Until the Night

by Giles Blunt

  “Stupid,” Cardinal said—about himself, not Delorme.

  He turned the car around and headed back down the hill. At the stop sign, he had a change of plan and made a left toward the downtown. It was a quiet night, not many cars about and too cold for many pedestrians except the odd dog walker. He thought about getting a dog, a living being to come home to, but he had never been much of a pet man. When Kelly was a little girl, they’d had a dog, a floppy-eared mutt named Gizmo that she loved passionately. But the dog developed a brain tumour that changed him from an affectionate goof into a biter. Cardinal had been forced to have him put down, and the memory of breaking his daughter’s heart had spoiled dogs for him forever.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the Quiet Pint and sat for a minute. He didn’t recognize any of the vehicles.

  Perfect beef tenderloin with a red wine reduction, arugula salad, and for dessert a lemon cream concoction that Delorme could have eaten four times more of.

  “Well, you were right,” she said, raising her glass. “You are one hell of a cook.”

  “Thank you,” Priest said. “Why don’t you go sit in the living room and I’ll bring us some port. Much underrated, port is.”

  He had announced when they sat down that he wanted no discussion of police business during dinner, and they’d been almost entirely successful in avoiding it. Delorme asked him questions about the music industry, and they’d moved on from there to talk of movies and books. She was finding it a lot harder to believe Priest had ever killed anyone. She was feeling pretty comfortable, considering, and you would never have known, to look at her, that she was breaking every rule in the investigator’s handbook.

  Priest himself noted this at one point. They had shared a laugh over an amusing scene in a Tom Cruise movie and he suddenly said, “Seriously, Lise—aren’t you being a little irresponsible? If you ever did bring a case against me, you’d be in a lot of shit, wouldn’t you? Having fraternized with the accused?”

  Delorme shrugged. “Algonquin Bay is small. There’s not a single detective on the squad who hasn’t had to arrest a neighbour or someone they went to school with.”

  “Not quite the same, is it?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  He came into the living room now with a dusty bottle of port and sat beside her on the couch and poured them each a glass. When they were about to toast, Delorme’s phone rang.

  “Sorry. Hold on, I’ll switch it off.”

  “I shut mine away in a drawer when I don’t want to be bothered.”

  “I’d love to, but we have to keep them with us at all times.” She put the phone back in her purse and set the purse beside her on the couch. She reached for her glass again. “Sorry about that. Cheers.”

  Delorme had never tasted port before, never tasted anything like it.

  “Was this made by some monks high on a mountain somewhere?”

  “Not bad, is it.” Blue eyes flecked with firelight.

  He set his glass down and reached for a slim green folder, then sat back and opened it. Delorme didn’t know why, but his every move was attractive to her in some elemental way. To counter this, she thought of the black mask, Régine Choquette’s contorted body, Fritz Reicher’s “games.”

  “Take a look at these.”

  Delorme took the folder from him, careful that their hands did not touch. She picked up the first piece of paper. A receipt from Toronto’s Windsor Arms Hotel.

  “I thought you had a home in Toronto.”

  “Condo. Sold it. Look at the dates.”

  “I see the dates.”

  “Look at the others.”

  She went through the receipts one by one—dinners at expensive restaurants, tickets to a Cat Power concert, a car detailing operation, a dentist—and closed the folder.

  “You can keep those. My lawyer has the originals.”

  “Thank you. Leonard, can we just clear up one more small item?”

  “God, you’re relentless. You’re lucky it’s sexy.”

  “Why does Fritz Reicher say you ordered him to shoot Régine Choquette?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “But he did. Then he changed his mind—so that’s actually two small items. Why did he say it, and why did he change his mind?”

  “Fritz? Have you met Fritz? Fritz is an amiable idiot. I’m sorry, but he’s mentally defective—very attractive qualities in a servant, but not much use for anything else.”

  “If he’s so dim, why did he change his mind?”

  “As I understand it, he was stoned when he was picked up and babbled anything that came into his head. Then he sobered up …”

  He swivelled toward her on the couch and tugged at a lock of her hair. “Now, haven’t I been a good boy? Haven’t made a single move on you all night, despite the fact that you look absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “You can’t really think I’m a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Maybe not cold-blooded. Maybe out of control.”

  “So why did you come here, Lise?”

  “You invited me. I’m an investigator. You have information.”

  “Ooh, such a calculating little article you are.”

  “I admit I find you fascinating. In a clinical way. Sometimes you almost seem like a good person.”

  “Even when I’m bad, I’m not that bad.”

  “Hmm.”

  He grasped her elbow lightly and shook it as if rousing her from a nap. “Don’t you ever have the urge to break the rules? Do something a little wicked? Just be bad?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes I even give in to it.”

  “You smile like a cat, you know that? Not the warmest smile, must be said.”

  “What can you tell me about Darlene?”

  “Darlene.” He swivelled away again and poured himself more port. When he reached for her glass, Delorme put her hand over it.

  He set the bottle down and took a sip. “I only know one Darlene, and I’m not going to talk about her.”

  “Come on.”

  “Sorry. Wouldn’t be gentlemanly. How would you like it if I talked about you?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “The night is young.”

