There was the sound of clicking, then a pause …
Wallace … you know how I feel about Mac, so I don’t have to sugar-coat what I’m about to say. This is one of the first times in my memory that news from the fair fucking city of Dundurn has ever graced the front page of the fucking Globe and Mail. While I’m happy Mac got laid—he deserves to get laid—he didn’t need to fuck a reporter, much less one with this kind of influence. Look, I’m happy he survived the fire okay, but to be honest, seeing this article, I cannot say the same for this, this … [the sound of shuffling newspaper] Samantha Stewart—Christ, even her name sounds like an alias to me. He got screwed, but he didn’t have to screw all of us. You know how difficult it is to convince people, corporations, to move to Dundurn? We’re still the rectum of the universe for a lot of folks. And now? Now we’ll be known for rabid Scots running around snapping the necks of our citizens, and head-butting and almost torching our top cop. I am not happy.
Wallace picked up again. “I don’t need to add anything to that, I think. But, should your old pal Mayor Bob call, tell him I dressed you down for your poor choice in women.”
When he put the phone down, everyone but Aziz was watching him.
“You all right, boss? Was that the mayor having a shit-fit?” Williams asked.
“It was …” His chest tightened and he worked hard to relax his breathing before the rattle rising in his chest took over.
Aziz swung around to face him. “We all read the piece, Mac. You’re presented as courageous—even fearless—and Bishop just sounds bizarre. Sam says he was a gentleman to cover her up with a blanket and to not touch her. Nonetheless, he left you both for dead.” Aziz was going to stop there, then added, “Samantha wrote that she was terrified that you had died in that chair—that’s the reason she gives for ending the relationship.”
MacNeice nodded several times, and then he looked toward her. “He didn’t leave us to die.” He got up to tap the image of Bishop on the whiteboard. “I think he knew how long it would take for the firefighters to get there. While he hadn’t anticipated I’d knock over my chair—and maybe he should have—I don’t think he wanted us dead. He could easily have killed us both and disappeared. No one would have known. No, he wanted us to know what he’d done. I just don’t know why.”
Aziz said, “Maybe he was tired of it … of that life. Maybe he wanted the truth to be told—and not just the valour and heroics. Lyttelton would have turned him into a poster boy for recruitment.
MacNeice stared at the whiteboard. Turning to Williams and Vertesi, he said, “Okay, let’s get going. Arrest William Byrne and Melody Chapman for perjury and as accessories in the murders of Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan. When you’ve got them in lock-up, arrest …” he flipped through pages of his notes, “Larry Cornelli and Jimmy Albert, the heavies that worked with Bishop in Paul Zetter’s operation. Talk to Vice about potential bookmaking charges, but I want them in a lineup on a potential charge of assault and battery on Freddy Dewar. Freddy can take a good long look at them.”
“I love it. A roundup, just like the old days.” Williams grabbed his notebook and cellphone.
Vertesi stood up and nodded at MacNeice, then followed Williams out the door.
MacNeice picked up his coat and turned to Ryan. “Find the connection between Robert Grant, Jennifer’s brother, and Alexander Knox. There is one. I don’t know what it is, but I’m confident you’ll find it.”
Ryan cracked the knuckles of both hands. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve found something.”
“And find as many photographs of Dylan Nicholson as you can—close-ups, head and shoulders.”
MacNeice turned to Aziz. “Let’s head out to Dundas and do some vegetable shopping.”
Chapter 38
Judging by the exterior, Grant Greengrocers was thriving. Smartly dressed middle-aged women vied for positions in front of impeccably arranged vegetables and fruit under the broad dark-green awnings. A young man was offering tastings of locally produced chutney and savoury sauces on toast. The shop’s logo, an oval festooned with vines, was displayed proudly on his apron.
“Tell us, Daniel,” MacNeice looked up from the name tag on the apron’s pocket, “where we will find Robert Grant?”
