Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (152 page)

A woman glided into the room with the grace of a cat, bearing a tray with coffee and a plate of scones. She sized up the situation and her lips drew a thin, tight line. “Perhaps you’d prefer to sit at the table,” she said, gesturing to the adjoining dining room, where a heavy white table was encircled by plush suede chairs. “It’ll be easier that way.”

Remind me not to underestimate this woman, Green thought. “Oh, this is no trouble,” he replied blandly.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife Leanne,” said Blakeley. “Put it over here, honey.”

Leanne shot a brief glance at Sullivan before setting the tray on the coffee table between them. She looked at least twenty years Blakeley’s junior, as lithe and fine-featured as he was rugged, but Green sensed a will equal to his own.

“Yes, your wife and I met yesterday,” said Sullivan. “She runs a very efficient campaign office. Nice to see you again, Ms Neuss.”

Leanne inclined her head gracefully, then turned and walked from the room without a backward glance.

Green launched the interview while Sullivan quietly extracted his notebook. “We really appreciate your offer of help, Mr. Blakeley—”

“Please call me John. No formalities here. How do you take your coffee...Mike, is it?”

“Cream and sugar, thanks.” Green ignored the familiarity. “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get straight to the meat of the inquiry. Our information is that in September 1993 you headed a sweep team over in Croatia which included a young reservist named Corporal Ian MacDonald. Is that correct?”

If Blakeley was surprised, he betrayed no sign. His brown eyes looked thoughtful, then sad. “That is correct. I remember him well.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’d been recommended for a medal of bravery— and subsequently got it—and I was expecting a damn fine soldier. In fact, I requested him.”

“Why?”

Blakeley didn’t hesitate. “Because he sounded like the kind of soldier that I needed for the job. He had strength, courage, but most importantly heart. When we walked into the villages after the fighting, I wanted the first Canadians those poor people met to be men like Ian MacDonald.”

“And was he what you expected?”

This time Blakeley did pause, ever so slightly before he nodded.

“Why the hesitation?”

Blakeley handed coffee to Sullivan, then tended to his own, drawing out the silence. “It was a difficult mission. Most of the boys struggled with it one way or the other.”

“What was MacDonald’s struggle with it?”

“He went in, as we all did, expecting to help relocate and bring medical aid to the local population, and also in his case to the animals. He ended up bagging bodies, burning dead livestock to prevent disease, and putting cruelly injured animals out of their misery.”

“Our information is that this sweep mission changed him in a way all his previous operations had not. He became depressed and remote, dropped all his plans for vet school, and eventually killed himself.”

Blakeley nodded grimly. “I heard. I was appalled.”

“What happened to him?”

“Beyond what I’ve just told you, I don’t know.”

“Come on, John, it isn’t enough to talk about trauma and disillusionment.” Hoping to unsettle him, Green speculated further. “Something very real happened to MacDonald. Something he couldn’t reconcile himself to, and ultimately couldn’t live with.”

Blakeley looked from one to the other as if gauging the threat and the appropriate response. He set down his coffee. “Boys, we were at war. Make no mistake about it. Forget all the peacekeeping rhetoric. Half the time there’s no peace to keep, and we Canadians are the only ones who believe in it. The rest of the world solves conflicts by war, and it’s only the losing side that calls in the
UN
. We get over there, with our heads filled with peacekeeping fluff and both our hands tied behind our back by the
UN
, and we’re told to take care of things. Don’t come whining for hardware, because there isn’t any; don’t try defending any civilians or fighting back, because that’s taking sides. And then when the whole operation goes down the toilet, everyone including our own military and political leadership says what the hell were you boys playing over there, tiddlywinks? Well, yeah, because that was the only game in town.”

“Mr. Blakeley—John, we’re talking—”

“I’m getting there! But you know how it is, Mike. On the street day after day, you cops make judgement calls that you hope like hell you’ll never have to defend to the press, or to your superior officer. A little entrapment here, undue force there... It isn’t pretty, but it gets the job done.” He held up a hand. “I’m not condoning it. And I’m not condoning any wrongdoing a soldier does in the heat of the moment either. But they’re out there halfway around the world, laying their lives on the line twenty-four seven in somebody else’s war, and if for two or three seconds they’re less than exemplary soldiers—”

“Are you saying Ian MacDonald did something wrong in the heat of the moment?”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking about the standards we demand of our boys—”

“I don’t want a campaign speech, Mr. Blakeley. I want to know what really happened with Corporal MacDonald.”

