by Karen Long
Madame Angela nodded sagely. “Now, I’ve been doing a little bit of nosing around myself and have someone you might like to meet. Hang on… You good on your own for a few tiny mo’s?”
“I am,” Eleanor replied sipping the drink.
She watched as he sashayed through the crowds, tapping guests on the shoulder, smiling and air kissing his way across the bar floor, the pink beehive acting as a beacon. She sat back and absorbed the ambience, looking for anything that might tick a box in her head. A man, probably in his early forties leaning languidly against the bar, stared intently at her. He wore a simple dark suit and looked as if he’d just stepped out of a board meeting. He was surrounded by a determined gaggle of garishly dressed transvestites but so far hadn’t given them more than a cursory glance. Eleanor wasn’t entirely comfortable with this level of scrutiny and, after holding his gaze for several seconds, slowly turned her attention back to the crowds.
“Here she is!” declared Madame Angela, helping a clearly intoxicated ‘Madonna’ onto one of the chairs. The ‘Madonna’ spent a few moments trying to fix her focus on Eleanor but failing that let her gaze drift into neutral. “This is Chantelle and she was a personal friend of Giselle’s. She’s got a teeny bit of information that might help you.” Madame Angela looked at the catatonic Chantelle and dug a couple of fingers into her ribs. “Tell Detective Whitefoot what you saw,” hissed Madame Angela.
“When?” said Chantelle, unnerved.
“Remember, we were talking about Giselle the other day?”
“Giselle?” Chantelle looked mystified.
“The car!” said Madame Angela flinging her arms open in frustration. “You saw Giselle with her new boyfriend in a fancy car just before she disappeared.”
There was silence as Chantelle worked her jaw, in an effort to clear her thinking. “It was an old car,” she said with finality.
Madame Angela curled her lip in despair. “Sweetie, can you remember what sort of old car? You told me it was a fancy one. A classic.”
Chantelle nodded helpfully. “It was an old car.”
“Did you see the driver, Chantelle?” asked Eleanor.
“Old guy. He musta had money ’cos Giselle looked happy,” she noted.
“Did they stop the car and speak to you?”
“Nah, Giselle just waved.”
“Where did you see them?” asked Eleanor.
“They drove past.”
Madame Angela sighed and leaned over to Eleanor. “She told me that they drove past her on Moss Park. That’s Chantelle’s special night patrol spot.”
“I see. What were they doing Chantelle?” asked Eleanor.
“Jus’ drivin’ I guess.”
“Would you recognise the man Giselle was with?”
Chantelle looked at her with surprise.
“Ok, so was that the last time you saw Giselle?’
Chantelle shrugged. “Guess so.”
“I need to find out more about the man who was driving the car.”
“I said what I know.”
“Could you identify the car in more detail?” she asked hopefully.
“I told you. It was an old car.”
“Can you remember the colour or the make maybe?” Eleanor asked.
Chantelle pondered this. “It wasn’t really coloured. More like grey or something.”
“So it was dark.”
Chantelle nodded carefully. “Yeah…Maybe.”
“Was it a big car? Like an SUV or something smaller?”
“Look, them old cars look all the same don’t they?” she replied, letting her eyes begin to stray to the bar.
Eleanor changed tack. “Did Giselle talk to you about her new boyfriend before she disappeared?”
Chantelle pondered this, “I don’t remember. She might have but it was so long.”
Having shooed Chantelle unsteadily on her way, Madame Angela beamed at Eleanor. “Well that just might help,” he said optimistically. Eleanor raised an eyebrow unconvinced. Madame Angela smiled and shrugged. “Maybe Chantelle will sober up and remember a little more…But I doubt it.”
“Is there anyone else here that knew Giselle?” asked Eleanor, her gaze slipping to the figure at the bar, whose eye was no longer on her but roaming across the sea of availability.
Madame Angela sighed and topped up her glass, Eleanor declined. “Well I’m not sure… Everyone tends to appear to be very chummy with everyone else but it’s not like real friends, if you get what I mean.”
