Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (107 page)

Peters peered at her notebook. “Didn’t you say he had a group here once a week?”

“Normally. But we’re short staffed in the summer.”

Sullivan saw the beginnings of a frown on Peters’ face, and he hastened to intervene. “What was his demeanor when you saw him in August?”

Mrs. Hogencamp consulted a book on the desk, but Sullivan suspected it was a delaying tactic. He was sure she’d reread the entry a dozen times since Green’s initial call.

“He seemed a little depressed,” she conceded. “I—I thought it was because I was going on holidays.”

“What do you mean?”

She flushed slightly. “I’ve known Lawrence for years. I nursed on his ward before I came here, and I’ve always had a soft spot for him. No one ever came to visit him. I guess what I’m saying, Sergeant, is that the staff and patients on his ward became his family. He became upset when one of us left.”

“Upset enough to kill himself, in your opinion?”

“I wouldn’t have let him go that day if I’d thought that.”

Her indignation cost her, for she broke into a fit of coughing which left her breathless. “He was just sad, in his vague, blunted, schizy way.”

“Did he say what he planned to do in the next few weeks?”

She gave a wheezy smile. “Lawrence was heavily medicated, and he’d been ravaged by the disease. He didn’t plan or set goals the way we do. He just floated along, following his routine and going to his job.”

Sullivan looked up in surprise. “He was working?”

“At a tree nursery, as part of our community partners program. He tended the plants. He was so proud of that job. I was surprised when one day he just didn’t show up.”

“Was there any trouble at work? Anything that could have triggered...?”

She shook her head. “No, they were very pleased with him. He didn’t socialize with anyone, but he seemed...happy enough.”

“Had he ever had suicidal thoughts in the past? Or any danger signs?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Sometimes, during his floridly psychotic episodes, he’d become extremely agitated. He’d think God was calling him home. Poor, poor lamb.”

Sullivan perked up. “By home you mean the farm?”

“I mean heaven.”

“What was his condition when he was first admitted?”

“His parents had delayed treatment and hadn’t recognized how very ill he was. He was in a state of catatonic excitement. Wildly disorganized, agitated, almost panicked. He was lashing out in all directions. They had tied him up like a hog in the back of the truck to get him here.” She shuddered as if at the memory. “Imagine.”

“Are you saying he was violent?”

“Anyone in a panic can be violent if they think they’re in danger. They would see it as protecting themselves or someone else from harm.” She frowned and pursed her scarlet lips. “I don’t think it matters what he was like back then. He was a very sick boy twenty years ago.”

Remembering Green’s theory that violence lay at the root of Lawrence’s original committal, Sullivan forced himself to push the issue. “I understand he tried to kill himself. Do you know why?”

She began shaking her head.

“Was it some trouble at home? Someone mentioned a girl.”

Her eyes widened. “A girl? Lawrence?”

“Was there any girl that he might have been interested in? Maybe a girlfriend of his brothers?”

Now she looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I can’t imagine. His delusions were so full of evil and sinning, I can’t imagine him actually wanting a girl. Or I should say letting himself want a girl. The home was very strict, and I gathered the boys’ hands were strapped if they were ever caught masturbating. Lawrence would have seen himself as evil if he’d even had thoughts like that.”

“The circle’s closing, Brian!” Green crowed once he’d listened to Sullivan’s summary of the interview over the phone. “And I bet this Sophia is at the centre of it. If those notes are to be believed, she was screwing two brothers at the same time.”

There was a pause, during which Green could almost feel Sullivan’s weary skepticism through the wires. “Maybe, Mike, but I don’t see how I added much hard evidence to your cockamamie theory. We need some independent corroboration from someone who was around back then. Like Tom or Sophia. Any luck finding either of them yet?”

“Not yet. Gibbs tracked Tom to a rehab centre in Toronto, but they say he went
AWOL
days ago.”

“He’s back on the streets for sure. A guy like that, been on the booze as long as he has? He’s never going to make a go of it.”

Green wasn’t inclined to argue. They’d both known a lot of drunks in their years on the force, and Sullivan had much more personal experience with the ravages of drink than Green did. Green’s father’s idea of a bender was a thimbleful of sweet sacramental wine at Purim and the requisite four at Passover. Before Sullivan’s father died of liver failure, he’d packed away whiskey by the truckload.

