by Giles Blunt
Until the Night
( John Cardinal - 6 )
Giles Blunt
Giles Blunt
Until the Night
Well I lived with a child of snow
When I was a soldier
And I fought every man for her
Until the nights grew colder
— Leonard Cohen
From the Blue Notebook
We heard the plane before we saw it. The storm that had howled around us for three days and nights had finally limped away, leaving a thick cloud cover over the stillness that unfolded in its place.
Hunter had been out all morning ploughing the runway, if that is not too grand a word for the strip of ice that ran straight as a spoke from the lab at one end to the last of the beacons at the other. This was the pale blue gateway to Drift Station Arcosaur.
Wyndham and I had left the lab to come out and watch the plane land. The Twin Otters that arrived every two weeks were our only source of supply and we looked forward to them with pathetic eagerness.
Our coordinates by then were 82°'28'N 55°'20'W. We had drifted more than ninety geographical miles from our initial position in the Lincoln Sea, carried rudderlessly on the Arctic gyre. Two weeks previously we had passed the Alert defence installation. We actually put in a request to be allowed to use their airfield, instead of Resolute’s, for our resupply point, but they responded with a curt negative. Vanderbyl was indignant for days.
Kurt Vanderbyl, our chief scientist, was at this moment tending to a crop of waist-high radiometers and sensors. He was the oldest among us, a silvery, ascetic Dutchman who moved among the instruments like a priest administering Communion. His grad student, Ray Deville, had been at his side all morning, a walking clipboard with sunglasses and blue down jacket. At the sound of the plane, the two of them stopped and turned to look, both shading their eyes despite the clouds.
The plane dropped into view, surprisingly close. Anyone new to the Arctic might have thought the pilot was in danger of overshooting the runway and ploughing right through the lab. I had had a pilot’s licence myself for years, but Arctic pilots are a breed apart and I still marvelled at their skills. The Otter set down on its skis and pounded toward us, coming to a stop less than fifty metres away. The pilot climbed out and waved.
Wyndham snapped a harness around his chest and I hooked him up to the sled. As we headed toward the plane, a passenger stepped out.
Who the hell’s that? I said.
Rebecca Fenn-Kurt’s wife.
His wife? I heard they split up.
They did. She’s here on her own project. Strictly professional-at least to hear Kurt tell it.
What a terrible idea.
I don’t know. He wouldn’t have agreed if he thought it would jeopardize anybody else’s research.
Vanderbyl got to the plane first. He took a suitcase from her, but they didn’t hug or make contact of any kind.
I think you know Rebecca, he said to Wyndham as we approached.
Yes, of course. Hello, Rebecca.
Hello, Gordon. Nice to see you again.
She reached out a hand, and Gordon took off his mitten to shake it. Vanderbyl turned to me.
And this is Karson Durie, glacier man, otherwise known as Kit.
Ah, yes. Heard a lot about you.
We shook hands. Hers was slim, and warm from the plane.
She put her mittens on and stood with hands on her hips and made a quick survey of her surroundings. Wow.
I hope that’s a good wow, Vanderbyl said as Wyndham and I started offloading supplies onto the sled.
I don’t know, she said. She had a low voice, a velvet delivery that gave her every utterance the air of a confidence. I was just reading about the first party to land on an ice island, she said. Some U.S. military thing led by a general. The first words out of his mouth were “Obviously no man can survive here. We must leave at once, if we can.”
All us old-timers know that quote, Wyndham said, slamming a box labelled Patak’s Curry Paste onto the sled. It’s exactly the kind of common sense that always gets completely ignored up here-which is the only way to get anything done.
Wow, she said again. This place is…
I’ll show you your lab, Vanderbyl said.
The two of them walked toward the camp, and something in the way they moved together would have told even the most casual observer that they were man and wife.
It’s stupid to bring her here, I said to Wyndham.
Why? Everyone’s got plenty to do. She has her own research, and God knows Kurt has enough to keep him busy.
