Читать книгу Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Joan Boswell - Страница 10

Being jarred awake in the middle of the night by her alarm left Hollis feeling even more sleep deprived and grouchy than she’d felt after Sunday’s and Monday’s insomnia. Her bones ached. She felt as if a monster magnet anchored her to the mattress. Nervy and gritty-eyed, she groaned when MacTee’s whining dragged her out of bed.

Wednesday, the day she’d promised herself she’d investigate her husband’s bedroom, the inner sanctum, the forbidden room she’d never visited when he was alive. She had to do it—no matter what dark secrets awaited her. Wednesday was also the first of the two evenings Paul would lie in state in the funeral home.

Out of bed, she wavered in front of her cupboard. Indecisiveness washed over her. What was appropriate?

The doorbell heralded Elsie’s arrival.

Hollis shrugged into her dressing gown and dragged herself to the kitchen, where she said hello to Elsie and stepped outside with MacTee promising him a longer walk later. When she came back in, she found Elsie tracing the broken door frame.

“What happened here, dear?” Elsie poked her finger into a deep gouge.

“An attempted break-in, but the burglar set off the alarm. I’m calling the locksmith.”

“Poor dear, as if you haven’t had enough to contend with—I’ll deal with the locksmith.”

An hour later, she’d dressed, walked MacTee, sipped two cups of coffee, eaten a poached egg and watched the locksmith install a deadbolt. She felt better. Her organizing Virgo kicked in and said enough procrastination. Detective Simpson had said she’d send someone around to pick up his papers, but Hollis wanted to have a look at them first. Wanted to have time to unearth more of Paul’s secret life, no matter how horrible. Something was hidden in the house, something the killer wanted, and she intended to find out what that something was.

She poured a third cup of coffee, rummaged around in Paul’s downstairs study, picked the ring of keys out of his desk drawer and marched upstairs. The coffee parked on the straight chair outside Paul’s door, she remembered how he’d insisted she leave his clean laundry there for him to deal with. She tried keys until she found one that worked.

The door swung open. A gray room. No, two rooms. A second small, windowless room opened out of the first. She flipped on the overhead light and stepped through the bedroom into the smaller room rigged out as an office. The small, windowless space closed around her like a coffin.

Claustrophobia, a problem she’d coped with since her childhood, raised her temperature and made breathing difficult. It would be possible to work here only if she gritted her teeth, breathed deeply and always faced the door.

Gray dominated: gray walls, government surplus gray filing cabinets, gray steel shelving, gray metal desk and a gray waste basket. No pictures decorated the walls and no carpet covered the floor. Three cardboard bankers’ boxes, a black typewriter case and a black desk chair completed the dismal ensemble.

Claustrophobia triumphed.

She rushed from the windowless room to the bedroom, snapped the roller blind, which clattered to the top of the frame, and threw the window open. Deep breaths of sparkling spring air. She filled her lungs repeatedly. Gradually, her panic abated as the air worked its magic.

Before she pushed herself to re-enter the monastic cell to investigate the desk and read the files, she surveyed the bedroom. Paul had once told her his bedroom furniture had belonged to his father.

A worn navy and red oriental carpet lay beside the bed. A pair of black-framed steel engravings of battlefield scenes saved the gray walls from monotony. An old-fashioned tailored maroon spread piped with gray shrouded the narrow bed. On the bedside table, Paul had pushed aside a lamp with a clear glass bead base and a once-white silk shade to accommodate a pile of books. More books stacked on the floor beside the bed provided the single deviant note in a room devoted to rigid order.

Nothing cluttered the heavily varnished yellow oak dresser. Inside, socks, rolled and arranged by colour, handkerchiefs with corners neatly aligned, a wooden box with cuff links lined up like soldiers: anal retentive didn’t begin to do Paul justice. In the cupboard, the shirts, jackets and trousers were each grouped together facing to the right, with the hangers’ hooks turned in. All the shoes, polished with laces tied in symmetrical bows, maintained their shape with the help of wooden shoetrees.

