by Linda Moore
“Yes, because otherwise you would have starved to death by now,” Harvie said, unwrapping the meat I had brought over. “I just happen to have my own chop in the fridge, so we’ll each have one. Much more interesting than my original plan.”
He had already peeled and sliced several cloves of garlic. He rubbed the chops with oil and laid the garlic on some foil and put the lamb on top of it. Then he sprinkled a little lemon juice over the chops and put more garlic on top. Lastly, he added some ground pepper and a few small sprigs of rosemary, which he cut from a plant on his windowsill. He folded the foil around them and set the package in a dish—ready for the oven. I watched all this with a mixture of joy and fascination. He was doing this for me. Well, for himself too of course, but in my experience, food had never been so much fun.
“Yum,” I said.
“Well, those won’t take long. Let’s have a drink while they’re cooking. I’ve already made the salad. We just have to fry the mushrooms up. Would you like a beer? I’ve got Stella and Corona.”
“Corona with lime would be great,” I said.
“Done. Shall we be radical and go sit in the living room?”
Harvie sat in his well-worn leather easy chair and put his feet up, and I curled up on the end of the couch. As we relaxed, I recounted Daniel’s story of his early memory and told Harvie about his follow-up call with Helga, his mother’s cousin. I also told Harvie that Daniel had suggested to me that he would like to talk to Greta about it. “What do you think?”
“I think it could be productive. Any information is better that what we have now.”
Then I caught him up on my conversation with McBride and his idea that telling Greta we were charging Carl with murder might provoke her to speak.
“We could try it. Now, would we do that in the same meeting, I wonder. Let’s run this by Arbuckle tomorrow and see what he thinks.”
“Great,” I said.
“Now we’re cooking,” Harvie said.
“Cooking with gas,” I said as we went back to the kitchen and got on with dinner.
The next day, I tackled the boxes of files that arrived just as I got to work. As Harvie was rushing off to court, he suggested I call Arbuckle and talk to him myself about setting up the interview with Greta. At around 10:30 I took a break from making an inventory of what was in the boxes and gave him a call, filling him in on Daniel’s recollection and Helga’s affirmation about the boy and the suicide.
“Very intriguing indeed,” he said. “A possible connection with Spiegle that goes that far back. If Daniel’s willing to try and talk to her about this, I think we should definitely go for it. I’d like to do it soon. How about tomorrow? Say, after lunch, around two o’clock.”
“I’ll contact Daniel and let him know the time.”
“We should meet before the interview,” he added.
I called and left a message for Daniel and then went back to work. I stood in the doorway and surveyed the boxes. There were a couple labelled “Bolivia.” I opened one of them out of curiosity. Daniel had told me that Bolivia was where Peter’s decision to become dedicated to the Water Wars had begun. I pulled out a couple of thick files. A book fell out of one of the folders. Not large—four by six, black with a flexible cover. I opened it and discovered it was a journal containing personal entries, handwritten by Peter.
It appeared to be a record of his trip in 1998, likely the trip that Eloise had referred to, just at the beginning of the Cochabamba conflict. I flipped through quickly, looking for his return to Canada. I saw notes on a flight itinerary, and turned the page. Then:
Finally home. Lots of legal research to do re this Bolivia situation. Also overwhelmed with other work. Greta not well. Seems to be in emotional turmoil. Not dissimilar to some previous bouts of anxiety. She has asked to go to Europe for a few weeks. I can’t object. It may sort her out. Life is about patience.
A couple of pages farther along I found:
Took Greta to the airport today. She is flying to London and then going on to Germany to see other friends. She seems already less stressed and more affectionate. She let me kiss her goodbye. Perhaps she’s right, this is what she needs.
I flipped through the book looking for other personal notes about Greta, or about their marriage, but could find nothing.
I went back to taking inventory from the boxes that contained the most recent files. I found a whole file on Aqua Laben—the German bottled water corporation—and detailed notes that Peter had compiled to bring about the injunction, along with lists of Canadian federal and provincial officials whom he had notified. There was also a list of the individuals on the Board of Directors of Aqua Laben. My eye was caught by one name that was underlined by hand—the name was H. Brunner. Next to it in handwritten letters were the initials C. S. and beside them an exclamation mark. A little bell was ringing in my head…what was it? How much had Peter figured out? I looked at the array of boxes. I had my work cut out for me. Slowly, I could feel the puzzle pieces coming together, but the whole picture still eluded me.
At noon, Daniel returned my call and confirmed that he would be available to do the interview with his mother at two o’clock the following day. I mentioned that Arbuckle would like to meet with us beforehand.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Oh, and Daniel…Your mother’s maiden name, it was Brunner?”
“That’s right.”
I needed to think. I decided to clear my head and go for a walk. I’ll go home and feed the cat, I thought. On my way past Cogswell Street, I decided to run up to the police station and set a time for the next day’s advance meeting with Arbuckle. I found him just on his way into an interview with McFadden and Spiegle.
