Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (39 page)

Jeff, however, seemed to have anticipated the question, perhaps had posed it to himself before, for he shook his head without hesitation. “I never had evidence of it. He punched walls and he swore a lot, but I never saw him actually hit.”

Green glanced at Sullivan expectantly, but he sat back, shaking his head. Green retrieved the thread of his questioning.

“Are you aware of any feud, any enemies, any reason why someone would want Eugene Walker dead?”

Tillsbury pondered the question carefully, his frown deepening. “I’ve been out of touch with the family for a while, but there’s nothing I can remember. He was a nasty man, but in recent years he hardly went out. I can’t imagine who’d bother killing him now.”

“What about Howard? Is he capable of killing his father?”

“Good Lord, no, Howard couldn’t kill anyone.” Confronted with Green’s expressionless gaze, he reddened in dismay. “All those things I told you, they were to help you understand the father. Now I think I’ve said quite enough!”

Dusk was already creeping in as the two detectives said their goodbyes and headed back along the county road toward the main highway. Sullivan drove with both hands clenched on the steering wheel, staring grimly ahead into the deepening grey. The melancholy which had first touched him yesterday now cloaked him completely.

“Jeff Tillsbury may not think so, but you can bet old man Walker beat his son.”

Green frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“Because it goes with the territory.”

Green lapsed into thought. Neither detective was a stranger to the parental violence and cruelty that shaped the criminals they saw every day, but Green sensed a more personal struggle. He began to put the mood and the cryptic allusions of the past day together.

“Brian, what’s going on?”

For a moment it seemed Sullivan would not respond, but once he started, the words tumbled out. “My old man is a drunk. I never told you that. I never told anyone. You don’t tell anyone. Remember the Walker family secrets? Every drunk’s family has them. My mother tried to keep it from us at first—Dad’s sick, Dad’s tired, Dad has business in town. And then when you’re tripping over the whiskey bottles in the hall and the truth is screaming at you, you see it. But you don’t tell anyone else you see it. You go along with Mom’s lies— yeah, Dad’s sick, sure he’s tired. You don’t have friends over, you don’t make plans, and then when you’re finally good and sick of it and you get mad, you yell at him and you yell at your mother and she tells you the next lies. Dad’s had a bad day, the farm’s had a bad year, Dad’s had a hard life. It’s not his fault. It’s never his fault. No, it’s your fault, because you made too much noise, or woke him up, or asked him at the wrong moment. Anything but admit the bastard’s got a hangover, and it’s his own damn fault.”

Green was shocked. “Jesus, Brian, I never knew a thing. I’ve met your father, and I never suspected!”

Sullivan’s lips were drawn in a tense line. “No, the old man’s good at walking the edge. Very few people suspect. But it’s why I left home at eighteen and joined the force. Why my sister Pat lives in Cold Lake, Alberta, and my sister Tracy is on her third husband.” He looked across at Green. “My brothers Ed and Frank are alcoholics too. Of course, they don’t think so. They tell me they can handle it, but I’ve seen them at family parties, and it’s like seeing Dad all over again.”

“You’ve done okay though, Brian. You’re one of the most together guys I know.”

Sullivan shook his head grimly. “I’ve had to work at it. Mary will tell you that. I really have to watch myself. Not so much with the booze—I can take it or leave it. It’s the temper. The Irish temper, my father used to call it proudly when he beat the shit out of me. I see that part of him in me and I hate it. No one gets off scot free in a family like that, believe me. Walkers or Sullivans—you look inside, it’s a fucking Pandora’s box.”

Green absorbed this in silence, thinking how easy it is to keep a secret even from someone you work side by side with every day. It explained Sullivan’s strict two-drink limit even when out with the boys, and it explained his fierce sense of duty to his family. “Jeez,” he muttered. “And to think I envied you your big, boisterous family. There I was, an only child of clingy, overly dependent parents, single-handedly trying to make up for the Holocaust.” He grimaced. “And failing miserably.”