“Upstairs in his office. I’ll take you. Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Leading them up the stairs at the back of the store, he added, “It was originally a dentist’s office.”
Robert Grant looked up from his desk. “In those days, at least in Dundas,” he said, “it paid to be versatile. Downstairs he was the chemist, up here, the dentist.” He stood to greet them, recognizing MacNeice but appearing uncertain why.
“I’m Robert Grant.” He offered a hand, first to Aziz.
“I’m Detective Inspector Aziz and this is Detective Superintendent MacNeice of Dundurn Homicide.”
Grant thanked Daniel and hastily ushered him from the office, closing the door behind him. Unsure of what to do next, he asked if they’d like tea or coffee. Before they could answer, he invited them to take a seat in front of the desk.
“Uh, we have a promotion on chai teas … organic.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Grant.” MacNeice sat down in the barrel-backed captain’s chair.
“Please call me Robert.” He chuckled awkwardly, moving the order forms on his desk to the side.
“I saw you at your sister’s interment,” MacNeice said.
Grant squinted as if he was trying to remember and then said, “Sure, right, you were with Dylan. I noticed you didn’t look well.”
“I’m fine now,” MacNeice said. “You were interviewed by two of my detectives, but I wanted to talk to you myself.”
“Certainly, whatever I can do.”
“Tell us about your sister’s disappearance and the reactions you had to it at the time.”
Grant furrowed his brow. “I already told those detectives this story … and I’m not sure what else I can add.”
MacNeice made no attempt to hide the fact that he was studying Grant, and the man moved the order forms back to the centre of the desk, crossed and uncrossed his hands, all the while smiling nervously. To his credit, he had the presence of mind to wait MacNeice out.
“How well do you know Alexander Knox?” MacNeice asked at last.
“I’m sorry … I’m not sure I do. Knox?”
“Take some time to consider your answer.” MacNeice smiled, hoping it would either relax the man or make him realize he was on the threshold of a serious mistake.
The cellphone in MacNeice’s pocket buzzed, and he excused himself and left the room. In the hallway, overlooking the ancient pine stairs with its descending wall of framed black and white photographs—the corner shop through history—he answered Ryan’s call.
“Sir, Al Knox and Robbie Grant played together on Dundas High’s Raiders basketball team for three years. Under Robert’s photo in the yearbook, underneath his ‘#1 Goal for My Senior Year,’ it says, ‘Keep Knox away from my sister.’ Also, I’ve got three great shots of Dylan, two from his yearbook, one from The Standard’s coverage of last year’s high school championship game.”
MacNeice thanked him and put the phone away. Back in Grant’s office, he asked, “Again, any recollection of Alexander Knox?”
“As I said—”
“You played on the same team together for three years, Dundas High School’s Raiders. I believe he had a crush on your sister?”
Grant suddenly looked flattened, but MacNeice carried on. “Knox was at the funeral, and I saw you acknowledge him. Shall we start over?”
“I haven’t seen him much since we graduated.”
“Are you certain that’s true or do you want to think about that as well?”
Grant’s back straightened and his face flushed red. “I told your two officers everything I know—what else do you want from me?” He abruptly stood up and walked over to the window. Neither detective moved.
“Did you blame David Nicholson for your sister’s disappearance,” Aziz added.
“I did.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“I didn’t.” He glanced over to the fireplace mantel, where a Kodachrome of a teenaged Jennifer looked back from a silver frame. She was wearing a turquoise bikini and smiling broadly with her hands on her hips—by the looks of it, down at Burlington Beach.
“Did you know David Nicholson before your sister met him?”
Grant sat down again. “No, none of us knew him. They met at college. My parents said he was just what Jenn needed.”
“Did Knox know him in college too?”
“I don’t think so. They were all in the same place, getting degrees that would lead to teaching, but Nicholson was into things like the chess and debating clubs. Al was into playing ball.”
“How serious was the crush Knox had on your sister, the one you referred to in your yearbook?”
