Barrington Street Blues (38 page)

I returned my mind to the Bromley Point file in Felicia's stack. It occurred to me that her subfiles had been numbered sequentially from one to eleven. I flipped through the papers. There was no number four or number nine in the folder on the table. I wondered why they had been left out. Blake had reached the part of the meeting dearest to his heart, trolling for new business. Much of my clientele was criminal, and nobody wanted me out beating the streets for any more of that, so I excused myself with the promise of a quick return and went snooping in Felicia's office. Behind her desk, along with several pairs of pricey Italian shoes, I saw a pile of manila envelopes and, underneath those, the missing subfiles. I took them to my office.

Subfile number four contained an informal rating by a Toronto consultant of several local construction firms, a few of which were our clients. Some of the consultant's comments were less than favourable, and I could see why Felicia might not have wanted them passed around. Subfile number nine looked more promising, dealing as it did with man-about-town Ken Fanshaw. We were not his primary law firm but, like many other firms in the city, we did work for him from time to time. There were notes scribbled on the inside of the folder, phone numbers and dates. The initials “
MC
” caught my eye, though I didn't seriously think Felicia would be writing my initials in her files. The note read: “More ‘mail'! K: libel action
MC
? Cautioned him no, let settle down. Maybe no more now she has int!”

Who was “she”? Ken Fanshaw was being libelled by a woman? What was it about? Was
MC
the woman? And what did “int” mean? Interest? Interest meaning the earnings from an investment, or interest meaning a share in a property or venture?

The materials in the Bromley Point subfiles were several years old. I was not a corporate lawyer — corporate jargon generally put me in a coma — but I was able to follow the process by which Fanshaw amassed a bigger and bigger piece of the action. So what?

I was about to drift into that corporate-law-induced coma when I saw a few sheets torn from a legal pad. What caught my eye was the name Campbell, then: “
DC
keen to be in but needs financing. Wants no appearance of confl. w. cli.” So Dice Campbell wanted to invest on his own behalf, but would have to borrow the money. He wanted
to ensure that his own interest did not appear to conflict with the interests of the client or clients he was representing in connection with the project. The notes went on: “Not saying but imp — pressure fr. ux for more?” This I interpreted as: Dice was not letting on but Felicia's (or Fanshaw's) impression was that Dice was under pressure from his “ux,” Latin and legal shorthand for wife, to make a bigger investment. Which brought me back to the scribbles on the folder. Did
MC
stand for Mavis Campbell? If so, what was she doing to provoke Fanshaw into considering a libel action? What was the “mail” that was the subject of the note? Was she sending him nasty letters? I could see why Felicia had not brought these subfiles to the partners' meeting. I had little doubt that she was aware I was looking for a link between the death of Dice Campbell and the Leaman-Scott shootings; Felicia would not want to draw attention to any connection between her friend Fanshaw and the Campbells.

†

Felicia's files made me curious about Dice Campbell's role in Bromley Point. There was no point in trying to worm anything out of his widow, particularly if she stood to gain a significant sum of money from the development project, and if she had been brewing up mischief for Ken Fanshaw in the pursuit of her ambitions. A lawyer I knew slightly had been a friend of Dice; I called and arranged to meet him at Perks for coffee. Wade Evans and I engaged in some small talk, then I got us on to the subject of the late Mr. Campbell.

“I saw Dice a few days before he died,” Wade told me. “He was in a pretty good mood. And I do remember having the impression he had a scheme going, or some kind of plan. Guess it didn't work out.”

“Did he say something about a plan?”

“No, it was just an impression. I suggested we go out. We'd gone on a tear a few weeks before that. We started here and ended up in Montreal! Don't ask. Anyway, it turned out Dice didn't have any money on him, and his credit cards were up to their limits, so the weekend was on me. I didn't give a shit, but I could tell it was on Dice's mind. So later on when I suggested a night out, he said: ‘Come by and see me in a couple of days, and then we'll go out in style.' He
seemed to be saying it would be his treat. But I never saw him again.”

