Читать книгу Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Jeffrey Round - Страница 20

The blinds in Martin’s office were drawn, the desk lamps pointed down in little penumbras of shade and brightness, as though he’d a developed a light sensitivity. Dan waited for an explanation, though none was forthcoming. He turned down the offer of water and proceeded to describe his break-up with Bill, weaving in strands of the conversation with Donny in which he’d nearly ended their friendship.

As always, he was leery of how much to tell Martin. Was it just paranoia that whispered in his ear and said Martin might label him a psychopath or a menace to society? As Dan’s psychiatrist, he’d been granted the authority to judge Dan’s ability to function at his work. Maybe that extended to other areas in his life, like his suitability as a father. He imagined Martin standing at the gates of Auschwitz, pointing to various doorways: a set of twins directed to the left for experimentation, others to the right for a more succinct end. Though maybe that wasn’t fair. Perhaps Martin wasn’t the monster Dan believed him to be, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance. That he exhibited not a single sign of having emotions while isolating and observing emotions in others made him suspect. It was people like Martin who inspired books like Blade Runner.

Dan brought up his concern for Bill, explaining how he’d struggled to understand what Bill was going through being in love with his best friend while attempting to maintain a relationship with Dan. He thought Martin might award him a gold star for his efforts, as he had when he tried to get Dan to understand Ralph’s needs.

For once, Martin didn’t ask Dan how he felt about the situation. Instead, he said, “That’s a lot of responsibility you place on your shoulders — anticipating other people’s needs as well as your reaction to them. Are you trying to be perfect?”

Hardly, thought Dan. No one going for a good behaviour award would have done what I did afterwards. “No, I’m far from perfect. I have no illusions there. I bashed in a filing cabinet, remember.”

Martin scribbled something in his book. Was he marking the reference to the incident as mocking or simply noting that Dan had a sense of humour about it? He looked up. “Do you think you might be trying to make up for your perceived lack of perfection?”

“How is that?”

“You said Bill was particularly hard to please, ergo, you were never able to function to his satisfaction. You probably saw yourself as imperfect in Bill’s eyes….”

Dan interrupted. “I think Bill saw everyone as imperfect in Bill’s eyes. I never thought that was my fault.”

Martin smiled his patient smile, the one he wore when he wanted to coax Dan toward a conclusion of some sort. “Was there another relationship in your past where you tried to please a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t be pleased by anything you did?”

“I tried to make my father love me.”

“But you failed, didn’t you?”

“Miserably.”

“Because — as far as you believe — your father never loved you.”

Dan nodded.

“But you won’t accept that perhaps your father was incapable of love. You prefer to take on the responsibility for his lack of affection toward you.”

“Maybe. Does it matter now?”

Martin’s pencil poised over the pad. “It might help if you saw that Bill is another version of your father: a man impossible to please.”

Dan looked at the clock — twenty-five minutes left — then glanced at the framed diploma in psychiatry awarded to Martin Sanger. Googling his therapist in the early days of their sessions, along with a list of publication titles to his credit, Dan had come across the German translation for Martin’s last name: pincer. He envisioned a giant set of pliers tugging at the neurons in his brain. “Yes, I can see the connection,” he said.

Martin leaned forward. “Do you think that might be why you get angry with Ralph when he messes the floor or why you dent filing cabinets with your fists when something goes wrong at work? Is that why you want to cut off your closest friend when he tells you the truth about yourself? You want everyone around you to be perfect, because otherwise you feel you can’t love them.”

With a chill, Dan remembered his son’s words in the park: I’m just afraid that one day I’ll piss you off and you’ll stop loving me, too.

Martin looked pleased, as though he’d just inserted the last tile in a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, completing the image of a damaged man unable to express love. Dan wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Is that what you think, Martin?”

Martin’s eye blinked, a lizard sunning itself on a rock. “I’m asking you.”

Dan swallowed. “I don’t have an opinion,” he lied.

He wanted to say, Don’t think you know me, to this grotesque impersonation of a man bent over his notepad beneath his Mondrian reproduction. Wasn’t it Mondrian who despised nature? Hated trees?

