by Giles Blunt
“The Ottawa guys say the husband didn’t recognize the jacket or the boots. Someone went out and bought them for her, John. Went out and got outdoor clothes in her size. I don’t think it was out of kindness.”
“Lise …”
“What?”
“Take it easy. We’re in this for the long haul.”
“Forty below, John. Forty below.”
“I know. I get it. There’s a man out there who should not be at large. And a woman is dead who should not be. But there are things we can do—things for her, Lise—and if we do them right, we’ll come up with an answer here and an answer there and sooner or later those answers will put us on the right road. At the end of that road, we find our man and we get him off the streets for good.”
“And everything is wonderful and the world is a good place.”
“No. We lock him up and go after the next one. Anything else is just a one-way ticket to misery.”
Cardinal dropped Delorme off at the Ottawa police headquarters, where they’d been allocated a desk and not much else. The rain looked like it was about to freeze. He drove through town to Rockcliffe Park, listening to the French-language CBC. He had been trying to learn French off and on for a couple of years now, something he had not mentioned to Delorme because he suspected she would laugh. The announcer was talking about climate change and sea ice, he could make out that much—but only because he’d read the same story in the Globe and Mail at the airport.
Cardinal had never been to Rockcliffe Park before. Right in the middle of town, and yet it had patches of what looked like a private forest. There were no sidewalks and lots of walls and many of the houses were not even visible from the road. He passed one that appeared to be constructed of glass and gold.
The Flint house was more modest, a three-storey mock Tudor with grounds the size of a small game reserve. Cardinal pulled into a semicircular drive and parked near a garage that was bigger than the house he used to live in. He switched off the car and picked up his briefcase and thought a minute about what he would say. Cardinal had talked to a few MPs in his time, but never to a senator. In the dark forests of Canadian politics, senators are mythical creatures rarely seen, their powers (if any) uncertain. Cardinal did not know what to expect.
He got out and went up the front steps in the cold drizzle and rang the bell. The door was answered by the senator’s daughter, who was on her way out.
“He’s expecting me,” Cardinal said. “I phoned ahead.”
“He’s in mourning, for God’s sake. He’s already talked to the Ottawa police. Can’t you come back?”
“Someone has done a terrible thing to you and your family, and I want to put that person where he belongs. I’m pretty sure your father will want to help.”
She scanned his face and opened the door wider. Cardinal stepped into a vast foyer composed entirely of oak panelling and works of art. She took his coat and Cardinal heeled off his galoshes.
“May I give you a little tip, Detective?”
“Please.”
“Despite my father’s manner, he’s not the tough guy he may appear. It’s easy to misread him.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
He followed her down a short corridor to a small room where her father was watching a flat-panel TV. A black-and-white movie.
The senator got up and shook hands. He was about Cardinal’s age, but he steadied himself on the arms of his chair as he sat down again. Hollowed out with grief, as if he might be blown away by the slightest breeze. Skin tone the shade of grey that speaks of extreme stress. White-collar criminals turn that shade after their first week in jail. And people who have lost what they most love.
The senator clicked off the TV sound but left the picture. Edward G. Robinson in a priest’s outfit, looking dyspeptic but caring.
“First, let me say I’m very sorry for what you’re going through, Senator.”
“Thanks.” The senator looked at him, the whites of his eyes webbed with red. “Siddown. And call me David.”
Some kind of western flatness in his voice. Cardinal remembered that Senator David J. Flint had grown up in the Yukon.
“I’ll tell ya, a time like this, whatever else it is, is utterly fuckin exhausting. I hope you don’t mind a little cussing.”
“You swear all you want, Senator.”
“Nobody’s got the least crumb of an idea what this is like. Not one fuckin micron. Couple of my friends, sure, their wives have died—but this is just a whole different … I just—this is not somethin a man can prepare for.”
“I know,” Cardinal said.
The senator closed his eyes, and Cardinal knew what he was thinking. Before he opened them again, Cardinal said, “My wife was murdered too.”
