Raw Bone

by Scott Thornley

  “I, I don’t understand …” Melody’s hands dropped to her lap.

  Aziz tapped the photo in front of her. “Detective Superintendent MacNeice believes you do know her, that she worked here at the yacht club and that you were likely the one who hired her.”

  MacNeice came back to the desk and sat down beside Aziz. Melody Chapman smiled nervously as he looked at her, expressionless and waiting.

  No one said anything for nearly a minute. Melody lowered her eyes to the photocopy and kept them there. Then Aziz said, “Perjury carries significant consequences. If found guilty, the cost to you will be this office, this job and, I suspect, any job remotely like it in the future.”

  Melody raised her hand in surrender. The lyrical bounce was gone when she spoke. “Her name is Anniken Kallevik. She was a foreign national doing a working tour of Canada. She’d applied for and accepted a position here as wait staff for the restaurant during the summer months only, June 1 to September 21. It’s the busiest season for the club.” Having gained some control of her voice, she turned her eyes to her hands now folded in front of her. “Anni was going to travel across country and take up a similar post in British Columbia, at Whistler.” Melody swung around in her chair and opened a filing cabinet drawer, retrieving a fat folder. Laying it on top of the dead woman’s photo, she flipped through until she came to an employment application. She took it out, closed the folder and placed it before Aziz.

  MacNeice had turned to stare at the painting, attempting to contain an impatient fury inflamed by hearing that the body from Cootes Bay was known to this woman. “But Ms. Kallevik didn’t leave in September, did she?”

  “No. Two of our full-time staff quit the club and we were short, so I asked her to stay on and she agreed. Her Whistler resort position wasn’t going to begin until December 1, and she was willing to help us out.”

  Aziz looked up from her notes. “You lied twice about knowing her. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Melody shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, she worked for us and she was very good, but then she left and I just feel that …”

  “You felt like that was the end of your obligation, and that what happened to her afterwards was not your concern nor that of the RDYC—does that about sum it up, Ms. Chapman?” MacNeice said.

  Her face flushed, and she looked first to Aziz then back to MacNeice. “Yes.”

  MacNeice held a hand out for the employment application. Chapman passed it over as if it was burning her fingers. Stapled to the corner was a photocopy of her passport. She was smiling. Unusual to see a smile in a passport photo, he thought. Glancing through the record, he saw that Kallevik was twenty-six and had graduated with a master’s degree in biology from the University of Stavanger in 2013. Since then she’d been travelling the world, working in the hospitality industry. Her address in Dundurn was listed as the Global Youth Hostels, a youth hostel on Ferguson near King William.

  Melody, who had been watching him, tried to find a good spin on things. “I was trying to save the club from embarrassment. There was nothing we could contribute other than her name, and I thought there was no reason to drag the club into it. Anni was a hard worker, cheerful, always on time and yet, like most temporary staff, she kept to herself.”

  “Did anyone come calling for her at the end of her shift?” Aziz asked.

  “Sometimes a young man, also from Norway. She had been travelling with him. He was working somewhere nearby, but I don’t know where.”

  “You see—there was something else you could contribute,” MacNeice said. “What did he look like?”

  “He looked like a hockey player, kind of wide shoulders, tall, blond.” She couldn’t recall anything else about him.

  “We’ll want to interview any staff that were here during Ms. Kallevik’s stay and we may extend that to your members.”

  “Whatever we can do to help. I’m truly—” Melody stopped when MacNeice abruptly stood up.

  He didn’t want to hear her apology. He picked up the employment record and photo of Anni Kallevik—previously known only as “the corpse”—and left the office. He crossed the hall and entered the members only area of the club, where he was sure to be noticed before leaving the building.

  Aziz found him waiting under the canopy, his hands driven into the pockets of his overcoat, the photo and form tucked under his arm.

  Her cellphone rang. She took the call, but the wind was too strong to hear the caller—Vertesi—so she stepped back inside the building, where a middle-aged man told her, “No cellphones in the club, miss.”