Interesting though this might be, the files weren’t in the bedroom. Time to ignore her claustrophobia and force herself into the office. Inside, she swivelled to face the open doorway, sucked down the tepid coffee and began.

The top drawer revealed serried ranks of pens, pencils and paper clips. Deeper in the drawer, wrapped in a piece of chamois, she found a black leather key case with a key she judged to be for a safety deposit box. With frequent glances to assure herself the escape route remained clear, she searched the other drawers for bankbooks or anything else to indicate the location of the safety deposit box and found nothing.

In the second drawer, Paul had stashed a draft of When Push Comes To Shove but no file cards or research material. He’d once confessed he used file cards rather than a computer because he deeply distrusted computers and believed nosy troublemakers and hackers accessed them at will. Her eyes swept along the bookshelves. The bankers’ boxes held promise, but they were filled with files—dozens and dozens of files. She was certain the cards existed: a compulsive researcher like Paul didn’t destroy anything he took the trouble to write down.

Personal documents filled the third drawer. She knew she should read them instead of searching for Paul’s file cards, but this was where she might find more damning evidence of Paul’s character and she had to work up her courage. Instead, she rolled her chair backward to a filing cabinet.

The first file folder in the top drawer, labelled “Acknowledgements”, held a list of the people Paul had intended to thank for their help in researching When Push Comes to Shove. Running her eye down the list of names, addresses and phone numbers, she wondered if Paul had included everyone he’d interviewed. Carson MacDonald, Paul’s editor at the Independent Academic Press, would know. She’d phone him. Before she could change her mind, she dialled the old-fashioned black phone.

Macdonald sounded surprised to hear from her. No wonder. What kind of a woman would make a call like this before her husband was buried? She soldiered on and inquired whether Paul would have included everyone he’d consulted when he made his list.

“Paul was punctilious about thanking everyone.” There was an edge to his voice. “Not because he was afraid one of his interviewees would feel left out, but to ensure the individual would be there if he required his expertise again.” He must have realized how nasty the remark sounded, particularly in the circumstances. “Sorry, I’ve had a bad morning. Never mind me, how are you coping?”

“As the cliché goes—as well as can be expected. Don’t apologize. I’m sure you nailed Paul’s motives exactly.”

They briefly discussed the book and its possible publication date before the conversation ended.

The list was long. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Phoning each person would take ages and probably yield nothing. When she read names and addresses of correctional institution employees, social workers, psychiatrists, professionals employed by the Elizabeth Fry and John Howard societies, teachers, counsellors at half-way houses and staff at several psychiatric hospitals, she marvelled at the variety and shuddered to think how much work lay ahead.

The list was chronological rather than alphabetical. Quentin Quigley, chief of psychiatry at Kingston’s maximum-security prison, Kingston Pen, was first. No stopping now. Sleep would have to wait. But, given Macdonald’s reaction, she rethought her approach: she wasn’t a cold, calculating woman, and she didn’t want to come across that way.

She fought through the secretarial defensive shield and reached Dr. Quigley.

“I’m the widow of Rev. Paul Robertson, who was murdered on the weekend. When he died, he’d finished a book on the relationship between a society which forces homosexuals to hide their sexual orientation and individuals who commit crimes to protect the secret. I suspect the police think he was murdered because he knew too much about someone. I believe Paul’s killer thought Paul possessed incriminating evidence and killed Paul to shut him up.”

“I’m sorry, sorry about your husband, but what does this have to do with me?”

“I’m coming to that. Because I edited the first draft of his work, the Independent Academic Press has suggested I prepare Paul’s book, When Push Comes to Shove, for publication. Even though this is a bad time for me, I feel an obligation to Paul to complete the work and have it published while people remember him.” Should she confess? She twisted the phone cord around her finger. Better to be honest. “The truth is, I’m terrified. I’m afraid if the killer learns I’m working on it, he’ll think I’m familiar with whatever my husband knew and kill me too.”