“And I always envied you your relationship with your father. Those Sunday morning brunches at the Deli with just you and him.”

“He complains. I read case reports.”

Sullivan, studying the road ahead, suddenly chuckled. “That sounds like you. Thanks, Mike. Let’s get this show back on track.”

The chuckle was a welcome relief, a sign that Sullivan was back. Respecting the curtain Sullivan had drawn, Green turned his mind back to the case. “When we get back to Ottawa, we’ve got five things to do—”

“Once I tag this stuff downtown, I’m going home to dinner,” Sullivan interrupted. “And you’re going to spend the rest of your weekend with your wife and son. Remember?”

Green grinned at him. He’d already planned his evening’s sleuthing around his son. Sharon was working tonight, so there would be plenty of time to go home, feed Tony and tuck him into bed before leaving him with a sitter and heading out for a little more detective work. But he couldn’t resist baiting Sullivan. “Don’t worry, mother, I will. It’s early yet.”

“You’ll turn around, and your boy will be eighteen.”

“Five things.” Green held up his hand in order to check them off on his fingers. “First, we have to interview Ruth Walker to find out the truth about Walker’s background. Second, we have to talk to Howard about the rift between him and his father. Third, we have to run a check on Karl Dubroskie’s cousin from Hamilton, Josef…” He flipped open his notebook to tackle the name. “Josef Grys—whatever. Fourth, we have to take this black tool box to an antique dealer who specializes in Eastern European stuff. Someone may have to take it to Toronto on their way to Hamilton. Fifth, we have to see if forensics has come up with anything at the Walker house yet. Oh! And sixth, we have to find out what Gibbs has dug up on Walker from Immigration.”

Sullivan laughed. “All of this we’re going to do before work on Monday?”

“Not all. Besides, some of it will hardly take any time. A quick phone call to forensics, two minutes to ask Gibbs how Walker got into the country—”

Sullivan shook his head in mock disgust. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. Just so you shut up and get your mind back on the case. Sometime this evening—after I’ve put Tony to bed,” Green flashed him a grin, “I’ll go talk to Mrs. Walker and Howard. That’s simple—they’re both in the same place. And you meet with Gibbs, get his report and get him to keep on top of Ident. Gibbs is perfect, he’ll be at them all weekend trying to get their report. Then Monday either you or Gibbs run a check on Grys…what’s-his-name, including immigration and CSIS. Old man Dubroskie let it slip that the guy had some trouble in Poland.”

“Where do food and sleep fit into all this?”

“Food and sleep? God, the man’s never satisfied! I tell you what. When this case is solved, I’ll take you to Nate’s and treat you to the best smoked meat and coldest draught in town.”

Six

December 24th, 1940

Britain has beaten back the enemy,
Now Poland dances under Hitler’s boot.

Snatches of song and laughter sift through the straw above our heads.

Festive chicken and onions scent the air.

But in our lair below the barn, in hunger, cold and darkness,
we wait our turn.

We share our warmth, snuggled together deep in the straw.

A whimpered cry, fumbled buttons, the coo of a baby at the breast.

I contemplate in wonder
the bond of family, so deep and primal that I reach out to touch it.

She cocks her head slyly, smiles and shifts her dress.

A pox on the Nazi bastards, she says,
And she welcomes me in.

Sharon had already left
for her evening shift at the psychiatric hospital by the time Sullivan dropped Green off at his house at five o’clock. The teenage babysitter was curled up on the couch talking on the phone while Tony, having recently mastered the art of walking, happily removed all Green’s CDs from their rack and strewed them over the floor.

The girl unfolded herself guiltily. “I just fed him supper, and I was going to give him his bath at six.”

Green rescued a Rolling Stones classic from Tony’s jaws and scooped the protesting baby into his arms for a hug. “That’s fine, I’ll do that. But could you come back for a couple more hours later?”

The girl shrugged her indifference. “Your wife left your phone messages on the kitchen counter. She said to be sure you got them.”

