“Al, this Raglan is all show business. I’ve seen him in action.”
“I don’t care if he’s a circus clown. He’s still an M.D., isn’t he? He’s still got letters after his name. And he’s still a practicing psychiatrist.”
“So are you saying I should sit back and do nothing? Look, I’m convinced this psychoplasmics doesn’t work. It does more harm than good.”
Resnikoff threw his pencil onto the desk. “Frank, get it through your head that what you think doesn’t matter a damn. Nola has a right to see her daughter, and until you come up with some good reasons why not—and I do mean good reasons—then that right still stands. You take Candy up to Somafree; otherwise you’ll be in court all right, but you’ll be defending a charge instead of making one. You’re just the father. Nola’s the mother. And like it or not, the law believes in Motherhood.”
“Well, if I can’t stop Nola from seeing Candy, I want to get Nola out of Somafree, and into some other kind of care.”
“She’s tried that before and it didn’t work. That’s why you got a separation. Look, do yourself a favour, Frank. It’s costing you money just sitting here talking to me, and if I don’t get home in the next twenty minutes it’ll cost me a marrige. Just let things stand the way they are, and see what happens next Sunday.”
Carveth impatiently waved his hand. “If I can find something to discredit Raglan, than I could stop Candy from going to Somafree, right?”
Resnikoff pulled himself to his feet. “You might,” he said. “It’s possible.” He reached for his coat and struggled into it. “Your time just ran out, Frank. Can I give you a lift?”
Carveth shook his head.
“It won’t be easy,” Resnikoff said. “Trying to get something against Raglan. He’s got quite a following from what I hear.”
“I know,” Carveth said. “But if it can be done, then I’m going to do it. I’m not going to let Candy get hurt again.”
When Juliana returned to the living room, she found Candy sitting cross-legged on the floor with an array of old photographs spread out in front of her like a fan.
“You recognize any of those people?”
Candy looked through the pictures in order. But apart from a few shots of her mother as a young girl, she was able to identify only Juliana—on a picnic in one shot; fishing in another; and standing on a beach in a third, wearing an oversized bathing suit that reached almost to her knees.
Juliana peered over her shoulder. For her, the photographs brought back a flood of memories. Always the good times, she thought. It was funny how the camera could be so one-sided, never recording the bad times.
The image of her life as portrayed by the pictures was one of constant enjoyment, a continuous round of summer trips and holidays, of Christmases and family gatherings, old cars, and the first house she had bought with Barton. Too bad the mind couldn’t be so selective, ignoring the underside and recalling only the moments of joy.
Not that her marriage to Barton hadn’t worked at the beginning. It was just that, like so many others, it had gradually gone sour as time had eroded the initial euphoria, leaving bare the reality and the unpleasant truth that both of them had made a mistake.
She couldn’t really blame Barton for that. True, she had found him insensitive, too often wrapped up in a world of his own. He’d been emotionally selfish—generous enough materially, but miserly with his affection and time. She had wanted to lean on him, to draw strength from him, but he had failed to provide the support she had needed. In her heart, though, she knew that the fault had been hers as much as his. She had demanded too much of him. Or at least, she had demanded more than he was capable of giving. So who was to blame for that?
She had tried to hold on to him as long as she could, but when Nola had been born, it had seemed that Barton had pulled even further away from the marriage. He’d stayed late at the office, only coming home after Nola had been washed and tucked into bed. And gradually Juliana had found that the more time she was forced to spend with her daughter, the less she was able to spend with Barton. Rather than a common bond that might bring them together, Nola had been a wedge that had driven them further apart. And Juliana had come to resent her, resent the demands she made, and the way she was pushing Barton away.
She shook her head at the memory and refilled her glass, then joined Candy on the floor, sitting unconsciously in the same cross-legged position.
Suddenly she looked up. From the kitchen, she’d heard a muffled sound, like a footfall that had been deliberately disguised. She listened for a moment, but the sound wasn’t repeated.
Candy was hunting through the cardboard box, picking out more of the photographs and laying them out like cards.
“Who’s this?” she asked. She held up one of the pictures and Juliana took it.
“It’s another picture of Nola,” she said. “Your Mommy, when she was a little girl.”
“What’s she doing wrapped up in those funny clothes?”
Juliana’s smile was bleak. “They’re not clothes,” she said. “They’re bandages. Your Mommy was in hospital for a time. When she was young, about your age.”
Candy looked up at her. “Why?” she asked. “Was Mommy sick?”
“You know what was wrong with her, don’t you? You’ve asked me before.”
“I think I forget.”
Juliana pulled out another photograph and showed it to Candy. “Here, have a look at this one. See if you can pick out your Mommy.”
“I want to hear about Mommy in the hospital. About why she was there.”
Juliana looked down at her drink. “Not now, honey,” she said.
“Was she being punished?”
Juliana turned quickly towards her. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe she’d been naughty and had to go to the hospital.”
