Читать книгу Fifth Son - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 8

For the first time since her impetuous decision to purchase the Pettigrew farm, Isabelle Boisvert felt overwhelmed. A surly Jacques had gone into the village for supplies, and she was sitting on the front porch with her mid-morning coffee, taking advantage of the rare October warmth to contemplate the bounty of her land. But all she could see was work. The porch sagged beneath her feet, its wood planks rotting away, and across the expanse of barren weedy yard, the two wooden outbuildings were collapsing beneath the weight of time. And inside its spectacular red brick exterior, the house was just as bad. The plaster walls were crumbling, and all the beautiful oak woodwork had been painted over with cheap white paint that had cracked and flaked.

In the distance, the maple trees by the river shone crimson and gold. She tried to remind herself that this was why she’d bought the property. She’d known it would be a labour of love, but owning a hundred acres of land and forest with over a thousand feet of wooded river frontage had seemed like a dream worth labouring for. Jacques had been reluctantly persuaded by its investment value, but she hoped to raise horses, perhaps one day have an equestrian school and make enough money that they could both quit their civil service jobs and dispense with the frustrating commute to the city altogether.

For now, to pay for all the repairs, they needed their jobs more than ever. To save money, she and Jacques were trying to do much of the work themselves. Unlike Jacques, she had grown up in the country and hoped that working with her hands would somehow return her to her roots. But today she didn’t know where to start. Jacques wanted to attack the interior of the house, where they would be confined for most of the long, upcoming winter months.

But the warm weather would soon be over, and with it all chance to tackle the outside. They hoped to have a professional builder restore the main barn in the spring, so she could use it for her horses. But the little tool shed looked beyond repair, and even worse was the eyesore of bushes and burnt planking that sat at the edge of the yard. Jacques was anxious to bulldoze it over and build a garage for the cars before winter struck, but that cost money that was sorely needed for other things. It looked as if no one had spent a penny on the place in years.

She didn’t know how Mr. Pettigrew had earned his money once he no longer farmed the land, but the man had managed to consume an astonishing quantity of booze. They had found closets full of empty bottles everywhere and had spent a whole day simply carting bottles to the local dump.

Once, long ago, someone with skill and devotion had ministered to the house, for beneath the flaking paint, the woodwork was intricately hand-carved and the hardwood cabinetry bore an expert craftsman’s touch. But then, quite abruptly, it seemed as if the family had stopped caring. The basement had been abandoned in a half-finished state with pine planking erected on half the walls, but only two-by-four framing on the rest. It was all dried and warped now, and someday she would have to rip it all out and start from scratch.

But not today. Today she would tackle the charred, overgrown eyesore in the front yard that was ruining her view from the porch. That way she could have a huge autumn bonfire like the ones she remembered from her childhood.

She stretched, tossed the dregs of her coffee on the ground and headed for the tool shed, where she’d seen a number of battered tools, perhaps among them the axe and crowbar she would need for the job. However, inside she found a small scythe, a hammer, and a handful of rusty saws, but no axe or sledgehammer big enough to do the job. She searched the barn and house to no avail. Making a note to buy a decent axe, she set to work with a shovel, hacking away at the woody stems and prying loose the roots. In less than an hour, she had a pile of branches and planking ready to burn.

She was just getting down on her hands and knees to wrench out a stubborn root when a flash of turquoise caught her eye, and she saw Jacques’ Cavalier speeding down their lane in a plume of dust. She felt an odd mix of feelings. Frustration that he persisted in driving on the country roads as if he were on the Queensway, delight at the prospect of his company, and apprehension that she might be in for another hour’s worth of bitching about country life. He’d left that morning in a foul humour, threatening to move in with his brother Jean Marc in Orleans.

When he leaped from the car, however, his eyes were wide, and he chattered in staccato French as he removed grocery bags from the car.

“This house, Isabelle! Everyone in the village is talking about it! That man who died at the church was one of the Pettigrews. A hundred years ago they owned all the land from here to the village, and they used to be big leaders. In the church, in the town. That little church the man died in, that was a major one in town, but there was a split in the movement when a new priest came. They talk like it was yesterday, but it was twenty-five years ago. Some went to the Anglican Church and some—”

She took some bags from him, set them on the counter and silenced him with a kiss. When Jacques began to talk religion, he lost her. “Is this important?”

