by Linda Moore
“I’d like to borrow them. Your father wasn’t cremated, was he?” I asked.
“I think my mother would have had him cremated, but he’d requested a burial in his will.”
“Tell me about your mother—does she have family here?”
“No, but my mother didn’t get on that well with her family. My father met her in London, when he was attending the London School of Economics. After they married he brought her home to Canada. He studied law at Osgoode Hall and then they came here. But she went abroad to visit friends quite often over the years.”
“And where in Europe is she from?”
“Zurich. In fact, I stayed with some cousins when I studied there. I took a summer architecture course on exterior motifs a few years ago.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I said.
“It was. It was great. Those were the days.” He rose from the table. “I’ll get those things for you,” he said.
For just a second, I caught a glimpse of the carefree Daniel, a young man on the road to success studying architecture, and coming from an interesting cosmopolitan family; a life full of promise. I realized that all that innocence had now been shattered. Everything had changed with the suspicious death of his father. It seemed to him that even his own mother had abandoned him.
“What’s the next step?” he asked, bringing me the guest book and the video.
“Well, if we want to examine this question of a poisoning, we must get permission to exhume the body and do a thorough forensic autopsy. It’s the only way to find out. I can prepare theories on what may have been used, and McBride will be working hard to dig for the who and the why. But in the end, we’ve got to go back to the body if we want to find evidence and prove murder. And if what we suspect is true, then there are those who will stand fiercely in our way. So we’ve all got to be brave and very careful, including you Daniel.”
“Well, I’m getting on a plane to Toronto in the morning and going back to my life. It’s going to be up to you and McBride.”
“That’s what you’ve hired us for,” I said, “so give yourself a break. You’re far too stressed. Sometimes work is just the thing we need to pull us through.”
“That’s what my father always said.”
“Anyway, you’ve been here for several weeks. It’s time for you to go home,” I said. “Do you have kids?”
“No, but I am getting married,” he said.
“Well good. Your fiancée will be glad to have you back. What’s her name?”
“John.” He smiled warmly for the first time.
“No kidding,” I said. “Well there you are. You see, you are brave. And you’re a groundbreaker. It bodes well for the case.”
“I hope so,” he said.
I had told Daniel King he was brave, but I knew he was confused and frightened. I felt close to understanding something—but what? I got into Old Solid and drove along Oxford, then up Quinpool to the rotary and out the Herring Cove Road to Crystal Crescent Beach. The sun was shining and it wasn’t too cold. Sometimes the ocean and a brisk walk will clear my head. I had been affected by Daniel’s story of his father’s determined dedication to the greater good, and I felt the shadow of depression lurking—waiting in my periphery. Another courageous warrior gone from the battleground, I thought. We always have our child’s eyes where everything seems simple—one does what is good for everyone, what is good for the planet. But our adult eyes have seen the face of greed and self-interest and they tell us that it’s not simple—it’s brutal.
I parked the car and walked along the beach. That brutality is what Hamlet was greeted with when he arrived in Denmark for his father’s funeral and he was paralyzed by it. Though Shakespeare brings him face to face with opportunity and though he yearns to act, he cannot act, and he drives himself crazy trying to become an avenger. Sitting myself on a driftwood log, I looked out over the water to the horizon. In the far distance a container ship was plying its way towards the mouth of the harbour.
“Until,” I said aloud, “until he returns with purpose after the perilous journey to England.” His dark night of the soul. There, on the ship, his ‘sea-gown scarfed around him,’ he had discovered the grand-writ that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were carrying to the English King. The order for his own head to be struck off. Why? Because Claudius is now desperate; he knows that Hamlet is on to him. Claudius has already murdered once for power and now he is in possession of what his brother had—his kingdom and his bride, and he’s not about to give them up.
So, I wondered, does someone have Peter King’s bride now? Was there a reason, something more than grief that made Greta depart so suddenly for London? Had she been, as Hamlet says of Gertrude, ‘like Niobe—all tears,’ only to post with dexterity to another life after the funeral?
My conversation with Daniel King had drawn me into the heart of the situation. I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually cried, but suddenly my nose was running and my face was wet in the wind. Here I was longing for justice and grieving for a good man I’d never met.
Chapter Seven
Portly, ruddy-cheeked and rheumy-eyed, the Mayor had recently been reelected with a sweeping majority, and he greeted McBride with his hail-fellow-well-met grin. Of course, at the mention of Peter King, the smile disappeared for a moment and his brow furrowed.
“A great loss, a very sad loss, terrific man!” His jowls shook.
“I understand he was involved in the harbour clean-up project,” McBride said.
“He was involved in many things over the years—but absolutely, yes—he was commissioned by that bunch over at Ecology Counts to do a little synopsis for them on the treatment plants.”
“I see,” said McBride. “And what was Ecology Counts’ interest in the project?”