I just don’t want any Sturm und Drang.
There won’t be any. Rebecca’s a good researcher. Lovely girl, don’t you think? Woman, I mean.
What I think doesn’t matter.
1
A wild wind blew across Lake Nipissing, so loud it woke John Cardinal up and got him out of bed before his six a.m. alarm had even gone off. The sun was nowhere near getting up, but there was a big moon that lit the frozen lake and the trees that bent and swayed before it. As always at this time of year, the surface was studded with ice-fishing huts. Small branches blew across the lawn behind his building, a garbage can lid flew into sight and crashed into a tree. It rolled like a coin across the yard and out of sight again.
“I don’t believe it,” Cardinal said. He switched off the kitchen light to see better. He had been born and raised in Algonquin Bay and, except for a dozen years or so in Toronto, had lived here all his life. “The Bay,” as it was known to locals, was only 340 kilometres north of Toronto-nowhere near the Arctic-but its idea of winter was severe. Cardinal had seen a lot of unusual weather phenomena over the years, but he had never seen anything like this. The fishing huts-not all of them, but some-were migrating, dislodged from their moorings by this implacable wind and travelling across the ice.
His phone rang and it was Chouinard telling him not to bother coming in, he should head straight for a crime scene out on Highway 17. By the time Cardinal was in the car, the wind had blown away across the hills.
The motel was located on a slight rise, and was almost hidden by a copse of trees except for its garish sign. Cardinal parked the car just behind the coroner’s BMW and switched off the engine. He set the handbrake and looked at Lise Delorme, but she was already getting out.
Dawn breaking, clear and windless. January sun barely clearing the trees. They walked uphill past the other vehicles-the cruisers, a couple of unmarkeds, the ident van-toward the motel.
Delorme pointed to the sign. “Would you want to stay in a place called Motel 17? Really, what was the guy thinking?”
“If you like Motel 6, you’ll love Motel 17,” Cardinal said. “Simple math.”
A uniformed policewoman posted in front of the crime scene tape waved them past.
They joined a knot of people in the parking lot. Two were kneeling. The grouping reminded Cardinal of a Christmas creche. Detective Constable Vernon Loach stood up. “Perfect day for it, right?”
“Minus twenty-eight last I heard,” Cardinal said.
“You see the march of the fishing huts?”
“Yeah. Guess there’s a first for everything.”
“I didn’t know what I was seeing. Invasion of the porta-potties. I lead on this one, just so you know.”
“What?” Delorme said. “How do you figure that, Constable?”
“Take it up with Chouinard.”
Delorme whipped out her phone and walked away from the group. When she came back, her face was locked up tight.
Loach spoke to the coroner. “Couple of late arrivals, Doc. You wanna bring ’em up to speed?”
Dr. Barnhouse was wearing a fur-lined pilot’s cap that made him look like a cartoo
n animal. He was a bad-tempered Scot whose mood was in direct correlation to the temperature. “Perhaps you’d like to schedule a matinee performance as well, Sergeant Loach.”
“Detective Constable,” Delorme said, “not Sergeant.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” Loach said.
“Are we all quite ready, then? Everyone use the toi-toi? Everyone got their pencils sharpened?”
“You could be finished by now.”
Cardinal was trying to keep an open mind about Loach, a recent import from Toronto. So far, the only interesting thing about him seemed to be that he didn’t care whether anybody liked him or not. An attitude that might be useful when you’re working narcotics in a metropolis like Toronto. Working a homicide-anywhere, let alone in a small northern city-it could prove a liability.
“Well-nourished Caucasian male,” Barnhouse said, “early forties, been out in the elements approximately eight hours, possibly as much as ten. Extreme cold precludes even a rough guess at time of death.
“Cursory inspection of lividity shows he died right here, in this position. Mechanism of death is most likely asphyxiation. No ligature marks or sign of finger or thumb marks, but the hyoid is crushed and we’ve got petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. Whoever killed him probably stood on his throat. You can make out a tread mark or two.”
