A Three Day Event (46 page)

“Could someone have taken it deliberately?”

“But who? And why?”

“Well, for an obvious starter, Liam worked at Timberline. And why? Because he liked knowing people’s secrets. It was his way of getting power over others.”

Thea frowned and considered this possibility. “He certainly never tried to blackmail me, or approached me in any way, and I can’t imagine what he’d have found of interest in her activities.” She shrugged, and went back to smoothing out the letter. “Whoever took it, I doubt I’ll ever get it back.”

“Anyway, sorry to sidetrack you, you were about to tell me why you wanted a post mortem.”

“Right. Polo, do you remember I told you that Stephanie’s research had to do with cattle?”

“Yeah. Growth hormones. You said some pharmaceutical company was funding it.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Thea with pleased surprise. “You really listen when people talk to you, Polo. That’s a rare quality in a man.”

“My wife probably wouldn’t agree with you,” Polo blurted out without thinking. He felt himself blushing. Fatigue was making him indiscreet. “I mean,” he added hastily, “she’d say sometimes there’s listening to what people say they mean, as opposed to listening to what they really mean. But yes, I do remember what people say. I was illiterate up to my teens, and it was the only way to store important information.”

“Oh. That must have been a very painful handicap for someone as intelligent as you,” Thea said.

“Yeah, it was…” He shifted in his seat. “Actually, I don’t even know why I told you that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I imagine, though, that you’re not given to much in the way of personal revelation as a rule.” Polo acknowledged this with a vague hand gesture and a sudden interest in the design on his coffee mug. He really had not meant to wander off track like that.

Thea said quietly, “Perhaps we’ve both come to see that confession really is good for the soul. I don’t mind admitting that talking to you earlier was–well, good therapy for me. I’ve needed to talk about my guilt feelings for a long time, but I was too proud to go to a professional, and there was nobody else I could…well, anyway, let’s just say I’m glad you were there for me.” She remained composed as she spoke, but, Polo noted, her hand kept on mechanically caressing her daughter’s letter.

“Confession has certainly been the big theme today,” Polo said. “And yeah, it’s been good”–he couldn’t bring himself to say therapy –“it’s been good for me too,” he finished lamely. He looked at his watch and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Thea said. “I know it’s late, and you’re tired. Okay, here’s the thing. In this letter Stephanie was telling me about a conversation she’d had with Bridget at a horse show. They were talking about Dick Francis novels, which they both enjoyed, and Bridget had mentioned that colic was a great way to murder a horse, but you could never be sure a horse would get it and if he did, whether he would die from it. Okay, now listen carefully to this part.

‘
…so I said to her, I could kill a horse and nobody would ever know it wasn’t colic unless they did an autopsy. She was all ears, of course, so I told her about what my prof, who’s a murder mystery freak, told a bunch of us. This product I’m working on–Rumenex–well, it’s made with a drug–Monensin–that’s used as a growth promoter in cattle, but also as an agent to kill parasites in chickens. So listen to this. With about 12 grams of this stuff you could kill an average horse! Of course, if you wanted to be sure of knocking him off you would give him a big dose, maybe 100 grams, you could just mix it in with his grain. It gives all the exact symptoms of colic–sweats, going down and rolling, black urine, muscle weakness, tremors, etc, and the important thing is, the horse always dies in the end.

What he actually dies of is heart failure because the drug attacks the muscles, and the heart is a muscle–you probably knew that. The drug kills off cells in the heart. Most people don’t ask for post mortems when their horse dies of colic. In the post mortem you would see the pale white streaks throughout the muscles of the hind limbs and the heart, and that’s what would give the murderer away. Isn’t that creepy?’

Thea paused here and looked at Polo. He didn’t know what to say, but his fatigue fell away, and he felt as though his heart was suddenly pumping an extra litre or two of blood.

‘Ostie. I would have sworn it was colic but it just went so damn fast. Creepy is about the right word with this woman. First she brings Morrie back from the grave, now it’s the dead daughter, and both times I can’t believe what I’m hearing…and yet it all makes perfect sense…

What were the odds of stepping on two land mines set by the same person in a single day? But he had to say something… “Thea, is it possible that Bridget could actually get hold of this stuff?”

“Don’t you remember something else I told you about her research?”

And he suddenly did. “Guy,” he said slowly, “Guy was working on it with her.”