Dan wondered about the others who sat in this chair revealing or hiding themselves from this man and his bloodless, probing intellect — a collection of damaged beings going through the motions of expressing their desires and fears, before letting themselves out the big doors to stand deflated in the hallway beside the elevator that never came. Before returning to the other world — the real world — where theories did nothing to piece together the shattered bits of themselves. The depressed, the despairing, and the broken: women whose spouses beat them, adult children of alcoholics who went through life feeling unworthy and unloved, the emotionally distraught. How did sitting here for this hour do anything to help? When they left, their time up, did they leave a residue of pain and disappointment, an invisible trail leading all the way from this chair down the hall? Did any of them think it a virtue to sit and suffer over all this? Perhaps Martin gave out badges after it was all over, and they’d divulged all there was to divulge. A little something to say, “I suffered.” Maybe, Dan thought, he could ask for a bumper sticker instead. What would Martin scribble in his little binder if he said that?

In the daytime, Bill had begun to revert to a bad memory, a sour taste on the tongue. Yet each morning on awakening, Dan’s first thoughts were of loss. He found it difficult to drag himself out of bed and suspected he was fighting a lingering depression over the split. He knew nothing would help get him through it but time — preferably time spent alone.

Ked was long past needing Dan’s help to get ready for school. Dan found the signs of his son’s passing each morning: the dog leash hung over the banister, a cereal bowl and spoon washed and left in the dish rack, the newspaper dropped on the side table in the hall. These were Ked’s morning footprints. For such a big kid, he took up relatively little space.

The days went by in a whirl of strategy meetings and negotiations with despairing or difficult clients. Dan hadn’t expected to hear from either Bill or Thom, so he was surprised to find on his desk an application bearing the name Killingworth. Not Lucille, Thom, or Ted, but Craig. Someone wanted him to make an inquiry into the disappearance of Lucille Killingworth’s missing husband.

The name of a solicitor was prominent, but there was no client named, nothing to say who’d requested the search. Dan flipped through the file. Was this Lucille Killingworth’s way of getting the better of him, by hiring him publicly after he’d turned her down privately? Could she be that stubborn or foolish to think he could be bought? If so, he was happy to show her otherwise.

He read over the letter — not yellow parchment this time — and pressed the intercom. His boss came on the line. Ed Burch was a straight-talking, no-nonsense retired cop who never took no for an answer. “What are the chances?” That’s all Ed ever asked. And then you were off on your own. He’d been the first to congratulate Dan for becoming a single gay dad. To Ed, the word “limitation” didn’t exist.

“It came through a solicitor,” was Ed’s reply. “That’s all I can tell you. Why?”

“I know these people,” Dan said. “I don’t like them. I don’t want to take this one on.”

“It has your name on it, Danny. The client specifically asked for you.”

“Well, tell them I’m not avail —”

His boss cut him off. “I can’t do that. You start things in motion and I’ll look into it once you’ve got it going. If I can, I’ll put someone else on it then.”

“And if not?”

“If not, we’ll see.”

Dan knew his options were limited. He was still doing penance for denting the filing cabinet. He felt like a schoolboy who’d been caught writing naughty words on the blackboard. He’d have to keep his fingers clean until someone else did something worse and his little indiscretion faded from memory.

He buzzed Sally, who came in wearing a sky blue sundress, orange loafers, and a violet kerchief. Not colourless. She stood waiting for orders. Dan wasn’t sure where to start. Most of his cases involved searches for people who’d disappeared within recent memory. Cases where he could start by asking the client about the last time they’d seen the misper. What did anyone expect him to find after more than twenty years?

“Check with the Picton OPP. They should still have the original files. You can tell Detective Constable Peter Saylor I requested this.”

Sally was scribbling on her pad.

“Also check with Toronto police. Tell them I want to look at their John Doe files from the time. Canada-wide. Especially anything that’s not online. You can give them the specs, but tell them not to narrow things down too far. They can leave that to me. I’m sure the report must have been filed in both places, even if he disappeared in Prince Edward County.”

Sally went off, pen in hand, a rainbow in motion, leaving his door open.

Two days later he had Saylor’s transcript of the original missing persons report on Craig Killingworth on his desk. The photograph showed an attractive man in his late thirties or early forties: curly brown hair, a strong jaw, and intelligent eyes with a serious set. The kind of man you wouldn’t hesitate to ask directions of or maybe even buy a used car from, if the price was right. A charmer. Thom had obviously inherited his good looks from both sides of the family.

