Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (105 page)

“Just asking. I’m bumping this up to a higher priority.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I can tell you one of the nice latents we got off the ladder is the dead man’s, which is no surprise. The stained print on the note isn’t.”

“I want you to pull Thomas Pettigrew’s prints off the system and see if they match anything. Hang on, I’ll get you his
FPS
number.” Green rummaged on his desk for the printout Gibbs had taken off the police computer. With the requisite grumbling about workloads and Green’s lack of appreciation for the complexity of forensic work, Cunningham agreed to look into it.

On a roll, Green summoned Bob Gibbs and gave him Sandy Fitzpatrick’s yearbook. If anyone could track down a person from a stone-cold, twenty-year-old trail, it was Gibbs. He would revel in the challenge.

“We’re looking for Sophia Vincelli,” Green told him. “Her family lived in Richmond twenty years ago and may still. Once you’ve found her, let me know directly, and we’ll take it from there. Sergeant Sullivan is on assignment out of town for the day.”

No sooner had Gibbs loped out of the office with the yearbook under his arm than Green’s phone buzzed. It was the clerk of Superintendent Jules, Chief of Detectives.

“The Superintendent would like to know if he could have a word with you this morning. Does ten thirty suit you?” Adam Jules was a man of manners and protocol, but Green was not deceived by the courtesy; it was an order, not a request. Green’s mouth went dry. He wanted to ask the reason but knew that was not part of the protocol. Nor was negotiating a different time. Jules was a meticulous man, and if he said ten thirty, that was what he meant.

The Chief of Detectives was sitting at his desk poring over a procedural manual when his clerk ushered Green in. He had acquired gold-rimmed reading glasses a few months earlier and these were perched on the bridge of his fine aquiline nose. He peered over them, pressed his lips together in his idea of a smile and rose to offer Green his hand.

“Michael, thank you for coming.” He closed the procedural manual and came around his desk to sit in one of the four chairs clustered around a coffee table by the window. With a fluid flick of his manicured hand, he invited Green to sit.

A coffee table conversation, thought Green with alarm. Always a bad sign. He forced himself to sit down and wait. Adam Jules was a man of few words, but each word spoke volumes. This time, however, he seemed to be having trouble getting started. He removed his glasses, folded them with precision and slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket. Pursed his lips, gazed out the window. Like the rest of the senior brass, he had a spectacular view of the Museum of Nature, which rose like an elaborate Scottish castle in the middle of a grassy square across the road. Grey clouds massed on the horizon beyond the ramparts. Green hoped they weren’t an omen. His hand strayed to his tie, checking to see if the knot was crooked. It felt too tight. He pulled at it gently. Waited.

Jules drew in his breath. His cheeks were tinged pink, and Green realized that beneath his almost unreadable exterior, Adam Jules was upset. “The announcement of the latest assignments and transfers will be released this afternoon, but I thought it only fair to let you know...”

He paused. Green’s heart plummeted. “That as of next week, I will be assuming command of the Eastern Division, and—”

“What!”

“I’ve been transferred to Eastern Division.”

“Out of
CID
?” Green asked stupidly. He was dumbfounded.

Jules was a career detective who knew and had performed every job of the detectives under his command. He’d been Green’s boss at one level or another for almost all of Green’s investigative career.
CID
without Adam Jules was unthinkable.

Jules grew pinker as he nodded. As Green’s astonishment subsided, he realized this move had not been Jules’ wish. The Police Chief had obviously decided that his top advisers needed to know all aspects of policing and that no single officer could monopolize a field.

“I’m sorry, Adam. Truly sorry. You’ll be greatly missed.” Green’s thoughts raced ahead in alarmed contemplation of possible replacements. “Can you tell me...?”

Jules made a slight face. “Inspector Devine. Her promotion will be announced tomorrow.”

Green’s heart sank still further. He suspected his horror showed on his face, for Jules smiled faintly. “She’s an experienced detective.”

She is that, Green thought. Experienced in working a room, feathering a nest and putting a favourable spin. Barbara Devine had spent about two years in each of the units she’d worked, just long enough to lodge her toe firmly on the next rung in the ladder. Things couldn’t get any worse. Then again, he thought, perhaps they could. He hardly dared ask the question.

