The Fields of Grief. Giles Blunt
come on. He looks like one of those Sears guys modelling the suits.’ By way of imitation, McLeod gave him a three-quarter profile with a fake-hearty grin.
‘Some people consider that handsome,’ Cardinal said. ‘Though not on you.’
‘Well, some people can kiss my – Anyway, I told His Worship last night, I said, look, your wife is not missing. She’s an adult. She’s been seen downtown. If she’s not coming home, that’s apparently her choice at this particular moment in time.’
‘What’d he say to that?’
‘“Who saw her? Where? What time?” Same questions anybody’d ask. I told him I wasn’t at liberty to say. She’d been seen in the vicinity of Worth and MacIntosh, and we could not file a missing-person report at this time. She’s at the Birches again with Wilcox. I told Feckworth to come on down, you’d be happy to talk to him.’
‘What the hell did you do that for?’
‘He’ll take it better from you. Him and me don’t get along so good.’
‘You don’t get along with anyone so good.’ ‘Now, that’s just hurtful.’
While he was waiting for the mayor to arrive, Cardinal made out an expense report for the previous month and wrote up the top sheet on a case he had just closed. He found his thoughts wandering to Catherine. She had been doing well for the past year, and was back teaching at the community college this semester. But she had seemed a little distant at dinner, a little impatient, in a way that might indicate some preoccupation other than her photographic project. Catherine was in her late forties and going through menopause, which played havoc with her moods and necessitated constant tweaking of her medication. If she seemed a little distant, well, there was no shortage of plausible reasons. On the other hand, how well do we really know the people we love? Just look at the mayor.
When His Worship Mayor Lance Feckworth arrived, Cardinal took him to one of the interview rooms so they could talk in private.
‘I want to get to the bottom of this,’ the mayor told him. ‘A full investigation.’ Feckworth was a lumpy little man, much given to bowties, and was perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plastic seat that was usually occupied by suspects. ‘I know I’m mayor, and that doesn’t give me the right to more attention than any other voter, but I don’t expect less, either. What if she’s had an accident of some kind?’
Feckworth was not much of a mayor. During his tenure, all the city council seemed to do was study problems endlessly and agree to let them drift. But he was usually an affable man, ready with a joke or a slap on the back. It was unsettling to see him in pain, as if a building one had grown used to over the years had suddenly been painted a garish colour.
As gently as possible, Cardinal pointed out that Mrs Feckworth had been seen in town the previous night, and there had been no major accidents that week.
‘Damn it, why is my entire police force telling me she’s been seen around town but you won’t say where or by who? How would you feel if it was your wife? You’d want to know the truth, right?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Then I suggest you explain to me exactly what is going on, Detective. Otherwise, I’ll just have to deal directly with Chief Kendall, and you can be sure I won’t have anything good to say about you or that lunkhead McLeod.’
Which was how Cardinal came to be sitting in his car with the mayor of Algonquin Bay in the courtyard of the Birches Motel. Despite its name, the Birches was nowhere near a birch tree. It was not near a tree of any kind, being located in the heart of downtown on MacIntosh Street. In fact, it was no longer even the Birches Motel, having been taken over by Sunset Inns at least two years previously, but everybody still called it the Birches.
Cardinal was parked a dozen paces from Room 12. Szelagy was parked across the lot, but they didn’t acknowledge one another. Cardinal rolled the window down a little to keep the glass from fogging up. Even here in the middle of downtown, you could smell fallen leaves and from someone’s fireplace the comforting smell of wood smoke.
‘You’re telling me she’s in there?’ the mayor said. ‘My wife’s in that room?’
Surely he must know, Cardinal thought. How could it get to this stage – his wife staying out for days at a time and renting motel rooms – without his knowing?
‘I don’t believe it,’ Feckworth said. ‘It’s too tawdry.’ But there was less conviction in his voice now, as if seeing the actual motel-room door was beginning to shatter his faith. ‘Cynthia’s a loyal person,’ he added. ‘She prides herself on it.’
Cynthia Feckworth had in fact been sleeping her way around Algonquin Bay for at least the past four years; the mayor was the only one who didn’t know it. And who am I to tear off his blinders? Cardinal asked himself. Who am I to refuse anyone the sweet anaesthetic of denial?
‘Oh, she couldn’t be screwing someone else. That would be – if she’s letting another man … that’s it. I’ll dump her. You watch me. Oh, God, if she’s doing those things …’ Feckworth groaned and hid his face in his hands.
As if summoned by his anguish, the door to Room 12 opened and a man stepped out. He had the perfectly groomed look of a catalogue model: take advantage of our mid-autumn sale on men’s windbreakers.
‘It’s Reg Wilcox,’ the mayor said. ‘Sanitation. What would Reg be doing here?’
Wilcox ambled to his Ford Explorer with the slouchy, smug air of the well laid. Then he backed out of his space and drove off.
‘Well, at least Cynthia wasn’t in there. That’s something,’ Feckworth said. ‘Maybe I should just head home now and hope for the best.’
The door to Room 12 opened again and an attractive woman peered out for a moment before closing the door behind her. She buttoned up her coat against the chill night air and headed toward the exit.
The mayor jumped out of the car and ran to block her path. Cardinal rolled up his window, not wanting to hear. His cell phone buzzed.
‘Cardinal, why the hell don’t you answer your bloody radio?’
‘I’m in my own car, Sergeant Flower. It’s too boring to explain.’
‘All right, listen. We got a caller says there’s a dead one behind Gateway condos. You know the new building?’
‘The Gateway? Just off the bypass? I didn’t even realize it was finished yet. Are we sure it isn’t a drunk sleeping it off?’
‘We’re sure. Patrol on the scene already confirmed.’
‘All right. I’m just a few blocks away.’
The mayor and his wife were quarrelling. Cynthia Feckworth had her arms folded across her chest, head bowed. Her husband faced her, hands extended, palms out, in the classic gesture of the pleading mate. An employee was outlined in the doorway of the motel office, watching.
The mayor didn’t even notice as Cardinal drove away.
The Gateway building was in the east end of town, one of the few high-rises in an area that was breaking out in new strip malls every day. In fact the ground floor of the building was a mini-mall with a dry cleaner, a convenience store, and a large computer-repair concern called CompuClinic that had moved here from Main Street. The businesses had been open for a while, but many of the building’s apartments were still unsold. Road crews were working on a new cloverleaf to accommodate traffic to and from the burgeoning neighbourhood, if it could be called a neighbourhood. Cardinal had to drive through a gauntlet of orange witches’ hats and then detour by the new Tim Hortons and Home Depot to get there.
He passed a row of newly built ‘townhomes’, most still unoccupied, although lights were on in a few of them. There was a PT Cruiser