughnuts.
The spring sun was finally warm enough to sit outside without discomfort, and she was just arranging her bulk against the brick wall when the manager opened his shop door to give her a coffee. This time as she sucked back the bitter liquid, he stood over her hesitating.
“A man was in the shop last night, asking about you,” he said.
She paused, her cup to her lips. “Asking how?”
“Just asking if I knew anything about a bag lady who hangs out around here.”
She frowned. Who the hell would be interested in what she was up to any more? Her thoughts drifted to her family. Her in-laws were a write-off, of course. Way too much pain for them to ever face her. They hadn’t even come to the coroner’s inquest, brief and pointless as it had been. When the recommendations came down—about plugging gaps in the mental health delivery system, about increasing the monitoring of psychiatric outpatients and improving emergency response protocols to 911 calls—they had written her a very short note. So sorry, dear. He was our son. May God forgive him, and I hope you can. Then they had dropped out of her life.
The only blood relatives she still had were her sister and her family, but Linda kept her children under lock and key, as far as possible from their derelict aunt and the unspeakable memories she evoked. As if Twiggy herself were a symbol of all that could go wrong in their neatly ordered, middle-class world, and just seeing her, like Medusa, could bring her cursed life down upon them.
Still, maybe twice a year Linda or her husband Norm would track her down and pay her a visit. Give her some money and some clothes, bring her news of the children. Sometimes they’d pack her into the car—always with a beach towel spread over the seat, Twiggy noticed—and take her to the doctor or the dentist. Never home for dinner. You never know with curses, after all. So they would buy her a burger at Wendy’s with all the trimmings and a healthy salad to match, before dropping her off at the “Y” shelter and driving back to the tree-lined crescents of Kanata, where the noise and mess of the world were carefully kept at bay.
It might have been Norm who was looking for her. “What name did he call me? Twiggy?” Or Jean, she added silently. No one on the street knew that name. Jean had died in that frenzy of madness and blood on May 10th, 2000. Welcome to the new millennium.
“He didn’t give a name, Just asked about the bag lady who hung out by the aqueduct.”
Alarm bells rang, ever so softly. It could have been one of her street friends, or someone she’d met in a shelter. She’d deliberately left her old self behind when she changed her life, but sometimes old habits die hard. She’d been helping a few of them learn to read, just in passing, whenever the mood struck. But they didn’t always bother with niceties like names.
“Was it a street person?”
“No. He was nicely dressed, looked like he might work for government or social services. Maybe they’re trying to find you to give you some money.”
Twiggy snorted. Do-gooders did sometimes try to track her down, under the delusion that after what the poor soul had endured, all she really needed was a little TLC. As if the love and platitudes of a stranger could hold a candle to the love she’d lost.
She was entitled to money. Even Mr. G had tried to tell her that, although he more than anyone knew how meaningless that compensation was. Not only would she qualify for a government disability pension, but there was probably money for long-term disability through the teachers’ union. But she doubted very much any of them would waste any effort trying to give that money away. Besides, they would have called her Jean. Jean Calderone. A name she barely remembered.
Twiggy drained the last dregs of coffee and as a joke, rolled up the rim. Not expecting to win a prize. What would she do with a plasma TV or a big-ass SUV? But just making sure her luck hadn’t changed. Please play again, she read from the inside of the rim. She chuckled. Play again. Isn’t that a metaphor for life, as it keeps kicking you in the teeth?
She remembered her resolve of that morning. She was going to play one more time, make one more big score, so that she and her friends could buy themselves one last wild fling at life. Not on the terms of the mission do-gooders or even the outreach nurses, not on the terms her sister Linda would dictate, but on their own terms. No moral obligations attached.
“Well,” she said, grabbing the manager’s hand to haul herself to her feet, “it’s probably nobody. Maybe a reporter still looking for a story. But if he asks again, don’t tell him anything. Now I’ll be back, Moe, so save my spot.” She chuckled as she picked up her bag and handed him her empty cup. She patted his cheek. “Got a call to make.”
She turned and tromped off toward Wellington Street before he could see the slight frown that puckered her doughy face. She didn’t really believe it was a government worker or a reporter. The newshounds had given up milking her tragedy years ago, and certainly there were juicier stories around now, what with terrorists and election scandals. Not to mention the three murders still hogging the headlines after nearly a week.
