by Giles Blunt
“I’m afraid we have some much worse news, Mrs. Tilley. Perhaps you’d better sit down.”
“Yes, of course. Let’s go in the living room.”
The thrift-store smell was even stronger in the living room. A brown vinyl rocker listed to one side, and the overstuffed couch appeared to have been savaged at both ends by a Bengal tiger.
“Would you like some tea? Some coffee?”
“No, thank you. Please sit down, Mrs. Tilley.”
Mrs. Tilley wobbled a little, and the colour drained from her face as if someone had pulled a plug in her feet. She lowered herself to the torn sofa and folded her hands neatly on her lap.
“I’m afraid Morris is dead, Mrs. Tilley.” Cardinal’s heart was pounding. He would never get used to this. “Someone killed him.”
“Killed him?” A hand rose slowly to Mrs. Tilley’s mouth.
“I’m very sorry.”
Mrs. Tilley turned to Delorme, as if a woman might talk more sense.
“Why would anyone kill Morris? Morris is—Morris gets along with—Morris wouldn’t hurt a fly. He smokes too much marijuana, that’s true. And he doesn’t seem able to hold a job, but the economy hasn’t been good, you know. And Morris is very picky; he won’t take just anything. But he doesn’t get into fights. It can’t be Morris. There’s a mix-up somewhere, you’ll see. You’ve got the wrong person.”
“His identity was confirmed through dental records,” Delorme said. “His teeth. Your son had an extra incisor, I believe?”
The pause that followed was brief, the silence deep. Somewhere a clock was ticking: one second, two seconds, three. And then Mrs. Tilley’s howl split the air. It was loud, long, and from a distance might have been canine. She gulped for air, almost choked, and let out another howl that hurt Cardinal’s ears not so much because of the volume, which was intense, but because the long, unearthly wail seemed to carry with it all the suffering of all human hearts.
Delorme came back from the kitchen with a glass of water; Cardinal hadn’t even noticed her get up. It took a while, but Delorme eventually managed to get the woman calmed down. The howls subsided into sobs, the sobs into soundless tears, and finally she was able to speak.
“I’ll need to see him,” she said. “I won’t fully believe it, otherwise.”
“Yes, of course,” Delorme said. “We can arrange it with the forensic centre in Toronto, if you like. Or they can make arrangements with whichever funeral home you prefer and you can see him here.”
This brought on a fresh round of tears. It was Cardinal’s experience that allowing grief to take too full a hold could make getting information impossible. At the risk of seeming callous, he broke in with his first question.
“Mrs. Tilley, when did you last see your son?”
“Quite recently. Two or three months ago.”
“Two or three months?”
“Well, two months. Morris gets very involved in things. In his projects and so on, and then I don’t see him for a few months. Then one day I’ll come home from Loblaws and there he’ll be at the kitchen table, wolfing down a sandwich, happy as a clam. He’s a good son. He’ll bring me flowers sometimes. Tulips it was, last time. He knows I love tulips. His brothers never bring flowers.”
“The last address we have for him is Marsden Road,” Delorme said. “Up in Greenwood?”
“Yes, that’s right. He shares a place with some friends.”
“How did he seem when you last saw him?”
“Oh, the usual. Morris doesn’t change. He’s been the same since he was twelve. Happy go lucky. A little thoughtless. A bit … lost, sometimes. I blame the marijuana for that. He told me he was making some good money.”
“Good money doing what?”
“Working for a trucking firm. Loading and unloading. Nothing fancy, but it was a paycheque.”
“Did he mention who he was working with?”
“No. No, he just said it was a good outfit. That’s the way he put it. He said, ‘Ma, I’m finally with a good outfit. I’m in on the ground floor.’ Not that I believed it would get him anywhere. He never sticks with anything. But I was glad he had some money in his pocket. He even brought me some. Didn’t say anything, but after he left I found a hundred-dollar bill under the cookie tin.”
“Did you ever see any of the people he worked with, or any of his friends?”
