Cold Comfort

by Scott Mackay

  “But she came back to earth, didn’t she?” said Gilbert. “Once you and Cheryl split.”

  Matchett took a deep breath, thinking it over. “She got a little better.” He stared at the dashboard, thinking. “Then again, I still haven’t got my clothes back.”

  “Why exactly did you and Cheryl end it?”

  The light turned green and they eased across the intersection.

  “I guess when the election was over there just didn’t seem to be any fizz left,” said Matchett. “We had nothing to talk about. We had no real mutual interests. We made no conscious decision to end it. We just more or less went back to our other lives. We picked up old patterns, and those patterns didn’t include each other. Her stepsister moved from Sudbury about that time. I guess her stepsister had troubles of one kind or another. I was sorry to hear about her murder.”

  “Did you ever meet Donna?”

  “I met the lot of them. Her stepbrothers came down in early December, I don’t know why, family meeting of some kind. I can’t say that Donna and Larry are my kind of people. I don’t mean to be…you know…I tried to like them, but I just found them…I don’t know, trashy. Real down-and-outers, losers with dirty hair and bad teeth. Dean was all right, though. I think he’s a dentist or something.”

  They passed the government-subsidized high-rises of Jamestown and turned right on Parliament. A family meeting. Gilbert would have to make a note of that. He was beginning to think Bannatyne was right; maybe their prime suspects in both murders might turn out to be the Varley brothers.

  They turned left on Winchester past the old Winchester Hotel, with its cheap draft, cheap drunks, and cheap rooms, a leftover from Cabbage Town, when the area was still the city’s worst slum, before all the trendies and yuppies invaded.

  “I’m right here,” said Matchett, pointing to a huge Edwardian house. “I have the whole third floor.”

  Gilbert found a parking spot along the curb. “I still haven’t figured out Cheryl’s family tree. Dorothy was her birth mother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So Dorothy married Craig Shaw, and together they had Cheryl. Joe’s still digging through the Registrar’s records. We’re still trying to piece it together.”

  “Craig Shaw was a big shot with Lac Minerals, back when Lac Minerals was still a going concern. He was killed in a cave-in touring one of their new operations in Quebec.”

  “That much we’ve learned.”

  “Cheryl was around ten at the time.”

  “Any other children from that marriage?”

  Matchett unsnapped his seat-belt. “Nope,” he said, “Cheryl’s the only one.”

  The two men got out of the Lumina and headed across the street. God, that sun felt nice.

  “So Dorothy then married Paul Varley,” said Gilbert.

  Matchett nodded. “Some time in the early seventies.”

  “And he already had three children.”

  Matchett pushed the gate open. “Larry and Dean were quite a bit older. Larry was nineteen and Dean was seventeen. Then again, Donna was younger than Cheryl. Cheryl was twelve when her mother married Paul Varley. Donna had to be about nine.”

  “And were things all right?” asked Gilbert. “Did Cheryl get along with her new family?”

  They went up the walk. Matchett took out his house keys.

  “As far as I know, yes,” he said. “I don’t think she was ever that close to the boys. They were so much older. Larry was already moved out. And Dean, I don’t know, I think he left for Guelph a year later. He went to school there. So it was really only Donna. Donna’s not too terribly bright. I think Cheryl must have dominated her.”

  He opened the door and they went inside. “So then Paul Varley died,” said Gilbert.

  “About two years later,” said Matchett. “In a snowmobile accident. Apparently the girls were with him. They were miles from nowhere, up in Onaping Falls. The girls weren’t hurt, but by the time they got help, Paul Varley was already dead.”

  Gilbert shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

  “Kind of rough, isn’t it?” said Matchett, as they began climbing his private set of stairs to his third-floor apartment. “To lose two fathers in the space of four years. But Cheryl’s resilient. The more you get to know her, the more you see that. She’s got a tough little spot inside her nobody can touch.”

  “And her mother married Webb when?”

