Christophe told them he had called Anni’s sisters from a pay phone in the Toronto airport. They still hadn’t told their mother.
“They don’t say as much, but they blame me for her death,” he said. “Her business-woman sister, whom I don’t know, said her father had only given permission for Anni to go because I would be by her side. I knew that. I was there when he said it to her.” He paused. “What can I do here? If I can help in any way, I will stay and help. If I cannot help, will you release her body so I can return with her to Norway? I have taken all my earnings from the bank and will pay for the flight.”
“Why didn’t you stay with her?” Aziz asked.
“Ah … you see …” He searched for the right words. “We both felt so safe here in Canada. It’s not like home, but in a way it is. The club …” He tapped his fingers on the table, searching for the correct name.
“The Royal Dundurn Yacht Club,” MacNeice said.
“Exactly, yes. The yacht club was short-staffed and asked her to stay. Anni felt somehow she would be deserting them … Funny, but she did. She convinced me that she would follow later, to Whistler. I would work there and wait for her. Then we would go down the coast of America before going home.” He finished his coffee. “Ya, well, that was the plan.”
MacNeice told him the coroner’s office would release her body soon and that DI Aziz would assist him in the arrangements for its transportation to Norway. “Would it help if I were to speak to Anni’s sisters?”
“I don’t think so. They want justice done of course, and the sister who is a doctor wants to know the details—but she wants it in a report. After reading that, if she needs to speak to anyone, it will be the person who did the examination.” He laid his hands flat on the table, a gesture that carried with it the terrible finality of the situation.
“Mr. Christophe, if we could download your correspondence with Anni, there’s the slight chance we might see something we’ve missed between her cellphone and computer. If you’re comfortable with us searching your devices, we could do it while you wait—it won’t take long.”
Christophe reached for his backpack. He took out a small laptop and his Nokia cellphone and offered them to MacNeice. Aziz took both and left the room.
“Why don’t you wait here for DI Aziz,” MacNeice said. He stood and took Christophe’s hand. Before letting go, the young man said, “Please find the person who did this. I need to know why he killed her.”
MacNeice hesitated for a second, then said, “We’ve discovered the body of a man in the same area as we found Anniken’s.”
“Who is—was he?”
“We believe we know, but it’s not conclusive.”
“Anni didn’t mention any man.” He shook his head. “I won’t tell this to her family … not yet.”
“Please don’t.”
As MacNeice shut the interview room door behind him, Aziz was coming toward him from down the hall. Her eyes were wide; she had a hand over her mouth. MacNeice reached out to her, a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, stricken. “Swetsky’s been shot.”
“Where is he?”
“At St. Joe’s. It was that kid they thought had run across the border. He wasn’t in Mexico, but in a barn at a farm down the road from his parents’. Swetsky took a round from a .30-06 in the hip. It smashed part of the hip bone, though apparently he insisted on walking to the ambulance. He lost a lot of blood, and he’s in surgery now. They expect it will take several hours.”
MacNeice realized he hadn’t taken a breath since she began. He inhaled deeply. “Any other casualties?”
“One of the OPP officers took a round in the shoulder, and the boy’s mother was hit in the thigh. He’d come to hit his parents up for money and was in the basement when the OPP arrived. When Swetsky showed up too, the kid took his father’s hunting rifle and decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Did he?”
“Swetsky put two rounds into him, and an OPP policewoman’s shot took him down. She wasn’t hurt.”
“Has anyone called John’s wife?”
“She’s at the hospital.”
“Let’s head there together for when he’s out of surgery. I know it’s not ideal, but I want you to wait with Christophe until Ryan is done, and make sure he has somewhere to stay. And before I can go to the hospital, I need to break the news of his mother’s death to Dylan.”
“Does Children’s Services know?”
“Not yet. They may not want me there, but I should be the one to tell him.”
Aziz nodded. “Why do we do such grim work, Mac?”
