Raw Bone (21 page)

The rain pelted the car as MacNeice pulled into the division parking lot. He found a spot as close to the back door as he could, and ran in.

Halfway up the stairs, he met Aziz coming down, taking two stairs at a time. She stopped dead when she saw him. “Freddy Dewar’s been assaulted and he’s been taken to the General.”

As he followed her back down the stairs, he said, “What do we know?”

“Freddy went out for his daily constitutional, carrying his Canadian flag umbrella. He headed east along Burlington and turned down to Guise. Just before he got to Catherine Street, someone pulled him into the trees and worked him over with a bat or a brick and left him there. One of the rowers cycling to the club found him, but only because he stopped to pick up the umbrella, which was rolling about on the road. Freddy was unconscious.”

“How is he?”

“Three broken ribs, a broken wrist, nose and cheekbone. All his front teeth are gone, but the ICU resident said they were false anyway.”

At the car, MacNeice stood for a moment, collecting himself, as Aziz climbed in. When he got in and started the engine, he said, “I should have told him to stand down.”

“Mac, he wanted to be useful again. And maybe this attack has nothing to do with him calling us about the man he saw.”

MacNeice shot her a glance that said they both knew that couldn’t be true.

Dr. Aaron Rosen met them at the door of the ICU. “We’ve set the wrist and stitched up his torn lip. The broken nose and cheekbone will heal on their own, as will the ribs, in time. He’s on an IV drip for the pain, oxygen to ease the pressure in his lungs and rib cage. We’re watching him closely for any sign of pneumonia—so, no bets on him yet, but I’m optimistic.”

“Can we speak to him for a moment?” MacNeice asked.

“He’s in a tent and he’s groggy. You can have five minutes, that’s it.”

Freddy was barely recognizable and looked to be unconscious under his oxygen tent. MacNeice and Aziz were about to leave when one eye opened. A moment later, so did the other. Both were bloodshot.

“It’s Mac, Freddy. I’m here with DI Aziz.”

The old man tried to smile Aziz’s way, an unsettling sight—his upper gum was raw and there were no teeth.

“We’ll let you sleep, Freddy, but one question: Did you recognize who did this to you?” Aziz asked.

He slowly turned his head their way. “Big fellas … used a billy club—couldn’t do it with their fists. Didn’t know them.”

His eyes closed and he smacked his lips. MacNeice stuck his head into the hall to spot the nurse, who was already approaching. “I think he’s thirsty.”

“He’s getting his fluids through a tube, but I’ll give him some crushed ice,” she said, shooing them both out. “Your time’s up, detectives.”

As they walked to the elevator, MacNeice said, “When we get back, Fiza, send a uniform over to the bar to collect Freddy’s kit, and make sure the officer tells Byrne or the bartender that Freddy was mugged, probably by kids. I don’t want Byrne to think this has anything to do with the homicide case, just that it was another mugging in a rough end of town. And I want Freddy out of the city for a while. He needs to be near water and good fish and chips. Maybe Port Dalhousie—he’d have the lake, the Welland Canal. There’s got to be a place for him out there.”

When the elevator doors opened on the lobby, instead of heading for the exit, MacNeice turned toward the morgue. “Since we’re already here, let’s go see how the coroner is doing with Jennifer Grant.”

But as they walked down the white-tiled corridor toward the stainless steel doors, he wished he hadn’t suggested it. He realized that he was disturbed by the thought of Jennifer Grant’s remains on a table anywhere near her husband’s. It seemed cruel that after enduring a decade of his visits to Ryder Road—between basketball practice and dinner with her son—her bones were not to be free of him now.

Mercifully, there was only one body in the autopsy area, and it was covered with a plastic sheet. Junior was using a long-handled brush with stiff bristles to clean the floor. When he saw MacNeice and Aziz, he nodded toward Richardson’s office.

Richardson looked up from a folder on her desk as they came in. “She’s been dead twelve years and six months, give or take a week.” She got up and slid three photographs of the body into the clip rack, followed by two X-rays. The way the flesh still clung to the bones, it appeared as if a powerful vacuum had sucked the life and everything else out of Grant.