  “It must be awful to be an addict. Be a slave. Feel out of control all the time.”

  “It’s only an addiction if you can’t afford it.”

  “Really? That your personal definition?”

  “It’ll do. Just out of interest, are you wearing your gun? Perhaps a neat little automatic strapped to your ankle?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I desperately want to kiss you, but I don’t want to get shot.”

  “Better be careful, then.”

  He leaned toward her and she didn’t pull away—to pull away would look like fear—but she did turn her face aside.

  “All right,” he said, stopping halfway. “She doesn’t want to be kissed. What does she want? Hmm, I wonder.” A hand rested itself on her breast.

  Delorme didn’t move, the heat of his palm through her clothes.

  “What does Lise want, he wonders.” The hand sliding to the other breast and Delorme remaining utterly motionless, remaining that way, barely breathing, as the hand slides down her chest, across her midriff, and Priest leans closer so he can reach between her legs.

  She grabbed his wrist and lifted it off and placed his hand back on the couch.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  “Tease.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Silence means consent, darling.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t. Check the Criminal Code.”

  “You don’t have to go, you know. Not really.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, getting up. “Really.”

  Priest stood up and blocked her way. “Do you know what you’re playing with?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What I mean is
, if you really believe I ordered that gormless German twit to shoot a defenceless woman, what does that say about you? That you come here and get all cozy, looking all hot and bothered—”

  “Hardly. I’m leaving now.” She pushed past him and headed for the kitchen.

  “Ambition isn’t the only pheromone you give off, in case you don’t know. But you do know, don’t you? You know very well. You want to play with fire, sweetheart, you better be ready for a little heat.”

  “I’ll need my coat.”

  “Of course. Sorry.” His tone had changed again. Once more he was the gracious host. He walked her to the door and retrieved her coat. She put it on, fighting with the zipper.

  “Come on, Lise. Dinner’s one thing, but you really can’t still think I had anything to do with Marjorie Flint or Laura Lacroix.”

  “I don’t.” The zipper finally surrendered and she pulled it up. “But I do think you killed Régine Choquette, and I’m going to put you away for it. That’s what Lise wants.”

  From the Blue Notebook

  The low sun shining in Rebecca’s eyes as she said, I think we’re going to die. I just mean it factually.

  Quite possible, I said, noting the lack of fear in her voice, a preparedness to meet fate head-on, on fate’s terms. But let’s try to do it on actual land rather than a chunk of ice.

  What about staying where we are, waiting for the plane?

  The arrangement was that a station radioed in to Resolute at agreed-upon days and times. In our case, every two days. If a check-in was missed and the station could not be raised, a plane would be in the air within a matter of hours. Unfortunately, we had checked in the day before.

  It’ll be hard for them to spot us, I said. Kurt may be all right—the radio mast is visible and he probably even has a beacon—but a single plane is going to have a hard time spotting us.

  And there was the matter of keeping warm.

  It was my idea to set out for what was now the western end of the floe. Although we were closer to Axel Heiberg, the current was taking us toward Meighen Island. The Polar Continental Shelf Project had once had a camp there, and there was a chance it was still operating.

  My memory goes wading among the four of us like a ghost, reaching out to try to protect Rebecca, enclose her in my giant hand and keep her warm, but of course she does not see me, feel me. Nor does my younger self. I remember the fear, the panic in my chest, and an odd sense of guilt, as if I were the one, and not Kurt (or her own curiosity and ambition), who had lured Rebecca north of the eightieth parallel, where she was now very likely going to die. I was a creature of the High Arctic, went walking there even when I was not working there, studied the maps and journals of the great explorers. It was as if she were meeting my family and they were being hateful.

  They say you haven’t really travelled in the Arctic unless you’ve been lost at least once. I have been lost many more times than that, twice on Ellesmere alone, once in Greenland north of Thule. The fear was intense, but nothing compared with what I was feeling now. And yet my mind was skipping forward to some years in the future—a house, a quiet street and the smell of fallen leaves, Rebecca seated in a leather chair. A wall full of books.

  That was one future. The other was gathering itself into a darkness in the west, not much more than a smudge at that moment, between the surface and the sun. I was about to point this out when there was a gunshot behind us. We turned our backs on the indigo water and scanned the horizon. Jens and Ray were no closer to us than they had been when we stopped. I took a look through my field glasses.

  Something’s wrong, I said.

  Maybe they saw a plane or something. Trying to draw attention?

  Give me the flare gun.

  What for?

  And the belt. Just give it to me. I reached inside my fleece and pulled out the radio and handed it to her. Keep this. Kurt may manage to get the mast working, or there may be a submarine in the area. If I don’t come back, head west quickly—that means keeping Heiberg at your back—and try an SOS every half-hour. Keep it inside your jacket.

  Kit, what are you doing?

  Wait here. I won’t be long.

  16

  AWAY FROM THE WARMTH OF Leonard Priest’s hearth, not to mention the heat of his attentions, Delorme shuddered with the cold. The touch of the February night at her neck and wrists, the gaps in her clothing.