“Is there anyone else in my section I need to know about?”

Jules managed his tight smile again, and Green knew he wasn’t fooled. “There are those who argued the inspectors should be moved around to allow new people a crack at each job. New blood, new perspectives. I persuaded them that with a new Chief of Detectives at the helm, we needed to keep the experienced
CID
people in place.”

Relief and gratitude flowed through Green, mixing with the regret he felt at losing Jules. At least he himself had been spared for now. “It’s the only job I’m good at, Adam.”

Jules cocked his head. “You might surprise yourself some day.”

“What about the
NCO
s? Any changes there?”

Jules nodded. “You have a new staff sergeant in Major Crimes.”

Which was no loss, because the current one was close to burn out. “Someone I know?”

“Gaetan Larocque, from Organized Fraud. Good man.”

Green felt a new wave of regret. Larocque was a good enough investigator, seasoned and hard-working. But Fraud was a far cry from Major Crimes, and as far as Green knew, he hadn’t done a homicide investigation in years. But that wasn’t the worst of it. If Gaetan Larocque got his promotion to Staff Sergeant, that meant Brian Sullivan had been passed over yet again, by a man five years his junior.

Isabelle Boisvert was heading down County Road 2, still a good half kilometre from her turn-off, when she spotted something moving in her front yard. At first she thought Jacques had decided to take another day off from the office, but as she drew nearer, the sunlight flashed off a metal object far larger than the Sunbird. It was a dump truck.

She shoved her foot harder on the accelerator and felt the minivan sputter in response. She took the turn at top speed and slewed the minivan down the lane, bumping over ruts and showering gravel in her wake. She reached the front yard just in time to see the truck dump a massive load of crushed stone onto the ground. She leaped out of the minivan and stormed towards the truck, her shouts futile over the rattle of the stones.

The company name Scott Construction was stencilled on the cab door in faded red. A burly man with a John Deere cap, wrap-around sunglasses and tattooed biceps the size of Douglas firs, was perched inside, peering over his shoulder at the gravel in the back. Behind him, where the tangle of shrubs had been, was a gaping hole bordered by a square of rough cut pine planks. It was into this enclosure that the truck was dumping the gravel, releasing clouds of gritty dust.

Isabelle hammered on the driver’s window. He turned to her, surprise showing on his face through the dusty glass. In the next instant, he switched off the hydraulic lift and rolled down his window.

He touched his cap. “Mrs. Boisvert?”

“Yes. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He jerked a massive thumb towards the pit. “Phil Scott. I spoke with your husband last night, eh?”

“But you weren’t supposed to do this till next week. Not today!”

“I know, but we had a look at it this morning. It’s not a big job, and I had a bit of time to spare. Sandy Fitzpatrick said it would be okay to go ahead.”

“This was Sandy’s idea?”

“Well, no. But we had a look at it, eh, and we just thought... I mean, Sandy said you shouldn’t have to be out here yourself digging it up with your bare hands.”

Isabelle scanned the yard in dismay. Except for a few stray canes of raspberry still strewn on the ground, there was no sign that the thicket had ever been there. Nor the axe and the cow bone. She felt her autonomy being bulldozed by a pair of Neanderthal country men.

“But what happened to all the wood?” she blustered. “I was going to have a bonfire.”

“Oh, we took that this morning. Brought my little cat in and loaded the truck up. Raspberry canes and that don’t make a good fire anyway, eh?”

He was leaning out the window, his tone the essence of courtesy but his eyes unreadable behind sunglasses. He made it sound as if their actions had been completely sensible—just country folk offering a helping hand—and indeed Jacques had arranged the job the night before. Damn him for not informing Phil Scott of the change in plans.

“Well, Phil, I appreciate you trying to help, but we’re not sure about the garage yet. I’m kind of thinking of a pool here.”

Scott brightened. No doubt seeing the dollar signs. “A swimming pool?”

“No, just a little fish pond.”

Scott leaned his chin on his tattooed forearms and peered solemnly around the yard. “Bad place for a fish pond. Wind likely whips through here pretty strong, straight across them fields. You’d be better to put the pond in the lee of the house. Put a patio and all in there too. That’s where the Pettigrews used to have their firepit and picnic table.”