“Exactly. Now listen to this. Listen to how she ends it–

‘But you know, mom, I felt kind of bad after I told Bridget, because really it was just to show off how much stuff I’m learning, and even though it was just Bridget, I don’t think it was very ethical of me to be blabbing this kind of information. I mean, what if it got into the wrong hands?’”

CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

P
olo parked his truck on a grass verge, far enough
away
to announce his arrival on his own terms. Guy’s truck was there in front of the bungalow. Bridget’s Toyota Corolla wasn’t. Clouds obscured the moon. The darkness surrounding the isolated house was almost absolute. Few lights were on inside. He could see a fluorescent ceiling fixture through the drawn half–curtains of the kitchen window to the rear of the house. Apart from that, there was only the feeble glow from one table lamp in the living room, and a luminous blue light across the hall.

There was a garage, or shed, to the side and back, not attached to the house. Polo advanced cautiously towards it, on the alert for sudden barking. They were horse people, so there had to be a dog. But it might not be the watchdog type. Bridget was English. She would have a Labrador. With Labradors, you never knew–some were viciously territorial, others were complete wimps. He gripped his flashlight more firmly and listened for barking or scrabbling at the door. Nothing.

The door to the shed wasn’t locked. It creaked a bit, not alarmingly, but again he waited for the dog. Again, nothing. Inside, he flicked on his flashlight and let it roam. There didn’t seem to be much here. Winter tires, old garden tools, an ancient, rust–streaked stove, plastic gas containers, a small generator. And there, in plain sight against the far wall, was what he’d hoped to find only after a tedious search, if at all, the dirty, worn out Aer Lingus duffel bag that he knew at once must be Liam’s. It wasn’t even zipped up. He pulled the handles apart and shone his flashlight on the contents. Clothes, heaped like a pile of dirty laundry, thrown inside in haste. A Ziploc bag with a few documents–a passport, a cheap, fake leather wallet.

He looked through everything. About fifty dollars, a Zellers card, a video club card. Nothing handwritten or personal. The duffel bag was only half–full. The rest of the space would have contained the hate literature in the box. So either Guy didn’t know about the material or he hadn’t had time to look for it. Or–Polo couldn’t discount any theory at this point–Guy had wanted it to be found back at the barn.

Why hadn’t Guy taken any trouble to conceal this incriminating evidence? Was it a kind of fatalism? Was it like, ‘okay, if you knew enough to look here, I can’t be bothered to escape because you already know I did it’ kind of thing? Or would he have the
hutzpah
to say ‘ I have no idea how those things got there. Someone must be trying to frame me’. Or–or–Polo tried to anticipate other explanations so he wouldn’t be thrown when he confronted Guy.

Liam could have left it there himself for some reason. Bridget could have put it there after she killed Liam, if she killed him. Her sudden departure was suspicious. Why was he assuming it was Guy, just because he had looked guilty about the horse when Thea demanded a post–mortem?
Merde
. He was going to have to rely on Guy telling the truth. In fact, so far he’d had to rely on everyone telling the truth.

He shone the light on his watch. Pretty funny, when you thought about it. Two in the morning, he’d been on the go since eight the previous morning, he was ninety–nine percent certain he was about to talk to a murderer, and in spite of what looked like conclusive evidence, he had no real leverage to bring to bear, nothing that would bring Guy–or Bridget–to justice in a court of law.

Wordlessly, and with no sign of surprise or fear, Guy ushered Polo into the hall. Polo dumped the duffel bag on the floor between them. Guy glanced at it and nodded.

“
Bon
,” he said lightly, looking Polo squarely in the eye, “I wondered what had kept you so long. But it’s clear you haven’t been idle.”

With the bag as his opening gambit, Polo had assumed he would have the advantage in the confrontation. He was taken aback by Guy’s calm self–possession, and he was sure it showed. Not a good beginning. But it wasn’t only Guy’s apparent detachment that was so weird, it was–hey, it was–

“Guy! You’re not stuttering,” he exclaimed.

Guy blushed a bit and smiled. “You noticed,” he murmured.

Noticed
. Even after a few short sentences, the change in Guy’s speech pattern made a stunning impression on Polo. In the scheme of things it shouldn’t be such a big deal whether a man stuttered or didn’t, but somehow Guy’s unanticipated fluency turned him into a different person altogether. He even looked different–less geeky, more manly. As though Guy had an identical twin who’d been adopted out to more confidence–inspiring parents. It was unsettling, even disturbing. Polo felt–he struggled to explain his anger–duped, defrauded somehow.

