by Anne Emery
“A lot of maybes and perhapses here. And I hate to leave it like that. Guess I was a little optimistic hoping it would all be wrapped up before I take off.” Terry would be flying back to New York the next morning. “I’d say I hope you come up with more information, but every new door you open leads you into someplace even darker than the last.”
Chapter XXVIII
Piet
Piet was in the station on Wednesday taking a call from a news reporter he knew; the reporter was trying to get a comment from Piet about the upcoming merger of the Halifax police with the departments in Dartmouth and Bedford. As of April 1996, Piet would be a member of a regional police force, not just a Halifax force. This was part and parcel of the amalgamation of the city with the surrounding municipalities. He was not about to get himself in hot water by going on the record with a journalist about the changes. Before he could end the call, Constable Fraser came by and placed a slip of paper on his desk.
When Piet hung up the phone, he read the message: Phone RCMP Cpl Broussard re Lt-Col MacNair. What has MacNair done now, Piet wondered, killed somebody else? Fled the jurisdiction?
“What’s he done now?” he called out to Fraser.
“Got himself killed, sir.”
“Goede hemel!” He got up and walked over to Ailsa Young. “MacNair’s dead. Just heard it from the RCMP.”
“What the —” Her eyes were wide with astonishment.
“Don’t know yet. Have to track down Gilles Broussard.”
Piet knew Corporal Gilles Broussard and was anxious to hear what he had to say. It took a few calls to track him down, but he finally got through. Broussard was out at the cottage owned by the MacNair family on the south shore of the province.
“Just wanted to put you in the loop, Piet, given your involvement with MacNair in the Keller case. We’re out at MacNair’s cottage, and a neighbour has positively identified MacNair as our victim here. The Ident investigators have just arrived, and they’ve cordoned the place off. So, no point in coming out here yet. I’ll let you know when we’ve released the scene, and you can come out and have a look.”
Piet had a great many questions, but he didn’t want to keep Corporal Broussard on the phone while the investigation was getting underway, so he thanked him and let him get back to work. Piet buried himself in other cases, but his mind kept wandering to the startling news he had heard from the RCMP. Finally, late that afternoon, he got a call from Broussard, telling him that the crime scene work had been completed, and the Mountie would wait for Piet at the cottage. He provided directions, and Piet thanked him, gave the eye to Ailsa, and the two detectives headed out.
They drove along the south shore of the province on the Saint Margaret’s Bay Road, with the land to the right of them and the Atlantic Ocean to their left. It felt as if winter had returned. The wind was strong and chilling, the sea was rough, and the waves splashed up onto the shore. They eventually pulled into a dirt driveway, oceanside, where several RCMP vehicles were parked in front of a wood-shingled cottage, white with green shutters. There wasn’t room for Piet and Ailsa’s car, so they availed themselves of the property next door, where there was no sign of life. MacNair’s cottage was situated on a lawn that sloped down to a rocky beach. Occasionally, the surf smashed against the rocks and sent spray up as far as the vehicles parked in front of the building. There were five brightly painted Adirondack chairs on the lawn facing the water. The sides of the cottage were bordered by evergreen trees, offering a degree of privacy from the few other buildings along the road.
The detectives got out of their car and walked up to the door, where they were met by Corporal Broussard. The Mountie was of medium height, slight of build; his hair and eyes were of the same dark brown. He put his hand out to Piet and his partner, and they all shook hands. “Thanks for letting us know, Gilles. What’s the story?”
“Head injury. Definitely Alban MacNair. He was knocked off his feet and smashed the back of his head on a storage trunk on the floor. Somebody tried to choke him before he went down. Or at least that’s how it looks from the marks on his throat. Couple of punches to the face as well. Come have a look. Body’s been removed, but you can see the location.”
Piet and Ailsa walked into the living room, where there was a large blue metal storage trunk, or locker, and blood on the pine boards of the floor.
“Back of his head smashed against that,” the Mountie said, pointing to the sharp metal corner of the trunk. Then he turned and pointed to a back room. “Quart of rye in the kitchen, less than an inch left in it, and two glasses.”
“The glasses . . .”
“One of them wiped clean of prints. The other has prints, probably MacNair’s, but we’ll let you know as soon as that can be confirmed.”
Piet nodded and stated the obvious. “Somebody he knew, drinking together.”
“A neighbour down the road, Bob Donaldson, came by this morning to see if MacNair wanted to do some fishing. Walked in. Door’s never locked, he said, whenever MacNair is here. Said MacNair comes out, used to come out, by himself for some peace and quiet, and a bit of fishing. So, the neighbour knocks and walks in this morning, at around eight o’clock, and finds the body. Calls it in right away.”
“Did he have any idea when MacNair came out here?’
“Said he drove by late yesterday afternoon and there was no sign of MacNair. No lights, no car, so that might mean he didn’t arrive till evening. We’ll check to see what time he left work.”
“How about vehicles?”
“The Volvo out front is MacNair’s. Well, you’d be familiar with the car. The Ident investigators of course photographed the area all around here. We didn’t notice any other tire tracks but the ground is frozen hard, so they might not have shown up. Even our own tracks aren’t obvious out there.”