“You’re basing a lot on supposition. And . . . I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Your name is first on the list of people Paul wanted to thank for helping him. I understand about patient confidentiality, but if you could tell me if you talked about specific men and women . . .”

Hollis heard him clear his throat and, before he said anything, she rushed on. “I don’t mean you should provide names, but if you tell me whether the individuals you discussed are in prison or in the community, it would help me narrow the search. I haven’t unearthed the code to match the fictitious names with real names and, until I do, this is the only way I can think to proceed. If you tell me about your conversation with my husband, I may be able to isolate the name of the person who gave him information that provided a motive for murder. I realize it’s months since he spoke to you, and you may not recall the conversation.”

“It sounds impractical.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Rather like the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

She felt like congratulating him for his originality but said nothing.

“As a matter of fact, I do remember Reverend Robertson. I questioned his motives. His interest struck me as prurient. We didn’t hit if off. I’m amazed my name was on his acknowledgement list. I don’t tolerate his kind. It was a short interview. I didn’t tell him anything.”

So much for Quigley. Before she became discouraged, she moved to the second name on the list and tapped in the area code and number for a Dr. Andrusiak at the hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene. Andrusiak didn’t have any problem telling Hollis all four of the men and the one woman she’d discussed with Paul remained in the institution.

The third call, to Toronto’s Don Jail, produced nothing—Viola Fabian was on holidays. Hollis left a voice mail message.

Three down and nothing gained.

Next she contacted Mary Beth Cardwell, a psychiatric social worker at Brockville psychiatric hospital. Apparently Ms Cardwell was “in the office but away from her desk.” Again she left a voice message.

Hollis worked her way down the acknowledgement list and learned many of the individuals Paul had investigated remained in prison or in hospital. It narrowed the field of possible killers, but she still had no way of matching real names with the nicknames Paul had used.

The phone rang. “Ms Grant, it’s Mary Beth Cardwell returning your call. Actually, you won’t believe this, I’ve always believed I’d hear about my interview with your husband. I feel terrible about something I did, or, more accurately, didn’t do.”

Listening to her voice, Hollis imagined an earnest face with a frown on her brow and worried creases at the corners of sincere eyes behind round glasses.

“I’ve worried about this for a long time. It’ll be a relief to tell you what happened. First of all, I liked Reverend Robertson and felt very simpatico to what he was doing. Actually, he made me feel I might help increase tolerance and understanding.” She laughed apologetically, “I probably sound terribly naïve. Little Miss Pollyanna in the flesh. Actually, I’m a really up kind of person, and I’m always hoping that if people were familiar with the facts they’d act better. Of course, I had to keep the information in my files confidential; consequently I spoke to Reverend Robertson in general terms about several cases where I felt quite sure . . .” Ms Cardwell hesitated. “Actually, we have psychiatric reports in the files. Our patients are seriously disturbed. This is a longer-term care facility. I had a number of reports on my desk because I wanted to refresh my memory before Reverend Robertson arrived.”

When she stopped, Hollis encouraged her to continue.

“This part embarrasses me. Are you familiar with Crohn’s disease?”

“No.”

“Actually, it’s a condition characterized by severe bowel upsets. I’ve had it since my late teens. When Reverend Robertson visited us, I was in the middle of a bad spell. I had to dash to the toilet, and I left him with the files I hadn’t had a chance to put away. When I re-entered the room, I suspected he’d read them. Ever since, I’ve felt absolutely awful. I wondered whether to tell my boss or not, but finally decided not to, because Reverend Robertson had said he would not reveal anyone’s identity in any book he wrote. I figured I’d worked here too long and paranoia had taken over, but I felt terribly guilty.” After a pause she said, “Do you suppose it would have changed things if I had reported what I suspected?”

No point adding to her distress. “No, I don’t. What could you have said? ‘I think he might have seen the files, but I’m not sure.’ It wouldn’t have solved anything or saved anyone.”

“It’s nice of you to say that. I suppose you want to know whose files were on the desk but, actually, I’m not permitted to share information—it’s not ethical.”