Blakeley’s face flushed, accentuating the angry white scar. He calmed himself by reaching for a scone, which he buttered with care. “Why? Will it bring him back? Ian MacDonald was a hero. If we put all our boys under a microscope and dissect their every move, we won’t have any more heroes. And whether you care or not, we need heroes in the military. We need inspiration and glory, and all the things that are no longer in fashion, or we won’t find anyone willing to go out and fight these dirty little wars on our behalf. And the victims of this world will be the worse for it. Look at Afghanistan—”

“So you’re saying we should sweep this all under the carpet as a small price we pay for the help we provide to the world?”

“No, I’m saying our boys are human. When we send them into these hell holes, we have to understand that. If we expect them to be God, we’d better not send them.”

Green leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Blakeley’s. “I might be willing to do that, John, except that in this case his friend Daniel Oliver died because of what happened to Ian MacDonald on that sweep team. And that’s not something we cops are prepared to sweep under the rug.”

Blakeley had just taken a bite of scone, and his hand froze in mid air. “What are you talking about?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Green had been aware of Leanne moving quietly about in the kitchen, and she chose this moment to glide back into the room. She slipped onto the sofa next to her husband and took his hand in hers.

“I don’t think my husband is suggesting you should sweep anything under the rug, gentlemen.”

To Green’s surprise, Blakeley did not object to her interference, nor pull his hand away. “Of course I’m not, and I know that’s not what the inspector means. He’s saying that a young man died—two young men if we count Ian MacDonald —and finding out why is more important than personal reputations or public trust.”

“Not just finding out why,” Green said, “but who. Because the killing hasn’t stopped—”

“You’re not implying my husband had anything to do with that!”

Since she was running such effective interference, Green decided perhaps she was the one he needed to reach. “He knows something, Mrs. Blakeley. He was the leader of the mission where Ian MacDonald’s troubles began. He can’t pretend ignorance when the victims keep piling up. First Ian MacDonald, then Daniel Oliver, his fiancée Patricia Ross, Detective Peters, and the latest, a homeless woman whose only crime was to be in the vicinity when Patricia Ross was killed.”

Blakeley looked shocked. Almost stricken. He looked at his wife searchingly, and she tightened her grip on his hand. For a moment neither spoke, then Blakeley shook his head. “I don’t know what happened. I wish I could be more help.”

“Where were you on April 9, 1996, ten years ago?”

Blakeley frowned. “I have no idea. In 1996 I was posted here in Ottawa from January to August.”

“Did you travel to Halifax during that time?”

“Not that I recall.”

“That was just before our wedding,” Leanne said. “You proposed to me in April, remember, darling?” She smiled at the detectives. “I don’t think we spent a single night apart for nearly a year.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Green asked. “No business trips, brief consultations? Because we will be verifying this.”

Blakeley was shaking his head back and forth, but Green thought he looked distracted. Even pale.

“How did you get on with Corporal MacDonald?”

Blakeley shrugged. “He was no trouble. As I said, he was that fine balance the Canadian military needs for our peacekeeping role—a warrior with heart—because we are both fighters and humanitarians.”

“Did Ian MacDonald have any conflicts with anyone else on the team?”

“Most people liked him.”

“Well, there was that police officer,” Leanne said.

Green leaped at the remark. “Who?”

Blakeley gave her a sharp look, but she ignored it. “The one you told me about. It may be important, John.”

“It’s ancient history, honey. A trivial disagreement, that’s all.”

“Didn’t you say they disagreed about a cause of death or something?"

“Or something.”

“Whose death?” Green interjected.

“I don’t recall.”

Blakeley shook his head grimly. “God knows there were enough deaths to argue over.”

“Still,” she said, “if the police think there’s a connection, and if people are still getting killed, then maybe—”

Abruptly Blakeley stood up. “No. This is a fishing expedition, and I will not continue this speculation any further. Innocent people are being maligned.”