“He’s got his lawyer here at last, so I can finally get started,” he said.
“Look, I’ve just been reading Peter’s files about some of the deals Spiegle was involved with and I’m trying to unravel it all. Can I observe the interview?”
“Why not?” he replied. “Sergeant, can you show my friend Roz into the observation room?”
The observation room was classic—a long narrow room with a door at the end, and uninterrupted glass all along one side that allowed for a view of the interview room. The opposite side of the glass had a mirrored surface that prevented those in the interview room from being able to see those who were observing.
There were high stools with backs on them and speakers on either side and above the window. The sergeant showed me how to adjust the volume on the speakers so I could clearly hear what was being said.
I got out my notebook and made myself comfortable on one of the stools while Arbuckle cued up the recorder.
Ralph McFadden, whom Harvie had referred to as “The Pugilist,” was a stocky redheaded Celt with close-set blue eyes. He did look as though he would prefer punching people out to talking. Spiegle seemed to have a penchant for surrounding himself with thugs.
“Okay, let’s get things cleared up. It’s high time you told us exactly what you are charging my client with,” McFadden said, as though he had just heard the bell to signal round one. “Otherwise, spring him until you can get your act together.”
“Your client’s been a busy boy.” Arbuckle said, as though to rankle McFadden a little.
“Busy or not—what are the charges? I like to get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“So far, he’s charged with accomplice to kidnapping, unlawfully holding a person against their will, refusing to comply with instructions from a police officer—that officer being me, by the way—possession of an unregistered firearm, illegally discharging said firearm, and two counts of attempted murder, the first, against the young woman when the firearm was discharged, and the second, against the student when your client ordered his employee to pursue, abduct, beat up and leave the young man Aziz Mouwad for dead in the railway cut.”
McFadden grunted loudly and said, “Most of those charges don’t hold water. He didn’t do any of those things himse
lf except shoot the gun and he wasn’t attempting murder—the gun went off by accident. Was she hit? No, she wasn’t.”
“He was out of control, McFadden. I was there, I witnessed it myself.”
“Okay, so you were there, you witnessed it yourself—so what? You think you can make these charges stick? You’re going to be the one with egg all over your face. What else is on your list?”
“Premeditated murder.”
“What are you talking about?”
“As if you didn’t know. I’m talking about Peter King. That’s what all this thuggery and kidnapping and harassment has been all about—trying to duck that murder. That’s where this whole thing started.”
“You’re talking too much! Did you say you’re charging him here and now with that murder?”
“Not today. I’ve still got a lot of evidence to go through.”
“I did not do that murder.” Spiegle spoke for the first time. He had a very slight German accent.
“There. See. My client didn’t do that murder.”
“There was no murder,” Spiegle continued calmly. “He died. He died of heart failure. I was there. I witnessed it myself,” he added, with a little edge, echoing Arbuckle.
“Let’s go back. One Sunday afternoon in October you were visiting Peter King and during your visit, he collapsed.”
“That’s correct.”
“How long had you been there when that happened?”
“I don’t know, not even an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. He was puttering around in the garden while we talked.”
“Then he collapsed and you called an ambulance.”
“His wife called the ambulance.”
“And he was taken to the hospital and pronounced dead on arrival.”
“Yes, from heart failure. It was official.”
“Did you hear that, Arbuckle?” McFadden interjected. “What more do you need?”
“Whose idea was it to have this meeting at the house?”
“It was my idea. I thought if I could talk to him at home, in a casual meeting, he might be more open to understanding my business situation. I wanted to get him to stop targeting me.”
“He was targeting you?”
”He had threatened to do so and he was doing it. It was costing me money, and I wanted him to stop.”
“Well a good way to stop him would be to kill him, wouldn’t it?”
“But I didn’t kill him.”
“So luckily for you he died.”
“He collapsed. It was a terrible shock.”
“He was poisoned, Spiegle. We’ve had him dug up; we’ve done the autopsy.”
“I’m telling you—I didn’t touch him.”
“So you got your girlfriend to do it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“What girlfriend?”
“Your old girlfriend from Zurich, Greta King.”
“Well the only Greta King I know is Peter King’s wife.”
“But you knew her in Zurich, did you not?”
“That doesn’t make her my girlfriend.”
“But you did know her in Zurich.”
“Is it a crime? We were kids—sixteen years old.”
Spiegle looked at McFadden.
“That’s enough, detective. Are you accusing my client of something here?”
“Look, there were two people present that afternoon with Peter King. Your client and Peter King’s wife, Greta. Somebody poisoned Peter King. Your client says he didn’t do it. He also admits to having known Greta King since they were sixteen years old. If your client and Greta King know each other, it’s possible they were working together on this murder. It’s just logic, McFadden.”
“My client is innocent. He had nothing to do with it.”
“Was Peter King aware that you knew Greta many years ago?”
“I don’t know what he was aware of.”
“You never told him?”
“It was irrelevant.”