“Ms Cardwell, could you at least tell me if the individuals remain in the hospital and/or give me a synopsis of the files’ contents without identifying the people?”

“Actually, I can’t do a single thing until I clear it with my boss. She’s on a week’s holiday canoeing in Algonquin Park. Can you imagine what the blackflies will be like in May, let alone how cold the water will be if she falls in? But you don’t care about that. I’d need her permission. I’m terribly afraid it will be Monday before I can do anything. But I’ll prepare a précis of each file and have them ready to go first thing Monday if she says I can. I hope that’s okay?”

“If that’s all you can do—I’ll have to wait.”

Bingo. The jackpot. The big enchilada. If Hollis found the master list, the field of potential murderers would narrow considerably.

An idea edged into her mind. She left the folder on the desk to remind herself to deal with it later.

With her eye on the door, she thought about the writing process. Paul, like every other writer, always collected more information than he used. When you’re in the gathering stage, you aren’t sure what shape your book will take and what information you’ll include in the final product. It happens to everyone—you stumble upon unexpected facts, get a new slant on a subject, or think about an ancillary article or another book.

She flashed back to a morning in the fall when Paul had walked into the kitchen lugging a bulging briefcase.

“What on earth is in there? Gold bars?” she’d said.

He’d reached in, pulled out an elastic wrapped packet of file cards and waved it at her. “You won’t see these again. I’m organizing for another book that’ll be even more controversial than Push.” He stowed the packet in his briefcase. “I should read John LeCarré or Wilbur Smith to figure out how to do it right, but the way I’m arranging it, no one will be able to figure out anything without the keys to my codes.”

Codes. Would they be in the safety deposit box?

When Rhona had interviewed Dr. Yantha, his office had been as she’d imagined a psychiatrist’s office would be. She had no idea what to expect in a thoracic surgeon’s office.

The pleasant-voiced secretary welcomed Rhona and apologized because her boss hadn’t returned. At that moment Dr. Uiska strode in, shook hands with Rhona and motioned her into the inner office. Austere was the word to describe the office. Filing cabinets lined one wall. No personal items, no plants, no paintings allowed the observer to speculate about the doctor’s interests or personality. But an impressive collection of black-framed professional diplomas reassured the timid that they were in good hands.

Dr. Uiska was all edges and corners. Nothing rounded. Her short, prematurely silver hair sliced aggressively into points framing a thin face. Dark straight brows contrasted with her hair and drew attention to chilly pale blue eyes. She reminded Rhona of a desert fox in the nocturnal animal display at the London Zoo—predatory but finely drawn and perfectly adapted to her environment. When they shook hands, Rhona registered that these fine-boned, strong, supple, fingers belonged to an accomplished surgeon.

“Your name was in Reverend Robertson’s appointment calendar. What was your relationship with him?”

With raised eyebrows, Uiska said, “Certainly not an ‘intimate’ one. I’m sure you’ve uncovered the fact that Hollis and I have been friends for more than twenty years?”

Rhona nodded.

“It isn’t telling tales out of school to confess I’ve never understood why she married Paul.” An embryonic smile hovered on her lips. “I’ll be frank. I thought Paul Robertson was a reprehensible character or, as my children might say, a ‘jerk’.”

“Thank you for your frankness. Why did you meet him?”

Without fidgeting or exhibiting any unease, Uiska looked directly at Rhona. “A good question. I’m sure you wondered. The answer will surprise you.”

Rhona doubted that. In her job, she heard such a variety of stories, she felt surprise-proof.

“Kas and Hollis have birthdays close together. I wanted a double celebration, a bang-up party, and I enlisted Paul’s help.”

Rhona reconsidered: she was surprised. Tessa Uiska didn’t fit the mould of a surprise party type and, from what she’d unearthed about Paul Robertson, planning a surprise party was even more out of character for him. “What did you plan to do?”

Uiska paused and assessed Rhona before she shifted in her chair, removed a key from her pocket, unlocked the lower desk drawer, extracted her navy leather handbag and withdrew her pocket diary.

