The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  Anne’s third shot struck a fuse box. The slug shattered a plastic breaker, ricocheted into the box, and blew a circuit.

  Immediately, the Hole in the Wall was thrown into almost total darkness. Cutter heard a pop and saw a dim glow. The fuse box spilled over with smoke. Then the box and the wall next to it burst into flames.

  No one needed to shout “Fire!” Panic had already set in amongst the customers. They rushed the door, heedless of Cutter’s vile threats to get out of his way, and jammed the entrance. Their anonymity in the darkness and their fear of burning alive trumped any alarm that Cutter could register in their minds.

  Having no luck clearing the main entrance in pursuit of Anne and Carson, Cutter tore out the service door and onto the loading dock. It was no use. He scanned the street both ways, but saw nothing. He was too late. They had disappeared with his money.

  26

  Anne found no serenity in the rhythms of her morning jog along the boardwalk at Victoria Park. The night before had been too exhilarating and exhausting. The effects lingered. Her shoulder ached. Her throat was sore from Sean’s stranglehold. Her head was tender where it struck the stove, and her headband aggravated it with every stride she took. She had some satisfaction, though, in knowing that Sean McGee’s head was hurting, too, even more acutely than her own and, because she suspected him of tipping off Cutter, she wished even more anguish upon him.

  Her encounter at Cutter’s Hole in the Wall was less painful than the beating she’d taken at Sean’s place, but it had been an Olympian challenge she couldn’t have anticipated, and wouldn’t have faced if she had known the risks. A gun fight? That wasn’t her thing. Still, she was glad she’d brought the pistol, especially after she saw that glint in Cutter’s eyes for the few seconds she’d faced him. It made her shudder. She hadn’t wanted to shoot him, but in that instant she knew that she could. He had the eyes of a person who enjoyed smashing things, and she was thankful she’d had the means to snatch at least one of those cruel pleasures from him.

  Back at the office, Anne put the valise full of cash in the vault. The .32 as well. Then she took out a Berretta. She loaded a full magazine, chambered a round, and left the safety off. She was usually alone in her office. That never would have concerned her before today. But yesterday there had been no chance of Cutter showing up looking for blood and money.

  A plate of bagels with sour cream and the cup of coffee she had grabbed on her way to work covered her desktop. In the drawer just below it she set the Berretta. She expected today to be a day of waiting – waiting for the Client to call, and waiting to get rid of that money burning a hole in her vault. Meanwhile, she thought, she’d catch up on the case of Mrs. Murphy’s too-good-to-be-true friend and fellow philanthropist, Robert Somerville.

  Anne munched on a bagel while her computer’s web mail downloaded new messages. Two caught her eye. The first, sent from the National Archives of Great Britain, confirmed what she already knew: a Lord Harrison Somerville died without heir in the mid-eighties, and his estate passed to several of Somerville’s preferred charities and foundations, as well as a bequest to Christ’s College at the University of Cambridge. Most of those beneficiaries sold off the properties to fund their organizations’ various interests. Anne noted the link to Cambridge, but the college which Robert Somerville claims to have attended was Corpus Christi, not Christ’s College. Not a match.

  The second email came from the Alumni Association at Corpus Christi. It read in part, “We regret that we are unable to identify any graduate by the name of Robert Somerville matriculating between the years 1970 and 1979. Should you wish to investigate further, we suggest that you examine records at others of the 31 colleges which compose the University of Cambridge...”

  Looks like one more nail in his coffin, Anne concluded. But I don’t have enough solid evidence to bury him yet. Mrs. Murphy could have mistaken the year he graduated or confused the name of the college.

  By the time Anne had finished her coffee, though, she had two more leads to follow. She knew where the estate went, but what about the title Lord of Briarsley? That’s one detail that had come directly from Robert Somerville’s mouth. He claims a title that Harrison Somerville held until he died without heir. Did the title die with Harrison Somerville? Or are there some murky doings in British custom that can resurrect it? That question warranted another email to the National Archives. Then she tapped “send” to push it on its way.