He reached out and squeezed her shoulder again. “Don’t go there. We’re walking across a frozen lake in a blizzard. We don’t know how wide the lake is, whether the ice is too thin or if there’s shelter on the other side. We can’t go back. We just have to keep walking. It’s as grim as that, and as essential.”
Chapter 22
With its pale yellow walls, the office of the executive director of Children’s Services was warm enough, though the authority of its occupant spoke firmly through the charm. The power was apparent on her desk with its sleek black monitor and keyboard. It was there in the two silver pens, standing like missiles, in a thick silver base featuring a small gold plaque lauding her meritorious service. It also spoke in what wasn’t there: stacks of papers, a lipstick-stained coffee mug, notepads, inbox/outbox correspondence, pencils, pens, a stuffed teddy bear—the clutter you find on most desks. The only thing to indicate that someone actually worked there was a tidy pile of file folders held in place by a glass slab objet d’art.
He’d been shown into the office by the executive director’s assistant and told to take a seat in one of three leather chairs arranged opposite the matching sofa. MacNeice noticed one of these chairs was more worn than the others, and assumed it had been brought from the lobby for the meeting. He wondered how many people it took to inform a teenager that his father had very likely murdered his mother.
He stood as the executive director came in, a tall woman who crossed the room gracefully with an extended hand. “Detective Superintendent MacNeice, I’m Sally Bourke-Stanford.”
Though her hair was grey, her skin was unlined, suggesting she’d rarely spent time in the sun. There was a large emerald on her right ring finger, and she wore a grey cashmere scarf over a blue-grey suit with a tight masculine cut. She motioned for him to sit, and instead of sitting down beside him, she sat on the arm of the chair next to him and crossed her hands. He had to suppress the urge to smile at the way she was establishing that he was in her territory.
The assistant arrived with a tray carrying four cups and saucers, a ceramic teapot and matching milk and sugar containers and put it down on the glass coffee table next to her boss. “Will that be all?” she said.
“Yes, thank you, Mary.”
Bourke-Stanford settled into her chair and leaned toward MacNeice. “I want you to know that we do appreciate your interest in the welfare of this young man. Before Dylan and his caseworker arrive, I wanted to convey her concerns—and therefore mine.” She picked up the teapot. “Do you take your tea with milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, thanks.” Bourke-Stanford handed him his cup, then poured hers. “I was told by the caseworker that you had created a significant rapport with Dylan … at a terrible time.” She sat back, holding the cup and saucer in both hands. “I agreed to have you here for this very difficult meeting—an unprecedented situation in my experience—but I want to set the parameters.”
“Understood.”
“You’ll greet Dylan, as you would normally do, but his caseworker will deliver the news. If Dylan asks you a question directly, you are free to answer, but my job is to watch out for his welfare, and if you unduly upset him I will intervene. This is not an opportunity for you to grill the boy. Do you understand, Detective Superintendent MacNeice?”
“I do. One question though: Is Dylan’s aunt coming with him?”
“We had ask
ed her to be here, but she has refused.”
MacNeice nodded. He was not surprised and, though he didn’t say so, he was relieved. “If he asks what happened to his mother, I hope your caseworker has a way to …” MacNeice saw her frown and realized that neither the caseworker nor Bourke-Stanford would tell Dylan the whole truth.
“Our mutual commitment is not to destroy this young man,” she said. “We’ll choose our words, detective, and he may not ask. At least not right away.”
Putting down his cup, MacNeice noticed the boxes of tissues on the coffee table’s bottom shelf.
The boy entered the room with his caseworker and a child psychologist, who introduced herself as Francine and then took the far chair. MacNeice found the change in him dramatic: his posture, so erect when they first met, was a defeated slouch. He took his place on the sofa and avoided looking in MacNeice’s direction altogether.
Bourke-Stanford clearly was skilled at dealing with children in trauma, but with each attempt to engage him, Dylan’s head dropped deeper toward his chest to the point where all anyone could see was his hair. The director exchanged glances with the caseworker, Jean, whose only response was a subtle shrug.