“Well, between you and me, groups like this always presume we’re going to make bad decisions so they start bombarding Council and Staff with horror stories. I mean, I’m not saying they don’t perform a valuable service from time to time, but I wouldn’t mind making it through one day without their holier-than-thou attitude coming at me. Of course, Peter King was a smart man with a terrific mind, but he was in cahoots with that woman—you know—the one who wrote that water book…I forget what it’s called…blue something…Anyway, I’ve had it up to here with these trendy opinions that do nothing but prevent us from making real progress.”
“So this little synopsis you refer to that Peter King wrote for Ecology Counts—was it general or very specific to our situation here?”
“Well, I’m sure they’d let you take a look at it if you asked them.”
“But, you must have a copy here at City Hall. You read it, didn’t you?”
“Absolutely. Of course I read it,” he scowled. “I can tell you we had plenty of reports—not just King’s. And what I read in all of those reports would just be the main points edited down by Staff.” The Mayor was getting bored and irritated.
“Anyway, that business is all settled now and as far as I can tell, everybody’s happy. We’re set to run the plants ourselves, and that’s mainly what they were after—and what King was lobbying for.”
“Well, that must have produced some unhappy campers on the other side,” McBride said. “My understanding is that the Europa Conglomerate stood to gain not only a lucrative long-term contract here, but basically a foothold in North America—and they lost both.”
“Look, we were small potatoes for them. The truth is they were doing us a favour. Look how badly we’ve been managing our harbour for almost three hundred years. We don’t have a leg to stand on. We could use a little expertise, don’t you think? And expertise is what they were bringing to the exercise. They were not the criminals certain parties were trying to make them out to be.”
“Who exactly were the individuals in Europa?” McBride asked. “Were they here on site?”
“From time to time. Listen, you know what? This is all water under the bridge now and I’ve got a busy day. I don’t want to t
alk about this stuff. If you want to know who those people are, do your homework!”
“You’re coming through loud and clear. Why don’t I get out of your hair and drop in on City Staff…see if they have King’s original report on hand.”
“Fill your boots, McBride. Good to see you, again. Take it easy.” The grin was back and he extended his hand—ever the salesman.
McBride’s real goal was to drop in on the Planning Office. If his mysterious caller had indeed been a clerk there, it was possible that a visit to the office would prompt some clue. He was fairly sure they’d have models and drawings of the treatment plants and if he could get someone to show him these, he could hang around long enough to draw attention to himself. It was already well after eleven, and he wanted to get there before everyone disappeared for lunch. There was no receptionist per se, but a young woman going by with a roll of drawings under her arm asked him if she could be of help. He flashed her his best smile. “I’ve just had some business with the Mayor, and he suggested I come over and take a look at the plans for the Sewage Treatment facilities. Do you have any models or drawings?”
“I’m Denise,” she said. “And you are?”
“Call me McBride,” he said with spirited volume, prompting a number of people to look in his direction.
“Unfortunately Mr. Spiegle is not here. The treatment plants are under his supervision—but I’d be happy to get you some brochures.” She disappeared down a hall, and McBride looked around. There were several library-style tables with maps and drawings on them. The room was open design with blue and grey padded baffles separating desks from one another. There was a large filing area with oversize blueprint drawers. The individuals in the office had quickly lost interest in him and gone back to whatever they were doing. Just behind him, the main office door opened and a young man who looked to be of Middle-Eastern descent entered with a large carton full of files. McBride stepped back to the door and held it open for him. At the same time, Denise reappeared with some brochures. He heard her say, “Here you are Mr. McBride.” He purposely remained turned away from her and it had the desired effect. She raised her voice and called to him more loudly—“Mr. McBride!”
Once again everyone in the office turned and looked in his direction.
“Oh, thanks very much Denise. But can’t I see some models of the treatment plants as well? I’m preparing a course for the community college and I want to get a good grasp of how it all works,” he lied, rather well he thought.
“I believe all the models and plans would be with the engineering firm now—the project is well underway, you know.”
“And I’ve forgotten which engineering firm the Mayor said the project was with.”
“Look, Mr. McBride, these are all details that our Planning Head, Carl Spiegle, would be able to talk to you about. He’s been working on this project for quite some time now. So I suggest you come back next month when he returns from vacation.”
“Could I have Mr. Spiegle’s business card?”
“I’ll get you one.” Now clearly impatient with him, Denise headed back down the corridor. The young man who had entered with the box was busy in the filing area. He looked directly at McBride, and nodded quite obviously.
McBride’s pulse began to race. Could this be the contact?
Suddenly Denise was there, handing him the requested card. “You know the best thing to do is check out our website—there’s tons of information there.”
“Thanks. Great idea, Denise. I’ll do that.” He took a moment to stand reading the card while Denise walked away from him. McBride glanced at the young man, who hastily threw some empty folders into his carton, pushed past McBride and quickly exited out the door ahead of him. When McBride entered the hallway the man was waiting by the elevator.
McBride had been intending to make his next stop the City Staff office farther down the hall, where he would ask for a copy of King’s report. Instead he went and stood by the young man at the elevator.