“Innocent people are being killed,” Green retorted.

“I need the police officer’s name, Blakeley. Was it Jeff Weiss?”

Blakeley strode to the apartment door and yanked it open without a word. As Green and Sullivan rose to go, Leanne moved quickly to their side. “He was from Ottawa, I know that much. You can figure it out.”

TWENTY-TWO

 "B
astard!" Sullivan exclaimed as soon as they were in the elevator out of earshot. “If that sonofabitch did that to Peters, I’ll personally string him up by the balls!”

Green leaned against the faux marble wall and looked across at him, puzzling over the final moments of the interview. “Which sonofabitch?”

“Weiss, of course! That’s obviously the cop the wife was referring to. He was the one MacDonald had the beef with.”

“But he wasn’t in a position to cover up anything. He was a civilian cop, he had no power over MacDonald.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re fishing in the dark here, Mike. All we know for sure is that something upset MacDonald. It could have been Weiss accusing him of some wrongdoing, which got under MacDonald’s skin. Then, when he killed himself, Oliver accused Weiss and got killed for his big mouth. Weiss had the strength and the training to deliver the blow, and we know he had the temper. He thought he got away with it, and then ten years later along comes Patricia Ross threatening to blow the lid off.”

The elevator stopped, and they headed outside towards the Malibu. As he scrambled to keep pace with Sullivan’s purposeful stride, Green weighed the idea dubiously. “But why would Hamm cover for Weiss? Hamm is a military bigshot, Weiss is nothing but a low-level cop. And where does Atkinson fit in?”

“Maybe nowhere. Maybe his story about the military contact in supplies is the truth.”

Green snorted. “And Hamm?”

Sullivan yanked open the door. “I don’t know, Mike. Maybe he and Weiss have a history somewhere.” He started the car and revved the engine impatiently. “I say we bring Jeff Weiss in and lean on him.”

“But he’s a cop, Brian. We can’t go accusing one of our own when we’re still missing half the pieces.”

Sullivan pulled a U-turn and squealed the car back down Laurier Avenue towards the police station. “But maybe he can give them to us. He’s the weakest link here. Weaker than Blakeley or Hamm.”

Privately, Green knew he was right, and usually it was he who was itching to plunge ahead and Sullivan who was the voice of restraint. But at the moment, Green’s mind was elsewhere; not with Weiss and his betrayal of his badge, but with Blakeley and his peculiar behaviour during the interview. Of all the men on their list of potential suspects, Blakeley had means, motive and opportunity in spades. He had the most to lose if his complicity in war crimes, or his murder of Oliver, ever came to light. Not just his hard-earned reputation but his promising future at the very centre of government. He was a decisive, physical man trained to size up a threat and eliminate it. He was skilled enough to kill Oliver and Patricia Ross with his bare hands. And with his frequent commuting between Ottawa and Petawawa, he could easily have come to Ottawa to kill Ross, returned to Petawawa to attack Peters and come back in Ottawa to abduct Twiggy.

He made a damn compelling suspect, and his demeanour during the interview had been decidedly suspicious. He had spent the first half giving a campaign speech and the second half dancing evasively around Green’s more pointed probes. When that failed, he had pretended offence and abruptly terminated the interview.

Yet it was his behaviour rather than his words that puzzled Green. At the beginning he had been chatty and collegial when lecturing them on the pitfalls of peacekeeping, but when Oliver’s death was mentioned, he suddenly lost his hearty charm. As the names of more recent victims piled up, he became visibly shaken and distracted, as if the news had shocked him.

Yet if he was the killer, why the shock? Why not a defensive parry or the well-practised evasion he had displayed earlier? Even odder than the shock was his wife’s behaviour. It was astonishing enough that she had interrupted her husband’s meeting with the police in order to come to his rescue, but even more astonishing that he allowed it. Furthermore, at the end of the interview, she had essentially handed them Constable Weiss over the protests of her husband. This was not a stupid woman. She had a reason for what she’d done, and she had obviously thought giving up Weiss would help her husband, whether he wanted it or not. The question was—why?