Читать книгу Grave Doubts - John Moss - Страница 9

Miranda was luxuriating in the warmth of her overheated apartment, lying in on a leisurely Saturday off work. She rolled over languidly, shifting the flannel sheet off and away, and stretched until her muscles tingled through every part of her body. She arched against the bed, feeling wonderfully lithe and sexual, emotionally vague, intellectually drifting, like she had been making love for hours.

Damn it, she thought. I wish I could remember my dreams.

Suddenly, a loud thumping on the door wrenched her out of her reverie. My God, she thought. What's Morgan doing here at a time like this?

It had to be him. The building superintendent would have knocked deferentially, and the few people she knew in neighbouring apartments would telephone first. He must have slipped past the security door. She looked around for a robe. In movies there is always a dressing gown within hand's reach of the bed.

The hell with it, she mumbled to herself. I pay the heating bills, I'll wear what I want. By the time she got to the door, she was having second thoughts. What if it's Girl Guides selling cookies, or Jehovah's Witnesses? She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. She looked good. If it's a couple of fresh-faced Mormons, I might let them in.

It was Morgan.

Through the peephole he looked grotesquely distorted. He was leaning so close, all she could see was the smile. His version of the Cheshire Cat; he had done it before, with full explanation. She opened the door. His face become solemn, then shy.

"I love your outfit," he said.

"Come in, Morgan."

She turned and walked barefoot into the living room as if she were wearing heels.

"What on earth are you doing here," she asked. "It's the middle of the night, my time, and I was having lovely dreams."

He plunked himself down on the sofa, admiring the full length of her legs before her lower half disappeared behind the kitchen counter. He had kicked off his snow-drenched shoes in the hall but he was still wearing his sheepskin coat.

"It's two in the afternoon," he announced.

"It's not."

She put on the coffee and came back around the counter, still feeling a little flirtatious, even though it was only Morgan. She walked across to her bedroom door, swaying her hips just enough to set the lower edge of her T-shirt astir. He peered into the fluttering shadows and immediately glanced away.

"Why don't you take your coat off and get comfortable," she murmured in a sultry voice as she turned to face him.

"No hurry." He seemed to be searching for something to say. "I was with you when you bought that T-shirt."

"Oh, yeah."

"Yeah," he said, giving her his most inscrutable smile. Not out of Alice in Wonderland, she thought. It's his Buddha smile. No, his post-coital Mona Lisa smile. No, his Jesus smile — endearing and infinitely dangerous.

He smiled so seldom, but when he did he had a range she found thrilling.

Still in the doorway, standing in opaque silhouette with the daylight from the bedroom behind her, she asked, "What are you doing here, anyway? It's too early for a gentleman caller — or too late."

They both smiled.

"It must be business, except you seem cheerful."

"Do you want to get dressed?"

"Do I need to?"

"Yes."

"Oh, dear."

She walked through into her bathroom, leaving the doors open.

"Has this got something to do with the boss working last night?"

He followed her as far as the bedroom door; then, leaning against the frame, he admired the play of shadow and light as she attended to her tantalizing ablutions just out of sight.

"I think he's had a fight with his wife."

"You mean there's no city-wide disaster? He's just hiding out?"

"Yeah."

"His wife's a lawyer."

"Yeah."

"Lawyers should only marry lawyers, and cops, cops."

"How do you figure?"

"A functioning lawyer is adversarial —"

"What's an unfunctioning lawyer?'

"I've known a few."

"Yeah," Morgan said, remembering one in particular she had dated a couple of years ago. Another lawyer, ineffectual and lethal, occupied a more sinister place in their recent past: he of the Jaguar, of posthumous infamy.

"At least with two lawyers, they understand the rules."

She turned on the shower.

He raised his voice.

"I'm not sure what that means."

"What?"

Splattering water drowned out his words, but not hers.

"About the rules," he shouted.

"Stand where I can hear you, Morgan! The shower's steamed up — you couldn't see me for looking."

He stopped at the bathroom door. She was wrong; she was absorbed in washing and her body was revealed in waves as water sheeted against the glass door. It was full and lean, the body of a mature woman in splendid condition. He remembered her from the night they made love; she had seemed almost girlish then. He backed away and sat down on the chair by her bedroom window.

"Can you hear me?" she shouted. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm here."

She shut off the water and for a moment there was silence.

"Why do you think lawyers have all the power, Morgan?"

"Because they know the law."

"Because they know its limitations."

Morgan thought about that.