“You got the feeling he might have been coming into money.”

“I guess so.”

“Could this have had anything to do with the Bromley Point development?”

“Oh, he was keen on that, all right. But the project had been halted, so if he was coming into a bag of cash around the time I'm talking about, it wasn't from Bromley Point. Could have been anything, with Dice and Mavis.”

“You didn't have Mavis in Montreal with you, I take it.”

“Nope. He had Mavis in the detox at the time.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he twisted her arm and got her to sign in. Of course, she didn't stay. And those counsellors must have been glad to see the end of her.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I heard, on fairly good authority, that she went berserk one night and trashed the place.”

“Really!”

“Really. And these people are used to drunks. And crackheads. And all the rest of it. I guess they just weren't prepared for what this well-dressed, well-spoken, middle-class woman would do if she was kept off the sauce too long!”

“What did she do?”

“She was abusive to the staff. Verbally, I mean. Apparently she threatened one of them. Tore down curtains, smashed some glass. A real shitstorm.”

“Which detox are we talking about?”

“The Baird Addiction Centre. But, as I say, she wasn't there long.” Mavis in the Baird Centre! Why hadn't this occurred to me before? But, then, why would it? I knew she was a drinker; that didn't mean she was looking for a cure. And if she was, there were several other detoxification centres.

“When was this?”

“Back in 1985.”

Wade and I finished our coffee and said goodbye.

Nineteen eighty-five. The year of Leaman's first admission to the
centre. Yet again, I was stymied by the fact that I could not talk to anyone on the other side of the case, namely, the doctors and other professionals at the Baird Centre. If the case went to litigation, I would be able to question them on discovery and demand to see their records. But that scenario seemed increasingly unlikely. I did have Doctor Swail-Peddle and his notes. I had skimmed through them with the intention of reviewing them in more detail later. A number of entries in the diary were blanked out, which was only appropriate, because they most likely referred to other patients. Something struck me then about the psychologist. Something had upset him about the diary or the notes the first time he brought them to me. And, for some reason, my mind made a leap from that to Mavis Campbell. I tried to recall what had happened. We were at the Midtown. Ed Johnson was giving Swail-Peddle and his wife a hard time, or at least they must have perceived it that way. But the psychologist had reacted to something else. Then I had it. Ed had mentioned Mavis's name. And it was then that Swail-Peddle's wife noticed her husband had spilled his beer. He took off to the washroom. Then he came back, took me outside, and gave me a big song and dance about needing the diary and notes back, because he hadn't finished editing out the confidential entries. Was it Mavis's name that had set all this in motion? I intended to find out, under the cover of looking for a connection between Mavis and Leaman. What I really wanted was to witness Swail-Peddle's reaction to her name. I gave the psychologist's office a call and set up an appointment.

Gareth Swail-Peddle's office was located in an old brown saltbox house on Fenwick Street. The reception room was painted a soothing shade of pink, and the padded chairs were arranged in groups as if to encourage conversation. The only thing more prominent on the walls than the inspirational and affirmative posters were the framed certificates displaying the psychologist's credentials. His patients may have been the centres of their respective worlds, but he, Swail-Peddle, was the expert.

He peered out from his office, saw me, and beckoned me inside. He was on the phone and made an apologetic face while motioning me to a chair beside his own.

“Penelope, in all fairness, I think I should speak to Theo's teacher
myself. You must admit I have some expertise in the area. Theo is gifted. Therefore, he does not need remedial help in reading. If he ‘can't read,' as you put it, that says more about the way the school is presenting the material than it does about our son. There are different kinds of ‘intelligence.' We've been through this before, and —” I heard a click, and he stared at the receiver as if it had taken it upon itself to terminate the conversation.

“I'm sorry, Montague. Every family has issues. Even that of a trained therapist! Now, how may I help you today? I hope my notes on Corey were helpful.”