The senator opened his eyes. “Really.”
“A couple of years ago now.”
“And you’re still walkin around.”
“I don’t know what else you can do.”
“You tell that to a lot of people you deal with? Bereaved people? Gain their trust?”
“You’re the first. It’s not the kind of thing they recommend. You’ll either trust me or you won’t. I don’t expect to earn it with a few words.”
“Well, you talk good. You want some coffee?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Fuckin cold rain out there. Warm you up. Let’s hit the kitchen.”
The kitchen was large, mostly white tile, with a round pine table in one corner. A pair of French doors looked out on snowdrifts pocked with rain. The senator opened a cupboard, got a coffee filter out and put it in the basket. He opened the fridge door and spoke to the interior. “People seem intent on provisionin me. Bringin me so much food, I can’t find anything. Nice of ’em, though. Real nice.”
He brought out a can of President’s Choice coffee and filled the basket and switched on the machine.
“Better put some water in that.”
“Water.” The senator snapped his fingers. “Right.” He dealt with the water and sat down. “You got questions, you better get at ’em. I don’t promise to be coherent.”
Cardinal took him through the usual questions, ground the Ottawa police had already covered. Senator Flint made no complaint about repeating the answers. It took half an hour.
“Just a couple more points, Senator, and then I’ll leave you alone. Your wife’s car was left at her therapist’s office, the last place she was seen. Appointment finished at four p.m., and this was a regular thing she had, right? Weekly, I think you said?”
“Marjorie was forever tryin to fix herself. She didn’t need fixin, but she imagined she did. She was a busy woman, charity work every which way, and three unpaid positions. I think she just needed the reprieve—a little sliver of time that was hers and hers alone. An hour of reflection never hurt anyone. She liked her therapist.”
“It’s very unlikely we’re looking at a chance encounter here. Your wife’s abductor seems to have known her schedule, meaning this was either someone already familiar with her routines or someone who had tracked her movements for a time.”
“I’m not aware of anyone who would wish Marjorie harm. You could not hope to find a less contentious person. Generous. Kind. Jesus …” The senator pinched the bridge of his nose. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Sorry. Uh, try to collect myself here.”
“Take your time.”
The senator dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. “I’m not generally an emotional person.”
“Human, though.”
“Hah. All too.”
“I know I’m repeating myself, but are you absolutely sure there were no unusual visitors to the house leading up to your wife’s disappearance? Maybe some unexpected workmen? Some survey takers? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Strangers of any kind?”
“I don’t stand at the window lookin for strangers. And I don’t stare into my rear-view neither. No doubt that’d make me a terrible detective. Anyways, neither me nor Marjorie is home that much. Someone co
uld have got in here, I don’t know. Didn’t see any sign of it. Christ, you think someone planned this? In God’s name, why? Why Marjorie?”
“If I could answer that question I could probably tell you who killed her. Keep in mind it could’ve been you they were after, Senator.”
“That would at least make sense. I piss people off now and again. Sometimes I don’t even intend it. But I got to tell you—I’m a senator, not an MP, and senators in this country are appointed, not elected. It’s undemocratic and frankly it’s outright dumb, but one thing it means is you’re freed of a whole lotta political nastiness. Senate’s a collegial bunch. Used to be, anyway.”
“What about from before? You were an electrical engineer?”
“Power systems. Micro-power systems. Fortune favoured me in my work life same as in my home life. I don’t know why. Couple of patents came my way and paid for all this extravagance. We don’t live high, but I won’t deny we’re fortunate. Wealthy. I retired at fifty, ran for office, failed at that right quick. Worked for a couple of candidates behind the scenes after that, did my rain dance for ’em, and voila—Mr. Flint goes to Ottawa. Ridiculous, but it may as well be me stedda some of the yahoos they appoint. Ain’t got the sense of a doorknob, most of ’em. I’m just prayin Dear Leader sends up a bill to abolish me and the whole bunch of us. I’ll rubber-stamp that puppy in a flash. Opponents, yes. But outright enemies? No.”