Some of the facts about the case seemed unremarkable; others merited a second look. Dan was intrigued to learn that at the time of his disappearance Lucille Killingworth had had a restraining order imposed against her husband for assault and uttering a death threat. On her testimony, Killingworth had been suspended from his job as principal of a local high school after spending a night in jail. He’d also been ordered not to make contact with his sons on the grounds that he posed a potential threat to his boys. He’d disappeared before the case made it to court.

It was a heady read. The file gave an address in nearby Bloomfield, ten minutes out of Picton, as Craig Killingworth’s last known residence. He’d lived there for two months estranged from his family until his disappearance, the exact day of which was unclear. It had eventually been narrowed down to the weekend of November 1–2, right after his appearance on the Friday at the Picton Courthouse when a date had been set for his trial. At that hearing, Killingworth tried unsuccessfully to have visiting rights to his sons reinstated. On his wife’s testimony, the court upheld the original order.

The report compiled by Picton OPP in the weeks following his disappearance created a portrait of a methodical man. All his bills had been paid, including his rent in advance, for the next two months. His pre-furnished residence had been orderly and recently cleaned. The bed was made, dishes washed, and an empty travel case tucked behind a door.

Apart from a photograph of his sons and a handful of books stacked carefully on a shelf, there’d been few personal items. There were no signs of trouble or a break-in. The only thing missing was a bicycle; it had disappeared the same weekend Killingworth was believed to have vanished. The report confirmed that a number of locals had seen him cycling on the highway between Bloomfield and Picton on several occasions in the weeks prior to his disappearance.

Dan wondered why a wealthy man would be riding a bicycle. He read on. The Glenora ferryboat captain, Terry Piers, stated that Craig Killingworth had made the trip over to Adolphustown on his bicycle on the afternoon of Saturday, November 1. He hadn’t returned. Because of the sighting, and the court restriction against seeing his family, the report concluded that Craig Killingworth had headed past Adolphustown and cycled east to Kingston. Whether he’d disappeared by choice or by chance was anybody’s guess.

Several additional sightings of Craig Killingworth were made in the weeks and months following his disappearance. None turned up any substantial leads. A month later, a second report looked briefly into the suggestion that Killingworth’s disappearance might have been the result of foul play. Mention was made of a gardener employed at the Killingworth home a few months before Killingworth’s disappearance, not long before charges were laid against him by his wife. According to the report, Craig Killingworth had fired the gardener on suspicion of theft. An anonymous writer suggested in bold script that Killingworth’s disappearance might have been the result of an act of revenge by the gardener. A subsequent note, appended in a different hand, argued that Killingworth had more likely given up on his efforts to clear his reputation, abandoning home and family to start over elsewhere.

A statement by family members included a plea by Craig’s sister, Clare, that he get in touch with his family, as well as a tersely worded comment from fifteen-year-old Theodore Killingworth to the effect that his father was “a liar.” The table of contents listed a third document noted only as M.H. Dan looked through all the papers, but it seemed to have gone missing or never to have made it into the larger file. Nor was there anything to suggest who or what M.H. might be.

He buzzed Sally. She entered clutching a large manila envelope. Dan pointed at the paragraph mentioning the fired gardener.

“Find a name for that person — that’s who I want to talk to.”

Sally squinted at the file and took note of the reference.

“And this one here.” He pointed at the name of the ferryboat captain. “See if you can locate either of them.”

“Will do. Now my turn,” she said, tapping the thick envelope in her arms. “Here are the John Does from that time.” She dropped it on his desk and smiled. “Have fun.”

The Doe files were the saddest, most dismal collection of human relics Dan could ever have imagined. If there was anything more degrading than to end up strangled in an industrial park, stabbed beneath a bridge or fished from a river wearing concrete shoes, it was to find that no one was interested in claiming your remains or learning who you’d been. Not one thing in your life stood out enough for anyone to want to trace your steps and reconnect you with your past, with the people who had given birth to you, reared and loved you. Not one.