“No. Well, only one. A boy named Sam he would bring round every once in a while. The two of them would sit in the kitchen and polish off a dozen cookies at a go. Hermits were his favourite—you know, cinnamon and raisin and not too sweet? Oh, there was no keeping those in the house when Morris was around.”
“What is Sam’s last name, Mrs. Tilley, do you know?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Not a bad-looking boy.”
“Can you give us a description?”
“He’s pale. Very dark hair and very pale skin. He’s shorter than me, and I’m only five-three in stocking feet.”
“That wouldn’t be Sami Deans, would it?” Delorme said. “Stocky and sort of bewildered-looking?”
“Well, you could say that. I never knew his last name, but Morris certainly called him Sami all the time, as if he was a little kid. Of course, it was Morris who never grew up. I suppose he never will, now.”
Mrs. Tilley covered her eyes and cried into her hands for a few moments. Delorme found a box of Kleenex somewhere.
“Mrs. Tilley, are you absolutely sure you don’t remember meeting any of Morris’s other friends or co-workers?” Cardinal said. “It’s terribly important.”
“Morris didn’t tend to bring people round, I’m afraid. Never did. He’s a sociable boy, but at the end of the day he always tended to come home alone—even when he was quite little.”
It didn’t take long to establish that Mrs. Tilley knew essentially nothing about her son’s activities. A few more questions and then she saw them to the door, bobbing along behind them, dabbing at her eyes, apologizing for not being more helpful and thanking them for being so kind.
“The thing I’ll never get used to about murder,” Delorme said, back in the car, “is how many more victims it has than just the one that ends up dead.”
“We’re going to find the guy that did it, Lise. That’s why we’re in this business. Tell me about this Sami Deans you mentioned. Kind of threw me for a loop in there.”
“That’s because you think all I know is white-collar stuff. But us junior detectives have to deal with low-lifes all the time. Unlike elite investigators like yourself.”
“Unlike old has-beens is what you mean.”
“Exactly. Sami Deans. Lives in a frat house, so to speak. In Greenwood, like Mrs. Tilley said.”
Greenwood was one of the first subdivisions built in Algonquin Bay. At one time it had been an address with some cachet, but Greenwood, like much of Algonquin Bay, had come down a peg or two. Now, Greenwood was mostly a haven for retired people on modest pensions, subcompact cars parked beside brick bungalows with bright green lawns. Unfortunately, some of the streets had taken a less picturesque turn.
One such street was Marsden Road, just beyond the Beckers convenience store. It had only three houses. The first was occupied by a half-mad old coot who wore a Second World War trenchcoat even in the blazing sun. The second had been gutted by a fire two years previously, and for complicated tax reasons had been neither repaired nor torn down.
The last house on the block had once been a two-storey, white-brick affair, but now the brick was grey and black. The lawn, those parts of it that were not utterly bald, was a field of litter. Warped plywood covered missing windows. Weeds sprouted through the asphalt drive, where a seventies-era Malibu appeared to have been dropped from a great height.
“Listen to that,” Cardinal said as they rolled up.
“Listen to what?” Delorme said.
“I can hear that car rusting. It’s actually audible.”
“I didn’t know you were a car buff.”
“I’
m not. I just hate to see machines mistreated.”
They went up to the front door and knocked loudly.
“It’s only the middle of the afternoon,” Cardinal said. “What makes you think they’ll be awake?”
Delorme rapped again. “Me, I don’t care if they’re up yet.”
A voice came from inside. “Who is it?”
“Police. Open up.”
Cardinal glanced at his watch. “How long you want to give them to flush everything?”
“I figure one minute. They’ve got the routine fine-tuned by now.”
The door opened, and they were addressed by a young man whose clothes looked two sizes too big for him. Oily hair hung in a pointy fringe over one eye.
“You should know I already have an attorney,” he said. “So I don’t personally plan to answer any questions.”
