The Dead Letter (6 page)

15.

Up until a year ago, Ben Solomon had been Detective Sergeant, had
liked his job with the Charlottetown Police, and had intended to retire in a couple of years. Then, he became drawn into a case Anne was working. It had been her first case and what started as a confidential delivery of a client's package turned into an international intrigue involving counterfeit money and an espionage plan gone off the rails.

The result became potentially messy for the governments in Ottawa and Washington, and, in order to avoid public embarrassment, the provincial government agreed to help with the patching-up work, part of which included the creation of a new provincial government post with federal money.

Ben Solomon was appointed to that post, guaranteed his police pension, and given a generous salary, almost double what he made as a cop. Anne's role in the incident was rewarded by the promise of periodic government subcontracts for her future private investigation services. The only catch was that neither of them could speak of the incident again. The entire affair was classified under the Security of Information Act. Both Anne and Ben accepted the terms, although they were quite sure that they had no option. A year later, Anne had seen little to indicate that she would receive any reward for her effort in uncovering the plot and keeping the secret, and the ink had scarcely dried on the legislation authorizing Ben's new post.

Ben's title was Provincial Special Investigator and Liaison for Intergovernmental Law Enforcement Operations. What exactly that meant, he scarcely knew. Nor did anyone else, really, and today was Ben's third day on the job.

Today was also the first day in his own office on the fourth floor of the Jones Building, one of five structures that formed the heart of provincial government operations in Charlottetown. The office was small but bright, and the furnishings smelled new. The walls were bare, and his desktop devoid of pictures or personal items. That morning his part-time secretary, Ida Treat, had shown a technician into the office with a trolley full of computer equipment. The computer was connected in about ten minutes. The technician left, Ida disappeared to her other job down the hall at Pesticide Licensing and Control, and Ben was alone again.

Ben found himself leaning vacantly against a filing cabinet that filled one corner. He opened the drawers one by one. Three were empty. The fourth held a telephone directory and a freshly amended copy of the Police Act. He slipped the book under the desk phone and placed the packet of legislation in the centre of his desk.

The window next to the desk had a view of Victoria Park and a bit of Hillsborough Bay. He looked out over the thin spread of red and orange foliage below and at the dark blue streaks of water beyond and wished he were a detective again at his coffee-stained desk in the drafty squad room with his old friends downtown.

Ben jerked at his necktie as if it were strangling him. Then he sidled into his chair and pulled the copy of the Police Act toward him. He fingered through the legislation until he came upon a sub-section entitled “Provincial special investigator” and began to read.

“I expected that you would have at least a suite of offices,” interrupted a voice. A head had poked itself through the doorway and looked around. “You'd need that much space, maybe more, just to fit your job title through the door. What is it they call you now?”

“Provincial Special Investigator and Liaison for Intergovernmental Law Enforcement Operations.” Ben forced an embarrassed grin and added, “Bureaucrats. They like big words and big titles. What brings you up here, Chief?”

Jamie MacFarlane flashed a big smile, removed his hat, and sat down in a chair opposite Ben's desk. His hair was short, thinning and grey at the temples. He wore the uniform of Stratford Police Department and the insignia of police chief on his shoulder. Ben guessed that he would be about forty years old. He had known him for six or seven years, and their paths had crossed several times when investigations spanned both sides of Hillsborough River. MacFarlane had grown heavier since their last meeting, thought Ben. Then again, so had he.

MacFarlane put several thick binders onto Ben's desk.

“You…or somebody…called the station and requested an old case file.” He motioned toward the binders. “This is it.”

Ben leaned forward and glanced at it as if he were uncertain what it was. It was labelled with a serial number.

“The Simone Villier murder,” said MacFarlane.

“Oh, yes, I recall it now,” Ben said. Anne had asked for the file. It was the first and only official action he had taken since becoming Provincial Special Investigator. “Thanks, but you didn't need to make a special trip.”

