by Anne Emery
“Did Jäger give any hints about what this fellow has to say?”
“Nope. Either he doesn’t know or, from long practice, he’s not giving details over the phone. I suspect it’s the first. His contact probably didn’t go on about it; likely just said, ‘I have some information if your friends want to get in touch.’ Which I’m assuming you do.”
“Have to see it through now that we’ve started. So, I’d better get over there. Again.”
“We’ve all heard of the Flying Nun. I guess you’re the priestly equivalent. Soon you’ll have your own TV show.”
“I can’t think of anything worse.”
“This from a man who preaches on the scorching fires of hell!”
“Terrence, have you ever heard me preach about hell?”
“Well, no, now that I think of it.”
“But if I did, I might use having my own TV show as a particularly ghastly version of hell. Now, back to the subject at hand. I’ll look into flight connections from here to Leipzig. Sooner the better.”
“I’m not scheduled for Germany this week at all, but if you can wait, I’m flying to Zurich a week from tomorrow.”
Brennan didn’t want to wait — he was anxious to find out whatever was in the Vogt-Becker family file in Leipzig — but that impatience was outweighed by the idea of his brother as his pilot and as a convivial presence during the visit. “Sure, I’ll wait for you.”
Piet
Piet Van den Brink was just about to make a Tim Hortons coffee run on Monday morning when a call came in from a man named Darren Fullerton. Fullerton had something to tell him about the Keller case, and Piet arranged to see him at his home on the Herring Cove Road. Piet gave the word to Ailsa, and they headed out along the suburban road until they came to the given address, a small bungalow clad in green vinyl siding. A black Chevy Blazer sat in the driveway, new body work on the rear left fender. Fullerton met them at the door and invited them to have a seat in the living room. The place was filled with overstuffed chairs; everything was shabby and worn but clean.
Darren Fullerton was in his early twenties with a pale complexion and longish light-brown hair; he looked as if he’d had a rough night. He said, “My mother’s over at my aunt’s and there’s nobody else here, so I thought this would be a good time to, you know, give you the information.”
“Right,” Piet said. “What have you got to tell us, Mr. Fullerton?”
“I go out with Lauren Rendell.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And this one night, I kind of, well, I’d had a few too many and I passed out at Lauren’s. In her room, like.”
“When was this?”
“Woulda been the first week of February, couple of days before her mum died. It was one of the days Lauren had to get up early because they were doing renovations at the bar where she works, and she was helping them out. And I was still there and I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“Weren’t supposed to be there . . . ?”
“They didn’t like her going out with me.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Fullerton jerked his head from side to side, apparently to indicate his modest surroundings. “He’s a commodore. My old man wasn’t. I don’t know where my father is, but wherever he is, he’s not top brass in the Navy. Or in anything else. My mum works in a drycleaner’s. The Rendells thought Lauren should be going out with a man in uniform but not a Burger King uniform like I wear. They didn’t tell me this; they’re too polite for that. But I know. I’m going to do something better, see about trade school, but for now . . .”
“I see. How do you and Lauren get on?”
“Great! She doesn’t think I’m not good enough for her.”
“I understand. So, what happened on the day you’re telling us about?”
“Okay, so, I passed out in Lauren’s bed and she got up and left for work next morning, and I wasn’t supposed to be, you know, staying with her. The parents were home, so I decided to wait till they left and then sneak out of the house. Her brother, Curtis, has his own place, so it was only them. So, I was there listening till I’d hear them leave. And I heard them having a fight. Or arguing, I mean.”
The detectives stayed silent, waiting.
“The reason I’m telling you this now is that Lauren told me last night that you guys were asking about a letter that her mum got from Germany. And she doesn’t know I called you. I’ll be in shit if she finds out.”
“A letter?”
“Or no, just a postcard. It came from Germany, which I know because I heard him going on about it. Lauren’s dad. He wasn’t hollering or anything, but you could tell he was pissed off. I remember him saying, ‘If this was from some stranger over there, he would have signed his name. He just used his initial, which tells me you know perfectly well who it is. So, who in the hell sent you a postcard from Berlin, Meika? And why was it tucked away under your summer clothes?’
“And she said back to him, ‘What were you doing looking through my clothes?’ And he was like, ‘Never mind that. There’s a bigger issue here.’ Something like that, anyway. And then it was ‘Where in the hell did you go when you were over there? Did you see this guy? Is that why you took off and flew to Europe on a sudden whim?’
“And then I heard some banging around, but I don’t think it was anything violent. Not like he was hitting her or anything, just drawers being slammed. And then I heard her stalking out of the room, and she said, ‘I will not be interrogated, Hubert!’ And she was gone. And he did some more banging around, looking for things maybe, and then he left for work, and I hightailed it out of there.”
“Thank you for telling us, Darren.”