“Anyway, Toronto’s keeping an eye out for us,” Green replied without much optimism. In a city as overcrowded, fast-paced and ethnically diverse as Toronto, one misplaced derelict would not rank high in their priorities. Perhaps he should tell them Tom was a suspect in a possible murder inquiry. “As for locating Sophia, nothing solid yet, but Gibbs has a few leads and we may get a break tomorrow.”

That was a slight exaggeration, designed to stimulate Sullivan’s flagging spirits, but if anyone could make something out of the slim lead he’d uncovered, it was Bob Gibbs. He’d unearthed the name of a distant cousin in a small village in Tuscany, who may or may not have a clue as to Sophia’s whereabouts. The family had moved away from Richmond more than ten years earlier, following the bankruptcy of the father’s landscape business. The last known address was somewhere in New Jersey, but the trail had petered out. However, neighbours of the family in Richmond recalled that Sophia had left town as a teenager under mysterious circumstances and was rumoured to have been whisked away to live with relatives back in Italy. Given her racy reputation as a teenager, pregnancy had been suspected.

Green had his own nagging fears about Sophia’s disappearance which could be laid to rest only when he had irrefutable evidence of the woman alive and breathing in front of him. He’d had enough of magical disappearing acts. Gibbs had been all set to make the call to Italy when Green reminded him of the time difference. With Gibbs chafing at the delay, Green reminded him of the miracles of Canada411.com and suggested he run a few searches on Vincellis while he waited for the sun to rise on the other side of the world. Through his open office door, Green could see him hard at work on the internet.

“Okay,” Sullivan said, breaking into his thoughts. “We’re done down here, anyway.”

“You’re bringing Mrs. Hogencamp back with you to identify the body, right? Do you want me to set that up with the morgue tonight?”

“She’s coming tomorrow. She wanted to drive herself, and she didn’t want to disrupt the routine of her patients. Peters and I are coming back up now, but I planned on calling it a day. Nothing else has come up that needs action today, right?”

Green was about to tell him to go straight home and enjoy his kids when Gibbs burst into the doorway, his Adam’s apple bobbing with excitement.

“Sir? Sergeant Belowsky from Rural West is on the line, wants to talk to Sullivan. There’s been a development at the Pettigrew farm!”

Eleven

 I
sabelle Boisvert had been walking along the path by the river, her head bent and her shoulders leaning into the sharp October wind. She had turned her collar up and balled her fists deep inside her pockets. Chouchou scurried at her side on a tight lead to stop him from chasing every squirrel and chipmunk in sight.

She had set off in high spirits, eager to scout her property for promising riding trails, but she quickly found her thoughts straying to the spooky discoveries of the past few days and to her husband’s mounting resistance. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he dug in his heels and announced he was moving back to the city. This farm was her dream.

With her head bent and her attention turned inward, she would not have even noticed the boat if Chouchou hadn’t started barking. He bounced at the end of his leash, yapping and straining towards the river. Isabelle knew all his barking cadences and readily recognized this one as a territorial bark.

Looking up, she saw that she was at the shoreline directly behind her house. The area was overgrown with neglected brush now, but she could still see the worn tracings of a path from the house through the trees to the riverbank. A small area had been cleared at the shore years ago, and the rotted remains of a wooden dock drooped into the water. She had been to the river many times since they moved in, had even swum here earlier in the fall, and she knew there had been nothing but an old rowboat pulled deep into the bush and upturned. Its splintered hull hadn’t been seaworthy in over a decade.

Yet today, once she’d threaded her way down to the river’s edge, she saw a boat pulled up on the shore; a battered aluminum runabout with a tiny outboard motor on its stern and a pile of moth-eaten blankets on its floor. A hint of gasoline hung in the air. Chouchou was growling as he approached the boat, so Isabelle snapped the leash to quiet him as she peered around. Not a soul was in sight, but the boat was beached directly behind her house.
Sacré bleu,
was there another prowler on her land?