“Nice,” Cardinal said.
“Let’s go inside,” Loach said. “We commandeered one of the rooms. Note the two vehicles on your way in.”
They left Barnhouse filling out his paperwork, and the three of them walked to the room next to the motel office and went inside.
“Did Ident get pictures of his throat?” Cardinal asked. “Might be able to match those marks to a particular boot.”
“Good idea,” Loach said, and Cardinal wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He asked about the two civilian cars in the lot.
“Right. Get your pencils out, we got a lotta names. Black Nissan belongs to a local woman named Laura Lacroix, who is not here and not at home. She’s married to but separated from one Keith Rettig, who still dwells in your fair city. Our fair city. The throat is one Mark Trent, administrator at the hospital and owner of the green Audi parked in front of room seven. Evidence in said room indicates the two were having an affair, and the manager confirms he’s seen Trent before, and both the vehicles, although he never saw the woman. I suppose they were being discreet. Textbook tells us suspect number one is the former husband. You know how it goes: you discover the wife’s unfaithful, you’re ticked, there’s really nothing left except to do a tap dance on some poor bastard’s throat.”
“Was he married too, the victim?” Delorme asked.
“To Melinda Trent, also a hospital administrator. According to the dictates of gender equity, Mrs. Trent is also a prime suspect. She called in a missing person report to the detachment this morning, but she hasn’t been informed yet. I’ll be doing that”-Loach pulled up the sleeve of his parka to look at his watch-“imminently.”
Outside, a tow truck driver was slipping a harness under the Audi, wading through clouds of exhaust.
“So Ms. Lacroix is missing,” Cardinal said, “but her car’s still here. There any leads on a third vehicle?”
“None. No snow on the drive, no tracks. Speaking of which, what is it with the wacky weather up here? We get more snow in Toronto than this. I only came here for the skiing, as you know.”
“Head ten kilometres north-they’ve got tons of it.”
“Like I say, wacky. Where was I? Manager. Manager lives in the house behind the motel. Says he was in bed and didn’t hear a thing. No other guests and no witnesses of any kind that we know of. Our theory so far-my theory-is that our two lovers call it a night. Laura Lacroix leaves first, still trying to be discreet-her coat’s gone, but Mr. Trent came out in his shirt sleeves. We found a small bracelet near the body and I figure she forgot it and he rushed out to give it to her.”
“You’re quick,” Cardinal said.
“That’s a good thing, right? Seems likely somebody jumped her as she was getting into her car. Otherwise, what vehicle did she leave in, and why? Trent comes out with the bracelet, perp takes a negative view on potential witnesses and kills him.”
“If it was the angry husband,” Delorme said, “Trent may have been next on his list anyway. May have been first, in fact.”
“Quite possible.”
“You’re talking to Trent’s wife,” Cardinal said. “You want us to take Mr. Rettig?”
“Yeah. And if he doesn’t have a rock-solid alibi, bring him in and we’ll sweat him. Cuz if it ain’t the angry husband, I got a feeling this one could turn into an out-and-out mystery. And I hate mysteries.”
They stood there for a full minute as Cardinal stared into space. Loach glanced at Delorme and said, “Detective Cardinal has a contemplative look. I believe he is being visited by a thought.”
“Not much of one,” Cardinal said. “Just that none of this-an affair, possible jealousy, the fact that the woman’s missing-means she’s actually been killed. It’s possible she hired somebody to do it and staged her disappearance as cover. More likely, she’s been abducted by some third party, though for what reason…”
“Exactly,” Loach said. “Investigation like this, a cop’s best friend is a dirty mind.”
Keith Rettig lived in a white bungalow on one of the small streets off Lakeshore. He was a lot older than Cardinal had expected, maybe early sixties. He answered the door in a paint-spattered sweatshirt and jeans.