“All right, Gilles. Thanks again for filling us in.”
“No problem. We’ll let you know whatever we find out.”
When they were back in their car and on the road to Halifax, Piet turned to his partner and said, “So. Where do we go with this?”
“My first reaction would be Emscote Drive. But it’s not our investigation.”
“Let’s cruise by anyway, see if there’s any action.”
So, they drove to the south end of the city and along Emscote Drive. The lights were on in the house, but there was no sign of Hubert Rendell’s Toyota Camry. They knew he was usually home by this time in the early evening, and when he was there, his car was in the driveway. “That looks like him,” Ailsa said. “I can see in through the window. He just walked into the living room.”
“Well, let’s hope he gets to sit and relax for a bit, because I suspect he’ll be getting some uninvited guests before too long.”
“Right. So, let’s clear off before they arrive. Don’t want to be seen encroaching on the Mounties’ investigation.”
“No indeed. Though I imagine Gilles Broussard will consult with us from time to time.”
* * *
And two days later, the RCMP officer did just that. Corporal Broussard called Piet and they arranged to meet at the Tim Hortons at Young and Robie Streets. They greeted each other, and then Broussard gave Piet an account of the interview with Commodore Rendell.
“We pulled up to the house and Rendell opened the door and he appeared startled to see us. Or he put on a good show of being startled. Of course, even if he had nothing to do with MacNair’s death, he’d react seeing us at the door, after what happened to his wife. He’d be wondering, ‘What now?’ But anyway, he invited us in, and we all sat in the living room looking out over the water. The Northwest Arm there. Rendell stayed quiet. Waiting for us to explain ourselves.
“We had several options. We decided on the least courteous but maybe the most effective. ‘Commodore Rendell, there has been a new development in the case. And so we have to ask you — and we’ll be asking oth
ers as well — where you were yesterday and last night?’
“He was wary when we arrived; he was alarmed now. ‘What on earth do you mean? What is going on?’
“‘Just give us the information please, sir.’
“He told us he was at work that day, as always. He had dinner at the Wardroom and then he came home. He was home all night. Questioned why he had to give an account of himself. But I just asked him, ‘Where is your car, sir?’
“And he had an instant of hesitation, then, ‘My daughter has it.’
“When we asked if anyone was at home with him that night, he said, ‘No, I didn’t have any minders.’ His daughter lives with him, but she was out. Didn’t know what time she came home, because he was asleep. So, an alibi that can’t be corroborated. Like his alibi for the time of his wife’s death, for that matter.
“‘That takes care of me,’ Rendell said. ‘Now, why don’t you explain yourselves? Why are you here treating me like a criminal?’
“So, I broke the news. If it was news. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel MacNair was killed last night.’
“‘What?!’ The shock sure looked genuine to me. Of course, you’ve seen it over and over yourselves, a person guilty of something like this pretending surprise, even practising pretending surprise for the moment when we’d show up at the door. I told him MacNair was found dead in his cottage.
“‘Good heavens!’ he said, and ‘Well, I won’t pretend to be in mourning.’ And he made a remark, something about divine retribution. ‘And of course you think I did it.’
“We told him we hadn’t come to any conclusions, this early in the investigation. But we have to follow any and all leads. ‘And you can understand why we had to speak to you.’
“He said he understood that, but he hadn’t done it. Hadn’t killed MacNair. ‘Almost wish I had,’ he told us then. ‘Somebody else did the job for me.’
“So, I said, ‘Are you suggesting —’
“He interrupted me, saying, ‘Did I hire a hitman? No.’
“We said we’d leave it at that for now, and he asked us how MacNair had died. ‘Maybe the bastard killed himself? Committed suicide out of remorse for the suicide he staged in order to murder my wife?’
“And I told him MacNair’s death was not a suicide. How did we know that? I assured him that we knew.”
“So, Gilles,” Piet asked, “what was your impression when you talked to him?”
“His shock and his denial did seem real. But, then again, they would. If he did it, he’s been planning it ever since MacNair was charged with Meika Keller’s death, or at least ever since MacNair was released on bail. We know MacNair’s family is away in Boston for a wake and a funeral because he applied for an exemption to his bail conditions and was turned down flat. So, family away, and he apparently goes out to the cottage in the spring to fix things up and do a bit of fishing. And Rendell of course had time to plan the face he’d present to us when we inevitably turned up on his doorstep.
“When we left him, we drove up the street a ways and sat out there, watching the house to see if he made any panicked moves. He didn’t leave the place, but a Chevy Blazer pulled up near the house — not right in front of it — and a young girl got out, went up to Rendell’s house, and went inside.”
“A Blazer? That’s what we saw at the daughter’s boyfriend’s place. Darren Fullerton, Herring Cove Road. He goes out with Lauren, and apparently the Rendells weren’t all that happy with her choice of a mate.”
“So, there goes the story that the daughter had Rendell’s Toyota.”