Dan was familiar enough with the Doe files. What struck him was how generic most of the facial reconstructions were or how unlikely it was that anyone, even those who’d known the dead person intimately, might actually find a resemblance between the faces drawn, sculpted and recreated by computers, or sense a sliver of recognition between these humanoid images and the people they were supposed to represent. On the other hand, a few were so sharply portrayed and with so much circumstantial evidence noted — rare blood types, unusual scars, and dental records, even handmade clothing — it seemed improbable that they hadn’t been recognized: the buck-toothed boy with a bowl-shaped haircut found wearing a cap available from only one store in the county, or the young woman buried beneath a construction site and mummified so that her remains had barely altered in twenty years, with severe scarring to her left hip, probably from a car accident. How was it they had never been identified?

The only probable reason was that someone didn’t want them found. In all likelihood, the reports had never been filed and the searches never begun. But if so, where were the grandmothers missing grandchildren, the husbands missing wives, and sisters missing brothers? Only a concerted conspiracy of silence by friends and family could have left them unnamed and unclaimed. For every one who vanished, Dan reasoned, there had to be between four and forty people who would notice sooner or later.

He could never shake off a sense of futility when he went through those files, thinking of all the faces that might never be identified, all the lives that would never be reconnected with their pasts. Some had wanted to vanish, true enough, and that’s exactly what they’d done. But had they really meant it to be forever?

New technology and improved networking between agencies sharing databases sometimes made identification possible decades later. The DNA retrieved when the bodies were first recovered might no longer be usable, but if the remains were exhumed then experts could take fresh samples that would respond to modern testing. Sometimes it was just a matter of diligence and old-fashioned stick-to-it-ness. Other times, it seemed a wasted effort. You never knew. Often families didn’t come forward for years then suddenly, for one reason or another, they did. Files were crosschecked with other files and it became a simple matter of matching a name to a photograph. It could be surprisingly simple.

It kept Dan up nights wondering why families waited so long to report a missing relative. The reasons varied. Sometimes the misper had a habit of disappearing and it was assumed they wanted to stay lost. Others had a criminal record and the family believed they would only make things worse by looking for them. Then years went by without word, and it began to dawn on them that perhaps their son or daughter was no longer alive. Still others turned up alive years later — sometimes decades — and at last spoke about threats of violence or the trauma of an unwanted child. You just never knew.

But there was one thing Dan knew: once asked, the questions didn’t go away just because they went unanswered. They hung around and festered, especially when you looked at them too closely. It was easy to obsess over unsolved clues, like the faded handwriting on a piece of paper that refused to yield up its secrets or a lake on a mountain that obscured its origins.

No reply, no return. These were words Dan found unacceptable. Because they meant that somewhere someone wasn’t trying hard enough.

“The gardener’s name was Magnus Ferguson. He showed up on one other report….”

“Unusual name, Magnus.”

“… so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Sally smiled. “It wasn’t. Last known address: Surrey, B.C., about five years ago.” She stood before his desk, pad in hand, waiting.

Dan felt that tingle of excitement that came when something suddenly appeared within reach. Sometimes things took years to budge then suddenly the floodgates opened and it seemed as though they’d always been there, just waiting to be discovered. A single piece of thread that had seemed innocuous at the time might turn out to be a special material manufactured by only one company and sold in just a handful of locations. And suddenly you had a piece of a puzzle that unlocked a significant clue.

“Did you phone to verify that it’s the same person?”

Sally shook her head. “There’s no Magnus Ferguson listed in all of B.C. I didn’t have time to check the rest of the country.…”

“But you will.”

She groaned.

“And you’ll have it for me by when?”

She grinned. “Probably by the time you get back from seeing the ferryboat captain in Picton. I’ve booked you an appointment for tomorrow.”

“Sweet,” Dan said. “When and where?”

“Two p.m.” She looked down at her pad. “It’s got an unusual name,” she said. “Ever hear of the Murky Turkey?”

Dan smiled. “Sally, I’m promoting you. You can stop cleaning chamber pots and start sharpening pencils effective immediately.”

He drove along the same route he and Bill had taken to the wedding. The ghostly forms that had been obscured by mist then were revealed now, innocent and unprepossessing in the fresh light of day. A simple fall landscape, seemingly devoid of mystery.

He was early. He reached Picton at noon. He thought over his plan again and continued on to Lake on the Mountain. He parked in the same lot and sat looking out over the water before walking to the resort.

“I’d like to rent a boat,” Dan said to the man puttering around in the garden shoring up trellises.

The man gave him a sharp look. “What sort of boat would that be?”

“A boat to explore the lake,” Dan said.