“People don’t go to the hospital to be punished. They go there if they’re sick, to get well.”
“Will I have to go?”
“Of course not. Not unless you get sick like your Mommy. But there’s nothing wrong with you, is there? You’re perfectly normal.” She stopped. A plate in the kitchen had fallen to the floor. “I guess I didn’t stack the dishes too well.” She stood up. “I’d better go take a look.”
She walked down the hall to the kitchen. As she entered it, she felt a blast of cold air on her feet. She looked down. The milk chute doors, both inner and outer, were open. She knelt on the floor to close the outer one, but something seemed to be blocking it. With an effort, she pulled the door free and managed to close it.
But then she noticed that the inside bolts that normally secured it had both been torn loose, ripped right out of the wood. And the inner door too had been wrenched from its hinges.
She pulled a chair in front of the chute in an attempt to seal it. On the floor behind her, a dinner plate was in pieces on the floor. She bent to clean it up.
And as she did so, a movement on top of the refrigerator caught her eye. She looked up. The refrigerator was set back against the wall, half hidden at the end of a row of overhead cupboards. She stood up straight, and moved carefully around it.
Something was up there.
She could hear breathing, a soft, whispering sound. She glanced quickly at the door, measuring her distance from it, then took a step towards it.
Suddenly she froze.
A hand came around the corner of the cupboard at the top of the fridge. The fingers were webbed, not fully formed. They gripped the side of the cupboard.
Juliana stared at them, then took a step back, edging away until she was pressed against a table. Slowly, she began moving to the door. She was almost there, ready to run from the room, when the hand moved down, seeking a better grip.
Then suddenly a face came into view. Juliana stared at it in horror. For a moment she was unable to move; could not react. Then she opened her mouth in a piercing scream that was suddenly cut off as the creature on top of the fridge hurled itse
lf at her, landing with all its weight on her chest.
When Candy heard the scream, she rose silently to her feet and moved, as if in a trance, down the hall to the kitchen. The door was open. She looked in. The body of her grandmother was lying in the corner, crumpled, broken. Candy walked towards it, looking down impassively.
She was still clutching the photograph of Nola and her grandmother in hospital, and slowly she twisted it in her hands until it was rolled into a tight ball, then dropped it on the floor by her grandmother’s side. It bounced once, then rolled, coming to a stop by Juliana’s outstretched fingers, so that it seemed as she’d been reaching for it, trying to grasp it, but had been unable to get her hand on it.
C H A P T E R
F I V E
When Carveth returned to his mother-in-law’s house, he was surprised to find it a blaze of lights. A strange car was parked in the driveway, and a couple of doors down the street, a police car was pulled onto the curb, its red roof-light flashing.
Carveth parked and hurried to the house. The front door was open and he went inside.
“Juliana?”
There was no answer. He felt a surge of panic. “Candy.”
A man appeared from the kitchen, blocking the hallway.
“Who are you?” Carveth demanded. “What’s been happening?”
The man reached into his wallet and showed Carveth his identification. “Bruno Markle,” he said. “Inspector of Police.”
He stepped to one side and ushered Carveth into the living room. “Are you a friend of the owner?” he asked.
Carveth nodded. “My mother-in-law. Why? And where’s Candy?”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“She’s safe, I can assure you. Quite safe.” Markle gestured to a chair. “Would you please sit down, sir?”
“What’s been going on?”
“It’s your mother-in-law,” Markle said. “She was attacked, earlier this evening. She’s dead, I’m afraid.”
Carveth stared. “Dead? Juliana’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to say she has been murdered. We don’t know what happened yet. We only arrived a few minutes before you did. But we would like to start working on this one right away. Because of the nature of the attack.”
“But she was all right when I left her.”
Markle waited a moment. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it.” He looked at Carveth. “Sir?”
Carveth shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Are you sure my daughter’s all right?”
“Quite sure. She was found asleep in one of the rooms upstairs. We’ve taken her downtown.” He took out a small note book. “Could I have your name, please?”
“Carveth. Frank Carveth.”
“And you say your mother-in-law lived here?”
Carveth nodded dumbly. “Yes. Juliana. Juliana Kelly. I just can’t believe it.”
“So the two of them were alone?”
“The two of them?”
Markle said patiently, “Your daughter and your mother-in-law.”
“Yes. Juliana was baby sitting.”
“You were here earlier, were you?”
Carveth nodded. “They were looking through some old photographs.” He pointed to the box on the floor. “Those ones, in there.”
Markle pulled some of the pictures from the box, selected one and showed it to Carveth. “Is this your mother-in-law?”
“That’s Juliana.”
“And when did you leave her, leave her with your daughter?”
“About an hour ago,” Carveth said. “I went to see my lawyer.”
Markle made a note in his book.
A uniformed policeman came into the room. He glanced at Carveth, then spoke softly to Markle. “I called in,” he said. “We’ll have a unit here in about five minutes.”
Markle nodded. “Prints, photographs, the works,” he said. “I want the full job on this one.”