Her actions struck Rhona as theatrical.

“We settled on a dinner party at the golf club, with Kas thinking it was for Hollis and vice versa.”

“When would this happen? Why did you decide to have a big celebration this year?”

Uiska snapped the book shut and dropped it in her bag. “June, mid-June. They’re forty-five.”

“And why did you see Robertson in early April?”

The feral glance Uiska darted at Rhona contrasted sharply with her earlier easy, urbane manner.

“I thought you meant all the visits. It takes time to plan a party. We had to divide the responsibilities.”

Ignoring the insolence in Uiska’s voice, Rhona said, “How did you plan to divvy it up? How did Robertson feel about the party?”

Uiska flexed her fingers. “I more or less shamed him into participating. I told him everybody would be coming and implied that the ‘good guys’ would receive brownie points.” She shrugged. “I knew it was a crock, but from what Hollis said, I realized he was a vain man. And Paul had a private income; he could afford it. I wanted a party because Kas would enjoy it, and Kas’s happiness means a great deal to me.”

“Ms Grant mentioned that your husband said you’ve been worried and preoccupied for about six weeks. Tell me about it.”

Tessa Uiska frowned. “Hollis said Kas told her that? I’m amazed.”

Her eyes narrowed and her black brows drew together. She pressed her lips against one another and took several deep audible breaths. She shifted slightly and folded her hands in her lap.

Rhona waited.

“It has absolutely nothing to do with Paul Robertson. I can think of no reason why I should tell you my business.” She leaned forward to emphasize the last words.

Rhona mimicked her body language and they sat like inclined bookends. “I am a police officer investigating a murder. I am the judge of what is or is not appropriate information. What was worrying you?”

They glared at one another.

“I’m a surgeon, a cardio-thoracic surgeon. I operate on hearts and lungs.”

Smug woman. Rhona knew what a cardio-thoracic surgeon did. In fact, two years earlier, when her father’s blocked arteries had required a quadruple bypass, she’d read dozens of articles about heart operations. “I suppose you’re at the Municipal rather than the Heart Institute because you do both?”

“Yes, that’s right. If you’re familiar with hospital procedure, you’ll remember that when a patient dies, whether the death is expected or not, there’s an investigation, and, if we have permission, there’s an autopsy.”

With an effort, Rhona resisted the impulse to tell Uiska she’d attended more autopsies and had more to do with pathologists than Uiska could imagine.

“When a surgical patient of mine dies and I think the patient should have recovered, it upsets me. In the last six weeks, three times the usual number have died, and the pathology department hasn’t pinpointed the reason.”

“Those were negative autopsies?”

Uiska blinked like a startled owl. Rhona had the feeling Uiska was affronted by a layman who had the temerity to use correct medical terminology. “Yes. Naturally, I’m concerned about this. My reputation is at stake. It may be a statistical blip, but I repeatedly replay the operations in my mind—analyzing and searching for the causes. I have been preoccupied, but, as you see, it has nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.” Uiska folded her hands on her desk. “I hope I’ve answered your questions satisfactorily?”

“Which golf club did you book for the party?”

If the change in subject disconcerted her, she didn’t give any indication. “The Royal Britannia, but I haven’t yet reserved the dining room.”

“You’re telling me you met Robertson four times, but you haven’t reserved a room or made any arrangements at the most socially correct club in the city, a month before the date, which happens to be at the height of the wedding season.”

“I have been a wee bit tardy, but the hospital problem distracted me.”

“That’s it for now. I’m cognizant of how busy you are, but we will need to talk again.”

“I can’t imagine what else I can tell you.” Uiska frowned, unlocked her hands and stabbed her index finger repeatedly on the desk to punctuate her comment. “But if you must, I suppose you must.” She jabbed the table once again. “I’m a very busy woman. My appointments are made months in advance.”

Aware of the faint ringing that, in the past, had presaged a full concert of bells and whistles, Rhona resolved to verify Uiska’s statements.