The man grinned. “Well, that should be simple then. We’ve only got one kind. It’s a rowboat. You looking for a good workout for your arms?”

Dan smiled. “A little exercise never hurt.”

The man left his trellises and went inside. Five minutes later, standing beside the boat, the man sized Dan up and offered him an orange life vest. “Keep this thing on at all times when you’re in the boat — it’s the law.”

Dan placed it over his head and secured it around his chest.

“Can you swim?”

“Yes, I can.”

“All right, then I won’t worry about you.” The man held up an orange plastic capsule. “There’s a nylon rope and a whistle in here. You run into any trouble, you blow it as loud as she can blow. I usually rent them for an hour,” he glanced over at the parking lot, empty but for Dan’s car, “though I suppose you can take your time. I’ll tell the crowds to wait till you get back.”

Dan did a wonky duck waddle getting in, then settled in his seat and pressed an oar against the shore. The boat shifted off the rocky bottom. After a few tentative strokes, he found his rhythm and the craft surged forward.

He scanned the caramel-coloured rock passing underneath him. Without warning, darkness opened wide under the boat. Dan had the sensation that he’d jumped off a cliff, his fall arrested by the placid green surface of the water. The darkness went straight down with no sign of anything below. He peered into the depths, adjusting his vision, but saw nothing. It looked bottomless.

He turned his head and glanced up at the passing clouds then shifted in his seat and resumed rowing toward the middle of the lake. He couldn’t shake the sensation that the world had fallen away beneath him.

The Black Swan winked at him as he approached. It looked no different than it had a month earlier. Not surprising — it probably hadn’t changed much in the last hundred-and-twenty-five-odd years. Dan spotted Terry Piers right off, a grey-haired man in a heavy grey-and-orange sweater, sitting upright at the bar and talking non-stop. A wrinkled smile and periwinkle eyes greeted him. Dan felt the strength in his grip, heard the thunder in his tone. Captain Bligh on shore leave. An eye patch and a tri-cornered hat were all he needed to complete the picture. Hale and hearty at seventy or more, he’d probably see a hundred before he was done, without giving up either smoke or drink. In fact, they probably fortified him.

Dan ordered a pint of Glenora. The former captain pooh-poohed him for buying that “local crap” before lifting his glass to a portrait of Elizabeth II on the wall behind him. It was the young queen, very glam, around the time of her coronation: glowing, radiant. Long before she was sideswiped by her annus horribilis and her star-struck wretch of a daughter-in-law. Dan let Terry regale him with talk of the “old days” on the ferry watch before launching into the subject of his inquiry.

When he spoke Craig Killingworth’s name, Terry grew thoughtful. “Oh, yes, I remember him,” he said softly.

“In the report on his disappearance you said he went over to Adolphustown on his bike that weekend but didn’t return.”

“That’s right.”

“And you were sure it was him?”

“Aye. Not a doubt.”

“And was he carrying anything — luggage, or any sort of baggage?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“But you said you thought he was heading for Kingston?”

“Well, not exactly.” Terry scratched his head and looked off into the distance of time, as if to remember what it was he had said. “You see, if you were heading to Toronto or anywheres west of here, you’d head north up to the 401. If you were to take the ferry across to Adolphustown, well, from there you’d be travelling east to Kingston and the like. But only if you wanted to go that far. What I said was that if he didn’t come back, then he was probably headed that way or farther.”

Dan considered this. “Could he not have come back across in a car?” he asked. “He might not have been on his bicycle. Perhaps you didn’t see him in the back of a car?”

“No sir, that is not likely. Have you been on the ferry?”

Dan recalled the outdoor deck with its three short lanes and twenty-one-car capacity. “Yes.”

“Then you know it’s small and everything’s in the open. For one thing, I could see anyone inside those vehicles. For another, I knew him well enough by sight. If he came across on the ferry without me seeing him, well then he’d have to be tied up in a trunk.”

“And you’re sure of the date you said you saw him crossing on?”

“Absolutely sure. You see, we were keeping a log to chart the sort of traffic that came across. There was only one other bicycle that weekend, come across from Adolphustown later that evening, and it wasn’t him.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t him?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t mean to doubt you, but why are you so sure? I mean, if it was nighttime — a hood or a cap, the darkness. It might be hard to be certain.”