Ben leaned back in his chair again.

“Not a problem,” said MacFarlane. “Consider this a courtesy call to the Island's new top cop.”

“Is that what you think this job is?” Ben asked.

“It's what I've heard in various corridors. Should I take all that scuttlebutt with a large grain of salt?”

“I'll let you know after I've waded through all this bullshit,” Ben said, picking up the copy of the Police Act and dropping it down again.

“Better you than me. I try to stay away from politics as much as I can. Too much dancin' around…and tryin' not to step in somethin' nasty.”

Ben grinned back at MacFarlane, but he remembered rumours of MacFarlane currying political favours himself.
You don't get to be Chief of Police on merit alone, not on Prince Edward Island
, thought Ben.

In fact
, he said to himself,
I'd be surprised if he wasn't doing a slow dance right now
.

“Anyway, I won't keep you any longer. You look busy.” Ben studied MacFarlane's face, but he could detect neither irony nor sincerity. MacFarlane stood. “Just a courtesy call, as I said. Drop down to the station sometime, and I'll show you around. By the way, what's your interest in the Villier case? You doing historical research or something?”

“Not me. A private investigator. Billy Darby.”

“He's dead.”

“Bill Darby is. It's his niece, Anne Brown… Billy Darby.”

“What's her angle?” MacFarlane sat down again.

“New evidence.”

“That case has been closed for a hell of a long time. What evidence could she have come up with that wasn't dug up and examined years ago?”

Ben opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pretended to look for something, and pulled out the only scrap of paper there.

“Here's a photocopy of a letter she received in the mail.” Ben handed it to MacFarlane.

MacFarlane read the letter. Ben watched his eyes move back and forth across the page. Then he watched his eyes scan it a second time before he spoke.

“My guess is…it's phoney…somebody's sick idea of a practical joke.”

“It's legitimate. I saw the envelope and the cancellation stamp, and the handwriting on the envelope matches the letter.”

“I don't know exactly what went on then. I was on other duties with the department when they investigated Villier's murder, but they would have followed the book. They always did. Every lead would have been investigated. Everyone remotely connected with the victim was interviewed, and her killer went to prison. And this letter shows up now? Somethin' smells…”

Ben shrugged.

“So…you're goin' to reopen the case? I think you're making a mistake, Ben.”

“I'm not reopening anything…at least I'm not planning to at this time…but, as I said, Billy Darby will be looking into it. I'm just making the file available. Maybe something will come of it. Maybe not…but if you're concerned and have a recollection of what happened, you could offer her your two cents…maybe help her figure out how this letter fits into the Villier murder.”

“No thanks. Then two people would be wasting their time, wouldn't they, Ben?”

16.

Anne woke early for a morning run, but the sky was dismal grey, and cold rain pelted the windows. Instead, she took a backpack from the closet and set it beside the front door in case she could fit an hour of gym time into her schedule.

Jacqui was still asleep and would remain so until Anne flicked on the light in her room. In the meantime, she took out a couple of bowls and boiled some water. It would be a perfect day for hot oatmeal, she thought.

By the time Jacqui washed and dressed, breakfast was on the kitchen table. Anne sprinkled blueberries over the oatmeal. Nearby was a dish of freshly cut grapefruit sections, a jar of brown sugar, and a container of milk. Anne was pouring cups of fresh coffee as Jacqui sat down.

“What's the special occasion?” asked Jacqui, looking around.

“No special occasion. I just had a little more time this morning. It's pouring outside.”

“And I was going to walk to school with Rada this morning,” she said. She sounded disappointed.

“I'll drive you, if you want, Jacqui.”

“Please and thanks.”

“And it's Jacqueline, not Jacqui, if you remember.”

“Right. Jacqueline. I'll try to remember.” Anne added a delicate glaze of sarcasm, which Jacqui didn't notice.

“So, tell me about Rada.”

“What's to tell?”

“Well, what are her parents like?”