  Anne’s second lead dealt with Robert Somerville’s grandiose plan for a charitable mission in Cameroon, a place he claimed to have worked as a consultant or engineer. Checking that out might be simple – just a phone call. She dialled the number.

  “University of PEI Chaplaincy Centre, Sister Jeanine speaking… Ooooh, Anne… It’s so wonderful to hear from you… How are you, my dear?” Anne heard joy and enthusiasm in her voice. It was soft and melodic like a brook in mid-summer. It sounded good. It felt good.

  Sister Jeanine Cheverie was a nun with the Congregation of Notre Dame. Among its various ministries, it was a teaching order. But Sister Jeanine wasn’t teaching at UPEI. Instead, she helped students, many of whom were on their own for the first time in their lives, maintain a moral, if not a religious, balance in their academic lives. Anne once remembered Sister Jeanine laughingly describe her job at the university as “bartender at an oasis amid the saloons of Frosh Week.” Sister Jeanine and Anne had met a few years before during a night course they’d both been taking. They were mature students. That in itself was enough to draw them together in a classroom that looked full of kids. Later, they became friends. Speaking on the phone with Anne, however, Sister Jeanine grew serious. She leaned over her desk and listened intently. A large silver cross dangled from a silver chain around her neck. Her fingers toyed with the chained cross, swinging it in small arcs like a priest swinging his thurible of smouldering incense at benediction.

  “Yes… yes… we have missions in several countries in East Africa, and, yes, Cameroon is one of them,” she said. “Leave it with me. If a Robert Somerville has anything to do with a missionary project there, I’ll find out for you.”

  The sound of Sister Jeanine’s friendly, soothing voice left Anne with a pleasant smile on her face after she hung up, but, no sooner had she put the receiver down, it rang again, and, when she answered, her smile faded as quickly as the sun behind a brooding cloud.

  “You have my money back, I presume,” said the Client.

  “I do, and I’m returning it,” said Anne. “I don’t like your methods, and I don’t like the trouble it’s causing me.”

  “All things considered… I like the way you handled yourself. Others would have given up or made empty gestures.”

  Anne noted for the first time what sounded like a human quality in the Client’s attitude. It was unexpected and contrary to the nature of the man she had imagined during their brief contacts. It puzzled her. So, as not to appear unreasonable, she suppressed some of her anger. At least, she could be civil, she thought.

  “It doesn’t matter. You can find another go-between.”

  “I can see that you’re upset, and I can understand why you feel that way, but still… we had an arrangement.”

  “We didn’t have an arrangement. You had… you claim you had one with Billy Darby. He’s… dead… and I have no contractual obligations with you.”

  “I see.”

  “… and I don’t respond well to threats,” she added, her voice regaining a gritty edge.

  “No, of course not, and I want to apologize for that. I should never have approached you in that manner. I overstepped my good judgement. But I want you to know that I was feeling very vulnerable at the time. I was afraid. If the transfer isn’t completed, then I’ll be ruined at best, and one person who’s very dear to me will be endangered. You’re my only hope.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You accepted the reta
iner… That must count for something.”

  “It will be returned… in full.”

  “I’m pleading with you. Help me! I’ve nowhere else to turn.”

  “Answer me this: Did you have a contract with Billy Darby or were you playing me?”

  There was a long silence on the line. Then the Client answered: “A bit of both. When I saw this… problem arising, I went to Billy’s house and discussed it with him. I couldn’t give him all the details. No one else could get directly involved. Still, he had enough information to know I was on the up and up. Everything was perfectly legal. He gave me some advice on the matter, we arranged to talk again… and then I heard that he had died.”

  “And that’s when you phoned me?”

  “I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do except pretend that Billy and I had a prearranged off-the-record agreement. I lied… and I pressured you. I regret that and I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do.”

