Читать книгу The God Game - Jeffrey Round - Страница 10

Humpty Dumpty

Dinner over, Dan cleared the plates and brought them to the kitchen. To the consternation of nearly everyone he knew, he did not own an automatic dishwasher. And because he had no dishwasher, the person who ended up washing dishes was usually him. That was the accepted arrangement when he and Nick ate together: chef gets to relax after the meal. Donny and numerous other well-meaning friends had tried over the years to convince him that modern technology had its merits, but Dan merely scoffed.

“For one thing,” he’d say, “I don’t trust a machine to do as good a job as I can. For another, I like washing dishes. It relaxes me to submerge my hands in the soapy water and get scrubbing. It’s my happy space.”

These statements usually elicited a few gasps, especially among a sophisticated downtown crowd. Sometimes there were murmurings of sympathetic understanding, but usually not.

“You’re more than welcome to it,” Nick told him, after offering to buy a dishwasher and being turned down flat.

More often than not, Nick sat at the table and nursed a coffee while Dan washed up, rather than rushing off to read or lounge in front of the television. Completely comfortable in each other’s presence, they were seldom apart during their off hours. Anyone seeing them might suspect there was an invisible force constantly pulling them together.

Dan finished the dishes, then followed Nick into the living room. He plunked himself down on the sofa and grabbed the TV remote.

“News?” he asked.

Nick grumped. “Why? It’s always bad. I get enough of that at work. In fact, I can tell you the news without even turning on the TV: somewhere there will be wars, somewhere else a natural disaster, while closer to home we’ll have a suspicious fire and a car accident that tied up rush-hour traffic.”

“You forgot politics,” Dan added.

“Yes, I did. On purpose.”

“You are one of the few people I can truly say is more curmudgeonly than me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Dan aimed the remote. “Let’s brave it anyway.”

They sat through the commercials with the sound muted until the news began. As Nick predicted, there was coverage of fighting in Africa and the Middle East, with an earnest detailing of the collapse of last-minute peace talks. The World Health Organization reported an outbreak of Ebola in West Africa. Disaster was the through-line, distressing despite its seeming remoteness. Only the local news featured a bright spot, with mention of a donation to SickKids hospital.

Dan was about to turn it off when a shot of Peter Hansen and Tony Moran appeared onscreen as the anchor’s disembodied voice stated that the husband of the special assistant to the educational reforms minister had been declared missing. A former candidate for the legislature, Hansen had hired a private investigator. Dan felt a jolt when he heard his name cited. The anchor closed by saying that both Peter and Dan had declined to comment on the case.

Nick’s hand stole over and gripped Dan’s thigh.

“Did you know about this?”

“No,” Dan said grimly. “So much for my client’s request for discretion.”

Just then his cellphone rang.

Dan looked at Nick. “What are the chances?”

He picked up and heard Peter Hansen’s gruff tone.

“Why did I just hear my name and yours on the evening news?” Hansen demanded. “What is this? Some kind of publicity grab? I told you I didn’t want this getting out.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t contact the press,” Dan said. “Someone called me to ask about the case. He said you gave him my number. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Who was it?”

Dan repeated the name he’d been given.

“Never heard of him,” Hansen growled. “Those fucking barracudas!”

“Who?”

“The political reporters. They must have followed me to your office, or else they’re hacking my email.”

“We haven’t had an email exchange.”

Peter snorted. “My phone, then. Who knows how they get this stuff!”

“I would advise caution from now on. Let’s talk directly in person when we speak about it.”

“A little late for that!” Hansen rounded off his conversation with a few well-placed expletives. “Sorry. Not professional of me.”

“I understand.”

“Please just find Tony.”

“I will,” Dan assured him.

He’d just put the phone down when it rang again.

“Sharp.”

There was a short pause followed by a tenor voice asking, “Could I get a comment on the Peter Hansen situation?”

“Who is this?”

“Simon Bradley. I’m a journalist. I cover local politics.”

The name rang a bell, Dan thought, but from long ago. This voice sounded too young.

Bradley continued. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Tony Moran. I might be able to tell you something in return.”

“Such as?”

Dan heard cars whizzing past on the other end, a busy highway.

“John Badger Wilkens. The Queen’s Park minister who committed suicide at Christmas.”

“Why would I want information on him?”

“I’ll explain, if you meet me.”

Dan looked over at Nick, who had busied himself with a magazine.

“When?”

“I’m just heading back into town. Say half an hour?”

Vesta Lunch had been open on the corner of Bathurst and Dupont, night and day, for as long as Dan had lived in Toronto. It never closed and never seemed to change. Not the servers, not the clientele, not the menu. As greasy spoons went, it was one of the best. Late-night comfort food for the lonesome and early-morning remedies for the hungover. Even an emergency shelter in a snowstorm, if need be. No matter how far your fall from grace, it was a place to hang your hat and call home.