“They don't talk much, except among themselves, and then it's in some other language. They seem nice, though. Mrs. Kikovic gives us treats when Rada comes home. Rada told me what it was, but I can't pronounce it. It was good, though.”

“Do they belong to any groups… Are they involved with the school…any hobbies…interests? Does Rada play soccer like you?”

“No, I don't think she's allowed. She can't wear shorts or T-shirts or stuff like that.”

“How does Rada feel about that?”

“Like everyone else. It's hard when you don't fit in.”

“How about you? Do you think it's important to fit in?”

“Of course, Mom. You can't show up for rugby try-outs wearing hockey skates, can you?”

“I guess not. Okay, comb your hair. It's almost time to go.”

Even though the rain had slowed to a trickle, the weather had dampened any desire for conversation and, during the drive to school, everyone in the car retreated into private thoughts. Anne swung the car into the stop-and-drop entrance. Their goodbyes were polite and subdued. As the girls left the car, the wind came up. Jacqui clutched her books and shielded her eyes. Rada gripped her skirt, and her long black hair heaved and swayed in the gusts.

17.

At her office Anne found two messages on the answering machine.
The first was from Ben. He said he had a case file for her—the Simone Villier file. Anne had had no hope of getting that police file on her own. So Ben's news was a blessing, and a small thrill leapt through her.

The rain had stopped, and clouds were breaking up in the east as she walked the six blocks to his new office. The door was half-open, and she stuck her head in.

“Hi,” she said. “Nice,” she added, surveying the room. “Great view up here, too.”

“Yeah, but there's no handle to open the window.” Ben looked up from an empty desktop. “No fresh air. And if I'm driven around the bend by boredom, I can't jump out. I'll have to find a ground floor way of doing away with myself.”

“Good grief! That's a joyful sound. Can't be that bad, can it?”

“I've been sitting here for days. So far, nobody has briefed me on anything.”

“You haven't been in the job very long, though,” she said. It was a dismal effort at being supportive.

“Maybe not. But I get the impression that the Premier and the Justice Minister would rather not rock any boats.”

“What makes you think that? What did they say?”

“Nothing yet. They haven't spoken to me beyond the customary welcome-aboard phone calls. No agenda. No staff meetings. Nothing. I think they'd be happy if I just went away.”

“You sure you're not overreacting? Everything takes time in government. You'll see.”

“I'm not so sure. I approached the Premier's chief of staff, Wendell Carmody, about the direction I wanted to take with this office, but he got this blank look on his face and mumbled something about it being ‘largely a ceremonial post.' Then he winked and said, ‘Why don't you investigate the golf courses for a few weeks?'”

“Oh,” said Anne. “Is that such a bad idea?”

“I don't golf.”

“Well, as I see it, you've got four choices. You can quit. You can play. Or you can work.”

“I've never quit anything,” he said, “and I'm not starting now.”

“And Uncle Bill said you couldn't play golf worth a damn. So that leaves work. Just ignore the bureaucrats. Find something to investigate. They can't fire you for doing your job in spite of them dragging their heels.”

“Come to think of it, considering I got this job for keeping a big political secret, I'm not so sure they could fire me if they wanted to.”

“Problem solved.”

“By the way, there were four choices. You only mentioned three.”

“Oh yeah, number four was ‘jump.' But I couldn't seriously recommend that option. Up here with the windows locked and all, you would look rather silly. Downstairs, the best you could hope for would be a sprained ankle.”

“Here, take this,” he said pushing a bulky dossier across the desk toward Anne. “I've got to get back to work.”

Anne grabbed the package, gave Ben a mock salute, and headed out.

The case file on Simone Villier was more voluminous than she had expected, and heavier, and when she dropped the bundle on the desk back at her office on Victoria Row, it landed with a noteworthy thump. Anne stared at the enormous case file for a moment. Then she stared at the telephone. Then she stared at the case file again. It seemed to have grown even more large and ponderous.