Cardinal introduced himself and Delorme and asked if they could come in.
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’m in the middle of painting.”
“Mr. Rettig, do you know where your wife is?”
“Well, she’s not here. She doesn’t live here. Why are you looking for her?”
“Her car was found abandoned at a motel. A man was killed there and we think she may be in danger herself.”
“Killed? Wait-killed who? Is Laura okay?”
“The man is dead. Your wife is missing. She may still show up for work, but she’s not at home and, as I said, her car is still at the motel.”
“This is hard to take in.”
“I know it’s a shock,” Delorme said. “Can we come in and talk?”
“I’m sorry, yes, of course.” He stood back and held the door for them.
They stepped in and slipped their boots off. Strong smell of paint and newsprint. Newspapers and drop cloths spread over the floor.
“Come into the living room,” Rettig said. “It’s the only room that isn’t in chaos. I just moved in a week ago.”
The furniture looked expensive, but it was too big and there was too much of it. Cardinal and Delorme sat on the couch. Rettig sat in a leather club chair, much worn, with a brass reading lamp beside it. “Jesus. This is a shock. I knew Laura was seeing someone. This man who died, was his name Mark?”
“Mark Trent,” Delorme said. “Did you know him?”
Rettig shook his head. “Laura told me his name. His first name, anyway. He’s the reason we’re not together anymore.”
“Can you tell us where you were last night?”
Rettig looked at Cardinal and back to Delorme. “Um, sure. I was here all night. All day, too, except for trips to the hardware store. I painted the hallway, hung a couple of mirrors, and then I vegged out in front of the TV.”
“Can anyone vouch for any of that?” Cardinal said.
“I didn’t have a painting party, if that’s what you mean. Well, hang on-I was watching pay-per-view. I watched four episodes of Mad Men, one after another. The cable company will have a record, won’t they?”
“They should.”
“And I did call a friend around nine-thirty, see if he wanted to go for a beer. That was a short call, though.”
“Still,” Cardinal said, “we’ll need his details.”
“Shouldn’t you be out looking for Laura?”
Delorme sat forward on th
e couch. “There’s some indication your wife was attacked first, Mr. Rettig. Mr. Trent may have been trying to intervene.”
“Indication? What, like blood?”
“No. I don’t mean to make it worse than it is. She may turn up unharmed, but so far we don’t know where she is, and she hasn’t used her cellphone, her credit cards or her car.”
“You knew she was having an affair before you broke up,” Cardinal said. “That must have hurt.”
“Hurt? No, I wasn’t hurt. I was devastated.”
“Laura’s, what, thirty-seven, thirty-eight? And you’ve gotta be, what, sixty?”
“Fifty-eight. Yeah, yeah-big age difference. But we were together eight years. It’s not like anything changed or I hid anything from her. I thought she was happy. She seemed happy. Until about a year ago.”
“Age difference like that can make a guy feel pretty insecure.”
“I never did. Laura never gave me any reason. Until she met that guy.”
“That was a year ago?”
“More like eight, nine months. Then everything turned to shit pretty fast.”
“You must have been angry.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Angry was only part of it. Depressed. Humiliated. I was a lot of things. This isn’t exactly what I envisioned for myself.” He gestured at the tarps, the cramped little room. “I certainly hated this Mark character. But I never met him, never saw him, and I certainly didn’t shoot him.”
“Nobody said he was shot,” Delorme said.
“He wasn’t shot? Well, what happened?”
“We won’t know until there’s an autopsy,” Cardinal said. “How much do you weigh, Mr. Rettig?”
“How much do I weigh?”
“How much do you weigh? About one fifty?”
“About one forty-five or so. Why are you-Is this even relevant?”
“It may be.”
Delorme stood up. “Mr. Rettig, you mind if I use your bathroom? Lot of coffee this morning.”
“Go right ahead. Door on the right, just before the kitchen.”