Heroin addicts, Cardinal thought. It’s like they’re under ten feet of water. They form their words with great concentration, as if they have to be transmitted in bubbles.
“We’re not here about you, Sami,” Delorme told him. “At least, not at the moment. May we come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We’re not here to search the place,” Cardinal said. “We’re just here to ask some questions about Morris Tilley.”
“Toof? Haven’t seen him for days.”
“When was the last time?”
Sami flicked the fringe of hair. It didn’t move.
“Don’t know, man. Eternity. Mists of time.”
“Try to be more precise,” Cardinal said.
“How come? You guys haul him in again?”
“Somebody shot him twice and bashed his head in with a baseball bat.”
“Oh, man. That’s egregious. That’s, like, seriously traumatic.”
“It’s a crime, Sami. We’re going to put someone away for it—assuming we can get any coherent information.”
“Fuck. Sorry, man, I just woke up. I’m just not sure how to react.”
How lost can you be? Cardinal wondered. And the answer came unbidden: as lost as you want to be.
“Do you know a guy named Kevin Tait?” Delorme said.
Sami shrugged. “He’s a friend of Toof’s. Seen him around.”
“Is he a dealer?”
“Hey. I said I’ve seen him. I didn’t interview him. I never, like, examined his curriculum vitae or nothing.”
Cardinal and Delorme walked by Sami into what had once been a living room. It was now a bedroom with a mattress on the floor, a boom box with a dozen scattered CDs and a Razor scooter. Somewhere upstairs, a toilet flushed.
“Sit down, Sami,” Delorme said. “You look like death.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather stand.”
“Sit down, Sami.” Delorme pressed on his shoulders and he sank toward the mattress. “Now think back. When was the last time you saw Morris Tilley?”
“I think it was about three weeks ago. Yeah, it was three weeks ago. I saw him at the pool hall. Toof’s a pretty sharp pool player.”
“Was,” Cardinal corrected him.
“Was.”
“But he shared the house with you,” Delorme said. “Why is it so long since you saw him?”
Sami tugged at his fringe. “I dunno. Toof kinda took up with a new circle of acquaintance.”
“Oh?”
“Some Indian guy he met. Out-of-town guy. Toof was all secretive about it, but it was obvious he was, like, seriously impressed with this character.”
“This person have a name?” Cardinal said. “An address?”
“No address. Toof didn’t say anything like that. But name—I don’t know. Black Cloud. Something like that. You know, an Indian name.”
“Did you ever meet him? See him?”
Sami shook his head. He was hugging himself even though the room was overheated, and there was a fine sweat on his upper lip.
“You guys wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”
“Sorry,” Delorme said.
“How many other people live here?” Cardinal said.
“Seven or eight.”
“Which is it?”
“Seven, I guess. If Toof’s not coming back.”
“He isn’t. And we’d like to catch whoever made it that way. Who’s he hang around with, other than you?”
Sami looked shocked. “I don’t hang around with Toof, man. He just lives here. Lived.”
“So who was he hanging around with?”
“I don’t know, man. Give me a break, will you?”
Cardinal rapped on Sami’s forehead with a knuckle. “Hello-o. Sami? I’m not asking you who he bought his dope from. I’m asking you who he hung around with.”
“I don’t know. Some doofus thinks he’s really hot shit.”
“A name,” Delorme said. “We need a name.”
Sami shouted up the stairs. “Hey, Paco! Who’s that jerk Toof hangs around with, man? Guy drives that butch car.”
A small, dark man appeared on the stairs, his face a comic exaggeration of fear. “Shit, man. You talking to the cops?”
“Toof is dead, Paco. Just give me the goddamn name.”
Paco came down the last of the stairs, scratching his head. The smell of marijuana wafted from his clothes.
“Guy with the Batmobile? Leon something. I don’t know his last name.”
“What’s he look like?” Cardinal said.
“I don’t know, man. Average, you know? Brown hair, sorta dirty. Drives some stupid muscle car. Black. Trans Am or something.”