“She was entombed very quickly following her death,” Richardson said. “Her insides suggest the diet was meagre—basically cereal. She wasn’t only starved, she had to have been refused liquids, because she was severely dehydrated.” She tapped one of the images. “Before she died, she probably looked not too much different than she does here.”

As if being starved wasn’t sufficient, Richardson pointed out the signs of torture. There were rope burns so severe they scarred the flesh of her wrists, rib cage and ankles. “It looks like she spent the end of her life in constant bondage. And she’d been hit several times across the back by something with a metal head. The marks suggest the metal threading of a broom handle or hose.”

“A hose,” MacNeice said. “It’s in his diary.”

“Ah.” Richardson put down her pencil and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to think about that.” She began pulling the images from the clip rack. She returned the photos to the file and picked up her pencil, poised to write. “Who shall I release the remains to when it’s time?”

MacNeice thought of Dylan and how impossible the idea of arranging his mother’s funeral would be for him. Aziz stepped in when MacNeice didn’t respond. “I’m sure it will be her parents. I’ll send you their contact information once I’m back at Division.”

Outside in the parking lot, it hit him. “Fiza, I just realized I’ve been struggling with the fact that David Nicholson got exactly what he deserved. It’s made it hard for me to concentrate on finding Constable Szabo’s killer.”

Aziz replied in Arabic.

When he asked for the translation, she said, “Let’s just get out of here.”

He turned out of the lot into traffic, and they drove in a silence that lasted for a good five minutes. Finally, Aziz cleared her throat. Looking out the side window, she said softly, “It’s
from the Qur’an. It means, ‘He punishes whom He pleases, and He grants Mercy to whom He pleases, and towards Him are ye turned.’ ” She glanced at him. “And for that, I can only live in hope. Nicholson played a vengeful god but wasn’t finally punished by God.”

“Maybe he was, Fiza. I think Nicholson knew his killer. He knew that he was being punished when that grenade was taped under his chin. He thought salvation had arrived when the firefighters showed up. He was definitely praying to someone—and he certainly heard the answer when the pin was pulled. He had five seconds to ask the question, ‘God, why me? I’ve been a good father.’ Maybe, just before that fifth second, he realized what God’s answer was.”

“So who do we think killed him?” Aziz asked. “We’ve considered the Grants, the father and brother, and the landscape designer, McLeod. With all three of them, you have to ask, why now?”

“From what I saw of McLeod’s reaction to the news that she’d been found, he knew nothing about her imprisonment, torture and death. If he had, Nicholson would have been dead years ago.”

Aziz curled into her seat. “So maybe she had another lover. Jennifer Grant made two bad choices in men, first McLeod and then the worst—Nicholson. She was unhappy, which I don’t think would have improved her judgment.”

The on-board phone rang and MacNeice pushed the hands-free button. Deputy Chief Wallace’s voice crackled out of the speaker: “I’ve got a press conference on the Nicholson case tomorrow morning. What do I need to know?”

“The son is reeling from the news. Safest thing for Dylan at this point would be for you to announce at the end of the conference that an unidentified body has been found in the basement of a home on Ryder Road.”

“All right, I’ll be careful not to link them as of yet, but I need to be able to say we are making headway in locating the killer.” Wallace paused. “We are, I trust?”

“Yes,” MacNeice said, and hung up.

His thoughts turned to Dylan. There was no way to keep the identity of the body quiet for long, but the revelation would put pressure on Dylan Nicholson, the one true innocent in the unfolding story.

He dialed Sally Bourke-Stanford’s office number, even though it was after office hours. But she picked up after three rings.

“Sally, I wanted you to know that Deputy Chief Wallace will be holding a press conference in the morning about Dylan’s mother. He won’t name her, because Forensics is still confirming that the DNA, fingerprints and handwriting found on site match those of Jennifer Grant and David Nicholson. But her identity will come out soon, especially as it’ll be tied to Nicholson’s death. Do you have Dylan on a suicide watch?”

Bourke-Stanford’s tone was grave. “Before I leave this evening, I’ll personally call the foster parents and his caseworker to alert them of your—our concern for his safety.”