Chapter XXIX
Brennan
Brennan pulled his Leipzig city map from his pocket, consulted it, and then faced into the wind. Yes, he was going in the right direction for Strasse des 18 Oktober and the big slab of concrete containing the flat where the Baumann family lived. He walked up to the tower block and pressed the buzzer for apartment 609. No answer. He pressed it again. Finally, a voice croaked out, “Was wollen Sie?” What do you want? The tone suggested that whatever he wanted, he wasn’t going to get it.
Brennan replied in German, “Are you Mrs. Baumann?”
Again, silence. He repeated his question.
“This is not Mrs. Baumann.”
“May I come up and speak to you for a minute?”
“Who are you?”
Brennan identified himself and said he was looking for a member, any member, of the family of the late Rolf Baumann. The woman did not answer, but he heard a click at the interior door, and he seized upon the chance to open it. He headed to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited. And waited. He was not one of those who believed that pressing a lift button over and over again increased the likelihood of the thing arriving. He gave it about two minutes and then went for the stairs. He smelled smoke and stale beer and overcooked food on his climb to the sixth floor and then came out in an unlighted corridor. When he reached number 609, he placed himself within view of the little hole that was placed in apartment doors so residents could look out. What was it called? All the words he could come up with sounded creepy: peephole, spyhole . . . He returned his attention to the task at hand and rapped on the door. He heard the shuffling of feet, and the woman’s voice called out, “Who’s there?” He identified himself again, and she opened the door a crack. Her face bore the ravages of a hard life, and he suspected that although she looked to be in her seventies, she may well have been younger.
“Please forgive the interruption. As I explained, I am looking for the Baumann family. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Indeed you will not. Because there are no Baumanns here. They lost this apartment through their own actions, and it was given to me and my own family.”
“Oh. What do you mean when you say they lost it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She clearly didn’t mind at all. Her face virtually lit up as she started in on the Baumanns. “Criminals they are, not good citizens. They have spent time in institutions, every last one of them. They do not need an apartment; they need a jail!”
Brennan heard a door open behind him to his left, but nobody came out.
The woman in 609 terminated their brief meeting with “You have wasted your time coming all this way looking for those people. Goodbye.” She shut the door in his face and that was that. But a ray of light behind him widened as the door to number 612 opened, and a man emerged.
“Excuse me, sir. I heard you. Easy enough to do when she left you standing out in the hallway. I heard you asking about the Baumann family. Would you like to come inside?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
The man was tall and reedy with greying-blond hair brushed to the side. He held the door open, and Brennan preceded him into a modestly furnished flat, with a sitting room to the right and a galley kitchen to the left. The man introduced himself as Reiner, and he called out, “Klara! We have a visitor!”
A heavy-set woman with tightly curled brown hair came out of one of the rooms and nodded to Brennan.
“We have tea made. Would you like a cup?” Reiner asked, and Brennan said he would, thank you very much.
Reiner turned and went into the kitchen, reached up to a cupboard, brought out a cup and saucer, and filled it with tea. “Milk or lemon?”
“Milk for me, please.”
The three of them went into the sitting room and made themselves comfortable. “I heard you asking that old crow about the Baumanns and I heard her slandering them. That is typical behaviour of that woman. Boasting to you that she was given the apartment and the Baumanns were put out of it.”
“That’s not the case, I take it?”
“Well, it is. But what she left out was the date when she and her husband were given the rights to the place. It was in 1983.” Reiner gave Brennan a significant look.
“In the time of the old regime,” Brennan said.
“Yes. The Baumanns were not in favour with the authorities then. That pair were.” He jerked his head in the direction of the apartment across the hall. “So . . . you are looking for these people for . . . ?”
“Sorry. I should have explained.” And he did, but without all the details. “A woman I believe was related to the Baumann family died recently in Canada where I am living now. As far as I know, she was married to Rolf Baumann.”
“Ah. The one —” he switched to English “— the one that got away!” Reverting to German, he said, “I never met her. That was before I moved in here. And, from what I know, she and Rolf Baumann moved to Berlin not long after their marriage. So, I know little, I know nothing, about them. Except that she went over to the West, and Rolf was left behind to bear the consequences. There was a sister. She lived here for a number of years, but of course she had to go when the apartment was given over to the current occupant. I don’t know where the sister would be now.”
“Are there other members of the family still here in Leipzig?”
“The parents are long dead. They were not strong people, and life was very hard here. Well, you probably know that. The only one who is known to be thriving is the brother. Ernst Alfred Baumann. Now old Gerda there, she calls the Baumanns criminals. While it is true that Ernst Alfred has some rackets going, that he lives on the other side of the law, we might say, one can understand that a man is sometimes forced by circumstances to do things that are a little, shall we say, shady.”
Klara gave her husband what Brennan interpreted as a warning look, but he either missed it or chose to ignore it. “There has been, as you might imagine, a period of adjustment here. The ground has shifted beneath our feet, you might say. Going from a state-run economy to a capitalist one provides great opportunities for some, for those who are risk-takers, who take naturally to the role of traders, business people, entrepreneurs. And you could say Ernst Alfred Baumann is an entrepreneur. One of the new class of businessmen, risk-takers, men who understand and take advantage of the system of the free market.” Reiner took a sip of his tea and continued, “There are some who say he is in league with similar elements in Russia. Some of the things they do cross the line of legality.”