He was not to be deterred, and his tone acquired an urgency. “What’s important is that this family, the Pettigrews, they helped build that church, but they left it too, and everyone says that’s when things started to get really bizarre. One of the sons went so crazy they had to lock him up. The mother was afraid he was possessed, and this house—”

Isabelle looked at him with alarm. Jacques had a deeply religious core and had not totally shaken off the strong Catholic indoctrination of his childhood among the priests. If he started believing that the house was haunted—or worse, possessed—she might never be able to persuade him to feel at home.

She slipped into his arms and took his face in her hands. “Chéri, this is our home now. We’ll take it apart, every board and wall, and we’ll make it ours.”

A frisson passed through him. “But they are everywhere! Their initials are still carved on the windowsills, their names are glued to the bedroom walls. And the worst thing—” He paused. “Isabelle, they said the wife hung herself in the very room where we are sleeping!”

* * *

Fifteen minutes after leaving Robbie’s apartment, Sullivan was inching the Impala through the Glebe in bumper to bumper traffic. To save time, Green radioed ahead to Gibbs, but before he could even relay his request, the young constable’s stutter burst over the wire.

“I—I’m afraid I struck out on Derek Pettigrew’s dentist, sir. Seems the man who used to treat the family died about ten years ago, and the old files have been destroyed. So we have no dental ID.”

Green sighed. That meant they would have to identify the body by process of elimination. He instructed Gibbs to find out as much background as he could about the Pettigrew family. Gibbs was Green’s favourite gofer, eager, tireless, relentless and intelligent to boot. By the time the two detectives reached the Major Crimes Squad room, he had not just the full names, but the dates and places of birth and death of four generations of Pettigrews.

“I’m sorry I don’t have all the current addresses yet, sir, but I’m working on it. None of them are in the system.”

Green had doubted they would be, for until amalgamation a few years ago, Ashford Landing had been under the jurisdiction of the Ontario Provincial Police. He advised him to check with the OPP.

“I already did, sir.” Gibbs smiled and met his eyes. The kid’s finally getting some confidence, Green thought with relief. Gibbs had a wonderful investigative nose, but he was scared of his own shadow, which was a major drawback in Criminal Investigations. “They’ve nothing on them either, sir. Except for one son, Benjamin, victim of a one-car fatal in 1990.”

“Any particulars?”

“It was labelled driver error, but the accident occurred at one-thirty in the morning, so alcohol might have been a factor. Although County Road 2 is pretty dark and deserted at that time of night.”

County Road 2 is also pretty straight, Green thought, remembering their recent drives along the road leading to Ashford Landing. He looked at Benjamin’s date of birth and did a quick calculation. Benjamin had died on his twenty-first birthday, possibly on his way home from one too many celebrations. Green felt a twinge of sorrow for the beleaguered family. Had this been the tragedy that had turned their lives upside down?

He returned his attention to Gibbs’s notes. Benjamin had been the second youngest son, but still seven years older than Robbie. The mother had died twelve years ago, two years after Benjamin. Gibbs had not yet been able to track down any additional details beyond the name and birth date of the remaining three sons. Derek, Tom and Lawrence. Green pointed to their names.

“Concentrate on Derek, but just to be thorough, see if you can locate the present whereabouts of all three—or at least their most recent known address. Lawrence would be the fifth son we forgot to ask about. Check if Robbie Pettigrew or any of the villagers know where he went. Let Brian know if you find anything useful.”

After Gibbs had scurried off, Sullivan eyed Green with disapproval. “You just gave him the work of two officers. You know, just because he’ll do it, it doesn’t mean you should ask him to.”

Green smiled. “That’s why you’re going to give him a new partner. The new woman you just got from General Assignment? Sue Peters? I think she’d be a great fit for Gibbsie.”

Sullivan laughed without humour. “Where did you get that bright idea? She’ll scare him half to death.”