  Aziz pulled the badge off her hip and showed it to him. “Go ahead, Michael,” she said as the man backed off.

  “The DNA results are back. Nicholson is the man in the wagon.”

  “Thanks, Michael. We’ll go straight to the house.” Aziz hung up.

  MacNeice had been watching her from outside and held the door for her. “Nicholson’s a match,” he said.

  Abandoned at four by his mother, Dylan Nicholson was now an orphan at sixteen.

  Chapter 12

  Aziz was on the sofa, next to Dylan, while MacNeice sat opposite in a chair. The aunt seemed determined to busy herself in the kitchen with making tea, though none had been offered or requested. It was clear that whatever the news was, she didn’t want to hear it. Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like he was waiting for the coach to coach. MacNeice said, “Dylan, your father has been killed. He died in an explosion. We don’t know who did this or why, but we’ll do our best to find out, I promise you.”

  The boy took a deep breath to steady himself. “The explosion in Gage Park … was that my dad?”

  MacNeice said, “Yes.”

  Dylan nodded several times and turned to Aziz as if he wanted to make sure she’d heard too. She reached out, put a hand gently on his shoulder. His nodding slowed but didn’t stop. Aziz slid closer and put her arm around him.

  At that gesture, perhaps the only time a woman had held him that tenderly since he was a toddler, he leaned into Aziz. His mouth opened and a line of spittle fell from the corner. Dylan wasn’t aware of it until it reached his hand. He raised his arm and wiped the sleeve of the Indiana sweatshirt across his face, and then, slowly, he pulled the hood over his head. Moments later, tears spilled down his cheeks. Aziz turned to MacNeice with tears in her own eyes but stayed put, her arm around Dylan.

  From the kitchen came a muffled shriek. MacNeice went in to find Dylan’s aunt clutching the kitchen counter as the kettle’s whistle blew. He turned off the burner, moved the kettle to one side and, taking her by the shoulders, led her to a chair at the kitchen table. He waited until she’d composed herself enough to look at him.

  At last, she said, “So Dave’s gone?”

  “Dave’s gone.”

  “How, how could this happen … to such a decent man?”

  “I will tell you all we know. But first—and I apologize for being so blunt when this is so brutally fresh for you—my concern is for that young man in there.”

  “Dyl … Oh God. Dylan so worships his dad.”

  Both of them could hear the boy, who was now sobbing. Aziz’s voice was soft and low, trying to comfort him.

  Doris was strangling the tea towel.

  “Right about now, Ms. Nicholson, Dylan is coming to grips with the fact that he is alone in this world—just as his world is opening up to him as a young man. I’m certain you believe, as his father clearly did, that he’s a wonderful boy with a bright future.”

  “Oh … yes. Dave wants—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Nicholson, but I want to know if you will adopt him.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish.” He put a hand gently on her arm. “If there is no family willing to take him into their lives, Dylan will go into foster care. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “I don’t know you or your circumstances, but in the next few minutes, it will dawn on him that he
could soon be homeless. It’s not my place to ask you to do anything, but there is no one else. You are his remaining family on his dad’s side.”

  “I want to do what’s right …”

  MacNeice stood up, went to the counter, poured hot water from the kettle into the waiting mug, soaking the tea bag until the water was dark, then lifting it out and dropping it into the sink. “Do you take milk, sugar?”

  “Just milk … thank you.”

  He took the carton of milk from the fridge, poured some into the mug, stirred the tea and put the mug down in front of her. “In a half-hour or so, there’ll be a team here from Children’s Services. Initially, they’ll provide crisis counselling for Dylan, but they’ll also want to know who’s responsible for him now that his father is gone. If you don’t step up, he’ll be placed in the care of the Children’s Aid. From there he’ll go into foster care until he’s eighteen. Think about that, please, Doris.”

  He left her there and went back into the living room, where Dylan was still on the sofa, his hooded head down on his knees, his shoulders trembling. Aziz had a hand on his back.

  MacNeice sat quietly, waiting patiently until the boy surfaced. Aziz’s eyes never left his.

