Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (74 page)

“So what’s she up to now? She must be almost seventeen. Still in high school?”

“No.” The man paused while he polished his glasses and perched them back on his nose. “School and Rebecca never did see eye to eye. Anne and I tried to put the awful experience behind us and cooperate with her teachers over the years, but Rebecca never could. She felt constantly in danger, and she was so angry deep down inside that she took it out on every teacher she’s had since.”

“When did she drop out?”

“Oh, about Grade One?” Patterson looked bleak for a moment and pushed up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he replaced them, he was all business again. “I don’t see how all this is relevant, Inspector. Rebecca’s been through hell and back, but she’s pulling out of it, and eventually she’ll overcome it. But as far as her contact with Matthew Fraser goes, it ended the last time he stuck his—” He sat rigid, his eyes fixed on his notepad, but Green could almost see his rage battling for expression. “Please let her continue her recovery in peace.”

I only hope I can, Green found himself thinking. For your sake and for hers. He steered the interview to less sensitive ground. “What about your wife and son? Billy, I believe it is. He’s in his twenties by now, right? Either of them have any recent contact or interest in Mr. Fraser?”

“My wife wouldn’t have the energy, and frankly I doubt Billy would have the interest.” Patterson’s expression hardened subtly, as if he’d remembered where he was. “You see, Rebecca wasn’t the only casualty of that useless legal charade. While all of that was going on, Billy didn’t get the attention he deserved. He was ten when I came on the scene. He’d spent years watching his father torment his mother, and then years dealing with his father’s emotional blackmail. So at first Billy wanted no part of me. When the sexual allegations came to light, we expected him to understand Rebecca was our first priority. Instead, he started dabbling in goth culture and drugs, and before we noticed, he had a major cocaine addiction. He was out for nights on end, stealing from us and bringing dubious characters around, and in the end he went to live with his father. Broke his mother’s heart.”

“Are things better with Billy now?”

Patterson slapped his pen down on his notepad and peered at Green over his glasses. “You know, Inspector, I believe I’ve been more than forthcoming in my replies to your questions, but our private vicissitudes are not something I feel obliged to share further with you. At this point, I think if you want to know anything more about my stepson, you should ask him yourself.”

Green made a mental note to do just that, before casually turning the page of his notebook. “I do appreciate your candour, Mr. Patterson. I have one last question of a less personal nature. Rebecca’s natural father—do you know his reaction to the verdict and his current feelings towards Fraser?”

Quinton thrust his notepad away and sat back. No need to take notes on this topic, Green observed. “Steve Whelan is a chronic malcontent, and I don’t imagine he’s undergone a transformation for the better since I last saw him. If you bother to read the files, no doubt you’ll find all the information you need. Steve wrote dozens of letters of complaint to the police chief and commission on your department’s handling of the case, he filed numerous motions with the courts about our failure to protect her, I believe he wrote the school board, the teacher’s union, the trustees and probably the Minister of Education in Queen’s Park to complain about their cover-up on Fraser’s behalf. The only person he never blamed was himself, for making her the confused, angry and vulnerable child whom Fraser found so easy to prey upon and whom the middle-aged, middle-class judge found so easy to disbelieve. Adults, Inspector, all banding together against a hyperactive, defiant and decidedly naughty little girl.”

Green felt again the tug of pity. “What about now? Is her father still bitter?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. But I expect he’s far too busy attending to the slights against himself to dedicate much effort to the suffering of others.”

“Ever known him to be physically violent?”

Patterson considered the question in silence for a moment, then pulled his notepad back and jotted down a few notes. “To those weaker than himself like Anne, yes. But when it comes to facing down another man, he wouldn’t have the courage.”

Perhaps not, Green thought after he’d thanked Quinton Patterson for his cooperation and escorted him out of the interview room. But Fraser was himself a meek man, crippled by fears and doubts. A beaten man, perhaps weak enough in Steve Whelan’s eyes to be no threat at all.