  “Some time in the mid-eighties. Donna stayed in Sudbury. She wanted to be close to her brothers, even though by that time Larry had been in and out of jail a number of times. Tom has his constituency up there, but when he became the member for Sudbury West, they moved down here. Cheryl wanted to be with her mother. And she wanted to go to school here so it all worked out.”

  They climbed the second flight of stairs to Alvin Matchett’s apartment. The building had been newly renovated and the hardwood steps gleamed. Matchett opened the door and they went inside. The more Gilbert thought about it, the more he realized he would have to drive up to Sudbury.

  “I keep it in the bedroom,” said Matchett, flicking on the light.

  “Do you want me to take off my shoes?” asked Gilbert.

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll just be a second.”

  Matchett hurried down the hall. Gilbert glanced around while he waited. The mishmash of furnishings in the living room, the way they looked so hastily arranged, gave the place an impermanent unlived-in look. Peering into the kitchen, Gilbert saw three pizza boxes stuffed between the fridge and the counter and a half-finished frozen dinner on the table.

  Matchett returned from his bedroom carrying what looked like a metal attache case.

  “You just want the gun, right?” he said. “You don’t need the case.”

  “Maybe a couple of your rounds to test-fire.”

  “Sure.”

  Matchett lifted the snaps and opened the case.

  And they both just stared.

  The gun wasn’t there. Only its hard-foam case impression, as detailed as a foundry mold, cut cleanly in the perfect shape of a Heckler and Koch .45, but empty, gone, taken. The eleven-round clip was there, snug in its own perfect little mold. So were the custom shoulder mount, the owner’s manual, the registration papers, a can of gun oil, two tins of ammunition, and the gun club schedule. But the actual weapon was gone.

  Gilbert looked at Matchett, waiting for an explanation, waiting for him to go back to his bedroom and maybe find the semiautomatic in his dresser drawer. But Matchett just stared at the empty mold in disbelief. Then Matchett turned to Gilbert; it was like the two of them were rock climbing; and Gilbert was already at the top pulling Matchett up by a rope; but now the rope snapped; and Matchett’s expression was frozen in that instant of the snapping rope, with the realization he was falling, and that there was nothing Gilbert could do to save him. Matchett looked at the empty case again, as if he had to convince himself. Gilbert waited patiently.

  “Barry, this is…” Matchett’s face flushed, and he turned quickly away, rubbing his hand over his brow, his mouth slackening in astonishment, the veins above his temples bulging. “Barry, the gun was there. You know me. I’m careful about firearms. The gun was there, I know it was. I do everything by the book. The only time that gun comes out of the case is at the range.”

  “Maybe you were cleaning it,” suggested Gilbert. “Maybe you left it in your bedroom somewhere.”

  Matchett gave his head a brief shake, dismissing the idea outright.

  “I never clean it here,” he said. “We have a workbench at the club. I always…”

  He looked down the hall, clutching at the remote possibility that he may indeed have cleaned his gun here after all. He broke suddenly away from Gilbert and hurried to his bedroom. He ducked quickly inside. Gilbert, hearing him pull open dresser drawers, followed quietly behind. He stopped at Matchett’s bedroom door. Matchett ferreted madly through underwear and socks, opened the next drawer, looked through sweatpants and sweaters,
opened the next drawer, searched through pants and shorts. Then went to his closet, opened the built-in drawers there. Then checked under his bed. Got desperate. Under the pillows. Finally between the mattress and the box spring. Then stopped, walked to the window, checked the ledge, kicked a pile of clothes out of the way, put his palms against the sill, and leaned forward, staring out the pane at the sunny street below, as if he believed the gun might be out on the roof.

  “Alvin…” Gilbert didn’t know what to say.

  Matchett whirled around. “If you think I had anything to do with the murder of Cheryl Latham, you’re crazy. Why would I murder Cheryl? There’s no reason at all.”