“Perhaps he was targeting you precisely because of your relationship with his wife and not because of the business affairs.”
“What relationship?”
“After the funeral, you found out that Daniel King had hired a private investigator to look into the circumstances of his father’s death. How did you find that out?”
“You hear things. I just heard it around.”
“Did you hear it from Greta King?”
“Greta King was gone. She went to England.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw her at the funeral. She told me she was going.”
“You had heard that one of your employees had been spying on you and had gathered some compromising details about your affairs, details he then wanted to share with the private investigator that Daniel King hired. And so you set out to scare the boy off, and you also had the investigator assaulted.”
“Not true.”
“What then?”
“This kid had been observed spying on me by one of the secretaries. He was apparently eavesdropping on a discussion that I was having with Peter King, and using his camera. She told me about it. I’m a reasonable person and I didn’t want to fire him without cause, so I asked a couple of the fellows who work in security to keep an eye on him. That’s all. I was going on vacation. I had nothing to do with any assault. They got carried away.”
“You’re telling me they were proceeding entirely on their own, threatening and injuring people, kidnapping people, endangering people’s lives, and just not bothering to check in with you.”
“I told you—I just asked them to keep an eye on the kid for me. One thing led to another.”
“Well what it led to was trouble. Big trouble for you,” Arbuckle said.
“Are you done, detective?” McFadden said. “This is just bluster. I’m not hearing any new questions.”
“Done for now.”
“So, when’s the arraignment on these so-called charges that have already been laid? What’s the big delay? Let’s get him in front of a judge and get him out of here.”
“Don’t get your boxer shorts in a knot, McFadden. All in good time. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the sooner we’ll have him out of here.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. My client is a reputable City administrator, and you can bet he won’t stop short of suing you for damages.”
Arbuckle just laughed at this. “You’re really scaring me, McFadden. Trying to drum up business?”
A sergeant came in to escort Spiegle back to his cell. McFadden packed up and left. Arbuckle came into the observation room. “It’s a beginning,” he said.
“A good beginning,” I replied. “You got him to admit to knowing Greta in Zurich—that’s a major step.”
Arbuckle and I talked about the following day and confirmed that Daniel would be asking Greta about the details from his childhood memory. Arbuckle suggested I take the opportunity to question her as well.
“Really?” I said, flattered that he would consider inviting me to interrogate a prime suspect.
“I’m sure you have a few ideas and we need to come at her from as many directions as possible.”
“I’ll prepare something,” I said.
I left the station invigorated, feeling like this was a chance to prove I was more than someone else’s perpetual assistant. I determined to figure out a way to make some real discoveries in my interview with Greta.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The following day, Daniel, Harvie, and I met with Arbuckle, who felt we needed more than one interview to get through to Greta and suggested we be prepared to come back the next day if necessary. Harvie, who wanted to observe the entire interview, said he had to be in court the following day but that we could schedule a second interview with her for Friday. We decided that the beginning of the interview should be between Greta and her son only, to allow the conversation to be as personal as possible.
“Were you able to work on getting her a lawyer?” Arbuckle asked Daniel.<
br />
“I’ve had a good conversation with someone highly recommended, but she’s not available to come on board until next week. I’m hoping my mother will be receptive to hiring her.”
“Well, it simplifies things for us, and since Greta is refusing a lawyer at this point, we’re not denying her the right,” Arbuckle said. “However, she could stop this process at any time and demand a lawyer, so we need to be aware of that possibility when we’re putting pressure on her.”
Harvie and I were directed into the observation area. A policewoman brought Greta into the interview room. Though she couldn’t see us, she stared straight ahead, directly towards us. Her face looked thinner and there was a weariness in her eyes, but her posture was strong and upright and she was surprisingly well groomed and ready for her close-up. A beautiful woman.
Suddenly the door of our observation room opened and we turned to see Daniel enter abruptly, followed by Arbuckle. “I don’t think I can go first,” Daniel said. Clearly, his earlier composure had dissolved. “I’m sorry to change the plan at the last minute.”
I looked at Arbuckle. “I don’t mind starting,” I said.
“What will you talk about?” Harvie asked, surprised by this development.
“Gardening.” They looked somewhat perplexed, but Arbuckle gestured for me to go ahead.
A sergeant showed me in to the interview room. I stopped just inside the doorway and looked at Greta. I felt like I was stepping into a cage with an exotic bird.
“Hi Greta. It’s Rosalind.”
She glanced at me, but remained in the same still position, staring forward. Was she steeling herself? Or in some kind of trance? I couldn’t tell. She asked me what I was doing there.
“I wanted to ask you about your roses.”
“My roses? Whatever for?”
“I was at your house one morning a few weeks ago speaking with Daniel, and I saw the roses. Daniel said it was your rose garden. I noticed that they had been wrapped in burlap. Is that your customary winter practice?”
“Peter did it—he always wrapped them for me. As a matter of fact, that’s what we were doing that day—the last day.”
“It’s something the two of you did together?”