Isabelle looked at the pile of gravel sitting in the centre of the yard. He was right, damn him. In her frustration, she had wanted to build a place of beauty where the ugly thicket had been, but it made much more sense to integrate the pool into a garden at the side of the house. Besides, considering all the spooky remnants of the past that she had unearthed in that spot, it was comforting to think that the whole mess was well buried beneath a foot of stones.

“I’ll help you dig your pond over there next week if you like,” Phil offered. “No extra charge than what was agreed last night. It’ll be nice to see this old place come to life again.”

Ten

 T
he flat monotony of farm fields whipped by as Sullivan drove down Highway 416 towards Brockville. His hand was steady on the wheel, and his gaze was fixed straight ahead, inscrutable behind his mirrored sunglasses. He knew Sue Peters was probably bursting with questions, but she betrayed no hint as she fiddled with the car radio for the sixth time. He let her fiddle. It was going to be a long drive, an hour each way even if he broke the speed limit, and he had no wish to fill it with idle chit-chat or station gossip he’d heard a hundred times. He had more important things to occupy his mind. A good buddy in the Deputy Chief ’s office had tipped him off on the promotions list last night, and this morning Sullivan was nursing the first hangover he’d had in years. He had forced himself past the rage stage now, past the “fuck them I quit” stage, past the hurt stage and the betrayed stage. He was now taking a cold, hard look at his future. He knew he’d come to a fork in the road, and like it or not—mostly not—he had a choice to make.

That’s what he really wanted to talk about—this endless loop of doubt and discontent that ran through his thoughts— but there was no one to talk it over with. Not Green, who’d tell him that promotions sucked and he should stay in Major Crimes anyway. Certainly not this poised and assertive young woman beside him who, if she played her cards right, would reach Staff Sergeant before he did. She probably thought it mattered that they go down to Brockville, do a good job, unmask this historic murder, and tie the two deaths all up in a neat bow for the Crown.

But it didn’t matter a flying fuck. Because even if there had been a murder twenty years ago—a big if—the alleged murderer was now dead, the mother was dead, the father was a vegetable, the only other remaining son was a useless drunk, and Robbie Pettigrew needed to know this secret like he needed his guts reamed out. What good was going to come of it, compared to the harm? Sullivan knew villages like Ashford Landing. A horrible secret like this would reverberate forever, condemned from the pulpit and whispered in the grocery aisles for years to come.

He steered the car onto the 401 on-ramp and joined the torrent of transport trucks and speed demons racing along the Montreal-Toronto corridor. Not trusting his booze-sodden reflexes, he maintained a steady one hundred and ten kilometres an hour, as if the appearance of patience and calm could make him feel that way.

The Brockville police station was a squat, square building just off the 401 on their way into town. After a brief courtesy call and a chat with the officer who’d taken Lawrence’s photo to the group home, Sullivan and Peters headed south through the historic core of the town, which had stood guard on the St. Lawrence River opposite New York State for over two centuries. Picking up the original river road, they headed east towards the hospital.

As they turned onto the grounds of St. Lawrence Psychiatric Hospital, Sullivan did a double-take. He had expected an insane asylum built over a century ago to look more like the Bastille than an exclusive country resort, and was surprised to find a graceful, rambling, red brick castle set back amid rolling lawns and trees overlooking the river. Once he and Peters entered the front door, however, the worn tiles and chipped paint told a more accurate tale. Like many historic hospitals, it had been slated for closure by the belt-tightening Ontario Conservatives after gradually losing its clientele to better drug treatments and outpatient clinics. But people still got sick, and like most cops, Sullivan was all too familiar with what happens when a philosophical ideal, however noble, gets translated into real life. Of necessity, St. Lawrence Psychiatric continued to limp along, underfunded and shrunken in size, serving the revolving parade of chronically ill who fell through the gaping cracks in the supports.

Green had paved the way, and less than five minutes after Sullivan identified himself at reception, he and Peters were ushered into the office of the Chief of Psychiatry, a man who looked like he’d risen from a slab at the morgue. Dr. Roddingham peered down his beaked nose at the signed release form from Robbie, clucked his tongue and shook his head.