“Perhaps I’ll go mingle,” said Eleanor, standing up. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It was my pleasure.”
As she made her way through the crowds, a hand grabbed her. Chantelle, a colourful cocktail precariously tilted in her right hand, used the other to anchor herself to Eleanor. “I remember something,” she hissed into her ear. “Giselle said his eyes made her feel sick.”
“Why?” replied Eleanor, ignoring the cold liquid that splashed onto her leg.
“Dunno. But she said it was disgusting.”
“Can you remember anything else?” asked Eleanor after several seconds of swaying had passed. Chantelle slowly shook her head. “I’ll give you my card.” Eleanor slid her hand into her pocket and selected a card.
“No, I have one for you,” she smirked. Letting go of Eleanor’s arm, Chantelle handed her the drink, while she extracted a business card from amongst an eclectic and optimistically large collection of condoms in her small purse. “From him,” she turned to look at the man in the suit, who leaned against the bar. He tilted his glass at Eleanor and then turned his back slowly to them. Puzzled, Eleanor turned over the card. There was no name just a cell phone number below a black and white yin/yang symbol.
It was three am when Eleanor opened the door to her apartment, letting it slam shut behind her. She felt a momentary twinge of conscience as she heard her next door neighbour’s elderly pug yap in surprise. Stripping off her clothes she balled and flung them into the wash basket, extracting the card from her pocket, before quietly closing the door to the laundry room. Grabbing a box of make-up wipes, she began to vigorously work at the heavy eyeliner, watching as it bled across her cheeks. Turning on the shower, she stepped in before it had had a chance to run warm.
Eleanor woke a little after seven am, bathed in sweat and feeling nauseous. She flipped on the air conditioning unit and wondered why she’d turned it off the night before. She had just turned on the coffee maker when her cell rang. “Is that Detective Raven?
“Speaking.”
“This is Larry Beatman from Westex Landfill.”
Chapter Twelve
Whitefoot loosened his collar and glanced critically at the acid blue sky and then sceptically at Larry Beatman. “So, you’re saying that you knew absolutely nothing about this?”
Larry shook his head vigorously from side to side. “Bolt outta the blue!”
Laurence narrowed his eyes and watched as the cars, vans and mobile forensic units kicked up clouds of dust as they rolled towards the security gates of the landfill site. He could see Eleanor standing outside Mackenzie Webber’s hut leaning into him, listening intently. Mackenzie appeared to be crying. Laurence sighed. “You think he’s lying?”
Larry shook his head. “He’s scared and doesn’t want to get into any trouble.”
Laurence snorted. “Bit late for that!” The silence grew for a moment or two. “So how many did he say he’d found?”
“Dunno. He don’t seem to think like that. Things don’t seem to link together as they do for other folks.” Larry made a complex gesture with his hands, as if trying to illustrate Mackenzie’s elliptical thought processes.
Laurence gave him a hard stare.
“He seemed to think that there might have been a few… Maybe two or three,” said Larry, cautiously.
“Jesus. Have you any idea of the implication of this? And he never mentioned this once?” asked Laurence.
“If he’d told me that he’d seen three o
r four bodies, don’t you think I’d have called you?” said Larry desperately.
Laurence pursed his lips and watched Eleanor going through the motions with Mackenzie of trying to pinpoint an area on a map that might reveal more bodies.
Eleanor was making her way over now, a miserable looking Mackenzie lagging behind.
“We need to start about here,” she said to Laurence pointing to an area of the site at least half a mile away from the entrance.
