by Anne Emery
“What kind of car was it?”
“A Crown Victoria. I knew the licence number at the time, but I can’t remember it now.”
“Why did you feel strongly enough about this to memorize the tag number?”
“Because one night they had this girl in the car with them. And I thought maybe they were exploiting these marginalized young people.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Someone I’d seen hanging around in the parking garage.”
“And then she was with this couple? Did you get the impression she had gone into the car willingly? Or had she been abducted?” He shrugged and looked away. “What is it?” I prompted him.
“I don’t know what she was doing with them. She may have known them, or —” Again, a reluctance to continue.
“What’s the matter, Chaz?”
“It’s just that I had tried to connect with this girl, do some dialoguing, She wouldn’t open up. When I saw her in the back seat of the car, I made kind of a questioning gesture as if to say: What are you doing there? Or: Are you okay?”
“And?”
“She gave me the finger.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing, really.”
“So you didn’t follow it up?”
“No.”
“Why not?” But I knew the answer. She had given him the finger, brushed off his attempts to “dialogue.” So the hell with her, even if she was being exploited. “Did you see the girl again?”
“No. Right then was when a group of stowaways was found on a ship from the Middle East. I got involved in that issue and I left my job in the parking garage.”
“So you have no idea what happened to the girl.”
“No. But the way she looked at me when she left was not, like, Help me, I’m being kidnapped. It was Fuck you. So, she didn’t look as if she was in fear of her life.”
“Not at that point, anyway,” I said.
I left him and drove downtown.
When I got back to my desk, I scribbled some notes on that day’s interviews and put them in the file. Graham Scott’s name caught my eye. I didn’t have much information about him. It occurred to me to ask his family for a photo. Not that it would serve much of a purpose, but it could provide an excuse to see his parents and perhaps learn more about his life. So I picked up the phone, called his mother, and invited myself over to pick up a snapshot.
The Scotts lived in a large, elegant old house on Larch Street, across from Kings College. The entire front yard was a garden of spring flowers. Muriel Scott, wearing an old canvas jacket and a straw hat, was pruning a shrub; it looked as if it was just past flowering.
“You’re handy with a pair of secateurs,” I said to her.
“That’s a word we don’t hear much these days,” she replied. “Come inside.”
She ushered me into a living room done tastefully in pale blue and cream.
“How are things progressing?” she asked.
“Oh, these matters tend to move at a stately pace.”
“I see. Well. Let’s choose a photograph of Graham. You need this for what again?”
“We want to come as close as we can to an accurate account of what happened that night,” I improvised. “It would help if we could trace Graham’s movements.”
“I thought the facts were quite straightforward, Mr. Collins. This Leaman fellow was released prematurely from the Baird Centre. His problems were such that he took my son’s life, and then shot himself with the same weapon.”
“Yes. But the fewer loose ends we have heading into the litigation, the less likely we’ll be tripped up by opposing counsel. We want to be in possession of all the facts, as painful as they might be. A picture may assist us in finding people who may have seen Graham that night.”
“Very well. Have a seat, Mr. Collins. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Scott. I won’t keep you.”
She left the room and came back a few minutes later with two large photo albums. “I don’t suppose there is much point in showing you this one. It depicts Graham’s earlier life, his teen years. This is the more recent collection.” She fell silent as she reverently turned the pages of her son’s short life. I picked up the earlier album and saw a handsome, sandy-haired young boy on the tennis court, on the golf links, and on a modest-sized sailboat. I could see only part of the boat’s name: “— ark.” In his late teens, Graham began appearing on a series of Japanese motorcycles, starting at about the 350 cc size, moving up to a Goldwing 1000. A series of girlfriends stood at his side; the girls seemed to get less and less preppy-looking as the years went by. I could have sworn one was an old client of mine.
Mrs. Scott turned to me and drew my attention to some pictures in the later album. Graham on the Dalhousie campus, Graham at a church event with his father in his vestments, Graham clowning on one of the bateaux-mouches on the Seine, Graham with his arm around a black-haired beauty on the deck of a sailboat. Not the “— ark” this time, a larger boat with a crowd of revellers on board.
“Quite the sailor, was he?” I asked his mother.
“Oh yes, Graham loved the water. That’s my brother’s boat. Graham was on board every chance he got.”
I looked at the background. The photo must have been fairly recent. Mad Ludwig’s Castle was visible on shore. “Do you know the Fanshaws?” I asked, pointing to the garish house.
Her mouth tightened into a severe line, but she said in a level voice: “No. Well, we have met them at various events around the city, but we don’t know them personally.” Not our sort, darling, I suspected.
“Then I imagine you’re glad you’re not in sighting range of the palace.”
“Mmm. They do a lot of good works,” she said dutifully.
I thought of something then, a remark I had heard about a boat.
“That boat Graham was on, the smaller one — do you know the name of it?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. That was Kenneth Fanshaw’s boat. He called it the Biz-Mark. Prompting some to question his grasp of history.”