“Hi,” he said. The young man nodded as before. “So, you must work here—for the City, do you?” He nodded again. God, thought McBride, maybe he isn’t the contact after all. Maybe he’s just a nodder. Or has a tic. Or doesn’t understand me. Or maybe he is the contact and he’s downright scared. McBride tried again, as the empty elevator arrived. “My name’s McBride. I was just getting some information on the Sewage Treatment Plants. You don’t know of any information other than what’s in these pamphlets Denise gave me, do you?” Unbelievably, he nodded again the same way. “Well great—I’d like to get it,” McBride said, as they stepped into the elevator.
Just as they arrived at the main level, the young man tapped McBride’s shoulder and pointed down. “The archives,” he said clearly.
Bingo! thought McBride as the doors opened. Three large men stepped forward. “This is going down,” the young man said to them, pointing to the red arrow.
“Well, we’re on now, Aziz. Might as well go along for the ride,” the third one said crowding on, as the other two turned and looked at McBride. It wasn’t sinister—it was just odd.
At that, McBride, following his gut instinct, said, “Oh, excuse me. This is the main floor!” and squeezed off just as the doors were closing. He could easily take the next elevator down and find the archives room. He stepped out the front doors for a second to get a breath of air. It was almost noon. The morning had been overcast but the sun was shining now, and the parade square was bustling with people passing between Barrington and Argyle. There was even a hot dog vendor braving the November chill. He wondered if the young man they had addressed as Aziz was indeed the same person who had initially contacted him. He stepped back in and headed for the elevator once again. As it opened before him, several people crowded off, including the Mayor, who frowned and said, “Still here McBride?”
Passing him to step into the elevator, McBride pointed up and said, “Just going to City Staff now to get that report.” He smiled as the doors were closing.
McBride got out at the second floor and looked for the stairwell. With any luck it would go all the way down to the basement level and Aziz would still be in archives. He took the stairs two at a time, passing a door that said “Main Floor.” He continued down. At the bottom of the stairs he found himself in a small basement corridor with one locked door and another that said “Supplies.” He tried the handle of the supply room door. It opened into a small space lined with shelves where cleaning provisions and linens were stored.
He walked through the room and opened another door on the other side. Now he was in a dim but much larger corridor. He decided to go left. “Can I help you, Mister?” It was a voice from behind him. He turned to see a man in his sixties carrying an industrial vacuum cleaner.
“I’m uh…lost,” McBride said. “I was taking the stairs to the main level and I must have gone too far.”
“Yeah, you’re right there, my friend—you did go too far.”
Oh boy, this isn’t my day, thought McBride.
“I guess I’ll just give our security folks a little call. They’re always happy to help out.” He put the vacuum cleaner down on the floor and took a cellphone out of his pocket.
“Really, there’s no need. I can just…” But it was too late. The phone conversation was already underway.
“How are ya now? Oh yeah? Yeah.” This last “yeah” was spoken on the inhale. “Well, I’ve got a fella down here just outside the maintenance room, says he’s lost. Says he must have gone too far. Good enough. We’ll be right here. Waiting.” He clicked the phone off. “Won’t be a minute, fella.” He stared at McBride.
“Thanks,” McBride said. “Nice day.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the man replied.
Approaching now from the direction toward which McBride had been heading came two blue-uniformed security guards, one large and one small. “We’ll take it from here, Jake,” the large one said.
“Fine by me,” Jake said and disappeared into the supply room wit
h the vacuum cleaner.
“So what’s the story, buddy?” It was the large one.
“No story,” McBride said casually. “I was taking the stairs down and missed the main level.” He took the brochures out of his breast pocket. “I had a meeting with the Mayor this morning and then after that I was visiting the Planning Office to get some information on the Sewage Treatment Plants for a course I’m teaching at the community college.”
“Oh yeah? What course would that be?”
“Uh. It’s…Planning. You know, Environment and Planning.”
“I see. I got a brother-in-law teaches at the community college in Truro. Which campus are you at?”
“Oh—uh—the main one,” McBride wasn’t feeling quite so clever about his lie anymore.
“I see. Got ID? Driver’s licence?”
McBride took out his licence and showed it to the security guard, who took some notes.
“Well, come with us Mr. McBride, and we’ll show you out.” He put his hand on McBride’s shoulder and they turned and led him towards a wide door at the end of the basement corridor. It opened into a finished area with several closed wooden and glass doors leading into offices, one of which was very likely the archives.
“This is more like it,” McBride said.
“More like what?” the guard said. They were walking towards the elevator. He pushed the button.
“So Jeez, I can’t be the only person that takes the stairs down,” McBride said, attempting to lighten things up. “Haven’t any other fitness freaks accidentally wound up in the supply room?”
“You took the wrong stairs.” This was the small one, speaking for the first time.
“The wrong stairs?”
“That’s right, the wrong stairs.”
McBride was starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland after she fell down the rabbit hole. Aziz was the white rabbit and they were destined never to meet. They all stepped into the elevator and went up to the main level. The guards escorted McBride to the front door and watched him leave. He turned at the bottom of the outside stairs and they were still there watching him.