“But I was certain. For two reasons,” Terry began. “As I said, I knew Craig Killingworth on sight. Well enough, you’d say, though I couldn’t have called him a friend. But his face was known around town. And at that time he’d lived here many years. It’s a small enough place, and you know who you know real well.”

And a wealthy man would always be known, Dan thought, though he didn’t voice his assumption.

“He was a very friendly man,” Terry continued. “He’d always call out to you on the street, say hello, ask about the weather, that sort of thing. You know how it is in small towns — or I’m sure you can guess, if you don’t.”

Funny, Dan thought, how the rich and the dead are always exalted in their eulogies. Men who assaulted their wives and abandoned their families were remembered for a friendly greeting on the street, while for the most part the abuse and threats went unrecorded. He smiled. “So if he’d gone across on the ferry, you’d have no doubt he would have greeted you.”

“As I said….”

“But you said there was a second reason you were sure it wasn’t him you saw returning with the bicycle.”

“And I was coming around to that.” Terry winked. “In my own fashion, of course.”

Dan waited as Terry took a quaff of his beer and set the glass down.

“The other reason I am sure it wasn’t Craig Killingworth I saw with the bicycle that night was because it wasn’t a man. It was a youngster. Last run over on the ferry but one.” Terry looked triumphant.

Dan thought it over. “Did you recognize the kid?” he said at last.

Terry shook his head. “Afraid not.”

He had one final stop. He drove back along the parkway to the OPP detachment on Schoharie Road. Inside the long grey bowling alley, flanked on either side by an empty parking lot, Dan’s name elicited an immediate response. Saylor came through the door, pressed smartly into his uniform, greeting him as though he were a long-lost friend.

He ushered Dan into a spacious office the colour of unfired pottery. A policeman’s sanctuary. He’d covered his walls with posters, handwritten notices of crimes, some recent and others from long ago, alongside the Xeroxed faces of people wanted in connection with any number of incidents. Some of the reprobates scowled at the camera while others smiled, seeming to enjoy their little moment of notoriety. The usual detritus of police station life.

Saylor was clearly glad for the interruption in his routine, where Dan might find himself pressed to make even a fifteen-minute opening in his day. Small town-big town, he mused. That was the difference. In smaller places you had time for people, even if they were casual acquaintances.

“Good to see you, buddy. What brings you out here?”

“Just passing by,” Dan said. “I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

“You got the file I sent you?” Saylor asked.

“Yes, I did,” Dan said. “Thanks for being so prompt. I’m looking into it now.” He paused. “I take it there’s been nothing further on the Ballancourt case?”

Saylor looked at Dan curiously. “No. It’s still closed. Were you expecting a change of direction on it?”

Dan affected an in-confidence tone. “Am I the only one to think it was awfully convenient for Lucille Killingworth to have a judge around to back up the claim of death by misadventure?”

Saylor shrugged. “The thought occurred to me.” His expression brightened. “I still think my theory was pretty ingenious.”

A knock came at Saylor’s door. A head poked in, white-haired, intense. Dan recognized him immediately. It was the serious-looking man who’d danced with Lucille Killingworth on the boat the night of the wedding. The man with barracuda eyes.

“Oh, my apologies,” he said. He didn’t seem to recognize Dan. “I’ll come back later, Pete.”

Before Saylor could introduce them, he’d vanished around the door. Dan waited a beat then tried for casual. “Who was that?”

“That’s Commissioner Burgess,” Saylor said, grinning. “The big shiny brass in this small town.”

“I think he was at the wedding,” Dan said nonchalantly.

“Yeah.” Saylor kept his voice low. “He’s a friend of Lucille Killingworth’s.”

Dan nodded. “Can we step out for a coffee somewhere?”

The Royal Café in downtown Picton was another holdover from Victorian times. A tin ceiling held onto its silver paint, but only barely. Large flaps hung down here and there, as though the sky had given way.

“Shoot,” said Saylor. “It’s free to talk in here.” He turned his head to the back of the café, where an older woman stood wiping cake crumbs off a table. “Maggie’s deaf,” he said with a wink.

“That file you sent me — did you check to see if it was intact before it went to the courier?”

Saylor looked at him. “I never even thought to look,” he said. “Wasn’t it all there?”

Dan shook his head. “Most of it, but there was one document missing.”