  “Alvin…no one said any…I know you didn’t murder Cheryl…but we have to find the gun…do you have any idea…”

  “Of course I don’t,” he said. “If I knew where it was, I’d give it to you.”

  “So you think someone might have taken it?” asked Gilbert. “When was the last time you were up at the gun club?”

  “A week ago Thursday,” he said. “I go every Thursday night.”

  “But you weren’t there last Thursday night?”

  “No,” he said. “I was too busy going over the security measures for the funeral.”

  “So the last time you saw the gun in the case was that Thursday night up at the gun club?”

  “Yes.”

  Gilbert thought for a moment; so the Heckler and Koch was last seen six days before the murder.

  “Any sign of a break-in?” suggested Gilbert. “You don’t think someone could have burgled your apartment for the gun.”

  “We used to work break-ins, Barry,” he said. “I don’t think I’d miss it.”

  “How many people know you own the gun?”

  Matchett moved away from the window and sat on the end of the bed. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice now growing despondent. “Everyone at the club. Everyone at work. Otto.”

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Otto Kovacs?”

  Matchett nodded.

  “I didn’t know he was still around.”

  “He was out West for a while but he’s moved back.”

  “I don’t know how long it’s been. Twenty-five years at least. I should look him up.”

  “Still the same old Otto. He works for Hydro now.”

  “So Otto knows you have the gun. Who else?”

  Matchett shook his head absently, his eyes widening in bewilderment. “That’s it. That’s everybody. I don’t know who’s taken it, but obviously someone’s taken it.”

  “Someone with a key? Who else has a key to this place?”

  Matchett’s eyes narrowed; he hesitated. “Just my landlord,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Because if you’re not sure, I think you better let me know.”

  “It doesn’t have to be someone with a key,” he said irritably. “I don’t live a hermit’s life here, Barry. I have people in and out all the time. I don’t think anyone I know would steal my gun, but you never know.”

  “We’ve really got to find that gun, Alvin.”

  “I’ll report it stolen. I’ve got the serial number.”

  “And I’m going to have to know where you were on the night of Cheryl’s murder.”

  Matchett sprang up. “This is starting to sound like Dennison, you know that? You’re turning me into a suspect. Do you have any idea what I went through with Dennison? Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your whole career ruined just because of one little mistake? And now it’s happening all over again. Circumstances are ganging up on me. I finally found a job I like and that I can live with, and the hallowed MTPF is going to rip it all apart again. I should have been reinstated after the Dennison enquiry. I shot him, I admit it, I shot him even though he was unarmed, but for Christ’s sake, Barry, he looked like he was reaching for something. And the car came up as stolen. How was I to know he was just a fifteen-year-old black kid going for a joy ride? There’s not one day that goes by I don’t think about that kid. Not one single day.”

  “I know, Alvin,” said Gilbert. “But we still have to find the gun.”

  “Shoot any one of those bastards on the enquiry in the chest the way Laraby did to me, and you would have seen a much different ruling,” said Matchett. “I would have been like you by now. I would have been in Homicide.”

  “I know, Alvin,” said Gilbert. “You’re a damn good cop.”

  “I was one of the best.”

  “So you have to understand that I have to follow this procedure.”

  “I didn’t kill Cheryl.”

  “No one says you did.”

  “Give me the case file, Barry. I’ll find her killer.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Alvin.”

  “Give me the file, I’ll drag the prick in. I’m not going to go through another Dennison.”

  Gilbert clasped his old partner’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “We’re just going to straighten things out, that’s all.”

  Matchett stared at the floor, not saying a word. He was breathing fast, huffing, and his face was blotchy; Gilbert knew just how deeply scarred his old partner had been by the whole Dennison affair. He glanced out the window, where he saw a diaper truck drive by. Matchett’s breathing grew a little easier.

  “All right?” said Gilbert.

  Matchett continued to stare at the floor but finally nodded. Gilbert took his hand off his shoulder.

  “Good,” he said. “Now just tell me where you were on Tuesday night.”