  There was another long silence, this one initiated by Anne. She thought of the immense trouble and danger she had gone through already and weighed that against the five grand she would have to return to the Client. No paycheque at the end of the week. It seemed unfair to have endured all of that for nothing. Besides that, she couldn’t forget that the theft from her car, and the beating from Sean, and the gunfight at Cutter’s place had nothing to do with the Client or his case. All of that had fallen on her. She could blame dumb luck or Karma or fate, but that would be a red herring. The fact remained: the Client, except for his contemptible attempt to scare her into recovering his money, was blameless.

  That left her with two choices: quit or press on.

  “Miss Brown?”

  The hard work is behind me, she thought. The drop will be a piece of cake…

  “Miss Brown?”

  … and unless I’m a latter-day Jonah, what else could go wrong?

  At that moment, Anne felt both foolish and indecisive – foolish in that she had transferred much of her anger at Sean and Cutter to her Client, and indecisive in that she had lingering apprehensions about him. She was worn down emotionally, and she was worn out physically. She just wanted to rest, but the only rest she saw was in her hope that the ordeal was finally over, that everything would work out well, and that Jacqui could come home. Then her life would return to normal. The sun would shine. Life would be good. And she would carry on.

  “Miss Brown, are you there?”

  The Client’s voice over the phone jolted her and reminded her that she still had a spark of anger. She ached to punish him… someone… anyone… but all she managed was a hesitant, grudging “I’ll finish the job… but one more threat, one more deception, and you’ll regret you hired me.”

  “Thank you. And new directions for the drop? They’re in an envelope outside your office door.”

  Click.

  Anne dropped the phone in its cradle and walked to the office door. Even if there is a hiccup before this case is complete, at least she had comfort in knowing that she had brought the Client to heel. That thought made her feel slightly better.

  She opened the door. The envelope was there, just as he’d said, and she bent down to pick it up. As she did, two pairs of shoes appeared – one, a pair of worn brown wingtips, and the other, a pair of black oxfords, buffed and double-soled.

  “Anne Brown,” said the oxfords. “We’d like you to come with us.”

  Anne looked up. The oxfords were attached to the blue trousers, Sam Browne belt, and khaki shirt of an RCMP uniform. Constable Timmons, he said his name was. The wingtips led to the rumpled suit of Agent Franklin Pierce of the US Secret Service.

  Oh shit, thought Anne.

  “Do I have a choice?” She managed a shy smile.

  “Not really,” said Constable Timmons.

  “A double date it is then. What fun!”

  27

  Anne locked her office door and followed Constable Timmons down the stairs. Agent Franklin Pierce trailed behind her. Long shadows still darkened Victoria Row at mid-morning. Street traffic was light. Restaurants were serving the last coffee and croissants to their morning regulars and setting places for the lunch crowd. From the front window of The Blue Peter, Mary Anne MacAdam watched Constable Timmons hold the rear door of an unmarked cruiser open for Anne and shut it behind her. As they drove off, she also glimpsed Cutter Underhay loitering across the street on the stone plaza leading to the Confederation Centre’s public library. She had heard the morning news report of a fire at his Hole in the Wall last night. There would have to have been smoke and water damage for sure. Fire inspectors. Police maybe. Clean-up and repairs. No end to a business owner’s headaches.

  So why was he here… doing nothing? she wondered. Returning an overdue book?

  Anne Brown spotted Cutter, too, just as they drove off. His blondish hair, headband, and large frame had caught her eye, and she knew why he was there – the money in the suitcase. But that was in the vault. He’d have to blow up half the block to crack that safe, and he’d need a boom truck and a team of carpenters to snatch it from her second-floor office. It wasn’t just the money he was after, though. She knew that he was coming for her as well. So maybe this ride to Mountie headquarters was fortuitous. Maybe it had saved her life… or Cutter’s.