“So Graham used to sail with Mr. Fanshaw.”
“I believe that was an isolated incident. Now if you look at the more recent photos, you’ll see Graham as he was shortly before his life was taken from him.”
The albums showed a privileged young man enjoying his life. I wondered whether he had possessed a photo spread of his own, detailing the seamier side of that life. His mother and I agreed on a close-up, which showed him to great advantage, and I headed back to work. I would probably never have occasion to show his picture to anyone because I couldn’t think of anyone to show it to.
I got to the office just in time to receive a call from a Mrs. Pottie.
“Hello.”
“Are you the fellow’s been asking after poor Tilly?”
“Um, I don’t —”
“Speak up! They’ve got the darn television turned up so loud you’ll have to shout. Half the people here are deaf! I’m at Shady Dale, you know, the nursing home. Ever since I took a turn.”
The Shady Deals nursing home. Poor soul, whoever she was. “Mrs. Pottie? I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re calling me about.”
“Weren’t you out in Sackville earlier today asking after Tilly? My granddaughter — God knows, she’s thick as two planks — she was just here. A red-letter day when I get a visit from that one. She gave me a business card and said some man was on the doorstep.”
“Oh, yes. Tilly Lundrigan. So, what can you tell me about —”
“I can start by telling you you’ve got her name wrong. I thank my Lord and Saviour that I still have my hearing. Maybe you’re not so fortunate. Tilly’s name was Lonergan, and I don’t know how many times I’ve heard people say it like Lundrigan. Tilly Lonergan. Now, what is it you want to know?”
“I’d like to know where I can reach her.”
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“No. Oh, is she —”
“You were a good friend of Mrs. Lonergan, I take it.”
“Well, neighbourly friends, you know. See each other at the bus stop on the way in for our appointments, or her going to that food bank or wherever it was she helped out. Though why Tilly took the bus when she could easily have afforded a taxi, I couldn’t tell you. Same with that house. She never put a cent into it. They tore it down, and slapped up a bunch of apartments. Instant slum. But anyway, that’s the way things are. We’d see each other in the street and say hello.”
And knew each other’s prescriptions. Well, I supposed that was bus chat for some people. “Did Mrs. Lonergan ever mention a young guy by the name of Corey Leaman?”
“I know that scoundrel used to work around Tilly’s house, but she never spoke of him to me. Maybe because she knew what I thought of him.”
“You knew Corey?”
“I didn’t know him. I knew of him. Drugs and loud cars, and God knows what else. A jailbird in the end. Well, you could see that coming.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Pottie. I appreciate your call.”
“You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get after this bunch of incompetents to turn down that squawk box so some of us can have a moment’s peace. Goodbye.”
So. No kindly neighbour to reminisce with me about Corey Leaman. But the name Tilly Lonergan had struck a chord in a distant chamber of my mind. I would have to give it some consideration. Meanwhile, I had thought of someone else who had known Leaman. It was quitting time, but I would try for one more interview before I left. Doctor Gareth Swail-Peddle, who worked with Corey at the Baird Centre, had promised to come in if he found his notes about Corey’s treatment. I called his office, but was told he was out of town, attending a “codependency” conference in Las Vegas. I left a message asking him to call me.
†
“Are you into the candies again, Normie? I told you no candy before your supper.” I had just walked into my living room to find both my kids with their hands in the candy bowl. They ignored me.
“Is there real fruit in these ones?” Normie asked her brother. “I should be allowed three if it’s real fruit.”
“I think we can count anything made of sugar as fruit,” Tom answered. “Sugar grows out of the ground. It might even be a vegetable.”
“Four then,” Normie muttered, and she scooped them up in her hands.
“You got a problem with that, Dad?” my son asked me.
“Nah. Supper’s just frozen lasagna anyway.”
I stuck the lasagna in the oven, and we all went downstairs where I kept my instruments. I took out one of my harmonicas and played some shuffles, with Tom keeping up on guitar, and Normie plinking along on the keyboard.
“We’re going to a ceilidh, right, Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“When we go to Cape Breton.”
“Yes, right.” Maura and I had made plans, during our night of détente at the Lord Nelson, to take the kids to Glace Bay the weekend she got back, to visit her family. This had not been presented as a second honeymoon by any means; it was, if I remembered accurately: “You may as well come too, and Brennan. He’ll enjoy the music. There’s a ceilidh that weekend.” Still, I was hopeful.
“Grandma called the other night and said she’ll have the tea on.”
So, it had been confirmed. All the better.
I sat there smiling at my children. I remembered the feeling of Normie’s soft little arms curling around my neck when she was a toddler. I remembered Maura coming by in the car to pick me up at the office, our baby girl in the car seat; the little chubby legs would start kicking when she saw me, and a big grin would spread across her face. Tommy was the same at that age. Nobody ever loves you like that again. Makes you believe human beings are basically good. Or at least they start off that way.