  In time, they heard a car approach outside. MacNeice stood to look out as the dark grey sedan stopped, backed up and parked. Dylan heard the car too. He lifted his head, peering out from the hood, wiping his nose and eyes on his sleeve. He slid the hood back—his face was deep red and his hair looked as if he’d stuck his finger in a live socket.

  Aziz removed her hand from his back and rubbed her eyes, as if weary from a long day.

  Dylan took three deep breaths, and asked, at last, “What happened to my dad?”

  “Your father was bound with tape to a wagon and left in the park.” MacNeice spoke softly and slowly. “He couldn’t speak or move. Emergency Services arrived and tried to free him. What they didn’t know, and your dad couldn’t tell them, was that there was a grenade rigged to the tape. When they tried to free him, the grenade blew up.”

  The boy seemed stunned by what he was hearing, but he didn’t dissolve into tears. He took a long, deep breath and asked, “Why would someone do something so cruel to someone who never harmed anybody?”

  “That’s what we will find out, Dylan.”

  They could hear footsteps on the front porch stairs now. Dylan looked from MacNeice to Aziz.

  “That’s Children’s Services, Dylan. They’re here to help,” Aziz said.

  “What am I supposed to do now? Can I go on living here?”

  “If you and your aunt are willing to make this work, then perhaps you will live here, or at her place,” MacNeice said. “Otherwise, you’ll be placed in foster care.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you’re eighteen.”

  The doorbell rang. Aziz got up to answer it.

  MacNeice put up a hand. “Ask them to wait for a couple of minutes.”

  It was as if Dylan had been slapped awake. “Can I still be on the Panthers, have my friends … my teammates?”

  The doorbell rang again. Aziz answered, but stepped outside, closing the door gently behind her.

  Dylan’s aunt came into the living room from the kitchen, turned and went upstairs without saying anything or even looking the boy’s way.

  Aziz came back, followed by two more strangers who were now a part of Dylan’s life. Dylan remained seated, looking fearfully from MacNeice to Aziz before shaking hands with the social workers.

  “Dylan, later today there’ll be a forensics team here to search the home for any evidence that could aid us in our investigation,” MacNeice said. “They’ll be as considerate as possible, but they have a job to do. We’re leaving now, but you have my card. Call me if you think of anything that will be useful.” He glanced toward the social workers, who stood looking down at Dylan with expressions of solemn compassion. Turning to the medals and photograph on the mantel, MacNeice said, “I’d like to come to one of your games.”

  The boy tilted his head, maybe thinking it was a strange thing to say at such a time. “We’re through for the year,” he replied. “We practise all the time, but next season starts next November.”

  “Who’s your toughest rival?”

  “Oh … the Golden Ghosts, for sure. They’d say the same about us too.” He seemed to be sitting a little straighter.

  “Look for me in the stands when the championships come around again.”

  “Serious?”

  MacNeice reached over and shook Dylan’s hand, pulling him onto his feet. “Think about what I said. This will be a very hard time for you—the hardest you’ve ever experienced.” Standing back, he pointed to the photo. “Look for me, I’ll be there.”

  Dylan nodded. “You’ll find out who did this to my dad, sir?”

  MacNeice said, “We’ll do everything we can.” Then he said goodbye to the two social workers. He opened the door for Aziz and they stepped outside.

  In the car, doing up her seat belt, Aziz looked over at MacNeice. “Well … it staggers me, the things we don’t learn at the academy.”

  “You didn’t need to be taught that, detective.”

  She smiled at him, then turned away to hide her tears.

  Before he drove off, MacNeice rolled down the window to see if he could make out what was happening in the living room. Dylan was still on his feet, his head down. The care workers had their backs to the window. There was no sign of the aunt. With his foot on the brake MacNeice put the car in gear and glanced up to the second-storey window. Doris Nicholson was peering down at him from behind the sheers. When she realized he’d seen her, she stepped away.

  Aziz blew her nose. “What do you think will happen to him?”