Curious, Green tucked Tony under one arm and went to check. No less than three messages from Superintendent Jules, with Sharon’s succinct editorial on the last. “
He sounded pissed
.” Jules’ first message was a little more congenial. “
Who on earth is Howard Walker? He’s been calling all over the station for you
.”

Well, well, well, Green thought as he headed upstairs to the bath. He had to quell his curiosity while he played with Tony in the tub and read him his favourite story,
Goodnight Moon
. Tony would not allow a single step in the ritual to be skipped and, as he approached his first birthday, he was developing an impressive, if at times indecipherable vocabulary of single words to express his disapproval. Green had long ago learned that in the battle of wills, Tony always won. Your DNA, Sharon was fond of muttering, as if obstinacy and sheer bloody-mindedness could never have come from her end of the gene pool.

It was seven o’clock by the time Green was able to grab his notebook and slip back out the door with one last glance at Jules’ unanswered phone messages. It’s not that I’m actually avoiding Jules, he told himself as he headed down to the station to sign out the tool box. It’s just that I need to know what has set Howard Walker off and deal with it before I can figure out what to tell Jules. Jules almost never called on the weekend unless he’d received some flak from higher up, which was happening more and more often in the new procedurized, bureaucratic amalgamated police force. Howard Walker must have stirred up the brass, either intentionally or by bumbling around asking the wrong people for help.

Jules might also be angry because Sharon had told him about the trip to Renfrew. Normally Sharon knew better than to betray Green’s minor misdemeanours to the brass, even Jules, but she hadn’t been too pleased with this one herself. His choice of Renfrew over a day of family togetherness had prompted an entire night of the famous Levy silent treatment which hadn’t even broken when he’d tried to kiss her goodbye this morning.

She might have told Jules where Green had gone, and Jules, being a detective long before becoming a brass, would have put Howard Walker, Eugene Walker and Renfrew together, looked up Eugene’s file, and known Green was off on one of his wild goose chases.

The interesting question now was—where did Howard Walker fit into this goose chase?

To his surprise, half a dozen cars were parked on the street outside the Reid house when Green arrived with the evidence bags casually concealed in a briefcase. As he mounted the steps, he heard the sound of muted voices from within. The funeral, he wondered with a sinking feeling? Eugene Walker had died on Wednesday, so a funeral on Saturday was entirely plausible. Green was about to withdraw out of respect for the family when a thought occurred to him. Whatever had brought Howard Walker down to the station on the afternoon of his father’s funeral must be damn important.

Donald Reid opened the door in response to Green’s ring, and a welcome died on his lips at the sight of Green.

“You! I told you about that fight so you could check it out, not go accusing Howard of murder!”

“I did no such thing.”

Disregarding the chilly air, Reid stepped out onto the porch in his shirtsleeves and shut the door behind him. To Green’s surprise, he was red-eyed. “Jeff Tillsbury called Howard and said you were snooping into his relationship with his father.”

“Well, I do have some questions for Howard. And for your mother-in-law.”

“For fuck’s sake, inspector! We’ve just buried my father-in-law. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“It could, but Howard himself seemed anxious to speak to me.”

Reid grunted and reentered the house, leaving the door ajar for Green to follow. “Just go back into the kitchen. Be inconspicuous, at least.”

In the living room Green passed a cluster of guests clutching tea cups and murmuring solace. He’d barely settled in the kitchen and slipped the briefcase out of sight at his feet before a youngish man appeared, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and black tie which Green noticed with surprise was cut on one side. Howard was small and fine-boned like his mother, but with dark curls and chocolate brown eyes magnified by thick glasses. He had a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded.

Green played ignorant. “Doing what?”

“I checked with the pathologist. He told me my father died of natural causes. Why are you stirring all this up? You’re upsetting my mother, you’re upsetting my sister.”

Ah, thought Green. The collegial courtesy of one doctor to another. So it was Dr. MacPhail who had talked too much, no doubt fuelled by half a dozen scotches, and MacPhail who had alerted Jules that Green was poking around in a non-case.