Could someone have seen her that night outside the hotel? Could they have put two and two together and figured out she was the person putting on the squeeze? Her footsteps faltered. She glanced around and caught the eye of a businessman waiting at the Wellington Street light. Twiggy shivered. It was definitely time to get this game over with. There was no time to mess with the people from Petawawa. Those people had been known to kill someone who got in their way. At least the reporter from the Sun would just try to stiff her out of fair payment.
The phone on Bank Street was occupied, so she sat on a bench in a little square and watched the business world hustle back and forth around her. People who thought they had a place to go, a job to do, and a family to support. People who thought they had the game beat. Hah.
The person on the phone hung up, and Twiggy heaved herself to her swollen feet. So many of them looked like the man Moe had described. Maybe she should use another phone. But she was here, and it was to
o damn hard to walk another block.
June 3 1993. Sector West, Croatia.
Dear Kit . . . Man, it’s been nuts around here, weapons coming in as fast as we can get them out, and mines showing up all over the fields around town. It’s a game of one-upmanship, and we’re caught in the middle. Last night even our soccer field got mined, but Fundy barked to warn us. I think I can even train her to detect mines. She seems to have an amazing nose. Worth a try, better than being fish in a barrel.
June 15 1993. Sector West, Croatia.
It was Sarge’s birthday yesterday, so after patrol the Captain came over to our section house with a two-four of Labatts and a forty ouncer of genuine Canadian Club. First time I ever saw the Sarge get loaded and he was funny as hell. Danny and I taught the good prairie boy “Farewell to Nova Scotia”, and he started tuning up all the beer bottles. He got the whole village into the act playing whatever they could lay their hands on. One of the locals plays a mean pair of spoons and another had a mouth organ. Mahir used a stool for drums.
Even the Hammer was laughing by the end and when we all played a soccer game on the field we’d built, he didn’t say a word about it being a waste of time. I think maybe he just takes his responsibilities very seriously. He doesn’t want us to get too friendly with the locals because there are thousands of them and only a few dozen of us scattered along the ceasefire line, and if they ever decided to take us on, we couldn’t stop them. Respect and fear, the Hammer says. That’s how we maintain our advantage. We’re the UN. Take us on, you take on the whole world.
ELEVEN
Midweek traffic was light on the four-lane Trans-Canada highway from Halifax across central Nova Scotia to the north shore, and Kate McGrath made excellent time. She guided the unmarked Malibu with a calm, deft hand, and pointed out the scenery as she drove. Green was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to learn that Nova Scotia had been homesteaded since the 1630s and had already fought several wars with the French and the Americans when his own Ottawa Valley had been nothing but a wilderness of lumberjacks and fur traders.
“Some pockets were first farmed by the French in the 1600s,” she said, waving at the rolling hills dotted with pastures and forest. “And when the British conquered the land, the local French settlers who wouldn’t swear allegiance to the King were booted out. Then masses of New England loyalists moved onto the land they left behind. There are still Acadian enclaves interspersed with the Scots. The roots of family go very deep around here.”
He heard the pride in her tone. “Did you grow up around here? I thought you were a Newfoundlander.”
“I am. But I started my police career up here in Truro.”
“What made you move to Halifax?”
She hesitated, and a faint frown narrowed her eyes. “I wanted a change of scene. And I also wanted a city big enough for good policing opportunities. I’d gone to Dalhousie University for my degree and fell in love with the city.” She paused to peer at a highway sign, then slowed to turn right onto a smaller highway.
“Loch Katrine, Caledonia Mills,” he chuckled, reading the sign. “Right out of Scotland.”
She nodded. “Antigonish County was largely settled by Highland Scots, and about every second family is a MacDonald.”
Off the main highway, the road dipped through lush, hilly countryside covered with trees just beginning to bud. Rivers and lakes glinted through the lacy branches, and brightly painted farms clustered in the valleys. Sharon would have loved it, and Green felt a twinge of homesickness at the thought of her delight. She had always wanted to see the east coast, and he had left her green with envy yesterday morning with no more than a brief kiss and a promise to be back in two days. I probably won’t even get out of the police station, he’d told her, let alone get a chance to see a beach or a fishing village. Maybe this summer, they would make the effort to coordinate their work schedules enough to take a real road trip out here.
McGrath slowed again as a narrow gravel road appeared on their right. A small sign pointed to Hoppenderry. “It should be up here somewhere,” she said. They followed the twisty road for a few more kilometres, past sparse farms and rolling pastures. McGrath craned her neck and squinted against the midday sun as they approached a small lane. Almost hidden by brush was a carved wooden sign “Derry Brook Sheep Farm, lambs and fine wool”.
