Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Alan slowly, ‘that his decision to seek political office might in part have been based on his desire for revenge? “She thinks she’s so clever! I’ll show her!” or sentiments to that effect?’

  Amy considered. ‘I’m not sure. Certainly he was childish enough to relish giving me that sort of slap in the face. But I’m not sure it wouldn’t have been too subtle for his thought processes. And think of the humiliation if he’d lost.’

  ‘Would it have occurred to him that he might lose? If I’m reading him right, he was too egotistical even to consider that outcome.’ I picked up my beer glass, found it empty, and decided I’d had enough.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said John, making the same discovery and shaking his head to Alan’s offer of more. ‘And he was very probably accurate. In politics, along with money and influence, sheer self-confidence can take even a total rotter a long way. Amy, love, if this hurts you, I’m sorry, but I think this community, and this country, has had a very narrow escape.’

  ‘I agree. John, I can’t help remembering the time when he was sweet to me. But knowing what I know now, that it was never about me, I realize that even the memories are lies. I’m not going to grieve for him, only for what might have been, if he’d been the man I once thought he was.’

  John took her hand and said softly, ‘“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been.”’

  NINETEEN

  I woke in the morning still in that mood of melancholy, and it wasn’t dissipated by my coffee, excellent though it was.

  Alan saw my expression. ‘Did I put salt in it, instead of sugar, love?’

  ‘What? Oh, the coffee. No, it’s fine. It’s just … what a waste, Alan! Another terrible waste.’

  ‘Yes. An intelligent man, a success at business, born to privilege – he could have done so much good. Instead he destroyed lives everywhere he went.’

  ‘Including his own, in the end. Alan, who killed him? And why?’

  My husband sighed. ‘You know the list of motives as well as I do. Pick one. Hatred, envy, lust—’

  ‘Any of the seven deadly sins, in fact. Literally deadly, in this case. But in my mind, it all boils down to the one motive: fear.’

  ‘That’s your hobby-horse, isn’t it? All crime stems from fear.’

  ‘Because all of the other motives hark back to that one. We hate someone because we fear what he can do to us. We envy him because he has more than we do, and we fear he’ll stand in our way of getting what we want. Lust, the same thing – fear of not attaining our desire. So the question is, who was afraid of Paul Hartford, so afraid that it was necessary to kill him?’

  Alan spread his hands. ‘I’m just a common or garden-variety copper, ma’am. I’ll leave the philosophy to you. What I want is evidence. And let me tell you, my dear,’ he said, dropping his pose, ‘we seem to have precious little of that. I’ve had a call from John this morning. The forensics people were at it all night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. All those people rushing around. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. The passage where Hartford was found was not in use last night. It was seldom used, in fact, as it led to a storage area – the sort where things are put that just might come in handy sometime.’

  ‘Only they never do.’

  ‘Indeed. So there were no lights on.’

  ‘How, then, did it happen that his body was found? One would think it might have lain there undiscovered till morning, or whenever the cleaning crew come in.’

  ‘That may have been the murderer’s plan, but he, or she, reckoned without human nature.’

  I waited.

  ‘We all heard the scream. It came from a woman on the catering staff. A very young woman, a student at UVic who does this sort of thing for a little pocket money. Her boyfriend was also working.’

  ‘Oh. A dark hallway, a lull in the pace of the work—’

  ‘Exactly. I gather she literally fell over the body.’

  I shuddered. ‘That happened to me once, as you’ll recall. It was horrible!’

  ‘This was probably even worse, love. Although there wasn’t as much – er – mess as one would have expected.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to know. As heartily as I despised that man, I hate to think of someone – there was only the one stab wound, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, but it seemed quite deep. And there were no obvious signs of his having defended himself, which suggests that he was unconscious when he was attacked.’

  ‘A blow to the head first? Alan, this begins to sound an awful lot like that girl Elizabeth’s death. Unconscious, then stabbed. Only in her case it was made to look like a raptor attack.’

  ‘And this time there was no apparent blow to the head, though of course the autopsy will tell us more. But you’re right. A knife of some sort as the weapon in both instances.’

  I wished I hadn’t eaten quite so much pizza the night before. I swallowed. ‘I gather they haven’t found the weapon.’

  ‘No, and they don’t expect to. Water, water everywhere. If I had just stabbed someone, I’d throw the weapon into the sea straight off.’

  ‘What about the one used to kill Elizabeth George? The ocean is farther away from that crime scene.’

  ‘A lot of water around, though. Streams, lakes. And sad though it is, I suspect that investigation will be shunted aside for a bit. Given limited resources, and the relative perceived social importance of the two victims …’ He spread his hands.

  ‘Of course. Will anyone except us be going on the assumption that the two deaths are linked?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. If John were still officially involved, perhaps. As it is, I’m sure he’ll do the best he can, but …’ Again he trailed off.

  It was ever thus. The high-profile cases get the attention, not only of the police, but of the media, who push hard for a resolution. As they should, of course, but sometimes the pressure can force the police into a quick, easy arrest that turns out to be entirely mistaken.