Cardinal reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet, opened it and took out a ticket. “This was in your wife’s wallet.”
The senator took it and contemplated it. Turned it over and looked at the number. “It’s from a fundraiser.”
“You need a ticket for that?”
“Naw, they always have a giveaway of some sort. You pay your thousand bucks to attend and you get a chance to win something—artwork, signed first edition, whatever. So you hang on to the ticket.”
“And the number on the other side? Number 25?”
“Table number. This one was at the Château Laurier. World Literacy, if I recall. I’d a never thought of it, but Marjorie would.” He handed back the ticket.
Cardinal opened his briefcase and dropped the ticket inside, along with his notebook, and snapped it shut again. “Senator, thank you. Once again, I apologize for intruding at a time like this.”
The senator waved him off. “I’m just sorry I can’t be of more use.”
They went out to the foyer and the senator stood looking out the sidelights of his front door while Cardinal put on his galoshes and coat.
“You ever find the guy that killed your wife, Detective?”
“Yes, I did. He’s doing life in Kingston.”
“I’m glad. And what about this bastard now?”
“No guarantees. I’ll do my best.”
“Listen, I don’t want to interfere or nothin, but could you use the RCMP on this?”
“We’re already using their forensic services, and they’ve offered further assistance if we need it. The Ottawa police are being very helpful too.”
“Well, let me know if I can help any other way.”
“If it’s all right, I’d like to take a look around your property.”
“Fine with me. You’ve been very understanding, Detective. I appreciate it.”
Cardinal didn’t know what to say to that. He asked a question instead. “Do you have any connection with a woman named Laura Lacroix? Or do you know if your wife had any?”
“Laura Lacroix? I don’t think so. Mind you, I meet a lot of people. Too many people.” Flicker of a smile, a memory passing by.
Cardinal pointed at a life-sized portrait of the senator’s wife. It was big and colourful, but it looked like a sketch. She was laughing, a boat and a lake in the background. “That’s beautiful.”
“Charles Comfort. You heard of him?”
“My wife would have.”
“He rented the cottage next to ours one summer. Lugged that over the day he left. Worth a buck or two, actually.”
“Generous guy.”
“Something I’ve noticed—when you have a lot, people are always giving you things.”
“So you don’t mind if I take a look at your garage, the rest of your property here? It might help me get a handle on this guy.”
“Help yourself, Detective. Ottawa police did all that, of course, but you’re welcome to check it out—anything that’ll help.”
Cardinal took out a business card and wrote on the back of it before handing it to the senator. “This is not because you have a lot. That’s my personal cell number. In case you think of anything else. I mean it—call any time.”
The senator held the card in two hands by the corners and looked at it. “I have a notion this is another of those things they don’t recommend.”
From the Blue Notebook
And what is the going rate for dead Victorian teenagers? Dahlberg inquired. As his red beard grew thicker, he was taking on something of the look of Robert E. Lee.
I told him how Vanderbyl had presented two large hams to the Inuk, who cradled them in his arms like twins. How Vanderbyl had opened the door and released him once more into the night.
What does Hunter have to say about all this?
He’s beside himself that he slept through it. I guess we should have woken him.
Dahlberg was down on one knee beside the cot where we had placed the dead youth. This fellow can’t be from the Franklin expedition, he said. We’re nowhere near their last known location.
We talked about the various expeditions. The stray graves and markers. The three headstones on Beechey Island.
His clothes look too early for the Greely expedition, Dahlberg said. That was the 1880s—and didn’t they end up eating each other?
Frostbite had turned the boy’s face and hands deep purple.
Do you suppose others found him and took his outer garments? Dahlberg said. He can’t have lasted long like this.
Whoever he may have been, I said, you can’t do much for him now. But you need to look in on Ray. He’s acting a little … unsteady.