  Matchett shrugged but it was a hopeless shrug. “I got off work late. We were expecting a protest over the announced cuts but I guess because it was so cold that day it never materialized. I didn’t go straight home. I went to Lanyon’s for supper. That’s just down here on Parliament, south of Gerrard. Talk to Cindy, she was my waitress. Then I came home for a while and watched TV.”

  “Did anybody hear or see you come in?”

  “I don’t know. I have a private entrance.”

  Gilbert considered. “So you got home from Lanyon’s about eight.”

  “About that.”

  “And you watched TV.”

  “Until about ten. Then I went to the Winchester and had a few drinks.”

  “So no one can confirm where you were between nine and ten.”

  Matchett shrugged, as if it were a matter of no great concern to him. “I thought you said Cheryl got back from fitness class just after nine. What difference does it make whether someone knows where I was between nine and ten?”

  “And people can confirm you were at the Winchester at ten.”

  “All of the regulars know me. You can ask any of them.”

  “And what time did you leave the Winchester?”

  “About eleven,” said Matchett.

  “And you went straight home?”

  Matchett nodded, now growing impatient. “I went straight home. And I’m sorry, no one saw me come in. Maybe someone downstairs heard me. You can check with them. They’re nice people. Quiet types. Early risers. They might have been in bed by that time.”

  “You didn’t phone anybody?”

  “No.”

  Gilbert scratched his forehead. “Okay, okay,” he finally said. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You give me a list of everybody who knows you have that gun.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, look at the time. I better get you back to work.”

  “You’re going to look for the gun?” asked Matchett.

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Barry, I didn’t do it.”

  “I know you didn’t. But I’ve got to have the paperwork, Alvin.”

  “So I’ll give you this list and you’ll go around accusing all my friends of theft?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be diplomatic.”

  When they were in the car driving back, they again caught the light at Church and Wellesley. A cross-dresser walked by, beautiful, attractive, sl
im, with ruby red lipstick and false eye-lashes, but with the obvious big hands of a man.

  “And you’re sure no one else has a key to your apartment?” said Gilbert.

  Matchett’s face settled. “No,” he said. “No one at all.”

  At three o’clock that afternoon, Joe Lombardo dropped the evening edition of the Toronto Star on his desk.

  “That asshole Roffey is at it again,” he said.

  The story occupied five inches of column on the third page, no longer first-page material the way it had been last week. Gilbert read the lead:

  POLICE SAY NO SUSPECTS IN CHERYL LATHAM SLAYING

  He read no further.

  “Where did he get that?” he asked. “Did he not read our statement?”

  “I guess he wants names.”

  “Fuck him,” said Gilbert. “He’s not getting names. He’s trying to force our hand. Like he always does.”

  “Carol says Ling was by,” said Lombardo. “I wasn’t here at the time. But he talked to Marsh for at least thirty minutes. And now Marsh wants to see us.”

  “Right now?”

  Lombardo nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Carol’s already brought him the file.”

  Gilbert glanced at his computer, where dozens of little Windows logos floated out from the screen. “Shit,” he said. “I told her if she wants a file she has to ask me first. I’m going to start keeping things on disk. To hell with this hardcopy shit.”

  “She had no choice,” said Lombardo. “Marsh wanted it. She had to get it. I’m afraid you’re number-two tyrant around here, Barry.”

  Gilbert made a face. “Very funny.”

  “Not if you’re Carol.”

  Marsh flipped impatiently through the case file, examining photographs, double-checking measurements, reading only the external-marks-of-violence and cause-of-death sections in the autopsy report. He had his own copy of the Toronto Star at his elbow, folded neatly to page three. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray next to a smoke-eater—officially there was no smoking in the new building. He had the Donna Varley file on his desk as well, open to the ballistics section. But what seemed to interest him the most was the Cheryl Latham crime-scene report. He took one last look at the crime-scene report then shoved everything aside.