“Any idea what was in it?”

“It was labelled M.H. Possibly someone’s initials. Maybe a clerk’s. My guess is it had something to do with the assault charges Lucille Killingworth filed against her husband. I was hoping you could take a second look for me.”

Saylor looked perplexed. “I’ll try,” he said, “but I sent everything there was. I can get one of the junior officers to look around and see if it was misfiled, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. It was in a bunch of boxes that got shuffled off to a storage unit more than ten years ago. I had to get special permission to open it.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Dan was silent for a moment. He looked up at Saylor. “Did you ever meet Craig Killingworth?”

“No,” Saylor said. “But my brother went to the high school where Craig was principal. I remember there was some scandal and he disappeared for a few months in the middle of a school year. Then came the assault charges and he lost his job. Suspended, actually. It shocked a lot of people.” His tone became reflective. “You never know about people — the secrets they hide.”

“I guess not,” Dan said.

“Last month I got called to a place just outside town. A mechanic, one of the toughest guys around, hanged himself in his barn. Of all the people you might expect to commit suicide, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of my list.”

“You’re right,” Dan said. “You never know. I’m curious though, why was a rich guy like Killingworth working as a school principal?”

Saylor’s face frowned in concentration. “I guess because it was her money,” he said. “I think she expected him to earn his keep.” He stopped and looked over at the counter. “Maggie!” he called in a loud voice.

The old woman looked up. “Yes, Pete? Did you call?”

“I did, Maggie. I’m just wondering if you remember the Killingworths.”

“Who?”

“Killingworths,” he said, even louder. “The husband disappeared about twenty years ago. He was the school principal.”

“Oh, yes!” she said, her face suddenly transformed by memory. “Other side of the reach.”

“Rich family, weren’t they?” Saylor asked.

The woman nodded slowly. “Oh, yes,” she concurred. “It was her father’s money. Nathaniel Macaulay. I don’t think you’d remember him. It was Nate’s great-great-great-grandfather who founded Picton. The Reverend William Macaulay. With a Crown grant of four hundred acres. I’m surprised you don’t remember your local history, Pete. Nathaniel must have died twelve, fifteen years ago. Something like that. You could check on the gravestone if you wanted. He’s buried up the road at St. Mary Magdalene.”

“Thanks, Maggie.”

She turned back to her work.

“There you have it,” Saylor said. He checked his watch. “I’d better be getting back before I’m missed.”

Out on the street, he shook hands with Dan. “Are you single, by the way?” He winked. “I could set you up with my brother.”

Dan grinned in embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m not on the market at present.”

“Too bad,” Saylor said. “For him, anyway.” He nodded to a young couple passing on the sidewalk before turning back to Dan. “Just a word of warning,” he said. “It’s a small town here. Watch your back while you’re snooping around. Especially with Commissioner Burgess a friend of Mrs. Killingworth.”

“Warning noted,” Dan said. “Thanks for everything. I’ll be in touch.”

“And thanks for coming by,” Saylor said, as though it was Dan who had done him the favour.

Sally gave him a glum look on his return the following morning. She’d retired the blue, orange, and violet for an all-black outfit. She was a veritable Queen of the Night, with a stroke of magenta eye shadow. Mourning or colour fatigue, it was hard to say. She sighed and plunked her notebook onto his desk. Dan glanced up, trying not to look amused by this expression of exasperation.

“I can’t find him anywhere,” she said.

“Who?” Dan said, playing dumb.

“Oh, great! You don’t even remember what you asked me to find for you.”

“Fill me in,” Dan said.

“I can tell you without doubt there is not a single Magnus Ferguson listed with any public telephone directory in the entire country,” she said. “I have now checked the records dating back ten years.” Dan whistled. “Not only that, I’ve also called all one hundred and fifty of the ‘M. Fergusons’ listed and not one of them claims to be or to know a ‘Magnus.’ And now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to go back to cleaning chamber pots.”

He laughed as she flounced out of his room and then turned right back around. “Oh yeah — and this very creepy guy has been trying to get hold of you since yesterday. He refuses to leave a message.” She placed a name and number on his desk and left.