Dahlberg glanced at me over his shoulder. I can’t discuss him with you. He’s a patient.
I’m surprised Vanderbyl hasn’t said something.
If he had, I couldn’t discuss it with you. Dahlberg felt in the boy’s pocket. He pulled out a tiny coin and held it up in the window light. Sixpence, 1832, he said. He felt in another pocket and pulled out a compass. This time he stood up and we both examined it.
A Tinsly, Dahlberg said. They went out of business before the Gutta Percha Company. He opened the case and the needle swung first one way, then the other.
Wouldn’t have been much good, I said. Too near the magnetic pole.
Fire and food would have been the only things of use to him, and I don’t think he had either, poor bastard.
Dahlberg fussed with a camera for a few minutes. When he finally took an exposure, the flash left an afterimage, the dead boy’s face adrift in the frigid air.
8
THE GROUNDS OF SENATOR FLINT’S estate were beautiful even in the sombre light of mid-afternoon. The air smelled of wet snow and woodsmoke, and among the old oaks and maples there was a rustle and click of bare branches. Now, in the dimming of the day, the windows of the house were dark.
The garage, with its former chauffeur’s apartment, now a storage area, was a likely vantage point, but the family had noticed no unexplained footprints in the snow, and Ottawa detectives had found the alarm in working order, the locks untouched, the dust undisturbed. Cardinal had no reason to suspect them of incompetence.
The patio at the back of the house was partially cleared off. Cardinal stood between the recycling bins and the ambiguous shapes of furniture shrouded with snow. The property extended some five hundred metres, the rolling landscape interrupted by outcroppings of granite and stands of pine, the entire vista surrounded by a two-metre stone wall. To see over it, you’d have to be in a tree or a lineman’s cherry picker—distinctl
y uncomfortable prospects in the middle of an Ottawa winter. There were no houses close by. Through the trees beyond the garage he could make out just a single gable.
He went out through a side gate and walked along a winding road under a tracery of black branches. School was out, and the sounds of children and barking dogs carried over the stone fences, the wet roads. He rounded a curve and saw that the structure he had mistaken for the gable of a neighbouring house was actually an elaborate tree house, or rather what remained of one. The children for whom the structure had been built had no doubt long since gone away to distant schools, distant cities. He thought about his own daughter, pursuing an art career in New York, and the kinds of distance you can’t measure in miles.
He climbed up on the low stone fence. There were depressions at the base of the tree, foot tracks, since snowed over and rained over, that could be from the Ottawa police, or from someone else. There was no tree house mentioned in the scene reports they’d showed him. He hopped down and cursed as snow slithered into his galoshes.
From the far side, the tree house looked even more decrepit. One whole wall was gone, another sagged almost forty-five degrees away from the frame. The frame itself, at least from below, looked solid and well made. Access consisted of a series of wood blocks attached to the tree trunk with rusted spikes. Some of the lower ones were missing.
Galoshes proved to be less than ideal climbing footwear, and Cardinal had to take it slow. He paused on each block, hugging the wet tree. It was only when his head was just below the tree-house floor that he could see over the senator’s stone wall. Even then, the back of the garage blocked any view of the house.
Cardinal pulled himself up, the edge of a one-by-eight digging into his knee, and then he was kneeling on the floor. No sway, no creak. A couple of floor planks were missing, and he got to his feet and tested the others before putting his full weight on them.
There was no view of the Flint residence. It was blocked by the one wall of this spavined structure that remained completely solid. Off in the opposite direction, where the wall was missing, he could see a mansion of brick and stone. Cardinal was not a man who nursed any interest in how the wealthy lived, but he was—or had been for many years—a man with a passion for woodworking and cabinetry. After Catherine’s death, with the move from their house to an apartment, he had put his tools in storage, unable to part with them for good. Well-made things spoke to him, and he allowed himself a moment of envy of whoever lived in such a beautifully constructed house.