“It was kid stuff. You know, he’d be at our place for a soda, and Sis was there. They’d flirt a bit.”
“Was he known as Sandy or Al in high school?”
“Both. At the time he probably thought ‘Al’ was more macho for an athlete. But his parents called him Sandy and eventually everybody did. Jenn never called him Al. He was always Sandy to her.”
“Were you aware that Nicholson beat Jennifer before she left for California?” MacNeice asked.
“I was, but I thought it was just a smack—her wild side bumping up against his steady-Freddy.”
“It was something more than a smack, Mr. Grant. It was sufficient enough for her to leave her son.”
“But I didn’t know that.” He shook his head as if to erase the comment. “It was the hardest thing to accept when she left, because she loved Dylan. Up to that point, Nicholson always seemed a bit distant from the child, but Sis was mad about him, always teaching him and protecting him. She was crazy about Dylan.”
Aziz couldn’t suppress a comment. “So, even though you referred to her as ‘wild,’ the probability of her deserting him seemed far-fetched to you.”
“For sure. No way she’d leave that kid, unless …” He looked over at the photo of his sister. “… unless she was on drugs or alcohol. She called—this was a week or so after she got to California. She wanted me to check on Dylan, to make sure he was eating properly, wearing clean clothes. She told me to take him a book, tell him that his mom loved him, that she’d be home soon, that kind of thing. The day I went there, David had actually made cookies.”
MacNeice had been looking at the photo of Jennifer in the bikini, and turned back to Grant. “You were in the Royal Dundurn Light Infantry Reserve for three years. Can you tell us about it?”
Grant appeared confused by the question. “I don’t see what that has to do with Jenn, but I was a student and it was a summer job. I joined because I didn’t want to work here. I wasn’t sure that I wanted this life,” He smiled, “You know, the one I’m living now.”
Aziz said, “For a year you did a lot to try and find your sister, but then you gave up. Why?”
“After a while it seemed clear Jenn wasn’t coming home because she didn’t want to. She wasn’t being found because she didn’t want to be.”
“In the reserve, were you taught how to use a grenade?” MacNeice was looking directly at him. “I’m certain I wouldn’t forget being a teenager and throwing a grenade, but if you can’t remember, we can find out through DND.”
“Yes, we were taught how to use grenades. But I really don’t know what you’re driving at here. You think I killed Nicholson? My sister’s dead, at the hands of her husband and we—all of us who’d judged her poorly—have to live with that. What could my high school reserve service have to do with this?”
“Maybe nothing,” MacNeice said, and stood up to terminate the meeting. “Thank you for your time.”
Once in the Chevy, MacNeice looked back at the thriving grocery business. “Can you hear it or feel it? The fizz beginning on that second floor.”
“Is that why you ended the interview?”
“Yes.”
“So you think he and Knox conspired to murder David Nicholson.
“I think he was involved.”
“Then why stop the interview? Why not press him harder?”
“Because Grant is on the phone to Knox right now.”
The difficulty was that, as far as the police knew, neither man had knowledge at the time that Jennifer had been harmed by David Nicholson other than what Grant referred to as the “smack” that sent her off to California. Both men would have been all too happy to report him to the police had they known about the basement on Ryder Road.
“So why would they go to such extremes so many years later?” MacNeice asked.
Aziz said, “Who knows. Are we off to Mercy for an interview with Knox?”
MacNeice executed a slow U-turn back toward the city. “Not exactly.”
“Was this visit a shot in the dark?”
“Partly … but more about the fizz.” Just as he was about to add that it was a good day for a drive because it wasn’t raining, the rain began again, softly at first, but within seconds, it turned into a deluge.
MacNeice passed Main and Aberdeen, dropping down the hill and past the entrance to the division parking lot. Aziz didn’t bother to ask him where he was going, because she knew well before he turned up the street toward Our Lady of Mercy High School. Shutting down the engine, he looked out beyond the chain link fence to the building but said nothing. The sound of rain filled the space between them.