“Dylan, can you look up at me?” the director asked, waiting as the seconds passed.
He shook his head once—it appeared to MacNeice a signal of defeat—and looked not into her eyes, but somewhere beyond her shoulder.
“It is impossible, Dylan, for any of us to understand the pain you are feeling, but each of us can help you—if you’re willing to let us.”
The caseworker reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. Dylan pulled away slowly until she removed it, and he lowered his head again.
“How are you finding your foster home?” Bourke-Stanford’s tone was trying for upbeat.
“Good.”
“And school? Are you adjusting to being back with your friends and classmates?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And basketball?”
Dylan raised his head, looked directly at her and asked the obvious question. “Why am I here?” He looked around the room, waiting for someone to answer.
The director put down her teacup and said, simply, “You have been through a lot, Dylan, and I’m sorry to say that it’s not over for you. What you’re going to hear today is going to be very painful.”
He sat back on the sofa and crossed his arms as his face emptied of colour. The caseworker shifted on the sofa to turn to him and said, very gently, “Dylan, the police have found your mother’s body.”
He nodded, and kept nodding, slowly at first, then faster, and his legs began to bounce in time. Everyone waited. MacNeice wondered if Children’s Services really had a strategy here, because if they did, it was lost on him. Then Dylan began to sob, and as he did he looked to each of them directly. When his eyes met MacNeice’s, he shook his head but didn’t speak. The caseworker reached for the tissues, placing several in Dylan’s hand. At last he blew his nose and wiped away the tears with his sleeve.
Crumpling the tissues, he finally asked, “How’d she die?”
The caseworker started to speak, and Dylan raised his hand like he was swatting away a fly. “I want to hear it from him.” He was staring at MacNeice, more tears spilling from his eyes. “You found her, didn’t you?”
“I did, Dylan. You remember the keys from your father’s bed table?”
“Yeah, you asked me about them but I didn’t know what they were for.”
“Those keys led us to a post office box and then to a small house on the edge of Dundurn. We’re pretty sure your father kept your mother prisoner there. And when she died, he buried her there in the basement.”
Bourke-Stanford turned away as abruptly as if there had been a sudden knock on the door. The psychologist cleared her throat. The caseworker was looking at MacNeice with a combination of horror and confusion. Only Dylan remained … remained what? On the surface, he was calm—or rather, MacNeice thought, frozen, like an ice-age man discovered in a receding glacier. All movement in his legs stopped, the nodding and sniffing stopped, even the tears stopped.
Somewhere deep in his throat, words formed. No one could make out what they were until he’d repeated them several times. “No way … No way … NO FUCKING WAY.”
The caseworker put a hand on his shoulders, but he shook her off and stood up. Pointing at MacNeice, he screamed, “You’re lying to me. You are … You’re lying.”
The caseworker looked to the psychologist, who put a finger to her lips. Bourke-Stanford reached across and touched the psychologist’s arm. Francine turned and whispered to the director, “Just listen.”
Dylan was standing over MacNeice, staring into his face for the answer he wanted to hear. Finally he asked, “Why … why would he do that?”
MacNeice stood and wrapped his arms around the boy. Dylan buried his head into the detective’s shoulder and his legs buckled, so that MacNeice had to hold him up. He spoke so softly that the other three strained to hear him. “I don’t know, Dylan. We just don’t know. Stand up now—I want to tell you what I do know about your father.”
Dylan found his legs but kept his forehead where it was, resting on the detective’s chest. “What?” he whispered.
“Whatever love your father had to give, he gave to you. He gave you all the love he had available … You are living proof of that. And, there’s something else …”
The boy pushed away and looked up at MacNeice. “What else?”
“Your mother never deserted you. Your mother came back for you. She loved you.”
MacNeice met the executive director’s eyes over the boy’s head and she nodded.