  Which reminded me. ‘Have you read the paper this morning?’

  ‘Haven’t brought it in. I imagine there won’t be much of a story. This all happened very close to their deadline. Do you want to check the local news on TV?’

  ‘No. There might be pictures.’ I shuddered again and got up to pour myself a glass of water. On second thought I added a little bicarb.

  ‘So what,’ I said when I was back at the table, ‘can we do for the good of the order? I can’t stand to just sit around and do nothing, but I’m not sure how the real police will feel about us butting in. It’s not like back home where everyone knows us and knows what we do.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I think we can be most useful by simply talking to people. Asking questions. Finding out who Hartford’s friends were, and his enemies. Don’t forget that talking to people is where you excel, my dear.’

  ‘We tried that before and didn’t learn a whole lot.’

  ‘Yes, but now we’re under fewer constraints. Hartford, poor sod, is no longer a threat. We can be more direct.’

  ‘His friends are still alive. His goons. Does his death cancel out his orders to give us grief? At least, we’re still assuming they were his orders, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure we’re safe in assuming anything at this point. Hartford’s death has thrown a very large spanner in the works. We may have been all wrong about everything.’

  I swallowed that unappetizing thought, and groaned. ‘But that would mean we have to start all over!’

  ‘Better that than continue to go round in circles.’ His voice held not the slightest hint of sympathy.

  I glared at him.

  ‘In any case, it’s not starting entirely from scratch. We know a great deal about the cast of characters now. We know about the tangled webs of motives, of personalities. We know where to look.’

  ‘But it’s all so … so dreary!’

  ‘D
reary!’ Alan threw his arms in the air. ‘Great God in heaven, woman, look out the window! Has there ever been a more beautiful day since the earth was made?’ He opened the door to the balcony. A subtle flowery scent drifted in. Birds were singing their hearts out. Somewhere children laughed at play. ‘We’ve been given a problem to solve in a paradise on earth, with all our expenses paid, I might add, and you call it dreary!’

  I fidgeted, wishing I had a cat to pet, or some knitting, or something, anything, to look at and occupy my hands.

  ‘Not to mention that you have a husband who adores you,’ he added. ‘Snap out of it, darling, and let’s go adventuring. The game is afoot!’ He reached out with both hands, pulled me out of my chair and into an embrace, and gently pushed me to the door.

  I ask you, who can stay in a snit after that?

  He handed me into the car with the care one might have afforded Queen Elizabeth. ‘I’ll drive this time, shall I?’

  ‘Certainly. Since you seem to know where we’re going.’ But I said it with a smile, and he understood that I had recovered. I hate to admit it, but I do occasionally need to be told off. Alan almost never chides me – but when I need it, he does the job thoroughly.

  ‘We’re going to AIntell, to stir up the hornet’s nest.’

  ‘I would imagine it’ll be pretty well stirred up already. Paul Hartford was more than just the CEO of that place. You think it’ll be open for business, then? I’d have thought they’d close down, out of respect.’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

  Alan negotiated the short drive to the AIntell offices competently, neither veering onto the wrong side of the road nor missing any traffic signals.

  The offices were plainly open for business, though I doubted much business was getting done. Cerberus was not at his gate; in fact the security station stood open and unmanned, but a uniformed Victoria police officer, an attractive young woman, appeared in seconds and courteously but firmly informed us that no one was being admitted.

  Alan, obviously prepared for this, said with equal firmness (and equal courtesy), ‘We are here at the request of Chief Superintendent McKenzie, who is working with the RCMP and the Victoria police in the investigation of Mr Hartford’s murder. You’ll want to see our identification.’ He pulled out his passport and handed it to her as I got mine from my purse.

  She studied them carefully. ‘I’ve been given no instructions to admit you. Wait here, please, while I check.’

  ‘What if she won’t let us in?’ I whispered while the officer moved into the security office, pulled out her mobile and made a call. ‘That was splendid improvising, but will it work?’

  ‘It wasn’t entirely improvising. John is working with the police, and he has requested our help. He didn’t specifically ask us to come here, but I doubt we’ll be thrown out.’

  Sure enough, in a very few minutes the young woman was back. ‘The Deputy Chief Constable would like to talk to you. He’ll be down in a moment, if you’ll wait in the office, please.’

  I had looked up the command structure of the Victoria Police Department when we arrived. The Deputy Chief Constable was the head of the operations branch of the department. Hartford’s murder was, as anticipated, getting VIP handling.

  And greatly to my surprise, we got the same. Alan stood as the Deputy Chief came into the room. They shook hands. The man then shook hands with me. ‘I have heard good things about both of you, from McKenzie. I have great respect for him; the Mounties lost a good man when he decided to retire. He has told me, sir, about your distinguished career in England, and the very great help you, Mrs Martin, have been able to provide. If you had been born a few years later, ma’am, I believe you, too, would have been a credit to the force – in whatever country you chose to serve. As it is, I’m very glad you’re here to help.’