Polo said, “So was the stuttering an act too? I mean, you and Bridget. She did the accents, you did the special effects?”

Now Guy was on the defensive, embarrassed. “You’ve found out something about Bridget…”

“I know all kinds of things now, but first things first.”

“
Eh bien
, come in and sit down, then.” Guy led the way into the living room and nudged the brown Labrador in the wing chair. Yawning, indifferent to the newcomer, the dog heaved himself down to the carpet and padded over to his floor cushion against the wall. Before sitting down, Polo set the duffel bag on the floor in plain view of both of them. Guy opened the liquor cabinet.

“I could use a drink. What about you? We –I have Scotch, vodka, rye–what else–oh, gin, of course.”

“Scotch.”

Polo watched intently as Guy chose and lifted, measured and poured with the familiarity and assurance of the frequent urban host. This too struck him as bizarre, but he was mainly concerned to see that Guy didn’t slip anything into his drink. Just to be sure, when Guy set the glasses down on the coffee table between them, Polo leaned over and with deliberate candour switched the glasses around. He picked up the one intended for Guy and sipped, then replaced it on the table. It was the quickest and most direct way to cut off Guy’s charade of this being a casual collegial schmooz.

“Oh, now really, Polo, surely you don’t think…”

“The stuttering, Guy.”

Guy sipped and sighed. “I wasn’t born stuttering, you know. Even after it started, in adolescence, it was only when I was nervous, or afraid, or with new people. I’m fine when I feel comfortable with people, or on the phone, or giving a prepared lecture, for example. And I wasn’t always afraid of my own shadow either. I was a pretty normal kid up to the age of twelve. Decent parents, nice home, the best schools, all that sort of thing. After that–well, it doesn’t matter why, but my life got–difficult, let’s say, and I lost my confidence. Nothing so dramatic as an assumed identity, I assure you.”

“It seems a strange moment to get it back. Your confidence, that is. When you consider that you’re under suspicion for murder, and that’s just for openers.”

“Yes, I can see that it looks peculiar. It’s Bridget leaving, I think. She scared me, I don’t mind admitting it. I’m not a very brave person, and I’m used to having her run interference for me. She’s so much stronger than me, but that was all right. I’ve felt quite protected all these years. I surprised myself tonight. When Thea said that, about wanting an autopsy on the horse, I thought it was the end. I thought, this is it, first I am going to crack up, and then I am going to end up in prison. Then I said to myself, no I’m not, I’m not going to prison, I’d kill myself first.

“And that was a kind of epiphany. I realized that that is true. I
would
kill myself first. It was a very liberating thought. I realized I had a
choice
. And then I became very calm and very relaxed. And I felt strangely–free… So you see, that was it. The minute I gave up thinking of other people as my–judges, I guess,–I got my self back. I mean, the self I left behind before–the difficulties.”

“Very inspiring,” Polo said dryly. “But I’ll have to take your word on this, won’t I? Because the other explanation, that you and Bridget were a tag team, and you’ve decided you can’t be bothered to go solo now that she’s split, seems just as plausible to me. But–okay, so you’ve miraculously recovered your confidence and the power of normal communication. Now what? Are you going to come clean?”

Guy shrugged and smiled. “Look, as I understand it, you’ve given yourselves until tomorrow to find out who did it. Otherwise you’re going to feel you have to go to the police. Let me offer an alternative. I’ll tell you what you want to know. You’ll have unequivocal reassurance that Liam deserved to die. After that, I’ll get my affairs in order and clear out. I’m no serial killer. I’m not a danger to society. I’m making this offer because I have a phobia about being locked up. Even the thought of going in for questioning”–Guy shuddered delicately, and sipped.

“Anyway, apart from my fears, I find I’m dying to talk to someone intelligent about all this. Between you and me, the horse world isn’t exactly a greenhouse for the production of Rhodes scholars. But you knew that, didn’t you? So be flattered. If confession is good for the soul, and I’ve come round to the belief that it is, then an intelligent confessor is
de rigeur
.” Guy pulled deeply at his drink and said, “You looked startled when I said that. Does that sound stupid to you, doing something for your soul’s benefit?”