  As she moved toward her car, careful in her dress shoes that were never meant to come near snow, she saw a car heading away from her and then making the turn off Crozier, a Camry. Too far away to make out the plate or even be sure of the colour, but it looked like John Cardinal’s Camry.

  Paranoia, she thought, starting her car. That paranoia was telling her to move fast, get a good look at that Camry. She took a deep breath and resisted the urge.

  No doubt that shudder upon stepping outside Leonard Priest’s house had to do with things other than the low temperature, the crystalline cold abrading her face. Guilt, all right, yes, tremendous guilt. Guilt of the Catholic girl gone wrong. Guilt for breaching her professional ethics. Guilt because she was pretty sure she was in love with John Cardinal and she had just allowed another man to touch her—and this less than a week after that night at the club.

  “What’s happening to me?” she said aloud in the car. She reached for the heat control and turned it up full. In any other circumstances, I would have broken the bastard’s arm.

  Some women like to be scared.

  She hadn’t been scared—not of Priest, anyway. But fear was definitely one of the intoxicants flowing in her veins, just as it had been at Club Risqué. Since Priest had not been particularly threatening, it could only be herself she was afraid of.

  John Cardinal’s got nothing to do with it, she repeated over and over to herself as she drove home. John Cardinal and I have no relationship.

  She hadn’t finished taking off her coat when the phone rang.

  “Frank Toye on the desk. Hope I didn’t wake you. Got a call from the hospital—one of yours is in Emergency, asking for you. The doctor was pretty insistent, so I thought I’d check with you before I sent—”

  “She gave me this.” The doctor, absurdly young, reached into his white coat and pulled out a key. “She said to give it to you and tell you top right drawer of her desk.”

  “Top right drawer.” Delorme took the key and put it in her pocket. A gurney transporting an unconscious man clattered by, IV swinging. “Can I see her?”

  “Not right now.”

  Dealing with a battered woman too dumb to get out of a self-destructive situation was not high on Delorme’s list of priorities at the moment. On the other hand, she didn’t want Miranda Heap to wake up and change her mind. She drove the few blocks to the woman’s home and let herself in.

  It was one of the contradictions of Miranda Heap’s life that she was a very orderly person. Much more orderly than Delorme, who always had a pair of jeans hanging on the back of a chair and a stack of bills on the kitchen table. But this woman’s trade was organizing people’s offices and homes and work systems, and apparently she had a natural bent for it.

  Vestibule with its neat double shelves of shoes and boots, living room with a four-square stack of magazines on a gleaming coffee table, cushions on the sofa just so. But then this emotional chaos in her life, a chaos against which she could apparently maintain no resistance.

  As if I’m anyone to judge, Delorme thought. She felt again, in memory, the grip of Priest’s hand between her legs. Lise Delorme, incipient slut.

  In the kitchen, a platoon of appliances lined up on the counter. A dish-free sink and drainer. Set of cookware neatly suspended above the stove. Not the least sign of trouble in this sparkling little chamber, unless you counted the few drops and smears of blood on the counter, and the bigger smear on the floor. Beside it, a crushed and empty Kleenex box.

  There was blood in the bathroom too, and blood on the telephone and desk.

  Delorme pulled open the top
right drawer and took out a large envelope with her name on it. It was sealed and taped, and she took a letter opener from a desktop canister of pens to open it. Inside there was a smaller envelope, also sealed, and a note written in violet ink on a sheet headed From the Desk of Miranda Heap.

  Dear Lise,

  If you are reading this, I am in deep shit.

  Remember I told you he makes the most beautiful apologies? I’ve actually been saving them for my therapist, but I’d like you to hear them too—if only so you don’t think I’m such an idiot. They’re not all apologies. He does have some redeeming features, you know.

  Pick up my phone and dial *98 and when it asks for the PIN press 4252. Then hit 3 for saved messages.

  I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell you his name yet. I’ll have to think some more about that.

  Miranda

  —Oh hell. Listen to the messages and then take a look in the other envelope.

  The voice that came on was so soft as to be almost a whisper. The words were close, muffled even, as if the mouthpiece were up against the lips. He was utterly sorry, his moods were getting the better of him lately, she mustn’t ever think he didn’t love her, she was the world to him.

  The voice was not one she recognized. In that near whisper, it could have been anyone. He sounded educated, sincere, affectionate. As she listened, she opened the smaller envelope, which appeared to contain a handful of receipts and a photograph.

  The next two messages were muffled, whispery, romantic in an overwrought kind of way—but neither of them seemed to Delorme’s ears particularly inspired, particularly wonderful. Such was love. Passion anyway.

  She swivelled the chair around and stared out the window as she continued to listen. A thin snow starting to fall, car lights travelling up and down the hill of Algonquin Avenue. And then the next message made her spin round and plant her elbows on the desk and stare at the base of the phone as if the caller might be visible there.

  It was the same caller, the same man, but this time he had forsaken the breathy, into-the-pillow sibilants for accents more declamatory, flamboyant even. Honey, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Sometimes, I swear, you just get me so excited I go over the top. But I’ve been soooooo bad! Darlene has been a bad girl, honey, and you’re just going to have to punish her. You’re just gonna have to take your little Darlene and put her over your knee!