Timms stood on a peak of the undulating landfill and sighed deeply. He looked at the sullen faces of the CSI teams, the police department and the cadaver dogs with their handlers and waved his hand in a gesture of defeat. “Okaaay, this is a thousand acre site, which has been constantly tamping down Toronto’s unwanted shit since nineteen eighty-six. According to Mr Webber over there –” he jabbed a finger towards Mackenzie, who was leaning unhappily against a spade he’d brought along to show willing, “– there could be between two and four bodies that have been preserved in much the same way as Richard Leslie Baker was. Mr Webber didn’t report this…” He raised his voice a few decibels. “Because he’s a fucking moron! So, we will now have the pleasure of digging in thirty-four Celsius heat until we find these bodies! According to Mr Webber, the bodies were all wrapped in black plastic bags and had been placed in this area. However, his memory appears to be a little vague on these matters.” Timms scowled at Mackenzie and then at the assembled agencies. “Any findings should be reported to any of the detectives on the first four numbers of the call sheet.”
Timms made his way over to Eleanor and Laurence. “He give up anything else?”
Eleanor shook her head,
“Do you believe there are more bodies here?” asked Timms.
Eleanor gave herself a second or two to rethink and then nodded. “They’re here.”
Timms snarled and leaned closer to Mackenzie’s terrified face. “If you don’t start trying to remember where and when you saw those bodies, I’m gonna get the psych department to stick some electrodes to whichever part of your anatomy does the thinking and zap some recall into you. Are we on the same wavelength?”
Mackenzie nodded furiously but unconvincingly.
Tommy Banks was, thought Toby, one of the most beautiful children he had ever seen. His hair was ash blonde and delicate; the fringe a little too long over his eyes and there was a bloom of coloured ink at the corner of his mouth, where he had sucked on his pen. Tommy was drawing a barn owl and every now and then he’d lay down his pen and surreptitiously stroke the feathers of the beautifully mounted specimen that Toby had provided for him. Most of the children, grateful that their parents had dumped them and departed, were racing around noisily, manhandling the irreplaceable fossils, minerals and bugs, much to Toby’s irritation but Tommy sat quietly and drew.
Tommy always elected to sit next to a disabled girl, who’s name Toby didn’t care to discover. She had a tendency to dribble and her hands would frequently shoot out uncontrollably and knock artefacts over. It warmed Toby’s heart that his child would pick items back up and make sure that she could reach them and access the crayons and paper. This seemed like a pointless exercise to him, as the girl was incapable of rational thought or movement and tended to put the crayons in her mouth, rather than try to create a picture. However, the desire to do good by his fellow child was a pleasing social grace in Toby’s mind and attested to the boy’s good manners.
Tommy was fidgety, squirming in his seat and letting his hand slip between his legs, while he painstakingly drew the feathers. Toby leaned forwards and spoke quietly to him. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” Tommy’s eyes met his. They were large blue eyes with a watery, crystal quality that sent a spasm of affection through Toby’s heart. He loved this boy already and felt his throat catch with emotion as he looked at him.
Tommy considered and then shook his head.
“It would be embarrassing for you if you wet yourself, wouldn’t it?” said Toby carefully.
“I know where it is,” Tommy replied, standing up and pushing his chair under the table.
“Your mother, Rosheen said that you weren’t allowed to use the toilet on your own. You need someone to come with you,” said Toby, authoritatively. He had never spoken to Tommy’s mother and had little desire to but knowledge was power and he had already acquired the child’s address and information on his likes and dislikes from the class register.
The boy was now crossing his legs uncomfortably but seemed reluctant to commit.
“I’ll take you,” said Toby pleasantly.
Clutching at his crotch, Tommy nodded and headed for the door nearest to the washrooms but Toby had other plans. “Let’s use the ones near my office,” he coaxed. “They’re nearer.”
Tommy glanced at the door and then followed Toby. A female colleague looked at him questioningly but Toby ignored her and carried on.
The corridor that ran behind the ‘Touch and Learn’ room was long and un-windowed. Toby noted with pleasure that the boy, who had kept an arm’s length from him up to this point, was now creeping closer as they walked into the darkness.
“You’re not frightened of the dark are you Tommy?” he whispered.
Tommy clamped his mouth tightly shut and shook his head.
“Good, because only weak children are afraid of the dark,” said Toby quietly. He listened to the change in the boy’s breathing. It was becoming shallower, less relaxed.