"The rest of us live in moral chaos," she continued. "And we grasp at the law to make sense of it all. Not lawyers. They don't give a damn about sense and morality. That's why so many of them are politicians; they want order — they're inherently fascist. Think of the utter stupidity of ‘yes' or ‘no' answers in the witness box. There are no ‘yes' or ‘no' answers."

"Now you're sounding like me."

"I could do worse."

Suddenly she was at the door, wrapped in a towel.

"Get out of here, Morgan. The lady is about to get dressed."

He regarded her with mild exasperation, got up, and ambled back to the living room.

Cops should marry cops, she had said. Given her splenetic response about lawyers he decided that was not something to pursue.

"Aren't you curious about why you're being hauled into action on a day off?" he asked.

"Well, let's see," she said. "Since it isn't a major metropolitan catastrophe, and you seem in a rare good mood, I would say it has something to do with our lovers last night. Am I right?"

He stood in the middle of the living room, still in her sightline, hands in his pockets, with his back to her, slouched in a waiting posture. He still had on his sheepskin coat, although it was unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his shoulders, rather like a cape, she thought. He was lean and muscular, more with the air of a soldier than an athlete: a man comfortable in his body who carried himself with the pride of a combat survivor.

"Am I right?" she repeated.

He shrugged equivocally, knowing she was watching him.

She let her towel drop and stood naked in her bedroom doorway, barely two steps away, amused to think that if he turned around she would be righteously indignant.

"Get dressed," he said. He knew what she was doing. Senses especially acute in the moment, he had heard the towel slide against skin to the floor.

She suddenly felt vulnerable and foolish. She mimed a posture of exaggerated modesty, stuck out her tongue in Morgan's direction, and retreated.

Miranda strapped on a shoulder holster over her blouse and tucked her semi-automatic into place. She put on a loose jacket and walked into the living room where her partner was still standing, as if he were holding a pose.

"Okay, Morgan," she whispered in a burlesque of sensuality. "I'm packin' heat. Let's go."

She kissed him impulsively on the cheek as she walked by.

"I don't think you'll be needing that," he said.

She took off the jacket and holster and put her Glock in her purse.

Miranda sometimes carried her weapon, and Morgan seldom carried his. She liked the feeling it gave her of being a little bit dangerous. He liked the sense of relinquishing power, of playing danger against wit. They had talked about this several times, each accusing the other of subverting gender stereotypes, in deference to Freudian principles they both abhorred.

Miranda was surprised when they walked out of her building to find that Morgan had picked up a car from headquarters. "Okay, Morgan," she said, "this must be serious. You do not ever take charge of transportation. In our fair division of labour that's my job. You drive," she declared, as she slipped into the passenger seat. "And after this, lock the doors when you park. You'd feel like a fool if someone made off with a cop car."

Driving up Yonge Street, Morgan focused on manoeuvring through runnels of frozen slush. This late in the season, there wasn't even salt on the roads. The car lurched from rut to rut as he overcorrected, damning the shortfall on the city budget.

He was losing patience, waiting for her to ask again why they were back at work on a day off. She was resisting, certain that he would break by the time they reached Eglinton. One block south, the car caught an edge of ice and swerved. Morgan wrenched it out of the groove, eased it through a long skid, and let it slide to a stop smack against the curb.

"You drive," he said, and got out of the car. When they had exchanged places, he explained, without being in the least defensive. "You're better at winter driving than me. You enjoy it. I don't."

It was true, she liked to drive, even in bad conditions. He was not a nervous passenger, nor particularly a nervous driver, just not a very good one. Having grown up in a family without a car, he could never relate to men who measured their manhood by their prowess behind the wheel.

"If you do something, anything, just to prove you're a man," his father had said, "then you're not."

When he was eight years old, his father taught him to box. Not because it's a manly sport. "Hammering someone into unconsciousness, boy, that's nothing to be proud of. But the world's a tough place; you've gotta be tough to survive."

The boxing lesson came after a kid about ten years old had pinned Morgan down and cuffed him on the head until tears filled his eyes. He wasn't crying. It was an involuntary response. The kid wouldn't stop, so Morgan flailed wildly and landed a smack straight on the kid's nose. He broke his nose.

His father had been called in and had to take half a day off work. The boxing lesson was the only repercussion at home or at school.

His father made boxing gloves out of socks, folding one sock across the knuckles between layers over and under it, securing each makeshift affair with duct tape at the wrist.

"Make a fist, not around your thumb. Relax your thumbs," he said.

He got down on his knees so that he was the same height as his son. "Now let's see you punch. Punch me, David."

"I don't want to," Morgan said.

"Punch into my hand, hard as you can."