  “My guess is he’ll be in care by this evening.” He took his foot off the brake and eased down Tisdale toward Main, the wipers on the Chevy doing a feeble fwub, fwub, fwub against the rain.

  Chapter 13

  MacNeice drove slowly through the city as if he wasn’t sure where to go. They didn’t speak, and both seemed distracted by the sound of rain on the roof, by the wipers that couldn’t clear the windshield fast enough.

  Aziz shifted so she was looking at MacNeice—the one thing in her field of vision that wasn’t moving, his brow furrowed and his jaw locked tight. “You okay, Mac?”

  He glanced toward her with a brief but unconvincing smile. “I need a bit of a breather.” If it weren’t for Aziz sitting beside him, MacNeice would have gone for a long walk to let the rain wash over him until all his thoughts were clean or gone.

  The rain eased as they zigzagged through the city. “Let’s go down to the bay,” MacNeice said.

  Minutes later, he eased the Chevy into the deserted Macassa Bay parking lot, splashing through shallow puddles before coming to a stop at the bay side. Together, they headed along the trail to the end of the snout, where they looked across the water to Cootes Paradise. They could see smoke from a diesel engine, belching black roses above the trees before the wind swept them away to the west. The enormous barge was carefully combing the small bay’s bottom, like a gorilla attempting to lift a tiny flower from a pond.

  “I hope they don’t find Anni’s tall Norwegian friend,” Aziz said.

  From somewhere in the train yard to their left came the colliding ripple of shunting cars. Then the mist turned to rain again and they both jogged back to the car.

  Safely inside, MacNeice turned the key, saying, “Let’s go see what Byrne has to say about Duguald.”

  Aziz removed the hotel booking records from a large manila envelope, placing the originals on William Byrne’s desk. She sat down with a bull-clipped photocopy of the ledger on her lap. Byrne sucked on his teeth, shrugged and looked over at MacNeice.

  MacNeice tapped the cover of the top ledger before sitting down. “Who is Duguald, Mr. Byrne? Where is he from, what’s his relationship to you, when did he leave Dundurn, where did he go and how did he get there—and if he didn’t leave,
where might we find him now?”

  “Duguald Langan. County Meath, not far from Dublin. Duggie’s my second cousin. As to the rest, I haven’t the foggiest. Why, what’s he accused of doing and, while I’m at it, what’s become of me boat?”

  “Langan is listed as your night clerk from November to late December—he’s a person of interest.” MacNeice let his eyes wander over the desk. “Your boat will be returned when we’ve finished with it.”

  “Where does Mr. Langan live?” Aziz asked.

  “Beats me. Duguald’s been travelling since he was seventeen, working freighters out of Dublin.”

  “Did he arrive here on a boat?”

  “No. He wanted to see a bit of Canada first, so he landed in Halifax and took the train across. He stayed here for a while and might’ve booked himself onto another ship or gone home to be a carpenter and bricklayer.”

  “Without letting you know he was leaving?” Aziz asked.

  “Duggie is like that. I don’t expect more of him.”

  “Did he have access to that boat of yours?”

  “He’s a damn fine fisherman, so yeah, I let him take the boat out.”

  “Over to Cootes?” Aziz asked.

  “Nuttin’ there but carp. No, he’d be gone from first light to last some days. Come home with a haul of lake and brown trout he’d caught off Secord.” Byrne leaned against the wall. “Once, he snagged so many, my chef made it a special with fries—they sold out over lunch.”

  Aziz looked up from her notes, keen to interrupt Byrne’s trip down memory lane. “What was the name of the ship that brought him to Halifax?”

  “Ya know, detective, I can’t recall him ever telling me the name.” Byrne wasn’t leaning on the wall anymore. “Though I remember it sailed out of Helsinki and was registered in Taiwan—funny, the things you do remember.”

  “Was your second cousin ever in trouble with the law back in Ireland?” MacNeice was studying the worn oriental runner on the floor.

  “Not that I know of. He’s a good lad, a bit quick-tempered, but then single men his age often are.”