“I don’t think this is the way,” said Tommy, nervously looking behind him.
“Nearly there,” replied Toby brightly. “Here we are.” He unhooked a heavy loop of keys from his trouser belt and slowly selected the correct key.
Tommy hopped from foot to foot.
“Here it is, “ said Toby, showing him a key with an orange plastic loop surrounding the head. He smiled at Tommy’s face, which was pale and screwed up with discomfort. “I told you it wasn’t far.” With deliberate care, he slowly unlocked the door and held it open for the child. Tommy dashed in and headed for a cubicle, fumbling with his shorts he was too preoccupied to close the door behind him. Toby leaned against the sink and watched him silently. With a final pull, the boy loosened the button, dropped his shorts and pants around his ankles and, rising on his tiptoes, began to pee. Toby relished the little sigh of pleasure from the child as he emptied his bladder.
He took in the child’s slender body and pale skin as he bent to retrieve his shorts and savoured the elation that came when a new member of his family was finally selected and accepted by him.
Tommy turned round, startled to see Toby smiling and scrutinising him.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands Tommy. Toilets are very dirty places,” said Toby holding out a paper towel.
The row started about twenty minutes before the day was called. Monster, who had spent most of it in a state of terminal decline, draped across a tarpaulin stowed near to the mobile coffee wagon, had suddenly galvanized himself into action when a german shepherd bitch had arrived as part of the cadaver location team. He had managed to finally rid himself of the huge collar, together with most of the stiches, and was traipsing happily behind the bitch and her less than happy handler Police Constable Margie Beech, bleeding profusely from the now gaping head wound. PC Beech had sent several requests to have Monster removed but so far no action had been taken. Irritated and in need of an iced coffee, PC Beech put a lead on her own dog, Chance, and began to make her way back to base, Monster following purposefully behind. They were within shouting distance of the base when Monster began to dig. Allowing Chance to go and investigate, PC Beech was rewarded by the steady barking that indicated a find.
“What the hell sort of person lets a dog bleed to death in front of them?” bellowed Timms as he applied a towel to Monster’s head.
“What sort of dog owner allows their dog to wander around a potential scene of crime when it’s neither trained nor adequately protected!” hissed PC Beech, her gloved fist balled with exasperation.
&
nbsp; “This dog holds a distinguished conduct medal!”
There was a pause as PC Beech assimilated this information with some difficulty. “I called Detective Whitefoot several times…”
“Yeah?” snapped Timms into his radio, holding up his hand.
“They’ve found one,” said Eleanor’s voice.
“Are you sure you are looking at a human body,” asked Samuelson, emphasising every word in case she hadn’t worked out the media consequences of the Toronto PD being caught tenderly zipping a lump of plastic into a body bag and carting it off to the ME. The Westex Landfill site had effectively been under siege for the last four hours. As news had seeped out that the police had closed off over half of the tipping area because bodies were being dragged out, the press had arrived in force. Satellite dishes, tripods, cameras and sound equipment barricaded the main entrance to both north and south access, accompanied by irritated journalists and news presenters, all eager to stake a claim in whatever information seeped out.
Eleanor stared at the body. It was female and although it had integrity, it was obviously beginning to decompose. The skin on its face was rigid and had a peculiar plastic sheen. The head was completely bald and one of the glass eyes had been fractured and was missing the iris. Even Timms had had to admit that if you were into single figures on the IQ scale and weren’t expecting to find a body, you could be tricked into thinking this might be a mannequin of some flavour.
Laurence, wearing a paper bio-suit stood in the sea of crushed tins, used disposable nappies, discarded tins and plastic bottles and under the watchful gaze of a crime scene officer, examined the body. Finally he turned to Eleanor and nodded.
“I can assure you that the remains we have located are those of a human being that has been subject to some form of preservation,” said Eleanor, nodding back.
Samuelson groaned. “I want it moving without fanfare or comment to the morgue. Is Hounslow attending?”
“She’s agreed to meet us there.”
“Keep me informed,” he hissed, before disconnecting.