With a shiver, she scooped the dog into her arms and held him tight. He wasn’t much use in a crisis, being barely five kilograms with all his fur, but at least he could serve as her early warning system. Wincing at the crackle of every leaf beneath her boots, she picked her way back towards the house. When she reached the edge of the tree line, she crouched in the tall grass and scanned the field ahead. The house sat about a hundred metres ahead, silent and undisturbed in the late afternoon sun. Wind tugged at the desiccated goldenrod that dotted the field, but she saw no other signs of movement.

Clutching Chouchou firmly under her arm, she ran low to the ground through the dry brush until she reached the back of the house. Still no signs of movement. She listened intently. Nothing. Crouching low and hugging the wall, she began to edge around the side of the house. A thud shattered the silence. Her heart leaped in her chest and a low rumble gathered in Chouchou’s throat. She clutched him tight to silence him and peered cautiously around the corner of the house into the front yard. A man was walking across the yard towards the house from the barn. He must have just come from there, slamming the rickety barn door behind him, she deduced. The man paused to look at the fresh bed of crushed stone where the burned shed had been, then with a shake of his head he continued toward the house.

From her distant vantage point, he looked past his prime but still attractive in a rugged, sinewy way, and he moved with a fluid lope. His khaki windbreaker and heavy work boots looked clean and new. Briefly she wondered if he was another of Jacques’ workmen, hired to do some renovation Jacques had failed to mention. He had a purposeful stride rather than the uncertain, furtive scurry of a burglar. Her fears eased and she was about to call out to him when he reached the door, grasped the knob and thrust hard. No knock, no bell, just a hard shove as if he owned the place. The nerve of the guy.

The door was locked, and she hung back to watch him as he stepped back to survey the front of the house before heading around the side opposite where she was. Fear battled curiosity and outrage as she circled around the back to the other side. She peeked around the corner just as he lifted up the hatch to the root cellar and ducked down the steps into the basement. She slumped against the wall in disbelief. She’d never thought of locking that door, which opened into a dank, unused section of the basement where long ago the family would have stored their turnips, carrots, potatoes and other fruits of the fall harvest.

The man was in her basement now, and although she couldn’t see him, she could hear thuds and scrapes as if he were shoving things around. Chouchou gave a low growl, and Isabelle clamped her hand around his muzzle. Holding him tight, she hurried across the yard to the tool shed. Once inside, she pulled the door carefully shut, pulled out her cell phone and dialled 911. Speaking barely above a whisper, she reported the break-in and was advised to stay out of sight until the police arrived.

She disconnected and peered out the shed door. Out here in the country, it might be a solid twenty minutes before the police arrived. She considered her options. She was alone in the country with no one even remotely within earshot, with a useless puffball of a dog and without even a shotgun or tiny .22 for protection. She had grown up with shotguns, but Jacques was adamantly opposed to all guns, so despite the advice of the real estate agent and the man at the general store, they had no guns. She could sit in this shed like a fool and wait to be rescued. Or she could check it out. The man had not looked dangerous, nor had he been carrying a weapon that she could see. He had looked like a typical blue-collar worker, a little gaunt and battered perhaps, as if he’d had a two-pack a day habit all his life.

She lifted her brand new axe from its peg on the shed wall and slipped back out the door. Chouchou was squirming under her arm, so she cast about for some way to contain him. Her eyes finally settled on the minivan parked in front of the house. Chouchou loved the car, because he thought he was being included in an adventure, so he might not bark if she put him inside. Praying that the man was making enough noise to mask hers, she slid open the van door, thrust the dog inside and pulled it quietly shut again. Ducking down behind the car, she held her breath while she listened. Nothing. The axe felt solid in her hand as she crossed the yard to the front door, slipped the key in and cautiously opened the door. Silence greeted her. She tiptoed down the hall to the head of the basement stairs. Still not a sound. Then a muffled scrape.

She eased her foot onto the top tread, held her breath and tiptoed down for a closer look. He had turned on the bare light bulb which dangled from a cord in the centre of the ceiling, casting a harsh glare over the musty cellar. She and Jacques had cleared out much of the accumulated detritus of several generations and had taken van loads of old bicycles, broken lamps and chairs to the nearby dump. The cellar was still stacked with boxes, however; those waiting to be unpacked from their own move, and some full of Pettigrew junk that looked as if it had been sitting undisturbed in the dust for years.