The idea had only just occurred to Green when he saw the new confidence in Gibbs. It was about time he took on a more senior role and began training others in that wonderful investigative nose. And who better than the cocky young detective who was clawing her way resolutely through the ranks. Learning to dot every i and cross every t under the meticulous tutelage of Bob Gibbs ought to slow her down a touch. As well as maybe make a decent investigator out of her.

But he said none of that to Sullivan, who was clearly irked by Green’s cavalier invasion into his territory yet again. “It’ll do them both good,” he replied instead, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he headed for the third floor. “I’d like a quick update after my meeting before I go home. And I’m leaving at three.”

“Three!” Sullivan’s tone registered his disbelief, for Green almost never left before six.

“I have to see a kid about a crucifix.”

* * *

Hannah flounced into the passenger seat and immediately changed the radio station from Green’s classic rock to extreme rock, casting him a look that dared him to object. Ignoring the bait, Green pulled out of the school drive and accelerated up Carling Avenue towards the Queensway. It was half past three, and the autumn sun was slanting through the window onto her face. She jerked the visor down and hid behind dark glasses.

“How was school?” he ventured neutrally.

“Kyle wasn’t there today.”

“Oh? Sick?”

She shrugged. “Seemed fine yesterday. Till you started asking him all those questions.”

“Well, we’ll try to make this like a game today. Make sure you explain to him that he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“He understands English, Mike. He’s not an idiot. I mean—” She broke off, flushing.

“I know he isn’t, but I’m a police officer, and he may think that means he’s done something wrong. Tell him we just want him to help us figure out who the chain belongs to.”

To her credit, Hannah tried her best when they arrived at the McMartin farm. Kyle was in the barn, looking perfectly healthy as he mucked out stalls. The reek of manure clung to his clothes, and he seemed oblivious to the flies that swarmed around him. Green was struck by how big and muscular he was in his overalls and rubber boots. A boy’s mind in a body that was fast becoming a man’s. Green’s impression was reinforced by Kyle’s reaction to Hannah, which was pure adolescent male. Red-faced, tongue-tied and tripping over his limbs.

But as soon as she mentioned the crucifix, he started to wag his head back and forth.

“I don’t remember. I get mixed up.”

Green watched him carefully. “What were you doing when you found it?”

“Walking.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

Kyle began to shake his head when Hannah stepped in again. “Was lunch finished?”

A nod.

“Was dinner finished?”

“No. Not started.”

“Good.” She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Were you walking home from the village?”

“No.”

“Were you walking to the village?”

Kyle squirmed and looked away, shaking his head. Green picked up the cross-examination technique. He pointed towards the woods in the direction of the river. “Were you walking over there, Kyle?”

“Kyle’s not allowed to go in the woods, Mr. Green,” came a sharp voice from behind them, as Edna McMartin strode into view from the interior of the barn. Her grey hair stood on end and wisps of straw stuck to her clothes.

Kyle shook his head vigorously. “I didn’t. I didn’t go there.”

Her eyes were hostile, and Green felt all chance for cooperation slipping through his fingers. He thought he knew why; they had not informed her of their arrival nor asked permission to speak to her son. Kyle had come out to greet them and, hoping to keep the interview as casual as possible, they had simply slid right in.

He apologized to her as humbly as he could and explained the importance of pinpointing the discovery of the chain. “We believe the dead man was probably Derek Pettigrew and that this chain was lost by him shortly before his death. We’re trying to trace his movements leading up to his death.”

Edna McMartin fixed Kyle with a firm, unwavering gaze that Green suspected would see through anyone’s subterfuge. “Did you go to the woods near the river, Ky?”

He swallowed and shook his head. “No, Mom. Never.”

“Then where did you find the chain?”

“I was walking to the village. Through the field.” Kyle pointed across a stubbled field towards the distant church spires of the village. Green studied him thoughtfully. The boy was lying; he had earlier denied this. But why?

“Why is Kyle not allowed to go in the woods?” he asked the mother casually.

“Because of the river, of course,” she answered in a tone that implied a silent “you idiot.”

“Of course. Have you lived on this farm long?”

“Long?” She snorted. “Is all my life long enough?”