Green returned to his own office with his curiosity piqued to learn more about both Steve Whelan and his son, who’d be a young man by now and capable of some revenge of his own. On speculation, Green ran a police computer search on both of them. The computer spat out a long list of police contacts with the father, but nearly all in his role as complainant, with a couple of harassment charges and one impaired driving. Nothing violent. If Steve had been mistreating his wife as Patterson claimed, the police had never been called. Not unusual in domestic cases, but hardly a confirmation of any hard-core violent tendencies on Steve Whelan’s part.

The son’s sheet painted a picture more pathetic than sinister. William Steven Whelan had a sealed Young Offender file and three pages of minor offences as an adult involving break and enters, drug dealing and disturbing the peace. He’d done some minor time in previous years but nothing in the past six months. Either he’d grown smarter, or he’d cleaned up his act. Some of his known associates were local players in organized crime, but it was a stretch to think that this petty criminal, whose antics seemed to do harm mainly to himself, would have the daring to commit murder any more than his father did.

Still, neither man could be ruled out. If Patterson was to be believed, Billy had spent his formative years learning the art of violence from his father, and as an inadvertent, invisible, unacknowledged victim in this tragedy, he certainly had the motive. And Steve had a memory for wrongs that could rival an elephant’s. It was worth checking both men out, to see what they’d been up to in recent weeks.

Green glanced at his watch. Past five o’clock. Rebecca’s biological father lived in the eastern suburb of Orleans, which was the wrong end of the city for Green’s drive home. But Billy lived on Woodridge Crescent in the west end. It was an area notorious for poorly planned, overcrowded public housing projects which, despite the proximity of the river and its waterfront parks, had driven real estate prices down and petty crime statistics up. Woodridge Crescent would only require a minor detour on his way home.

After the usual crawl along the Queensway, Green exited at the Bayshore Shopping Centre, pulled up to the curb outside a large low-rent apartment building and slapped a police sticker in his windshield. There was no answer when he buzzed Billy’s number from the lobby, but he slipped in easily behind a bevy of Somali women negotiating the heavy doors with umbrellas, strollers and shopping bags in hand. It had begun to rain again, and they were all windblown and wet. He made his way up in the elevator to the eighth floor and down the long hall filled with the chatter of foreign languages and the pungent aromas of exotic foods. Number 821 was tucked into the end of the hall against the fire stairs, and there was no answer to his knock. He listened through the door but could detect no noise above the chatter of the French TV next door.

As he left, he intercepted a young woman letting herself into an apartment down the hall. She had a little girl in tow, both of them sporting matching raincoats and blond pony tails.

“Do you know your neighbour in 821, a young man named Billy Whelan?”

She edged away from him, shielding her child and shaking her head sharply. No, of course not, Green thought. This is not a building where you give information to total strangers. He debated whether showing his badge would improve his chances and decided it wouldn’t.

“I’m a friend of his father’s,” he said instead. “His dad’s worried about him.”

She unlocked the door and shepherded her daughter inside. “Katie, honey, go watch television, okay? Mummy will be there in a moment.”

“Is Billy in trouble?” the little girl asked. The woman pushed her again with a sharp look, then turned to Green. She shifted her gum to the other side of her mouth with exaggerated disinterest. She was trying to look hard, but there was a hint of anxiety in her face. “Why’s his father worried?”

“Well, you know—Billy’s had his ups and downs.”

“Not that his dad ever noticed.”

“Yeah, well Mr. Patterson’s had his ups and his downs too.”

“Oh, that dad,” she exclaimed. “Now I know you’re lying. His stepfather has no use for him, never sees him. Never even comes to any of his shows.”

“What shows?”

The young woman shrugged. “A few gigs here and there. His band even had an opening spot at Barrymore’s last month.”

Green masked his surprise and thought fast. Barrymore’s was a prestigious downtown club which featured live musicians and entertainers. Most of Canada’s top bands had played the club at one time or another, and for Billy to have landed a spot there, he must be doing something more than racking up summary conviction offences. Green tried his friendliest smile. “So what’s his band called? I’ll try to catch a show.”

That clammed her up faster than if he’d shown his badge. She blew a huge pink bubble and shrugged her skinny shoulders. “Look, I haven’t seen him, okay? Not in a few days.”