Carveth said, “Can I see her?”
“I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. Carveth. Not yet. You can identify her formally downtown.”
“I want to,” Carveth said. “I want to see her.”
Markle looked at him for a moment. “If you wish.”
He led the way into the kitchen. “Just don’t touch anything.”
Juliana’s body lay in the far corner, as if it had been thrown there by someone who no longer had use for it. The top part was twisted at a sharp angle from the bottom, and her legs were bent under her. One arm had been forced behind her back, obviously broken; the other was stretched out from her side.
Carveth stared down at her. “Why have you covered her face like that?”
“It’s just until the unit gets here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Markle shrugged. “I’ve already had to send one officer back to his car to recover,” he said.
“The unit’s here, sir.”
Markle turned to find the uniformed constable standing beside him, his unfocused gaze avoiding the body. “Okay,” he said. “Bring them in.”
He took Carveth’s arm and steered him toward the door. “Perhaps we could go downtown,” he said. “We can see your daughter, and talk there. It’ll be more quiet.”
Carveth moved stiffly, still in a daze.
On the way out, Markle spoke to an officer now standing on duty at the front door. “I don’t want anyone inside this house who doesn’t have official business,” he said. “And if the press turn up, keep them well away, out of the yard too. No details yet. And no description of the woman’s injuries. We’re treating this as a routine murder, as far as the press are concerned.”
Markle drove, struggling slightly with the unfamiliar gears of Carveth’s Volvo. Carveth sat beside him, hunched in his seat, staring bleakly out of the window. As they turned the corner of the street, a blue and white ambulance passed them going the other way. No hurry, he thought. No one could help Juliana now.
Markle parked in a space reserved in his name and led the way to his office.
Seated behind his desk, he asked Carveth, “Did your mother-in-law keep the doors of the house locked?”
Carveth nodded. “Always. She just had the one lock on the front door, an old one. I suggested she get it replaced. She never did, but she always kept it locked.”
“She live alone?”
“For eight years now.”
Markle loosened the button of his jacket. He was wearing a smart, tailored suit, expensively cut. He could have been dressed for a night on the town—elegant, groomed, almost foppish; but there was also a toughness about him, showing most in his eyes, which reflected the hardened cynicism of his profession.
“What happened to the husband?”
“Divorced.”
“Amicably?”
“As much as is possible.”
Markle picked up the phone. “Coffee?” he asked.
Carveth shook his head.
Markle ordered a large one, black no sugar, then turned back to Carveth. “Would her husband still have a key?”
“He might. But if you’re thinking of Barton, you’re off in the wrong direction. He lives and works out of town.”
Markle looked at him. “Do you have any idea,” he asked, “why someone would want to hurt her?”
Carveth shook his head. “Juliana is . . . was . . . an attractive woman. She had lovers no doubt, some serious, some less so. But none that were really permanent. None that meant anything.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I really can’t help you, Inspector. Not now. I’d like to see Candy.”
Markle’s coffee arrived and he took a sip of it. “Sure. She’s here. With Dr. Birkin, the police psychologist.”
“Psychologist? You said she was all right.”
“Oh, she is. She’s fine.” He hesitated. “Perhaps a little too fine, if you know what I mean. She’s very cool about the whole thing. That’s why I wanted Dr. Birkin to look at her.”
; “Have you questioned her?”
“Not really. I asked her if she’d seen anything. She indicated she hadn’t.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Does your daughter normally tell the truth, Mr. Carveth?”
“I’ve taught her to do that, yes.”
“Well, she may have missed the whole thing,” Markle said. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Can I see her?”
Markle picked up the phone and called Dr. Birkin. “He’ll be along,” he told Carveth. He was silent for a moment. “Mr. Carveth,” he said finally, “I don’t want to add to your suffering. But this is no ordinary murder. Your mother-in-law was beaten about the face, and her neck’s been snapped like a stick. Whoever did that to her must have been blind with hate. If that hate wasn’t aimed specifically at her, then we’ve got something very dangerous on our hands. It could happen again, anywhere, to anyone.
“So I’m hoping it was something specific, someone deliberately attacking your mother-in-law. That’s why it’s important if you can think of anyone, anyone at all, who might have had a motive for hurting her, that you let me know as soon as you can. Will you do that?”
Carveth nodded. “I just can’t think of anyone. Juliana was . . . well, ordinary. She lived alone. Did some freelance work for some of the local television stations. Otherwise, she lived on the alimony that Barton still pays her. She didn’t go out a lot. In fact, I think she was lonely a lot of the time, living in that house. She just, I don’t know . . . I hate to say it, but there was no one in her life who might have been roused to the kind of emotion you’re talking about. She just didn’t have that much impact on people.”
“Well, give it some thought. Right now, I’ll need a statement from you. The time you left the house, where you went, the name and address of that lawyer you went to see, that kind of thing.”
David Cronenberg's The Brood Page 5