“Oh, hey,” Sami said. “I just remembered. He’s got like a scar on his forehead. Jagged thing. ’Bout that long.” He held thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Creep probably bashed his head on the toilet,” Paco said, and turned to go back upstairs.
“Whoa, Paco. Hold on there, son.” Cardinal stepped in front of him. “We’ll need to talk to you and everybody else who lives here. Bring ’em all downstairs. Don’t worry—if we were looking for dope, you’d already be in the paddy wagon.”
Cardinal and Delorme interviewed five other young men who lived in the house, each more forlorn than the last. That was the thing about heroin addicts, Cardinal had often noticed: They weren’t nasty people; they just seemed terminally bewildered. One or two of the young men they interviewed might have made something of themselves if they hadn’t fallen in love with the needle. Everybody has their crutch, he figured, but some crutches are more crippling than others.
None of Toof’s former housemates added anything useful to the information they already had. Yes, they’d seen a guy named Kevin Tait. No, they didn’t really know him.
When they got back to the station, Delorme sat down at the computer. Later, she came over to Cardinal’s desk with a printout.
“I ran a search for all the guys named Leon we’ve arrested in the past three years. Guess how many there are?”
“I don’t know. Three?”
“None. Not one. But look what I got from Musgrave.”
“Musgrave? Are you talking about Sergeant Malcolm Musgrave of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? You called him already? Is there something about your relationship I should know?”
“Me and Musgrave? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Cardinal took the printout and looked it over.
“Okay, one Leon Rutkowski got himself pinched for running smack in Sudbury. Eight years in Millhaven. Also has priors for aggravated assault and bodily harm. Seems Leon has a bit of a temper.”
“The description matches what they told us at Toof’s house,” Delorme said.
“Brown hair, blue eyes, scar on forehead.”
“Look what he was driving when they arrested him.”
“Black Trans Am. Known associates doesn’t mention any Black Cloud, though.”
“I’ll call Musgrave again,” Delorme said.
While he was waiting, Cardinal called Catherine at her hotel. The chances of finding her in, he knew, were slim, and once
again he wished she carried a cellphone. He left a message saying he was thinking of her. Worried about her would have been more accurate, and after he disconnected he felt a burgeoning resentment that he was worrying about his wife while he should be focusing on a case. Then he felt guilty for the resentment.
Delorme grabbed her car keys and put on her jacket. “Want to come for a ride?”
“Where to?”
“Musgrave gave me a contact.”
35
CARDINAL SLID INTO the passenger seat beside Delorme. She backed up, making a sharp two-pointer, then left a little rubber in the driveway. Whenever she was driving, Delorme’s eyebrows knit in a frown. She had the most expressive eyebrows Cardinal had ever seen, and the fading check-mark wound only added to their appeal.
“So, who are we going to see?” Cardinal said.
“Alan Clegg. He’s Musgrave’s man on the drug scene these days, at least as far as our neighbourhood is concerned.”
“Get out. They haven’t had a detachment here for at least ten years.”
“It’s not a detachment. They have a temporary post over at the Federal Building. Just two guys, but most days Clegg’s here alone.”
She parked around back of the post office, under a sign that said Authorized Vehicles Only. They took the elevator to the third floor. Cardinal remembered when the RCMP had maintained a permanent detachment in Algonquin Bay. It had always been a small office, never more than four men, and they’d mostly kept out of the local cops’ way. Then the age of cutbacks arrived and the detachment was only one of many that had been forced to close up shop.
Alan Clegg must have heard them coming, because he stepped out into the corridor, forming a sudden silhouette against the window at the end of the hall.
“You must be Delorme,” he said.
“This is my colleague, John Cardinal,” Delorme said.
They shook hands. Clegg had the T-shape of a middleweight. He looked to be in his late thirties but he hadn’t let himself go. He showed them into a cramped office with two metal desks for furniture and not much else. It smelled of stale coffee and chewing gum.