Green felt as if he had hit a gold mine, if he could only figure out how to mine it. “Then you would have known the Pettigrew boys before they all left.”

Her gaze grew wary. “Some. We stay pretty busy on the farm.”

He turned abruptly towards Hannah. “Sorry, honey. I need to have a few words with Kyle’s mother inside. Do you think you and Kyle can amuse each other out here for a while?”

Poor choice of words, Green thought with a grimace as he ushered the reluctant mother into her house. She seemed as uneasy about leaving them alone as he was, no doubt for opposite reasons.

“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as she perched on the edge of her sofa, looking ready to bolt at any moment. Unlike last evening, she made no effort to remove the quilt or offer him a drink. “I haven’t seen any of the older children in years. And I never had much to do with him—” She jerked her head in the direction of the Pettigrew farm. “—since he started pickling himself in booze and bawling at the moon at three in the morning. Could hear it clear across to the village some nights.”

“Were you friends when the wife was alive?”

“Well, close enough when the boys were at school together. We were in the same church, and my Sandy was friends with their Lawrence—”

A distant bell of recognition rang in Green’s head. “Sandy Fitzpatrick? The real estate agent? He’s your son?”

Her lips formed a tight, wary line. “How do you know Sandy?”

Green gave her the short explanation—that Sandy had provided Robbie Pettigrew’s address. That seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded and actually volunteered some information. “Sandy’s father is dead, fell under the baler. Jeb McMartin is my second husband.”

Green absorbed the coincidences of village life. That made Sandy and Kyle brothers, despite the probable twenty-five year age gap. Both were burly and full of health, although beyond that he could see no resemblance.

Edna flushed, as if having two husbands somehow made her a harlot. “His boy needed a mother, and I needed a man about the farm. This life is hard, Inspector. You take from it what you have to.”

Green nodded sympathetically. “I understand life was hard for your neighbours as well. What can you tell me about Lawrence? Do you know where he is?”

“St. Lawrence Psychiatric Hospital in Brockville, last I heard.”

“What happened to him?”

“Went crazy. His folks locked him up.”

“How long ago was that?”

She pursed her lips as if dredging her memory. “In Grade Eleven. I remember because he and Sandy were in the same grade, and Lawrence just stopped coming to school. Wandered around the place talking to himself, or suddenly you’d turn around and there he’d be standing, staring at you. Gave everybody the willies.” As the bearer of grim news, she seemed to lose her frostiness. “They tried to get him help up in Ottawa, and then one day they packed him into the family’s old pick-up and drove straight to Brockville. I don’t think the mother ever recovered, and then when her Benji was killed, well, that did her in.”

Green had a sinking feeling. A cursed family, the villagers had called them. “What do you mean?”

“Killed herself. Took years building to it, mind. Sinking deeper and deeper, with him not helping a bit, and poor little Robbie just raising himself. About ten, twelve years ago, I guess she figured he was raised enough, and so she called it quits.”

* * *

Green struggled to steer with one hand as he punched numbers into his cell phone with the other. Extreme rock pulsated through the car, and Hannah was bobbing her head with a secretive twinkle in her eyes.

“Do you want me to drive?” she shouted.

“In your dreams, honey.” She pulled what he recognized as a classic Hannah pout. Pro forma, with no outrage behind it.

“Back home I had my learner’s permit.”

“And we’ll have this discussion when you’re back in regular school.”

“I like Alternate Ed. The kids are way cooler, and I get to do this part-time work in the real world.”

He flicked off the radio and turned his attention to Gibbs, who had finally answered his phone. It was nearly five o’clock, but Green had known the man would still be hard at work. Green filled him in on Edna’s revelation about Lawrence Pettigrew.

“I’m ahead of you, sir,” Gibbs said. “One of the villagers told me, and I’ve already contacted the hospital personnel.”

Which is why I love you, Green thought with admiration. “What’s the news?”

“He was in St. Lawrence Psychiatric Hospital from 1984 till 2000, but he’s been in a supervised group home since then until just a couple of months ago.”

“What happened a couple of months ago?”

“He graduated to monitored independence, sir. Whatever that means. I’m trying to reach those people now.”