  ‘The old story, I suppose,’ said Alan in his most deprecatory manner. ‘Understaffing is a pandemic among police forces everywhere.’

  ‘Indeed, but I don’t want you to think this is just a matter of welcoming an extra two minds and pairs of hands. You two are uniquely placed to help us. You have no official connection with either VicPD or the RCMP. You are known to only a few people with any connection to the case. Yet you have the background and experience required for such an investigation. If you’re willing to operate entirely off the record, you can be of inestimable help.’

  ‘There is one possible fly in the ointment, sir,’ I put in. ‘You’re probably aware that we were attacked a few days ago by some men we think might have been working for Paul Hartford.’

  ‘The attempted kidnappings, yes. I regret to say that, though we have a good idea who your attackers were, we have not yet been able to track them down.’

  Ah. So they had taken us seriously. ‘Well, that’s just the thing, you see. Those men know who we are. And although we think they won’t try to do us any more harm – if they were Hartford’s goons, that is – if they spot us asking questions it could compromise our usefulness.’

  ‘Yes, I see your point, and had in fact taken that into consideration. We believe that those men are far away by now, Mrs Martin. You have forgotten what a very large country Canada is, and how much of it is still largely unpopulated. If a man doesn’t care overly much about the amenities of life, he can disappear into the bush and never be found. But just in case we’re wrong, and the men are still around, I have a ploy in mind. If you’re willing, that is. Do sit down, Chief Constable, and I’ll explain.’

  ‘I prefer Mister these days, sir. Or Alan.’

  ‘Splendid. And I’m Derek. Now what I have in mind is to spread a discreet rumour that the two of you are high-powered English narcs, operating entirely incognito, here to get to the bottom of our drugs problem. That will explain your presence in almost any venue and scare off anyone who might think about doing you harm.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alan, scraping his jaw. ‘What if this series of events, culminating in Hartford’s murder, is connected with the drug traffic?’

  ‘Then it won’t work. No one connected with drugs will give you truthful answers to any questions about the traffic. But we are reasonably certain there’s no connection. Hartford was almost certainly profiting from drugs, of course, but in a round-about way – contributions to the Conservative Party in return for discreet silence, that sort of thing.’

  I made a noise of disgust. ‘Is there any way that man wasn’t corrupt? What an utterly, thoroughly appalling human being!’

  Derek smiled grimly. ‘We’ve never been able to connect him with prostitution. Oh, he enjoyed his women, but he didn’t traffic in them. So far as we know.’

  ‘So why, with all respect,’ I asked, trying to keep my temper under control, ‘was the man not charged with his crimes? If you knew he was involved in all these disgusting rackets?’

  ‘Dorothy, you know the answer to that.’ Alan sounded weary. ‘The answer has been the same since time began, or at least since a justice system was established. The police very often know about criminal activity that they can’t bring home to the villain, even though they know quite well who that is, because there is no proof. A court requires evidence, good solid evidence. Further, being a despicable human being is not a crime, except in the highest court of all.’

  ‘Which Hartford is presumably facing right now.’ I shivered. ‘Now there’s a sobering thought. Derek, now that the probable culprit in what Alan and I have been calling the “nastiness” is dead, will that investigation die as well?’

  The Deputy Chief sighed. ‘There never was much of an investigation, sadly. There seemed to be no pattern, and as McKenzie will have told you, most of the incidents were too petty to warrant taking time away from what seemed to be more serious matters. But the matter of Varner’s hawks, and then the death of Miss George, raised the issue to a new level. And now, of course, with the death of the supposed engineer of those crimes as well as the rest, it’s all hands to the pump.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alan stood up. ‘And thes
e hands had best begin pumping.’

  Derek pulled out a business card and scribbled something on it. ‘Here. This will admit you anywhere you need to go. Meanwhile I’ll go and crank up the rumour mill.’

  ‘All right, Deputy Martin, where first? This is your bailiwick, you know. The Conversation Department.’

  ‘I’d like to find that woman we talked to before. Teresa something.’

  It took a while, since no one was at his or her desk, and normal working procedure had been shattered, but we were finally directed to a cubicle in what would, in the old days, have been the steno pool. Teresa was sitting next to a box which contained a pitiful collection of personal belongings: a couple of pictures in small, cheap frames, a comb and mirror, an apple, a roll of breath mints. That was all, except for a nearly empty box of tissues. The rest of them were in the waste basket, crumpled.

  She looked up when I tapped on the edge of the wall. Her nose and eyes were red; tears had left stains on her cheeks. ‘Are you going to let me go now?’ Her voice was toneless.

  ‘We’re not the police, Teresa,’ I said gently. ‘We met the other day when you gave us a tour of the building. But’ – I gestured toward the box – ‘you’re moving to another office?’

  ‘I’m leaving the company. Just as soon as the cops will let me, I’m out of here.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to talk to you about what’s happened.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Someone killed him. The next Prime Minister of Canada, and they killed him. I’m leaving the country.’