Simon Bradley stood upon Dan’s arrival. He was young and easily six-foot-four, with a slim build under an Armani jacket, a confident smile, and a haircut that must have cost two hundred dollars. Dan recognized him as an occasional on-air broadcaster, the type who showed up in the midst of swirling snowstorms to report on traffic jams, house fires, derailed trains, and the other detritus that made up the bread and butter of the all-news stations. Apparently he’d been transferred to doing pieces of a political bent. Someone must have thought his mug worthy of the cause.

“Was it your father or your grandfather?” Dan asked.

The question caught Simon by surprise, but he quickly got back on track.

“Grandfather,” he said as they shook hands. “You remember him?”

“As a kid, yes. The name mostly, but I think I recall a resemblance.”

Simon Bradley Sr. had been one of the names reverberating through the Sharp household, spoken with reverence, when Dan was a boy. The names, including old-school politicians such as Lester Pearson, hockey players like Jean Béliveau, and broadcasters like Simon’s grandfather, were laid out as evidence of the glory days now past. They’d been legends back in the day when television ruled and you couldn’t get through the bleak northern Ontario winters without one.

“You’re right. I got his name and his looks,” Simon said. “But my dad got all the literary rights to his books.”

There would have been dozens of them, Dan recalled. Bradley had been one of Canada’s mainstays as an on-air journalist, and before that as a historian famous for his coverage of the Cold War. Now here was his grandson trying to make a name for himself in the same field. Sometimes the pressure to live up to a forebear was more trouble than it was worth.

Their server heard them talking and stole a look at Simon as though he was considering asking for an autograph.

“You somebody I should know, man?” he asked, setting down a plate of fries alongside a chicken-and-gravy sandwich.

Simon shrugged. “Only if you watch television.”

The waiter shook his head. “Nah. Waste of time,” he said, glancing over at Dan.

“Just coffee,” Dan told him.

Simon grinned as their waiter walked away. “That puts me in my place.”

The server returned with a cup of coffee, managing to slop it into the saucer as he set it on the table. He looked at it as though it might merit a second pour, then shrugged the gaffe aside as not worth his bother.

Dan tipped a single cream into his cup and sipped. It was always great coffee. He watched as Simon picked up a gravy-covered fry and slipped it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.

“So good! Love this place.”

“Just to remind you, Mr. Bradley, the meter is ticking.”

Simon gave him a reproachful look, as if he’d just insulted their new friendship. Suddenly he looked like a kid straight out of journalism school. “Sure, sorry, Dan. What do you know about John Badger Wilkens III?”

Dan shrugged. “The minister who committed suicide? Not much, really.”

“Well, let me tell you a few things. At twenty-five, John was the youngest elected minister in the legislature. He was a five-time debating champion in university, as well as a crackerjack lawyer and chartered accountant. Word is he was being groomed to be party leader in a few years. Which is to say he was considered by many to be a likely fit for future prime minister. Conservative, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“He was voted most popular member of the legislature before he turned thirty,” Simon continued. “Then last year something happened. From being leader of the pack, John’s star dimmed suddenly, and he was shunted to the backrooms. His party advisers stopped pushing him in front of TV cameras. Then came the revelations: missing money from a public portfolio. His fall was unthinkable after such a quick rise.”

Dan recalled Nick’s depiction of Conservatives as being prone to financial scandals. “What happened?”

“I don’t know for sure, but similar things have happened to others. Before him there was Sharon Timmons. Remember her?”

Dan nodded. “Another up-and-coming star. The New Democrats. Wasn’t she implicated in some scandal or other?”

“Drugs. Though she and her husband both proclaimed her innocence. For a while it looked like it might have been the teenage son, but they vigorously denied that as well, saying it was a plant. But it tarnished her reputation. The party eventually dropped her, too.”

“Curious, but how is this supposed to help me find Tony Moran?”

Simon leaned forward, as though to emphasize their intimacy. “What if I told you John Wilkens was murdered?”

Dan gave him a skeptical look. “It would make an interesting aside, but I thought we were here to talk about Tony.”

“This is related.”

“How?”

“I was in touch with John right before he was given the sack. I think he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. It had to do with the cancellation of the power plants contracts. It was a last-minute campaign promise that got the Liberals re-elected. When it was first announced, the estimated cost was something like two hundred million and change. Then came news of the cover-up. The Auditor General recently quoted the cost to the province as more than nine hundred and fifty million dollars. John and I had planned to meet so he could tell me what he knew. Only he got himself killed first, see?”

Dan shook his head. “I don’t see anything. The power plant scandal is old news. Both the premier and the energy minister resigned. I understood Wilkens killed himself because he was disgraced for embezzling public funds. But it had nothing to do with the scandal. Why do you think he was murdered? And how does Tony Moran fit in?”