“Good. Let me know as soon as you find him. We’re looking for an absolute positive sighting in the past forty-eight hours to rule him out.”

Green rang off and found Hannah eyeing him with the faintest smile on her pixie face. She was so tiny and innocent looking, it was hard to believe she packed such a punch.

“If I hadn’t been in Alternate Ed, I wouldn’t have met Kyle. And if I hadn’t met Kyle, you’d never have found out the truth about that gold crucifix.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What did he tell you?”

“Without his mother breathing down his neck, he told me the truth about where he found it.”

It was Green’s turn to smile. “I thought he might.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Green’s smile broadened. “He found it in the woods on the way to the village, didn’t he?”

She nodded. “There’s a path running along the river, which starts at the next farm and runs past the McMartin farm into the village. He found it somewhere near the village.”

“On the ground?”

“Yes, just lying in the leaves.”

Green considered the implications. If Derek had lost that chain twenty years ago, it would probably have been found by other travellers or buried under layers of leaves and debris during the intervening years. To be found so easily by a boy strolling along the path, it had to have been dropped there recently. Perhaps on the very day the mystery man was spotted at the farm by Isabelle Boisvert.

Green winked at her. “I’ll make you a sleuth yet. Do you mind a little side trip?”

“Where?”

“To talk to Kyle’s older half-brother. He was a friend of the Pettigrew brothers years ago.”

“But Dad!”

It was the first time she’d called him Dad, and his jaw dropped before he could stop himself. Quickly, she scowled. “I’ve got homework to do and friends to call.”

“Fifteen minutes, tops. Promise.” And without giving her time to protest, he pulled into Sandy’s drive.

The realtor was even more frazzled than he had been a day earlier. Before Green could explain his visit, Sandy launched into a grilling of his own.

“It is true? They’re saying it was Derek in the church yard!”

“Who’s saying?”

“Everyone. I heard it from Harvey at the grocery store, who heard it from my stepfather.”

“You saw the picture. Did it look like Derek?”

“I haven’t see him in twenty years, and I was only seventeen when he left.” Sandy scrubbed his hands over his face distractedly. “I always assumed Derek was off having a successful life somewhere. But all the boys looked alike. Miniature clones of their father. It was their personalities that differed a great deal.”

Green settled into one of the client chairs and pulled out his notebook casually. He’d left Hannah in the car, blasting out the latest Disturbed album. “I understand you were Lawrence’s friend. What can you tell me about him? What was life like back then?”

Sandy drew two deep breaths as if forcing himself to settle. He twirled his pen restlessly while he gathered his thoughts. “Lawrence... Such a sad case. We used to play together all the time, build forts in the woods and pretend they were starships. He was a gentle, sensitive, imaginative boy who was cruelly teased, not only by the other boors around here but by his own brother Tom. Tom was all brawn, no brains, and proud of it. He ran with a pack of troublemakers in town who used to beat Lawrence and me up regularly.”

“Did Lawrence become schizophrenic?” It was a diagnosis that seemed to fit the symptoms Green had heard.

Sandy’s face hardened in anger. “It was his father drove him over the edge. The old man shoved religion down all the kids’ throats, but some of them took it more to heart than others. Lawrence started obsessing about sin and worrying that people were damned to hellfire and brimstone if they didn’t purify themselves. Can you imagine—a house full of healthy teenage boys and Lawrence was obsessing about sin? He used to hide their condoms and spy on them. I tried to help, but as he got sicker, he started to retreat more and more. Stopped coming to school, shut himself up in the shed for hours on end, performing his rituals. It was spooky. Finally, it got so bad the family just snapped and committed him.”

“Was this before or after Derek went away?”

“Right after. I think that’s why they went ahead with the hospital. Derek had always protected Lawrence and stood up for him, especially against Tom. Look, these were country people, they didn’t understand what was happening to Lawrence. None of us did. It’s only afterwards I did some reading about schizophrenia, but back then we were just scared and angry at him.”

“Except Derek?”

“Well, Derek was—” Sandy paused as if searching for words. “I was only a kid, but I remember how smart he seemed. He was in university, and he knew so much about the world. When he left, I think Lawrence probably flipped out, and the family grabbed the chance to ship him out of their hair.”