Morgan did what he was told. His blows met with little resistance as his father's hand gave way to the force. This wasn't like the kids fighting at school.

"What do they do?"

"They rassle. We don't really hit each other. Mostly we rassle 'til someone says ‘Uncle.' Sometimes you have t'say ‘Give.' Then they stop."

"And what if there's a bully who won't stop?"

Morgan didn't have an answer.

"Now try to hit my face," he said. "That's it, punch, punch, thrust, punch, break through. Good boy. Watch what I do."

To Morgan's surprise, his father parried against his gloves then slipped through his defence and hit him on the side of the chin. Morgan's hands dropped to his side. His father had never hit him before, and he had never even been spanked.

"Now hit me back, David. Come on, come on," he taunted.

Morgan watched his opponent's hands jabbing the air, waited, then struck. To his surprise, his small fist broke through his adversary's guard and landed square on his nose. His father reeled back on his knees, shook his head to clear the buzz, looked at his son through glistening moisture released by the jarring of his tear ducts.

"Damn me, boy. What the hell are you doing?"

Morgan was appalled. "I'm sorry, Daddy," he said. It was the only time he had ever called him that.

He wanted to hug his father, to forgive him for making him do it.

"Don't be sorry," his father said. Then to Morgan's surprise he started jabbing away at his son's instinctively raised fists. They were adversaries again.

"What's my name, boy?"

His father never called him "boy."

"Fred!"

"That's right, David. Know who you're fighting. Always know."

With sudden deliberation he reached through and landed a glancing blow against the side of his son's head, but leaving himself open, so that Morgan rolled with the punch and came up underneath with a solid blow to his father's chin.

"Good God, David. You're a little bugger."

Morgan stared at him sullenly, daring him to strike back. His father got up off his knees, rising to his full height. Morgan stared up at him. This was his father again.

"And never lose your temper. If you do, you've lost the fight."

When his father reached out to tousle his hair, Morgan flinched infinitesimally.

"Now get the hell out of here," his father said as he stripped off the socks from his son's clenched fists. "Go out and save the world from bullies."

Morgan remembered his father standing tall and powerful in the middle of the living room, but he also remembered the terrible sounds of him wheezing and coughing up tobacco-soaked phlegm as Morgan strutted out the front door.

While they were stopped at the Yonge and Eglinton intersection, Miranda glanced over to see if he was going to break. He seemed relaxed.

"Okay," she said. "Okay, tell me what's going on, Morgan. You win."

"Win what?"

"Whatever. You can't set the rules if you don't know the game."

"My goodness," he said. "You only coin clichés when you're riled up about something."

"Aphorisms. You can coin an aphorism. I'm not riled up."

"But you would like an explanation."

"No."

"No?"

"They're not old, are they! They're recently deceased. The whole thing was a set-up, wasn't it? A gruesome illusion, a joke? Right?"

"You've got it."

"You're kidding!"

"For sure."

"Is it our case?"

"It is."

"Oh, well done, Morgan."

"I dropped into the forensic pathology lab this morning."

"Because you had nothing better to do on a Saturday off?"

"I wanted to talk to Dr. Hubbard."

"Come on, Morgan. She's got cantilevered tits and Olive Oyl hair. Not your type at all."

"No?"

"She looks like a raunchy popsicle."

"I can't picture it."

"Morgan, if she ever let her hair down, her cheeks would sag to her chin."

He had never known Miranda to be so bitchy. She had good instincts, and she didn't hesitate to judge by appearance, but usually she was subtle. A cocked eyebrow, the trace of a smile. She was incisive but seldom unkind. And she was usually right. He, in contrast, saw neither what people wanted others to see, nor what they wanted to hide. He did not believe in the concept of self as a coherent entity. He saw personality as process, something revealed over time.

Often their conclusions converged, although his were less static than hers, and while they evolved slowly they were more open to revision.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You don't seem yourself."

"Do I ever?" she grinned. "I was looking forward to lazing in bed," she said. "Dreaming good dreams, spending a lovely while on my own." She continued to smile, without looking over at him. She had awakened blissfully distracted, like she had made love through the night, but her phantom lover had departed, and she could not remember his name. "So, what's going on?" she asked.

"We missed it. They missed it. The medical examiner missed it. We were royally duped — by a master of the macabre. It's all very Gothic."

"Damn it," she said. "I knew the clothes fit too well."

By the time he explained as much as he knew, they had pulled up in front of the house in Hogg's Hollow, which looked more dilapidated by daylight, somehow more sad, as if shunned by the neighbouring houses. There was a van parked slightly askew in the driveway. The name "Alexander Pope" in exquisite hand-script on the driver's door proclaimed the owner a person of profoundly good taste, either too modest to add a line declaring his profession or so confident it was not deemed necessary.