Larry Fiske. Dan didn’t recognize the name. He dialled the number and reached the reception desk at the firm of Fiske and Travis. Dan was put through immediately. Fiske identified himself as a lawyer representing the Killingworth family. Of course, this was the mysterious “Larry” that Thom and his mother had discussed during their meeting with Dan. Finally, Dan thought, he was going to be told Lucille had hired him to find her missing husband. He had more than a few questions, and was still undecided whether or not he’d willingly continue with the request to find Craig Killingworth.

“Mr. Sharp, I’m told you have been very loyal to the Killingworth family.”

That had been Lucille Killingworth’s phrase, Dan recalled. He needed to make clear his position once and for all. “Mr. Fiske, I would not describe my actions as being loyal to the Killingworths,” he said slowly. “When I met with Lucille and Thom last month I was simply doing them a favour. In a personal capacity.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Larry went on. “So are you taking on the case?”

“I’m considering it, yes.”

“Then I have to advise you that the Killingworth family would take exception to your decision if you choose to take on that request. Craig Killingworth’s disappearance twenty years ago caused his family considerable grief, which they have since managed to get over. They would not want all that stirred up again. They would also not take kindly to having you turn against them now.”

Dan was completely thrown. If they didn’t want him to take on the case, then who did? His tongue suddenly got stuck to the roof of his mouth. “In what capacity are you advising me, Mr. Fiske?”

“In a personal one.”

He oozed unctuousness. Dan decided he would hate this guy if he ever met him.

“Perhaps it’s a good time to mention that it has come to my attention there’s some question of attempted rape in connection with you and a guest of the Killingworths.…”

Dan exploded. “What?”

Larry went on as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “… as well as a question of intent to spread the HIV virus. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. If a test shows you to be HIV-positive, you could be up on charges of attempted murder.”

“Who’s going to order me to take an HIV-test?”

“You know very well that it’s within the jurisdiction of any court, should the matter come to that.”

There was silence on the other end. Dan felt his heart galloping a path through his stomach, but he wasn’t going to let a lawyer get the better of him. “Don’t try to bully me, Mr. Fiske. And don’t insult my intelligence. I’m obviously smarter than you.”

“Really?” Fiske’s voice dripped disdain. “How do you figure that?”

“Simple — because I’m not a lawyer. And if anything, I’m the one who should be worried about catching something.”

“Yes, Mr. Sharp. You probably should be very worried. I’ll leave you with those thoughts.”

The call clicked off.

“Son-of-a-fucking bitch!” Dan snarled. His hand shook as he forced himself not to bang the receiver down. His mouth was dry. He tried to marshal his thoughts. Things were definitely getting out of hand. And worse, what he’d assumed about being hired to find Craig Killingworth was totally false. The mystery was spreading, with no sign of who wanted Killingworth found.

Dan thought back to the report. Craig Killingworth had disgraced himself in his hometown and in the eyes of his family, then got on his bicycle and — what? Been hit by a car and died? Committed a crime and scrammed? Or simply started a new life for himself without looking back? All of these were possible. Sometimes locating a missing person seemed like taking a multiple-choice exam. Other times it felt like digging through the rubble to find something you only suspected was there, if it wasn’t in one of a thousand other places.

Sometimes, with a few known facts, it was like a recipe. Put in all the ingredients, including a few conjectured ones, stir round and round, and voila! — a cake — though in this case a particularly inedible one. Dan smiled at his analogy. He’d try it out on his boss one day. When he’d cleared himself of the filing cabinet incident. When his boss regained a sense of humour. Okay, maybe not. And — oh yes! — don’t forget the missing ingredient: I have to advise you that the Killingworth family would take exception to your decision if you choose to take on that request. That was the icing on the cake. Maybe Lucille Killingworth did not want her husband found. Why? Did she have something to hide?

Dan looked over the information Sally had left on his desk. He turned to his computer and checked flight schedules then pressed the intercom button. His boss answered. “Good morning, Daniel.”

“Good morning, Ed. It’s about the Killingworth case.…”

“I haven’t had time to think about who I might be able to spare.”

“It’s okay,” Dan cut him off. “I don’t want you to replace me. I’ve decided to stay on with it. If that’s all right.”

He heard his boss give a confused chuckle. “Yes — by all means. It’s fine with me. More than fine.”

“Good,” Dan said. “In fact,” he checked his watch, “I’m off in about three hours to catch a plane to B.C. to follow up on a lead there.”

“Fascinating. Enjoy the weather.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”