“Here it is!” she exclaimed, turning in the lane. As they bumped down the rutted drive, a meadow opened up on their left, a startling green against the greys and browns of spring. The meadow was dotted with sheep who barely gave them a second glance, but a black and white border collie sitting by the wood rail fence watched them with a baleful stare. Up ahead a collection of buildings greeted them, including three barns painted red and a yellow woodframe house with a steeply sloped roof and a sunporch stretching the width of its facade.
The farm had clearly seen better days. The paint was faded and peeling, and the front yard was little more than a swamp of mud and straw. In front of the house sat a rusty blue pickup and a tractor with chunks of mud stuck to their tires. A pair of red dogs clambered off the porch and hobbled towards the car, barking. Otherwise nothing stirred. The curtains were drawn on the windows, and the barn doors were shut tight.
“I told you his parents weren’t very enthusiastic when I phoned to say we were coming,” McGrath said.
Green eyed the dogs dubiously. Despite their greying muzzles, they were still a handsome pair, with glistening copper coats and white paws. They paced in half-hearted circles around the car, with their teeth bared. “Well,” he ventured, “we didn’t drive all the way up here just to—”
The front door flung back and a tall, gaunt man filled the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at them. Behind him, a woman peeked around his shoulder. Neither made any move to call off the dogs.
“We could always split the dogs up,” McGrath said. “You head for the shed, I’ll go for the house. They look so old, we could probably outrun them.”
At that moment, the woman ducked under the man’s elbow with a sharp shake of her head. When she whistled for the dogs, they stopped barking immediately and stood by the car, tails wagging and amber eyes alert. Green smiled. Whoever said men were the masters of their own domain? Dogs knew better.
Green sized up the stubborn couple in the doorway. “If it comes to it, I’ll take the mother. I think the father might respond better to a fellow Maritimer.”
His instincts proved accurate once he and McGrath had introduced themselves. The MacDonalds may not have been happy to see them, but Mrs. MacDonald at least welcomed them into the living room and insisted on brewing a fresh pot of tea, which she served with a warm apple cake she had clearly baked for the occasion. The delicious scent of cinnamon and yeast blended with the underlay of manure and damp wool that permeated everything.
Mr. MacDonald folded himself into an aging wing chair in the corner by the door, as if for a fast exit, and fixed them both with a chilly stare. Blue overalls with frayed cuffs hung on his bony frame, and a pair of oversized sheepskin slippers swallowed his feet. His wife flitted in and out of the kitchen as if she hoped to distract them from the purpose of their call.
“Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald,” McGrath began once the woman had finally subsided on the sofa. “Thank you for seeing us. I’m sure it’s not easy to talk about your son—”
Mr. MacDonald snorted. “I don’t see why you’ve got to be bringing it all up again. It’s over, more than ten years past now, and we answered all your questions about the accident back then. It’s all in your files, if you’d bother to read them.”
“Well, it’s actually about Daniel Oliver’s death—”
“And we’ve been through all that too. We don’t know anything about his murder, it had nothing to do with Ian. Ian and Danny hardly even saw each other any more.”
Mrs. MacDonald looked up from pouring tea. “Ian was back here on the farm working with his dad, and Danny was in Halifax.”
“I know,” McGrath said. “We�
�re just looking to clarify a few details.”
“Why?” the father said.
“There have been some new developments,” Green interjected quietly. McGrath had been following the classic police interview strategy of stonewalling, but after a brief deliberation, he decided that full disclosure might work best. That, and a touch of surprise. “Daniel Oliver’s former girlfriend was murdered last week in Ottawa, and when she died, she had your son’s army medal in her possession.”
Both parents gaped. The father uttered a small grunt, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He swallowed convulsively before words would come. “Why would she have Ian’s medal?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell us,” Green said.
Mrs. MacDonald flushed in confusion and busied herself cutting the cake into perfect squares. “I can’t imagine. We . . .” Tears unexpectedly robbed her of speech.
Her husband shot Green a scowl. “We wondered where it got to. Danny must have taken it.”
“When?”
“When he was here for the funeral, I suppose.”
“Why?”
MacDonald raised his bony shoulders in an impatient shrug. “How should I know? Jealous, maybe?”
“Oh, but dear,” interjected Mrs. MacDonald, recovering her voice, “I told you that doesn’t make any sense! Danny was very proud of him.”
“Doesn’t stop a man,” her husband muttered. “He probably wasn’t thinking straight. Got extremely drunk that day.”
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