As they walked by, Morgan peered through the side windows and saw, lying in casual disarray, odds and ends of antique paraphernalia. There was a pair of hand-forged fire irons, were three or four swing arms from the inside of fireplaces, and a couple of iron pots and a kettle. There was a copper cauldron from central Sweden, an old import. There were cardboard boxes brim-filled with ancient nails, a brace of decoys, part of a dry sink, a box of door latches and hinges, and random lengths of painted pine. There were shadows and colours and contours Morgan would have loved to have explored. He was a natural at rummaging through obsolete treasures.

"The name's familiar," said Miranda. "A short poet; rhyming couplets; a gardener." What else, she wondered? "Didn't he say ‘brevity is the soul of wit'?"

"No."

"No?"

"Shakespeare said that. Pope said ‘Wit is the lowest form of humour.'"

"He must have been having a bad day. This is another Pope, I take it."

"This one lives in Port Hope. I asked him to meet us. I didn't think he'd be here already."

They paused at the door. Morgan's guest had obviously gone in.

"Do you remember? We talked about this guy in Yorkville."

"Last summer, in the coffee house. The architect."

"The ultimate expert in colonial house restoration and the simulation of rustic antiquities."

"‘The simulation of rustic antiquities'! Sometimes you talk in quotations. Does he write poetry?"

"If you ask him nicely he might pen you a few short lines."

"Perhaps about corpses and crypts."

When they opened the door, standing immediately inside with his back to them was a man who in fact was exceptionally tall and quite angular. He was wearing a Fair Isle sweater that had once been a work of art and now threatened to disintegrate if he moved suddenly — which, by his current posture, seemed unlikely.

Without turning around, the man said, "She won't let me in, Mr. Morgan. This woman seems ready to draw her weapon and I'm not properly armed. Do you suppose you could help?"

Obscured by his lanky frame, Rachel Naismith was revealed by her voice. "Everything is under control, Detectives. He insisted on entering without authorization."

She edged around so that Alexander Pope had to step into the living-room rubble to get out of her way.

"He's tall as God, but not as convincing. I invited him to stand very still and he complied. Says he's here on your invitation. Refused to wait in his van."

"I saw no reason to remain outside," he said. "I'm assuming you outrank her, Detective Morgan. Do tell her to stand easy. I've never been at a crime scene before, but even here I would hope common civility applies." Morgan smiled. Here was someone totally comfortable with the persona he chose to project to the world, arbitrary as it was. His intonation and syntax were vaguely English, yet Canadian-born. In a few brief sentences he showed the residual inflection of a genuinely colonial sensibility. Once we were British, thought Morgan. Some still are.

Miranda gazed up at the man in admiration. Everything about him was authentic, she thought. His precarious sweater, his worn corduroy pants, his steel-toed workboots unlaced at the ankle, his three-day beard, and his unkempt steel-grey hair all went together with a fine eye for texture and colour. He held himself proud — he was immaculately clean, his clothes were well-cared-for, despite their deteriorating condition. He could have stepped off the pages of a women's magazine — the splendid model of an aging bohemian.

She looked at Officer Naismith, who was monitoring her observations. Alexander Pope had moved in the space of a foot or so from the policewoman's jurisdiction to Morgan's, gaining his freedom. "What are you doing here, Rachel? Have you been here all along?"

"Yes," she said. "I got triple shifted — I'm on my second time 'round the clock. Who is this guy?"

For no apparent reason, Morgan led Pope through the kitchen, where he mumbled something about avoiding the coffee, then back past the women out to the stairs, which they ascended one at a time. The lanky stranger had to stoop to avoid cracking his head on the stringer.

"C'mon," Miranda said to Rachel Naismith in a conspiratorial tone, "Let's see what our friend has to say for himself. And note: the bodies are not old! There's foul play afoot, as they say, and it's not ancient history."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Amazing, eh?"

"Then —"

"We don't know. Who they are, how they died, how they got sealed behind plaster, who did it, why, who wrote the script… We don't know."

When they entered the room, Miranda was disconcerted to find the bodies gone. They were inextricably a part of the scene in her mind. Otherwise, the room was bright and airy, quite unlike the illuminated darkness of the night before. It seemed almost cheerful, despite the rubble and dust.

"Miranda," said Morgan, standing between her and the tall man, "This is Alexander Pope."

"I've always admired your poetry."

"Thank you."

"And this is Detective Miranda Quin. One n."

"Must be from Waterloo County. An Ontario Quin."