  Anne was escorted to an interrogation room at the RCMP building on University Avenue. She had never been in one before. Nor had she ever seen one, except on television cop shows. This one was much the same as she had expected but smaller. The faint smell of industrial detergent and wax filled her nostrils. A mirror covered a length of wall. A conference table and three chairs filled the room. The walls were bare and, if she closed her eyes, she couldn’t have recalled what colour they had been painted.

  Constable Timmons led her to a fold-up metal chair near a corner and alongside the table. He was expressionless, firm, and impersonal.

  “Have a seat there, please. Someone will be with you in a few minutes,” he said. Then Timmons shut the door behind him.

  In his wake was silence. A profound silence. The dead silence of a recording studio. The murmurs of the outer office, the rustle of papers, the ring of phones, the click of shoes down corridors – sounds that had accompanied her as she was escorted through the building – vanished with the closing of the door. After that, Anne could hear nothing more than her own rhythmic breathing and the rustle of clothes as she squirmed to find a comfortable spot in her chair. Timmons’s “few minutes” grew to half an hour. Then longer. At times, Anne’s chest began to tighten, and she felt as if it were getting harder to breathe. Almost an hour passed before the door opened a second time, this time by Constable Sylvie Doiron.

  Constable Doiron was prettier than most female Mounties. She had short black hair, delicate features, and a striking figure that even the regulation tailoring couldn’t hide. She let herself into the room with a broad smile on her face and a fresh bottle of water in her hand.

  “Sorry to keep you so long. You must be thirsty. The air gets so dry in here. Would you like some water… or pop?” She held out the bottle, cold, clear, and dripping with condensation.

  “Thank you. Yes,” said Anne, relieved that she didn’t have to greet the cold-fish formality of Timmons.

  “Ms. Anne Brown,” she read off a paper on a clipboard. “Is that your full name?”

  “Yes, it is. Well, Wilhelmina’s my first name.”

  “I’m Constable Doiron. Sylvie. May I call you Anne?”

  “Of course.”

  “A few general questions, if you don’t mind. What kind of work do you do, Anne?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” Anne heard a quaver in her voice. It was the first time she had described herself in those words, and the oddity of hearing it made her wonder whether it was really true or just a fantasy.

  “And you’ve been doing that for very long?” asked Sy
lvie.

  “Not very. Three days, I believe.”

  Sylvie’s mouth already had opened to ask her next question, but it stopped abruptly. Both women looked at each other and began to laugh.

  “We should get together sometime and swap war stories,” said Anne.

  “If I have a minute to spare,” Sylvie quipped. “Married? Children?”

  “Widow. One girl. Fourteen going on fifteen.”

  “I have a girl, too. She’ll start Central High next year.”

  “Mine as well. It’s a small Island, isn’t it? Have you lived here all your life?”

  “The last few years. I grew up in Ottawa. Biggest small town in Canada. I used to love the old marketplace downtown. Skating on the canal, too, when I was stationed

  there. That’s where I met my husband. Yours… You said that you are widow?”

  “My husband Jack died in Croatia during the war. He was a news correspondent.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said and leaned forward sympathetically. “Oh…”

  Timmons came in quietly and took a seat at the table opposite Anne. Agent Pierce stood behind him.

  “… and you know Constable Timmons,” Sylvie said. “And you know why you’re here now, don’t you?” Constable Doiron spoke as if she were revealing a secret which they both knew was time to acknowledge.

  Anne took a long swig at the bottle of water. Her mouth was dry. They know about the break-in at Cutter’s place. They know about the gun fight, she thought. I stepped in it this time. Unlawful entry. Illegal use of a handgun. Possession of a prohibited weapon. Attempted murder even. A litany of criminal charges coursed through her mind. Shit, shit, shit.

  “I’m here because Constable Timmons and Junior G-man there brought me in,” she finally said.

  “Anne, you’re not helping. We’re trying to make it easy for you. You’re facing serious charges here. Trust me, it could mean prison, and I’m not talking about tending a vegetable garden at Sleepy Hollow jail.”