Simon stuffed a forkful of sandwich into his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“When the money disappeared, Wilkens’s party dumped him. He’d become a liability and they didn’t want to get their hands dirty. Wilkens claimed he’d been set up. I think he found something irregular. He offered to help unmask the corruption at Queen’s Park. A few days later, he turned up dead. Pretty strange coincidence, no? As for how it relates to Tony Moran, ask yourself how Tony might have stumbled onto the same info as John Wilkens.”

“I couldn’t possibly begin to guess, Mr. Bradley. You work the political beat. You would have a much better idea than me.”

Simon gave him a satisfied grin, the Cheshire Cat in person.

“We’re talking about the cover-up of corruption on a grand scale. Whatever happened to John Wilkens, whatever he uncovered, somehow Tony Moran found out about it, too.”

Dan nodded, feeling boredom creep in. There was something about Simon’s hair that made it hard to take him seriously. “Does Peter Hansen know about it?”

“I don’t know. I tried to contact him, but he won’t return my calls.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“No.”

Dan sipped his coffee. “Why not?”

“They probably wouldn’t believe me, for one. For another, I want the story. Once I get the police involved, I’ll be pushed aside.”

“If it involves murder, the police have to be informed.”

“There’s no proof. At least, not yet. I intend to find it.”

“You think you’re going to unmask a murderer?” Dan shook his head. “Braver men than you have done stupider things and lived to regret it.”

“Braver men maybe, but not smarter.” Simon winked. “We all see what we want to see. Sometimes it’s a matter of choice, other times it’s in the presentation. Take me, for instance. I can say nearly anything and it will be believed. Why? Because I’m in front of a television camera when I say it. That makes it real to most people. If I were irresponsible, I could make up all kinds of allegations about people, really hurtful things. They might make me retract them later, but the damage would have been done to their reputations.”

“What would be the point?”

“Exactly! What if there were a person designated to do such things? Someone who could make or break your career simply by having things appear one way or another?” Simon lowered his voice. “I think John Wilkens believed there was such an individual, or possibly a small group of people, who could get rid of up-and-coming political contenders. Some promising candidate suddenly bows out of the race and takes a very cushy job, for instance, leaving the field open for another candidate …”

“Is that legal?”

“Not strictly, but so long as there’s nothing connecting the job offer with leaving the race, you can’t really point a finger, though some might question the timing. It could be a bribe or it could be a threat. In John’s case, it was a matter of suspicious activity with departmental funds. In Sharon’s it was drugs. You see what I’m getting at?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s really a matter of what you choose to see. Money changing hands in a questionable manner, expenses written off for unusual purposes. Suddenly a front runner getting all the prominence and attention he craves becomes a backbencher to keep him out of sight.”

Simon looked over to see that the server was busy taking an order before he spoke again. He leaned closer till he was within inches of Dan’s face.

“Someone is playing chess with people’s careers and reputations. What does that tell you?”

“That politics is a dirty business.”

“Very dirty! There’s a rumour in the legislature that when something needs fixing, they call in the Magus to get results.”

Dan frowned. “The Magus? You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not. That’s what John called him, anyway. He believed it was one individual acting on the directions of a small group of people with vested interests in who rises and who falls. When something needs fixing, they call in this guy. The result? Rumours spread about misplaced funds, accusations of drugs or sexual harassment. In politics, there’s nothing so fragile as a reputation. Once broken, it’s impossible to repair. It’s the Humpty Dumpty syndrome.”

It was possible, Dan thought. A man falls from grace, joining a long list of political failures. Then again, all political leaders face their day of reckoning. And when it comes, the fall is never pretty.

“Can you prove it?”

Simon wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it, and left it draped over the plate.

“I believe Tony Moran knows what I’m talking about. That’s why he ran off and why I need to find him. I haven’t been able to crack Peter Hansen yet, but I will.” He eyed Dan. “In the meantime, I’m prepared to share with you anything I find out.”

Dan shook his head. “Even if I find him, I can’t make Tony talk to you. How could I?”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.” He pulled out his cell and checked the screen. “I’ve got your number. How about we just agree to stay in touch for now? I’ll call you from time to time to let you know what I learn. If you hear something, you can call me.”

It was late by the time Dan returned. He parked the car and glanced up at his house. The bedroom light was off. He sat in the backyard, the scene of many happy family gatherings. The singsong lullaby of crickets in summer and brief glimpses of stars through clouds all year long created an oasis of peace. To be able to see the night sky in the city’s midst was a rare thing. It had kept him sane at the worst of times, and there’d been plenty of those before Nick came along. He thought again of Simon Bradley’s allegations of the goings-on at Queen’s Park. From the depths of memory a name surfaced, someone who might give him some insight into the murky waters of politics.