“But you’re a friend of his—”

"Was.”

“Still, you obviously care.” A slight exaggeration, given her emphatic use of the past tense, but he was anxious to keep the conversation going.

“I care if the cops are looking for him. If he’s fucked up again.” She gave him a long stony stare which told him he hadn’t fooled her for an instant. “He was supposed to cash my cheque for me, days ago. Oh, screw it!” she muttered and closed the door.

Well, well, Green thought as he made his way back to the car. Someone else who’s dropped out of sight. Although, of course, the girlfriend was simply speculating, and even if Billy had disappeared, it might not be for reasons connected to the case. Billy was a drug user with a habit of getting into trouble and an unexpected fistful of cash in his hands. The lure of the open road might have been irresistible. Tomorrow, in between the paperwork and the report Green was meant to be preparing on cross-jurisdictional collaboration in CID , perhaps there would be time to worry about where Billy had run off to.

As he pulled into the empty drive of the Dreaded Vinyl Cube, he frowned. Despite his detour, Sharon’s car was not yet in the drive, and when he entered the house, it was deserted. His shout brought back nothing but an echo.

That’s strange, he thought. Sharon had been acting a little oddly the last couple of nights. She had jumped whenever the phone rang, she’d stared into space during dinner and forgotten to tease him when he described his day at the conference. And now she was at least two hours later than she usually was.

Inside, he checked the phone for messages, of which there were none, and headed upstairs to strip off his wet clothes. He was just beginning to worry in earnest when he heard a car door slam, and Tony’s excited chatter filled the air. He reached the front door in time to see Sharon mounting the front steps with Tony and his bag in one hand, and in the other, towed along like a reluctant barge, was the biggest, ugliest dog he’d ever seen.

Nine

Sharon’s day had crawled.
Many times she had found her mind wandering from the mundane duties of her job to the unanswered questions of the Fraser case. Both yesterday’s and today’s lunch hour had come and gone without a call from Leslie Black, and as the afternoon ticked by, Sharon felt her hope fading. The clock on the wall above the nursing station read three thirty-five when she paused in her charting to rest her chin wearily in her hands. Leslie was not going to call. She must have lost the fight with her conscience.

It was probably just as well, Sharon thought. She didn’t really need to be in the middle of this investigation, trapped by issues of confidentiality and forced to choose between loyalties in what was already a murky and personally repugnant case. Mike could build his own case without her help. He’d been doing it long before he met her and without the moral confusion she felt. The facts alone mattered to him, and once he’d laid them bare, then others could begin the task of sorting out right from wrong.

She pushed the case out of her thoughts with relief and picked up her pen to continue her charts. At that moment the phone rang and when she answered it, her heart sank.

“Sharon? It’s Leslie. Can we meet when you get off?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking…”

“So have I.” Leslie Black’s voice was unusually furtive. “Meet me in the library, back table, four o’clock.”

It seemed ridiculously cloak and dagger, even for a potential violation of the privacy laws, but as Sharon made her way through the maze of corridors which connected one wing of the hospital to another, she felt excited in spite of herself. She arrived at the library less than one minute late and was surprised to see Leslie rise from the table at the back the instant she walked in. Leslie drifted slowly along the shelves towards the front, her face resolutely averted. As she drew near, Sharon opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by Leslie’s very faint but unmistakable shake of the head.

“Go to the table at the back. Slowly!” Leslie whispered, and then she was out the door and gone.

Sharon suppressed a laugh, for Mata Hari tactics did not quite suit the shabby and virtually deserted atmosphere of the Rideau Psychiatric staff library. Life among the phobics must be rubbing off on you, Leslie, she thought, as she made her way towards the table Leslie had left.

The table top was cluttered with journals and open books, which Sharon perused curiously, noting that Leslie had been reading up on treatment efficacy studies for social phobia. For a few minutes, Sharon puzzled over the significance of Leslie’s asking her to read these, before noticing the blank manila envelope sitting on the chair beside her. She picked it up and out slid the thick, well-worn file of Matthew Robertson Fraser.