Читать книгу Cold Mourning - Brenda Chapman - Страница 6

Wednesday, December 21, 6:40 p.m.

“So how did the interview go with the woman who was attacked earlier today?” Rouleau asked as they pulled out of the parking garage.

Kala leaned her head back against the headrest and turned slightly so she was facing him. She’d wrapped her arms around herself since the heater hadn’t yet warmed the interior.

“Glenda Martin was shaken up but getting angry by the time she told us what happened. She’s an assistant deputy minister in the federal government and not used to being pushed around.”

“I thought all government workers got accustomed to being on the receiving end.” Rouleau took his eyes off the road long enough to smile at her.

The corners of Kala’s mouth lifted briefly. “Seems Glenda’s high enough up in the food chain to be the one doing the pushing. Anyhow, she was quick enough to get a glimpse of the guy after he threw her head first toward the wall. She elbowed him in the stomach after he grabbed her breast through her coat. He had his other arm wrapped around her neck and was tightening his hold. She heard him say ‘bitch’ just before he heaved her forward. She got her hands out in front of her and managed not to hit her head. Her hands and neck were bruised but she didn’t want to go to the hospital. Her injuries were worse than she let on.”

“I don’t like the sound of him getting her in a strangle hold. He’s escalating.”

“She said the perp had on black army-type boots, black pants, and a black ski jacket. He was husky but not too tall. The angle she saw him from lying on the floor wasn’t the best for getting all the details.”

“Anything else?”

“She thought she saw white hair under a black toque but didn’t see his face because he’d turned to run by the time she got herself twisted back around. Luckily the front door sticks and that gave her a chance to see him.”

“It’s not much, but beats what we had so far. He likes wearing black, might be a strong, old guy, and has a limited but colourful vocabulary.”

“I’d say we’ve almost got him then.” It was Kala’s turn to smile in his direction.

“Gabriel Marleau might be useful in getting a read on what type of person we’re dealing with. Marleau is our staff psychologist and does profiling.”

Kala took a notepad out of her pocket and made a note. “Anything else?”

Rouleau glanced at her. “Just that I won’t expect you in until noon tomorrow. When this interview is over, you can take off and get some sleep. You’ve done more than enough for a first day on the job after a long drive to get here. Go get settled in.”

“I’m okay,” she mumbled before turning to look out the side window.

She angled her body away from him, and Rouleau felt the distance she’d put between them, even in such a confined space. He turned on the windshield wipers to clear away the softly falling snow. He didn’t attempt to talk to her the rest of the way to Tom Underwood’s mansion south of town in the ritzy Winding Way subdivision on the Rideau River.

Rouleau wasn’t a man who put much stock in looks, but Laurel Underwood was the kind of woman to make a man want to leave home, to paraphrase a Bonnie Raitt song. If a person could be taught to slink seductively across a room, Laurel would be the one giving lessons. She’d led him and Stonechild into the kitchen and set about pouring tea in white porcelain cups rimmed in gold. An equally arresting red-haired girl about six years old kneeled on the carpet in the family room two steps down from the kitchen. She was in front of the wide-screen television, colouring in a book that rested on the coffee table. She’d glanced at them when they first entered, but immediately lowered her head to complete her work with a blue crayon. A naked evergreen tree stood in the corner, boxes of tinsel and decorations stacked in boxes on the floor.

Milk and sugar delivered, Laurel sat and leaned her elbows onto the counter between them. Her glossy red hair, several shades darker than her daughter’s, trailed past her shoulders and down her back. Pink gloss emphasized her lips and black eyeliner defined her violet eyes. Their heather colour was a freak of nature not unlike Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. Rouleau searched her irises to see if she was wearing tinted contact lenses, but the eye colour looked real enough. Her gauzy white top clung to her, the top buttons undone to show off her cleavage.

“Tom never stays away without telling me. Never.” Laurel gazed at Rouleau as if defying him to contradict her. Unbelievably, her eyes had darkened to a richer shade of violet.

“When did you last see or hear from him?” Rouleau asked. He motioned for Stonechild to begin taking notes.

“We were at a Christmas party last night at the Chateau. It was his company party and I know this might sound odd, but he left early and I stayed. Tom hates parties so he left me to keep the public face. It wasn’t unusual.”