“Not a bit. It’s just that you’re about the fifth person today who’s told me this. It’s a little weird, that’s all. As for letting the matter drop–well, that’s a toughie. I know Liam was a creep and probably did deserve to die, but if the police happened to trace him here and questioned us, I’d be morally bound to tell what I know. Or at least what you choose to tell me.”

Guy shrugged again and looked at Polo with the weary air suggesting a more profound and comprehensive understanding of life. “You say that with such touching conviction. As though your moral compass is so inalterably fixed in matters of right and wrong, it could never lose its sense of direction.”

“It’s not so much murdering Liam. It’s the horse abuse–and horse murder–that gets to me. I can’t see where I’d have much of a moral struggle in betraying you about that.” As Polo said the words, an image of the gelding groaning in agony rose before his eyes, and he gripped his glass with force. “Although, ironically enough, you probably wouldn’t have to serve jail time for it. But maybe we could dispense with the philosophy of life stuff and get on with your story.”

“Fine,” said Guy softly. “Point taken about the horses. I was pretty impressed with your–ah–dialogue with Jocelyne on the subject of horse abuse. Just remember the words ‘moral struggle’ when I get to the surprise ending about Liam, that loathsome creature. When I get to the part about Liam’s fascination with
you
–and your past. Because I’m banking on that part to win you over in the negotiations.”

Polo leaned forward. “What do you mean? We hardly met. I came to drop some construction bids off for Hy one day in March. I didn’t spend more than three minutes with Liam that day, and since I’ve been here for the show and Hy’s arena I haven’t spoken ten words to him directly.”

Guy said archly, “Well, apparently that first three minutes was enough to fire up his animosity. Oho, just look at you now. It’s as I suspected. You’re very objective, very high and mighty when you think this is all about Liam’s relationships with the regular stable people. You didn’t know Liam had it in for you too.”

Polo seethed with curiosity and apprehension. But Guy had made it clear that he was going to wait until the end to reveal whatever this was about. Shrewd. There was probably nothing to it. It was a ploy to keep him at bay, to make sure Polo heard him out. Polo forced himself to sit back quietly, and appear composed. He took a deep, burning pull at the scotch, and felt it go to work on his balled–up, now–empty gut. Probably not a good thing to be drinking on an empty stomach. He remembered the Aero bar Gilles had given him and fished it out of his windbreaker pocket. He stared at it. Gilles, Thea, Ruthie, Roch, Hy, Michel–they seemed light years away, miniature dolls in different rooms of a cutaway plywood playhouse.

Noticing the chocolate bar, Guy exclaimed, “You’re hungry, of course. I can do better than that if you like. I’ve some lamb stew from the
resto
that Bridget thinks I believe she made, if you want.”

“Never mind. This’ll do.” He tore open the wrapper. “Before we get to Liam, let’s talk about the horses.”

“Robin’s Song, you mean.”

“No. Horses. Plural.”

Guy raised his eyebrows in a mute question.

“I mean the stallion, of course. You did him, didn’t you?” Polo broke off a block of chocolate and let it melt on his tongue while he watched Guy shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“When I said I wanted to confess, it was Liam I wanted to tell you about. The horses are a different matter altogether. The horses are between Bridget and me.”

“But you can’t separate the stallion from what happened between you and Liam.”

Guy crossed his arms and hugged his meagre chest. He said, “I told you I don’t want to talk about the horses,” but his tone was muted, as though he were registering futile disapproval of a motion that had passed unanimously around a committee table.

Polo said, “Ruthie told me she shared a theory with you. Some literary deduction. Symbols about communication and stud service. I forget the details. At first she thought it was foolish, but when she mentioned it to you, you got nervous. I didn’t think it was foolish the way she explained it, though.”

Guy turned his glass in his hands, watching the play of light from the table lamp turn the liquor different shades of gold.

Polo went on. “Once I knew the gelding wasn’t a hundred percent sound–and I know you realized that, I saw you watching me with the calipers, and you saw the horse’s reaction–I began to wonder about the stallion. If the stallion was unsound as well. But it never occurred to me to put
you
together with that. Of course, I was still working on the assumption that you were committed to serving animal well–being at that point”–

Guy didn’t take the bait. He refused to meet Polo’s gaze, looked down into the amber fluid and waited.