“Yeah, well, I knew I should. I didn’t even tell Lauren; didn’t want her to, you know, remember her mum and dad fighting, and her mum dead now.”
“Had you ever heard them arguing before?”
He shook his head. “This was the only time. And it may not be important. I mean, I don’t think Rendell killed her! I’m not saying that; it’s just, well, I don’t know. That postcard got him royally pissed off.”
As they headed to the car, Piet and Ailsa exchanged glances. “So,” Ailsa said, “what do we have here? An innocent man who didn’t want to be remembered for quarrelling with his dearly beloved? An innocent man who knew the argument about the card could distract us from concentrating on the real killer? Or something else?”
“Probably the first. He didn’t kill her, but he knows it would look bad for him if we learned that he was harsh with her about that message from the old country. But still . . . Do you know something that bothers me about this, Ailsa?”
“What?”
“That a Canadian soldier committed this murder. I was born less than ten years after the end of the war. My family has always revered the Canadian Army. You may think I’m being too sentimental here, but the Canadian Army’s role in the liberation of the Netherlands has never been forgotten. And it’s painful for me to have Lieutenant-Colonel Alban MacNair charged with this.”
“You’re not being sentimental at all, Piet. I have an uncle who served in the war, and he was there for the liberation of Holland. He’s been over there for some of the commemorations, and he’s been overwhelmed by the way he and his fellow veterans are treated by the Dutch. I don’t like it either, the colonel being charged, but you and I have been around long enough to have seen fine, upstanding citizens convicted of very serious crimes.”
Piet knew this all too well. Still, was it possible that MacNair was not the killer after all? Not much better, though, if it was a commander of Canada’s Navy. There was of course no evidence to connect Commodore Hubert Rendell to the death of his wife. But this did not look good for him, being caught in bad humour with his wife — being “royally pissed off” — over something he had told the police he had never seen. Piet had to let it drop for now. It woul
d hardly look good for him, the lead investigator, if he was seen to be investigating the grieving husband of the murder victim after arresting another man for the killing.
Chapter XXVI
Brennan
After the bishop departed, and Brennan had ended his phone call with Terry, he was just about to immerse himself in Renaissance music once again, when he heard a timid knock on his door. He opened it to find Normie Collins standing there with a sheaf of papers tucked under her left arm.
“Hello, Normie. How are things? Come on in.” He smiled at her. “How did you get past security?”
She looked alarmed then, and he hastened to reassure her. “Mrs. Kelly, I meant.”
“Oh. Ha ha. I knocked but she didn’t come to the door, so I just walked in. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you too much, Father.”
“Not at all.”
“I was just wondering if I could borrow the music for the Requiem, the beautiful one by Fauré. I, uh, want to practise it at home.”
“Certainly. Let me have a look. Have a seat there.”
She sat down, and he went over to the table where he had his music stacked and sifted through in search of the piece. “Ah, here it is.”
He handed it to her, and she said, “I just want to look through the ‘Pie Jesu’ and ask you something.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
She peered at the pages and then said, “Right. It starts with a B flat and then goes up to E flat. I get it mixed up with the other one.”
“The Lloyd Webber version?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“The Webber goes up a semitone, or half tone.” He sang the first two bars for her. “Now here’s the Fauré.” And he sang that one.
“Thank you! I have it now.”
“Any time, Normie.”
“Father, what is a ‘flameout’?”
Brennan knew from long experience with children that sometimes their questions seemed to come out of nowhere. He answered as if it was the most natural question in the world. “I think it originally meant the failure of an engine on a plane. But people use it to describe a complete and very obvious failure.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you asking, Normie?”
“No reason.”
The child fell silent then. Brennan waited. But the conversation was steered in another direction. “I wonder how Pebbledash is. Do you remember the kitty that me and Timmy rescued?”
“I do, go deimhin.”
“What’s guh divvin mean?”
“It means indeed, or for sure.”
“I hope Timmy is taking good care of him. He loves the kitty, but, well, you know Timmy.”
Timmy was a boy they had met in Belfast, a member of a family connected with the events that had spun out of control during the ill-fated trip to Ireland. Timmy and Normie had rescued the kitten from the clutches of some lads over there, who would never be taking the cup for kindness to small animals. Timmy Flanagan was a little ball of fire, full to the brim with personality.
“Pebbledash is in good hands. Have no doubt of it, Normie.”
“Yeah, I know.” She paused and then, as if it had just occurred to her, “‘Spectacular’ means really good, right?”
“Sure. It means amazing, striking, brilliant.”
“Right. And ‘Irish’ is good. We know that!”
“Ah sure, it’s not so bad.”
“Ha ha.”
“So, who’s the spectacular Irish flameout, Normie?”
You didn’t have to be psychic like, well, like little Normie here to know who had been written off with that particular label. And who had done the writing off. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, the poor little pet, and Brennan sent up a mea culpa for putting her on the spot.