Chapter 23
After he left Dylan, MacNeice dropped by the hospital to check on Swetsky, who was out of surgery and managed to smile when he saw MacNeice looming in the doorway of his room. He tried to prop himself up but had to abandon that idea along with his need to explain why he’d ended up with a bullet in him. MacNeice just held a hand up and said, “You can tell me about it later, but I’m warning you: I’m not going to listen to you taking the blame. No one died. This was a good day. So rest and recover, and when you’re feeling better we can talk.”
The rain pelted the car as MacNeice pulled into the division parking lot. He found a spot as close to the back door as he could, and ran in.
Halfway up the stairs, he met Aziz coming down, taking two stairs at a time. She stopped dead when she saw him. “Freddy Dewar’s been assaulted and he’s been taken to the General.”
As he followed her back down the stairs, he said, “What do we know?”
“Freddy went out for his daily constitutional, carrying his Canadian flag umbrella. He headed east along Burlington and turned down to Guise. Just before he got to Catherine Street, someone pulled him into the trees and worked him over with a bat or a brick and left him there. One of the rowers cycling to the club found him, but only because he stopped to pick up the umbrella, which was rolling about on the road. Freddy was unconscious.”
“How is he?”
“Three broken ribs, a broken wrist, nose and cheekbone. All his front teeth are gone, but the ICU resident said they were false anyway.”
At the car, MacNeice stood for a moment, collecting himself, as Aziz climbed in. When he got in and started the engine, he said, “I should have told him to stand down.”
“Mac, he wanted to be useful again. And maybe this attack has nothing to do with him calling us about the man he saw.”
MacNeice shot her a glance that said they both knew that couldn’t be true.
Dr. Aaron Rosen met them at the door of the ICU. “We’ve set the wrist and stitched up his torn lip. The broken nose and cheekbone will heal on their own, as will the ribs, in time. He’s on an IV drip for the pain, oxygen to ease the pressure in his lungs and rib cage. We’re watching him closely for any sign of pneumonia—so, no bets on him yet, but I’m optimistic.”
“Can we speak to him for a moment?” MacNeice aske
d.
“He’s in a tent and he’s groggy. You can have five minutes, that’s it.”
Freddy was barely recognizable and looked to be unconscious under his oxygen tent. MacNeice and Aziz were about to leave when one eye opened. A moment later, so did the other. Both were bloodshot.
“It’s Mac, Freddy. I’m here with DI Aziz.”
The old man tried to smile Aziz’s way, an unsettling sight—his upper gum was raw and there were no teeth.
“We’ll let you sleep, Freddy, but one question: Did you recognize who did this to you?” Aziz asked.
He slowly turned his head their way. “Big fellas … used a billy club—couldn’t do it with their fists. Didn’t know them.”
His eyes closed and he smacked his lips. MacNeice stuck his head into the hall to spot the nurse, who was already approaching. “I think he’s thirsty.”
“He’s getting his fluids through a tube, but I’ll give him some crushed ice,” she said, shooing them both out. “Your time’s up, detectives.”
As they walked to the elevator, MacNeice said, “When we get back, Fiza, send a uniform over to the bar to collect Freddy’s kit, and make sure the officer tells Byrne or the bartender that Freddy was mugged, probably by kids. I don’t want Byrne to think this has anything to do with the homicide case, just that it was another mugging in a rough end of town. And I want Freddy out of the city for a while. He needs to be near water and good fish and chips. Maybe Port Dalhousie—he’d have the lake, the Welland Canal. There’s got to be a place for him out there.”
When the elevator doors opened on the lobby, instead of heading for the exit, MacNeice turned toward the morgue. “Since we’re already here, let’s go see how the coroner is doing with Jennifer Grant.”
But as they walked down the white-tiled corridor toward the stainless steel doors, he wished he hadn’t suggested it. He realized that he was disturbed by the thought of Jennifer Grant’s remains on a table anywhere near her husband’s. It seemed cruel that after enduring a decade of his visits to Ryder Road—between basketball practice and dinner with her son—her bones were not to be free of him now.
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