“You didn’t see him at all after the party?”

“No.”

“What time did you come home?”

“It was close to four a.m. Tom’s car was in the driveway. His bed was slept in when I checked this morning.”

Kala raised her head but looked down again. The implication was obvious and Rouleau didn’t pursue the Underwoods’ sleeping arrangements, not yet anyhow. “Did anybody see him before he left the house this morning?”

Laurel nodded. Her voice softened. “Charlotte, our daughter.” She motioned to the child hunched over the colouring book. “Tom kissed her goodbye on his way out. She has no idea of the time but said it was still dark in her room.”

“Did he say anything to her?”

“No. Charlotte doesn’t know yet that he’s missing. I’d rather you didn’t ask her any questions now. They’re very close and it would upset her. She’s waiting for him to come home to decorate the tree.”

“No need,” said Rouleau. “What was your husband’s frame of mind? Was business going well? Were things good between you?”

“You’re asking me if he was depressed, aren’t you, like you think he would do something to himself. Tom would never …” Her voice rose.

“Mommy?” Charlotte lifted her head like a rabbit sensing danger. She held the crayon in her fist, her eyes wide and frightened.

Laurel looked across at her daughter. Her features relaxed. “Nothing, darling. Nothing to worry about. Finish your picture for me. It looks so lovely already.”

“It’s for you and Daddy,” said Charlotte, her face puckered in seriousness, picking up an emerald green crayon and turning back to her task.

Laurel studied her daughter for a moment more. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its normal huskiness. “I phoned his partner, J.P. Belliveau, and he said Tom didn’t come into the office this morning or phone that he wouldn’t be in. Tom missed two meetings. He would never do that without a reason. One of the meetings was important.”

“Is there anyone else he might have gone to visit? Family? A friend?”

“I checked already. Tom has two children from a previous marriage.” She choked out a laugh. “I was so desperate, I even called his ex-wife Pauline. Nobody has heard from him.”

Kala said, “I’ll need their names and addresses.”

“I thought you might and wrote them down. I left the paper upstairs in the study with a recent photo. I’ll go get them.”

Rouleau sipped his tea after she’d gone, then lowered his cup, “What do you think?”

“That she’s very worried.”

“I wonder why. Her husband hasn’t been gone a full day yet.”

“Sometimes women know. They have a sense when their partner’s in trouble.”

“Well as far as I can see, no crime has been committed yet and it’s too early to tell. He might be on a bender or gone somewhere and forgotten to call.”

“As you say,” Kala’s voice trailed away and she lifted her teacup. She lowered it without drinking and pushed herself to her feet, then crossed the floor to squat down next to Charlotte, resting back on her heels as she murmured something that caught the child’s attention. Charlotte responded and Kala picked up the picture, leaning close and talking into Charlotte’s ear until the child laughed and took the picture back.

By the time Laurel returned with the list of names, Kala was standing next to Rouleau. They left the kitchen without another word to the child.

Rouleau dropped Kala at the station and continued on to the Royal Oak, crossing the Pretoria Bridge over the Canal to where the pub sat on the corner of Echo Drive, directly across from the waterway. He was a few minutes late and felt the familiar tightening in his stomach that had been the norm at the end of his marriage whenever he’d stood up Frances for work. Luckily, she was just hanging up her coat inside the doorway when he arrived. She turned and smiled at him without the anger that had punctuated the final months when she’d begun freezing him out. They hugged lightly before a waitress led them to a table near the gas fireplace in the corner of the room.

Rouleau scanned the room as he walked behind Frances. The same oak decor and flowered seat cushions, a little more frayed and faded, with Irish music playing from overhead speakers — The Irish Rovers’ rendition of “Danny Boy.” Time really could stand still. The place was proof. They sat next to the window. He ordered a tall Keith’s for himself and gin and tonic for Frances, suddenly not hungry for food.

“It was good to hear your voice after all this time,” he said, leaning back. The lines had deepened around her eyes and the pale pink blouse washed out the colour in her face. She’d always had pale skin but it seemed more translucent somehow. Her hair was cropped shorter than he’d ever seen. When he complimented her on it, she absent-mindedly lifted a hand to touch the exposed nape of her neck.