Moments passed before he said, “Look over there, second set of windows to the right of the exit doors … that’s Knox’s office.”
Aziz glanced toward the school. MacNeice watched it as if he was waiting for something dramatic to happen.
“Do we go speak to him?”
“Knox is all about controlling outcomes. Swetsky hasn’t been able to push him over the line, so it’s doubtful that I could … So, we wait.”
Grant was probably on the phone to Knox, who was reassuring him that this was just a fishing trip and the cops had no evidence—otherwise, they would have arrested him. “He’s watching us from that office,” MacNeice said.
“You can see him?” She swung her head to look at the building.
“No, but I can feel him. More precisely, if I were him, I’d be looking out that window.”
From all she’d heard about Knox and learned about basketball, Aziz was prepared to make a few wild guesses of her own. “A basketball coach trains young men to fight for ball control and to score more points than their competitors. If you’re right, Mac, his identity may be entirely dependent on his ability to determine outcomes. If he’s smart, he’s already worked out the ‘what happens if’ scenarios.”
“So you’re saying he’s one step ahead of us?”
“Basically. If he has done this, Knox would have his escape planned just like a marmot creates multiple exits through an underground tunnel system. In his case, escape might include using the second grenade on himself.”
“Because prison means he loses his authority.”
“Precisely. He’s likely to be most dangerous when this loss of control is imminent.”
They sat for a few minutes in silence before MacNeice eased the Chevy up the side street and past Mercy’s entrance, turning left on King, toward Division uptown.
Vertesi and Williams hadn’t returned, though Ryan said there were three people already in the holding cells and the duty sergeant had said legal aid was on the way for two of them—the heavies—and a James Street lawyer had already arrived for Melody Chapman. “They haven’t found Byrne yet.”
“Any other news?” Aziz asked.
“Well, the chief meteorologist has warned that this record rainfall will continue till the end of March … and that loc
al communities have the responsibility to manage local reservoir capacity.”
Aziz managed to grin for him.
MacNeice returned just then with espresso for himself and Aziz. He was studying the whiteboard as Ryan continued. “And this came in from the Al Jazeera online newsfeed:
Late yesterday, Nigerian national forces retook Sunke, the center nearest OR-Afrique’s mining interests. It had been under control of the province’s Islamic insurgents, Boko Haram. The mutilated bodies of members of an independent security team were retrieved from a ditch and flown to Niger, where they will be repatriated to their country of origin, at the expense of their employer. Arrangements are underway in Glasgow for the return of one, a local hero, Major Robert Buchanan. The highly decorated former member of the elite SAS brigade led the security force and died while trying to save his comrades …
Realizing the cubicle had gone silent, Ryan shut up.
Aziz turned to MacNeice, who was taking the images of Anniken, Duguald, Markus, Sherry and Buchanan off the whiteboard. He placed each one on the filing cabinet, resting his palm on the images for a moment as if they might otherwise fly away. Lyttelton, he was certain, was doing damage control on Frankenstein’s image, eclipsing the random acts of savagery with those that produce medals for bravery. MacNeice sat at his desk and studied the Nicholson case images. He finished his coffee, put the cup down and opened his notebook. Flipping through the pages, he stopped when he found a telephone number.
He placed the call and the phone rang several times. MacNeice glanced at the time, 1:25 p.m., and noted it on the page. He was about to hang up when a woman answered.
“It’s Detective MacNeice calling. Is Dylan there, please?”
“Well, he’s just on his way out for a slice of pizza with Tom, but I’ll see if I can catch him for you.” She sounded engaged and bright. MacNeice wondered what it was like for Dylan to be in a house with someone who was actually maternal.
“Hey, sir … What’s up?”
Knowing that Dylan’s lunch hour was fleeting, MacNeice cut to the point. “Can you recall how long you’ve known Coach Knox?”
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