She made an effort to be convincing. “I don’t know who it was,” she claimed, her big hazel eyes wide and unblinking, like those of a politician when he wants to look as if he’s not lying about the brown envelope in his pocket stuffed with cash. “But it was somebody he liked.”
He being Monty. Liked could be up for debate these days.
“Someone who’s not doing all that well, perhaps.”
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”
“What would you suggest for such a person, Normie?”
“To cut down on the booze.” It was all Brennan could do to keep a straight face. “I mean, if that was the problem. But that may not be it at all, since I don’t know who they were talking about.”
“Well, you and I know somebody who might be said to be a little too fond of the drink, don’t we?”
This was met by an attempt at innocent surprise. “You mean you, Brennan? I mean Father?”
“I do mean myself. And ‘Brennan’ is fine. I’m such a regular around your house, I wouldn’t dream of standing on formality. We’d better keep it at ‘Father’ out there in the corridors, though. Wouldn’t want Richard Robertson to start calling me ‘Hey, dude.’”
She laughed at that. Then she got back to business. “So. Say you sometimes drink a little too much . . .”
“Guilty.”
“Ha. You should get Daddy to defend you in court!”
If only. “Oh, I’d have to admit to the judge that, yes, I do take a drink.”
She looked away from him then, and Brennan could see her struggling to come up with the appropriate response. Finally, she gave him a little smile. The smile of an empathetic counsellor. “It’s not just one drink, though, is it?”
“You’ve got me there.”
“You’re not the only one. I like to drink, too. I love it!”
“Oh, is that right, Normie?”
“Red wine especially! I had three glasses one time when Mum and Dad had people over for dinner. I snuck the last glass without them seeing.”
“Did you now? How did you feel afterwards?”
“I threw up! So, I know what you are going through.”
God bless you and keep you, Normie. May you never, ever have to experience some of the things I have gone through. He didn’t say it aloud.
“And I have another addiction, too,” she said. “Chocolate. If I had my way, I would always, always have a chocolate bar on the go. Morning, noon, and night. And I especially love to drink it. But I know it’s bad for me if I have too much, and it will make me fat and that will give people like . . . mean people . . . even more reasons to laugh at me.”
Brennan had a vision of himself pounding the face off whoever might have the misfortune to laugh at Normie Collins.
“Now, about drinking too much, it says in the b . . . or, where did I hear this? I can’t remember. The CBC maybe.”
God love her. She had done some research on this, read a book on it, and didn’t want him to know. He felt as if his heart would burst with love for this young girl with her book and her determination to redeem him. He battened down his emotions and played along. “Was there something on the radio about easing off the drink?”
“It wasn’t exactly easing off. It was more like . . . quitting altogether. That’s what it said, what somebody said. On the radio. And they said you do it one day at a time; you just worry about whatever day you’re in, don’t drink at all that day, and not worry about the next day or the next year.”
All the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in the world — though he tended to veer away from the A word — all the meetings or AA partners in the world would not be able to convince Brennan Burke to give the stuff up completely. It was a social thing, wasn’t it? Enjoying a few scoops with pals in a convivial setting, having a few laughs, enjoying the craic, all that.
True, in the wake of his arrest and the beatings he had suffered at the hands of a bigoted, sectarian police force in Belfast, he had come to rely on the st
uff far too regularly. Relied on it while he was in prison, and still relied on it now. What obsessed him in the wee hours of the night was not the physical pain he had endured but the knowledge that another man, a fellow human being, could look him in the eye and then inflict that kind of savagery upon him.
But he would put that behind him. And he hoped to God that in all the revelations about Meika Keller, he would uncover something that would ease his conscience and banish his nighttime visions of her accusing face.
Even with all this, though, there was no need to give up the drink altogether. No need to overreact by posing as a teetotaller.
The little ban-drui — female druid — was reading his mind. “They said it’s important to not have any at all.”
None at all! He knew fellas who didn’t even start counting until after the sixth pint. Anything below that “wasn’t drinking.” But that was hardly what his little therapist meant. Better just to go along. “I should be able to do that, eh? For a . . . period of time? With a few special prayers to help me along!”
“Honest? Are you going to do it?” He could hardly bear to see the delight, and the hope, in her flushed little face. She looked as if she had been promised a pony for Christmas.
“Sure,” he claimed with the poker face for which he was renowned. Then he said, “Normie, you are the kindest, most thoughtful person I have ever known.”
“Really?”
“Really. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being so concerned about me. On Sunday, I’ll do the Missa de Angelis.”
“The Mass of the Angels!”
“And I’ll dedicate it to you.”
“Oh, that would be great. I —”
The phone rang and Brennan excused himself to pick it up. “Hello.”
“Brennan, conas atá tú?”
“Go maith, Paddy, go maith. Agus tú féin?”
“Fine altogether.”
“I have young Miss Collins here with me. You remember Normie.”