"And this is Officer Naismith —"

"Whom I have already met. Delighted," he said, bowing slightly. She regarded him warily, lifted her lip in a feigned snarl, and bowed in return. They shared a smile between them.

"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Pope. I've always admired your bulls." No one got the joke. "Papal bulls? Encyclicals? Pronouncements? Don't you hate that? It's been a long night."

"It is four-thirty-five," Alexander said. "In the afternoon. Saturday. March, I believe."

"If you want to go, Officer Naismith, we'll cover," Morgan offered. "You need some downtime."

"Hardly," she said. "But I'll heat up some coffee if you'd like. I've still got a bit left."

"No thanks," said the other three simultaneously.

"Now, Mr. Morgan," said Alexander Pope. "You said on the telephone there were anomalies here. You found two bodies in this closed-off closet, except for their heads, which fetched up in the laundry chute. I am to understand the dead couple were in an intimate embrace, rather in spite of mutual decapitation. I suppose there was a third party involved. Someone contrived what purported to be an ancient crime, but it seems it was not. And you want my opinion about what, precisely?"

There was a touch of the carnivalesque in the air. Pope was relishing his role as forensic antiquarian, Rachel was giddy from sleep deprivation, Miranda was distracted by lingering sensuality that refused to coalesce around particular memories or desire. And Morgan was happy. He had been drawn out of winter lethargy by a macabre spectacle so wondrously devised, where the anonymous victims were dramatis personae and the mysteries of death itself were on theatrical display.

The transition to serious work was abrupt. Alexander took out a Swiss Army knife and pried off a small slab of plaster from the edge of the hidden closet. He set the plaster on the floor and gently crushed it under the ball of his foot, then leaned down with surprising grace for such a tall and angular man and retrieved a few remnants of dust-dry powder and strands of fibre. He turned to the wall cupboard that was leaning against a pile of splintered lath, squatted down, and examined it closely. He smiled appreciatively, turned it over, and scrutinized the back, fingering the bolts that had been embedded in a stringer running between the studs of the original door frame. He drew a penlight out of his hip pocket and entered the closet, disappearing in the sudden darkness as he moved under the eaves. He emerged and walked over to the laundry chute, stuck his hand in with the flashlight, then squeezed his head through the restricted opening and looked down, then up. He extricated himself, rose to his full height, and smiled beatifically.

"Someone has done remarkably fine work," he pronounced. "There's a paradox, though. Everything has been meticulously contrived to seem in keeping with the age of the house. The plaster is a good imitation, slaked lime with horsehair binding, aged well, and layered with paint and paper. A lot of thought went into this project. The only woodwork that shows — the baseboard across the bottom where the door had been — is authentic. I assume the culprit took it from one of the other rooms. The filler, the paint, and the blending are spot on. But the inside of the closet has been sealed with a contemporary potion — Polyfilla, I expect.

"The lath over the sealed door and the chute must have been lifted from another room as well, even another house. It's all hand-split swamp cedar, but tacked on with old nails that have recently been cleaned. The chute, of course, was a rather ingenious dumbwaiter to bring wood upstairs for the fire. This house predates cast-iron stoves, which were evidently a later accoutrement. There is a fireplace here, hidden inside the gable-end wall. A stovepipe was later forced through into the chimney. Another goes up through the roof in the hall, above the dumbwaiter shaft. The chute was lined for laundry quite recently, possibly between the wars, and blocked off at floor level only in the last fortnight or so.

"It is an admirable counterfeit, all of this, but there is an intriguing anomaly, and that, Miranda — if I may call you Miranda — is the poetry you wanted. This fraud paradoxically insists on being exposed — something hidden, a concealment, that yearns for revelation. This makes it a work of art. The whole project is designed for our appreciation, incomplete until it has been exposed.

"The key is the hanging cabinet: it was bolted in place, it is valuable. A salvager would be counted on to retrieve it. It would refuse to yield. The wall had to give way. The bodies were exposed not amidst rubble but in pristine condition — exactly, I imagine, as the killer intended. And there we are!"

Alexander Pope looked pleased with himself.

Morgan was excited by his articulate economy with words. The man was worthy of his namesake. Miranda was thinking, there is nothing poetic about murder, except in classical tragedy, or in revisionist history, or perhaps in a psyche twisted by unspeakable suffering. She said nothing.

Morgan was thinking, this is theatre not poetry. But is the killer a brilliant and haunted dramaturge, or merely some wretched soul on the edge of events who has set a story in motion and is now waiting in the wings to see how it all turns out? Are we part of the audience or part of the action?