Ryan was still working when they got back to Division, though it was past eight. He had made progress narrowing down the date of Anniken Kallevik’s disappearance from Markus Christophe’s emails—finding a message that must have been sent from an Internet cafe. He read out, “ ‘Wonderful day ahead. I’m going to see a horse race in Toronto, then to dinner.’ That was one of the last emails she sent to him. When he replied and asked who she went with, her
response was, ‘Just a friend. It was the end of the season. The horses were beautiful, but it was so cold we stayed bundled up drinking hot chocolate. I won $30 betting on Glory Girl in one race and lost $25 on Hard Candy in the next. I didn’t bet anymore, so I’m still ahead $5.’ ” They corresponded in English, presumably to increase their proficiency.

Ryan had found out that the last day of thoroughbred racing was December 13. Her responding email was dated December 14. There would be two more emails, one in which she forwarded news from home and the other answering Christophe’s request that she make her way to Whistler before the New Year, so they could keep to their original schedule and head down to California. Ryan showed them that one on screen, dated December 22 and cheerfully annotated with pictograms: “Yes big brother Λ. I’ll be there soon;-) AK Bisous.”

Christophe sent her a total of twenty-two emails after that, and twice as many text messages; all went unanswered.

MacNeice asked Ryan if he’d already requested the videotapes from the track’s surveillance cameras. He had, but they were recycled after three months—nothing existed from December 13 except direct video replay of the actual races.

Studying the photographs on the whiteboard, MacNeice reminded himself that the friend might have been from the hostel, the yacht club or both. But he didn’t believe it. Anniken went to the races with a man who knew racing—Duguald Langan. That she didn’t mention his name suggested that she knew Markus might insist that she be on the next train to BC.

By the time MacNeice picked up his coat, at 9:18, the rest of the team had gone home. As he headed for the stairs, he looked back once at the whiteboard and remembered the image that wasn’t there yet—the one of Jennifer Grant’s naked corpse on Mary Richardson’s wall.

That night, sleep came slowly for MacNeice. The city had installed a new lamp on the road near his cottage, which effectively projected the rain streaking down his window onto the wall beyond the bed. It took discipline to see the images as raindrops and not snakes or endless tears.

Normally, he would never bring grappa to bed. Much better if he put the glass in the sink as any responsible drinker would do. But there he was, glass in hand, his eyes glued to the light up the road. Black branches crowded about the glow, for warmth, he imagined.

Warmth. He tried bringing Samantha to life, but she emerged only in fragments: mopping up the sauce on a plate, or her naked silhouette at the window of her bedroom in the morning light. Soon she would be looking out the window to morning in Athens. Like loose wires shorting out a fixture, Fiza’s face appeared in his mind.

He got up and pulled the curtain shut and sat down on the bed. Sipping the grappa, he wondered what Kate would make of the new lamp. She’d hate it, for sure. Kate needed total darkness to sleep. Finishing the grappa, he put the glass in front of the clock radio, fragmenting the digital display. When he was exhausted, his mind always slid back to her. He lay down and closed his eyes, and wondered, yet again, when exactly it was that he’d lost Kate. It wasn’t when she died—it was way before that. Even
before
the morphine drip, drip, drip, that disappeared the pain but left you in a coma until you stopped breathing.

“So when do you think it was then?”

Ah, you’re here. I knew you were. I think I lost you when we were told the cancer was terminal.

“I suppose.”

The lump on your collarbone; it suddenly appeared, the size of a dime, then a nickel. I told you it must be a fat globule.

“That was cruel, Mac. Never tell someone you love she has a fat globule.”

I was too terrified to say what I really thought. That was the best I could do. Do you remember, Kate? That very spot—it was one of my favourite places to kiss.

“I know, and I never asked you why.”

Because it had a special quality; it was open … but hidden, and there was always this smell.

“Scent, darling, not ‘smell.’ ”

A scent then, like perfume but not perfume. You. It was a private pleasure, like kissing the small of your back or behind your neck; you couldn’t watch me, so they were—

“Stolen kisses. I always loved the idea of that.”

Kate, when do you think I lost you?

“It began with a lump the size of a dime.”

Before he entered the team cubicle the next morning, MacNeice knew something had happened. It was as if a tremor was emanating through the concrete floor: his chest tightened as he stepped out of the stairwell door. “What is it?” He looked at each of them, wondering who was going to speak first. Ryan, uncharacteristically, didn’t turn around or say good morning.