We ate our lasagna, and Tom settled down to a chemistry assignment. It took some effort, but I got Normie started on her math homework. Then I put some tunes on the stereo and did nothing but anticipate the weekend in Cape Breton.
The Leaman case must have been percolating just below my consciousness, though, because when I turned my mind to it, I remembered where I had seen the name Matilda Lonergan: in Dice Campbell’s papers. And one of Dice’s news clippings was about an unnamed offender who turned out to be Corey Leaman. I had not yet decided whether to regard that as a coincidence or a finding of significance. Bob Mahoney had told me Mrs. Lonergan had spoken fondly of Leaman at one of the boy’s court hearings. Was it the relationship with Leaman that accounted for her name in Dice’s records? I sat back and closed my eyes, trying to bring an image of those files into my mind. A lease, that was it. And Campbell had handled the woman’s will along with some other little job, a pension problem or something. But why not? A lawyer practising alone tended to do a bit of everything. If it put a hundred dollars or so in his pocket, that was better than zero. Perhaps later, when the practice grew, a will would not — I remembered it then. John Trevelyan, before his elevation to the bench, had passed the little assignments on to Campbell. Not worth his time, I supposed. Why not get a junior lawyer in his own firm to handle it, though? The person who could answer that question, of course, was Justice Trevelyan. But there was no need for me to endure the insufferable man myself when I had his long-suffering son in my office. Ross was probably still bent over his desk on a Tuesday evening, toiling away to pay the humongous mortgage he must have taken out for the house on Beaufort Avenue.
“Hello?” Even two syllables gave him away. The man was frazzled.
“Ross. It’s Monty. You sound a little tense.”
“Oh, Christ. I took the long weekend off. Worst thing I ever did. The whole weekend I was in a panic about what was waiting for me at the office. And sure enough, it’s come down on me like a ton of bricks. I’ve got discoveries tomorrow and I haven’t even read the file. That’s because I have a factum due —” I heard a crash and shot the phone away from my ear. “Sorry, sorry. I had the phone on top of the appellant’s factum, which is the size of, well, a phone book, and when I reached . . . Never mind. What can I do for you, Monty?”
“This won’t add too much to your workday.”
“Whew! So, what gives?”
“I was just wondering if you could have a word with your father for me.”
“A word about . . .”
“Not about a case in his courtroom, needless to say. A name has come up in connection with the Leaman case. A woman called Matilda Lonergan.” Silence. “Ross? Are you there?”
“Sorry again, Monty. I’m half reading what’s in front of me here. You’ll have to forgive me. What was the name again?”
“Matilda Lonergan.”
“Never heard of her.”
“No, well, the connection was with your father.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I remember seeing something about her in Dice Campbell’s old files.”
“Dice Campbell.”
“Yeah, your father must have been tossing him a bone once in a while. Stuff your father didn’t want to bother with. Was your dad a friend of Campbell’s?”
“I doubt it! Well, could have been, I guess, if you say he gave him some work. What kind of work was it?”
“Her will, a lease for a small building, some other thing.”
“I see.”
“The papers are in a file that makes reference to Trevelyan and Associates, and she also has a connection with Leaman. She was a neighbour of his and was apparently quite fond of him.”
>
“Where’s this will now?”
“In with Dice’s old files.”
“What does it say?”
“I didn’t read it. I just remember flipping to the last couple of pages and seeing that Dice’s secretary was one of the witnesses. Looked to me like the usual little-old-lady will, teapots and knickknacks lovingly divided among her nieces. You know the kind of thing.”
He laughed. “Sure. And what else was it, a lease?”
“Yeah. She was the landlord of a little place that would not, I suspect, bill itself as ‘executive living.’ So, I was hoping you could ask your father about this woman, whether by any chance she ever mentioned Leaman. He probably won’t even remember, but why not give it a try.”
“No problem. I’ll ask him and let you know as soon as I’ve spoken with him.”
“Great. Now I’ll leave you to your factum, and the discovery, and whatever else is making your life a living hell right now.”
“You said it. Monty?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever think of just chucking it all, working in a bar, selling your house and moving into a little comfy flat somewhere?”
“Gets to you, doesn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if — don’t get me wrong. Elspeth is the most wonderful wife a guy could ever hope for. But we just bought the big place on Beaufort, and now she wants to put an addition on it.”
“Whoa!”
“Yeah. I’m hoping the city won’t give us a building permit. Maybe I’ll rent a backhoe, set it up in the yard, and let the neighbours start fretting about what we’re going to do. Get them riled up so they’ll oppose it!”
“That may be your best hope. I’ll let you go, Ross. Don’t work all night.”
“Right.”
Well, I had negotiated for my nights off years ago, and this particular evening would be devoted to the music of the heavens. I said goodbye to the kids, grabbed my choir binder and headed downtown to St. Bernadette’s.
