The Delicate Storm. Giles Blunt
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the anniversary card. We know where you live.
‘And Wells was a character. People underestimate how important that is in a leader. That’s why I could never run for office myself, much as I’d love to. Too colourless.’
‘But you’re very impressive,’ Cardinal said. ‘We’ve just been introduced, and I’m sitting here, impressed. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?’
Laroche laughed, showing perfect teeth.
‘I’m a behind-the-scenes man, born and bred, Detective. Give me a candidate like Geoff Mantis, I’ll do everything I can to get him elected. I’ll call in the debts, twist the arms, you name it. But run for office myself? Not a chance.’
Laroche spoke as if he were laying out his points in a seminar, his modulation highly educated. Cardinal wondered if he had lived abroad. Laroche gripped Cardinal’s arm lightly. ‘Forgive me for being so earnest. These questions are on my mind, what with the election coming up.’
‘Is Geoff Mantis going to win again?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m going to make sure of it.’
After the luxurious interior of the Trianon, the parking lot felt even more cold and damp. Disembodied headlights glided through the mist along the bypass, and rain felt imminent.
Laroche climbed behind the wheel of a Lincoln Navigator that was parked by the restaurant entrance. He rolled down the window and said, ‘R.J., I forgot to ask – how are things progressing with your body in the woods?’
Kendall shrugged. ‘It’s Detective Cardinal’s case. We have some leads. We’re moving along. Right, Detective?’
‘Not as fast as I’d like. But I always feel that way.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Laroche said. ‘If your record on the Windigo case is anything to go by, you’ll have this matter wrapped up in no time.’ He drove off into the fog, his turn signal winking toward town.
‘Smooth character,’ Cardinal said.
‘Rich character. Not bad for a guy who grew up in an orphanage. I mean, running the premier’s campaign?’
‘I voted against Mantis.’
‘Luckily,’ Kendall said, ‘most people had better sense.’
On his way downtown again, Cardinal called his father on the cellphone.
‘Hold on a second. I’m just pulling some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.’
Since his wife had died ten years previously, Stan had taken up an interest in cooking. It still gave Cardinal a kick to see his father – tough, sinewy Stan Cardinal, with his muscular forearms and powerful chest – wearing an apron and wiping flour from his hands. Cookies were his specialty.
‘Did you see the cardiologist?’
‘Catherine drove me up this morning. Dr Cates irritated the hell out of me, but she knows how to get things done, I’ll say that for her.’
‘What’s the cardiologist say?’
‘He’s scheduling me for a bunch of tests up at the hospital. He thinks I have congestive heart failure.’
‘What? Dad, why didn’t you get this taken care of six months ago?’
‘It’s not a big deal, John. It’s just some tests. And he’s giving me tons of drugs. I think they’re working already.’
‘Heart failure, though. I wish you weren’t living out to hell and gone.’
‘Nonsense. Whole reason I moved in here was so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. Why the hell do you think I got a bungalow? No damn stairs to break my neck on, that’s why. This is the easiest place in the world to keep clean and get around in. I’ve got peace and quiet and fresh air. I’ve got my stereo and my VCR and the best microwave on the market. I’m telling you, I’m king of the castle, here.’
‘Well, if the fog gets any worse, you might want to think about moving in with us for the duration.’
‘Drop it, John.’
Cardinal turned onto MacPherson, skirting a messy construction site.
‘They said on the news you found a chewed-up body in the woods?’ Stan said. ‘Sounds a little more interesting than the usual crap you get.’
Great, Cardinal thought. Here we go.
‘Those trailer trash constantly shooting each other. Drug dealers. Robbers. Fat-assed drunkards. I don’t know why you didn’t go into a more interesting line of work. It’s not like you didn’t have the education. Your ma and I saw to it you and your brother got to college. You could have gone into any profession you wanted.’
‘That’s exactly what I did, Dad. I went into the profession I wanted. A line of work that can actually make a difference in people’s lives. A lot of my colleagues didn’t go to university – that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Look at the people you worked with.’
‘Morons, the bunch of them! Except for Mark McCabe. Mark was the smartest guy I ever knew. Read more books than most college professors. Did long division in his head. But he was a union man through and through. And it was guys like you – your oh-so-brainy colleagues – that saw fit to bust his head open for having the guts to call a strike against the fat bastards that run this country. That nightstick came down on his head – and I heard it. It sounded like a plank dropping on a cement floor. That nightstick came down on Mark’s head and for the next three years he did nothing but drool, and then he died. A good, good man.’
The line went quiet. Cardinal heard his father sniff and knew that he was crying. His dad, who for most of his long life had displayed few emotions other than irritation, now became teary when he talked of the past. It didn’t seem to be self-pity but some deeper, long-abiding sorrow. The tears would flow for a minute, then be gone.
‘You okay, Dad?’
There was a loud sniff from the other end of the line. ‘Fog’s turning to rain,’ Stan said. ‘Maybe I’ll plant some zinnias in the spring.’
‘Listen,’ Musgrave said. ‘I’ve gone over it with my regional commander. I’m not working with that laptop-toting twerp from CSIS. What we do is, I deal with you, you deal with him.’
‘Squier didn’t seem all that bad to me,’ Cardinal said.
‘You haven’t worked with CSIS before, have you.’
‘No.’
‘You poor bastard. Anyway,’ Musgrave said, looking at his watch, ‘this is forty-five minutes of my life we’ve wasted. Tell me again what we’re doing here.’
They were parked in an unmarked on Main East. The fog had finally condensed into actual rain that was drumming on the roof.
The moment Cardinal had hung up with his father, the cellphone had rung in his hand and Arsenault was on the line telling him they’d matched a print at the trapper’s shack to a name: Paul Bressard. Cardinal had driven straight out to the house. Bressard’s wife, who was already reeking of scotch at one-thirty in the afternoon, told him Paul would probably be at Duane’s Billiard Emporium. Cardinal didn’t mention that he was a cop, and she wasn’t sober enough to tell.
Which was how he and Musgrave came to be sitting in the unmarked on Main East watching the decayed entrance to Duane’s Billiard Emporium.
‘Duane’s is a hangout for the guys who can’t quite make it to big-time crime,’ Cardinal said. ‘Bikers that failed the entrance exam to Satan’s Choice, Italian guys too dumb for the mob.’