“Yes. Thanks. I have another question for you, though. Did you ever have any contact with a woman named Mavis Campbell when you worked at the Baird Centre?”

The psychologist's small eyes didn't waver as they met mine, but his left hand darted to his face and shoved a few hairs of his beard into his mouth; he proceeded to gnaw on them.

“Mavis, yes,” he said at last, in what was almost a drawl. Then, in a rush, he went on: “But Mavis didn't suffer the same unfortunate fate as Corey Leaman, and therefore I feel a bit hesitant to disclose —”

“Right. She's still alive. But there may have been a connection between Mavis and Corey,” I claimed, “and anything you can tell me may help clarify things.”

“Well, there's not much I can tell you about Mavis while she was at the Baird.” I waited, and he added: “She was there for a very short time before she was either released or transferred to another treatment centre. And although I reached out to Mavis and tried to engage her, she was . . . well, people react to treatment in different ways.”

“What was Mavis's reaction?”

“Mavis was resistant to any sort of intervention. Mavis was in denial. And she wouldn't share.”

“Wouldn't share what?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Excuse me?”

“What wouldn't Mavis share?”

“What I mean, Montague, is that she wouldn't share in group. She would not open up in group therapy and share her experiences with the others, and this resistance of course is a stumbling block in her recovery.”

“You say ‘is.' Have you seen her since her time at the Baird?”

His eyes once more fastened onto mine, in a costly effort to look candid. “Um, no. Or, wait, yes, I have seen Mavis on a couple of occasions. Not professionally.”

“Socially?”

“I wouldn't put it that way. We do not travel in the same circles. I have run into her — pardon the aggressive language! — I have seen her casually in various places around the city.”

“You said her stay at the treatment centre was short. Exactly how long was she in the Baird Centre?”

“Oh, not long. There was an incident.”

“Oh?”

“Mavis had an episode of . . . acting out. She damaged some property. It was decided that her needs could be met more effectively at another centre.”

“Had Mavis been drinking when she had this episode?”

“No. She was quite sober.”

“Did you witness the incident?”

“No, I wasn't there.”

“Did you ever see Mavis and Corey Leaman together at the Baird Centre?”

“Not that I . . . well, there was the time in group when Mavis refused to dialogue. I believe Corey was with us that day. We were doing some grief work.”

“Who died?”

“It was not a matter of anyone dying in the sense you mean, Monty, but of the inner child struggling to live again.”

I figured there was little point in trying to follow his logic, so I kept quiet. He resumed his narrative.

“Corey shared with us. Shared his experiences, his trauma. Abandonment by his father, a less-than-nurturing environment with his mother. But whether he and Mavis had any conversation together before or after group, I couldn't tell you. He may have been a little angry with her. Everybody may have had feelings of anger that day, not just Corey.”

“Why's that?”

“Mavis was less than empathetic with the rest of the group. I saw
her making gestures while the others were sharing. Opening and closing her hand like a mouth or a beak, as if to say ‘blah, blah, blah' or ‘yak, yak, yak.' Wiping away nonexistent tears, pretending to play a violin, those sorts of behaviours. Making light of the disclosures of the other patients, which, to my mind, showed she has a deep-rooted —”

“But you know of no other contact between the two of them?”

“I don't know of anything. That's not to say they weren't acquainted. It's not a big place.”

“Why did you leave the centre?”

“I was unjustly dismissed. Our director considered me a challenge to his authority and to his orthodoxy. He thought it expedient to have me removed.”

I thanked him for his time and left. I thought it curious that he had not once asked me why I was inquiring about Mavis Campbell.

†

I was becoming a regular at the bar at the Holiday Inn. Mavis barely batted an eye when she saw me coming.

“Do you know someone called Gareth Swail-Peddle?” I asked without preliminaries when I had myself seated.

“Imagine going through life with a handle like that!”

“Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him.”