“Have you seen or heard anything about him since?”

Sandy shook his head. Green sensed a little regret, even shame, in his tone. “Not a word. Sometimes folks would ask the Pettigrews how he was doing, but they never said much, just that it wouldn’t be good for him to have visitors. Not that anyone wanted to visit the poor guy.”

“What about Derek? Ever see him?”

Sandy’s expression grew shuttered. “No, but he always said he wouldn’t come back.”

“You mean he discussed it with you?”

“Oh no, that’s just what I heard. He hated the farm. Country wasn’t his thing. Beneath him.”

“Did he have any friends here that he might have kept in touch with?”

“University friends, maybe? But no one here in the village. Although of course, I hardly knew him.”

Outside, Hannah leaned on the Subaru horn, making Sandy jump. Green moved to get up and fancied he saw relief cross the other man’s face. Green thanked him for his help and then paused for one last question.

“Can you think of any reason or circumstance that would have drawn any of the brothers back home right at this moment, after an absence of twenty years?”

Sandy had risen to usher Green out, and now he hovered restlessly in the doorway. “Their father’s illness, perhaps? Or selling the family farm?”

It was possible, Green thought as he made his way out to confront Hannah. But as far as anyone was willing to admit, only one of them besides Robbie knew their father was ill and the farm sold.

Tom

* * *

Isabelle could not return to her work in the yard until late in the afternoon, after a lunch break and a stint helping Jacques strip the blue flowered wallpaper from their bedroom. He had attacked the task with a frenzy, as if determined to banish the mother’s ghost before he spent another night in the house. He’d been right; all the bedrooms held the memories of decades of family life. In one bedroom, they discovered lists of girls’ names carved on the window sill, and on another sill “DP loves...” with the initials vigorously scratched out.

“A teenage love affair that ended badly,” Isabelle joked as they sanded down the marks.

Jacques pointed to the lengthy list of girls on the other window. “This guy evidently didn’t take his grandes amours so seriously.”

After two bedrooms, even Jacques agreed they’d both breathed enough dust for one day, and he headed into the city to check paint stores. The afternoon was still crisp and sunny, so Isabelle retrieved her shovel and returned to the thicket. Tearing up the weeds and decaying planks, she encountered more slugs and earwigs than she ever cared to, and she was about to give up in disgust when her hand struck something hard. She dug around it and levered the shovel under it until she finally unearthed a small tin can with the lid rusted on tight. It rattled when she shook it, as if there were several loose objects inside. Soot smudged her hands where she had gripped it, and the label was illegible beneath the black. She studied the hole it had come from. This was no accident. The hole was deep and clearly covered by charred floorboards. Someone had deliberately lifted a floorboard and buried the can underneath.

She remembered the man she’d seen rummaging around here in the thicket. Perhaps he was looking for this! She felt a flutter of excitement. It might be jewellery or coins, perhaps something even more valuable. This is an old home; an ordinary artifact might be worth a lot of money. Whether she kept it or turned it over to Robert Pettigrew, she would decide later, once she’d seen what it was.

With the help of some oil and a screwdriver, she began very slowly to work the lid loose. It was stubborn and loosening it took an interminable time. Finally, with one last pop, the lid came off. Isabelle peered inside and her eagerness died abruptly.

Six metal bottle caps, a white feather, a box of condoms, two slips of paper, a brass key, and the final object—a small white sphere. She turned the sphere over in her fingers curiously until she was looking at it head on, and saw two tiny holes and the remnants of a beak. It was the skull of a tiny bird.

Isabelle snatched her fingers away as if they’d been burned. The bird skull tumbled into the dirt next to the can. Horror crawled over her skin, and she sat back on her heels, staring at the object, in the grip of an irrational fear. Had the man come back to the farm for this? For a dozen condoms, a bunch of useless junk and a bird skull?

She scooped up the contents, returned them to the tin and pressed the lid down tightly before heading into the house to find Sergeant Sullivan’s card. She wasn’t sure what the significance of the tin was, but she knew the police had better have a look at it.