“I know this must seem awkward, Jacques, after all this time.”

“Your call was unexpected, yes.” He took a long drink from his glass. “But expected at the same time. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to hear from you. When you didn’t answer my emails, I figured it was in your court. That you would contact me when you were ready.”

“I’m sorry. I should have been in touch before now.” She lowered her head to study her hands clasped together on the table.

He hadn’t meant to put her on the defensive, but normal conversation was eluding him. Just how did you greet an ex-wife when it had ended badly? What was the trick for pretending they hadn’t been intimate and best friends for sixteen years?

“So what have you been up to? Have you had a good year?” he asked. Have you left Gordon?

Frances picked up her glass and drank. “Time was I’d be lighting a cigarette to go with this G and T,” she said wistfully. “Those were the days.” She set the glass down carefully on a clover-shaped green coaster. “Remember that day in grade twelve when we skipped school and you borrowed your father’s car and we spent the afternoon at Constance Bay?”

“Do I? My father gave me royal hell when I got home after dark, but it was worth every minute. It was the first time we ever …”

“That’s the memory I’ve kept coming back to,” she smiled. “That first time and how young and free we were back then. If only we could go back.”

Rouleau found her eyes and wouldn’t let her look away. “What’s wrong then, Fran? Why did you call me here after all this time?”

“Am I that obvious? I was planning to have a pleasant catch up over drinks and tell you my sad news as we got ready to leave. You know, when I went through all those rounds of chemo, I kept thinking that it wasn’t so long ago I was happy. I mean really happy. I can’t believe how quickly it all went away.”

His stomach lurched like a hand had reached inside and squeezed his large intestine. “Cancer?”

She nodded. “It began in my breast and I thought it was nothing serious. You know, just a benign cyst or something easily explained away. The doctor said I was very unlucky.” Her gaze didn’t falter. “I have a few months they think. Maybe as many as six. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“God, no. Are they sure? Can’t anything be done? There are so many new treatments. Have you tried another doctor?” He heard his voice rising and struggled to bring it down to normal pitch.

“God hasn’t had much to do with this, I’m afraid. No miracles or answering of prayers. He’s been strangely silent as I contemplate the final chapter.”

He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. She turned her hand over and twined her fingers through his. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

This time, she shook her head. “It’s under control. Gordon took it badly at first, but he’s stepping up.” She laughed. “He wants to marry me. Can you believe it?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, Jacques.” Her voice was a whisper. “I screwed up our lives. I’m trying very hard not to screw up my death.”

He reached across the table and took her hand between both of his. Her skin was cool to the touch, her palm papery dry. “I’m as much to blame for what happened to us as you are. More so, in fact. I’m still here for you, Fran. Anytime, anywhere. You’ve got to know that.”

She gently squeezed his hand before withdrawing hers. “Thank you, Jacques. It’s good to know that we’re still friends. That’s something anyway.” She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head.

He looked at the bony curve of her jaw and her eyes nearly black in the dim light of the bar. She’d lost a lot of weight. “I think you should marry Gordon.”

She lifted her head and studied him, her eyes amused. “Really? You wouldn’t mind too much?”

The familiar smile on her lips twisted his heart. He swallowed before speaking. “No. Do what feels right, what makes you happy.”

“I don’t know quite what that would be anymore. A call from the hospital saying that they’d gotten it all wrong. It was a screw-up in the lab and my real test results were hiding in somebody’s else’s file.” She tilted her head and shrugged as if dismissing the possibility. “But maybe for Gordon, getting married would mean something.”

“Then do it.” She wouldn’t marry again without his blessing he knew. He could see it in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have any regrets.”

She reached for her glass. “I’m not sure what I’ll do yet, but thank you, Jacques. As for regrets, I have many but it’s past the time when I can do anything about them.” The glass shook as she brought it to her lips and drank, her eyes meeting his and saying everything.

He raised his glass and drank too, not stopping until it was empty. The long draught of bitter beer wasn’t nearly enough to clear the pain clawing at his throat. It couldn’t even begin to dull the impact her words had made on the rest of his life.