Fifth Son (7 page)

But the warm weather would soon be over, and with it all chance to tackle the outside. They hoped to have a professional builder restore the main barn in the spring, so she could use it for her horses. But the little tool shed looked beyond repair, and even worse was the eyesore of bushes and burnt planking that sat at the edge of the yard. Jacques was anxious to bulldoze it over and build a garage for the cars before winter struck, but that cost money that was sorely needed for other things. It looked as if no one had spent a penny on the place in years.

She didn't know how Mr. Pettigrew had earned his money once he no longer farmed the land, but the man had managed to consume an astonishing quantity of booze. They had found closets full of empty bottles everywhere and had spent a whole day simply carting bottles to the local dump.

Once, long ago, someone with skill and devotion had ministered to the house, for beneath the flaking paint, the woodwork was intricately hand-carved and the hardwood cabinetry bore an expert craftsman's touch. But then, quite abruptly, it seemed as if the family had stopped caring. The basement had been abandoned in a half-finished state with pine planking erected on half the walls, but only two-by-four framing on the rest. It was all dried and warped now, and someday she would have to rip it all out and start from scratch.

But not today. Today she would tackle the charred, overgrown eyesore in the front yard that was ruining her view from the porch. That way she could have a huge autumn bonfire like the ones she remembered from her childhood.

She stretched, tossed the dregs of her coffee on the ground and headed for the tool shed, where she'd seen a number of battered tools, perhaps among them the axe and crowbar she would need for the job. However, inside she found a small scythe, a hammer, and a handful of rusty saws, but no axe or sledgehammer big enough to do the job. She searched the barn and house to no avail. Making a note to buy a decent axe, she set to work with a shovel, hacking away at the woody stems and prying loose the roots. In less than an hour, she had a pile of branches and planking ready to burn.

She was just getting down on her hands and knees to wrench out a stubborn root when a flash of turquoise caught her eye, and she saw Jacques' Cavalier speeding down their lane in a plume of dust. She felt an odd mix of feelings. Frustration that he persisted in driving on the country roads as if he were on the Queensway, delight at the prospect of his company, and apprehension that she might be in for another hour's worth of bitching about country life. He'd left that morning in a foul humour, threatening to move in with his brother Jean Marc in Orleans.

When he leaped from the car, however, his eyes were wide, and he chattered in staccato French as he removed grocery bags from the car.

“This house, Isabelle! Everyone in the village is talking about it! That man who died at the church was one of the Pettigrews. A hundred years ago they owned all the land from here to the village, and they used to be big leaders. In the church, in the town. That little church the man died in, that was a major one in town, but there was a split in the movement when a new priest came. They talk like it was yesterday, but it was twenty-five years ago. Some went to the Anglican Church and some—”

She took some bags from him, set them on the counter and silenced him with a kiss. When Jacques began to talk religion, he lost her. “Is this important?”

He was not to be deterred, and his tone acquired an urgency. “What's important is that this family, the Pettigrews, they helped build that church, but they left it too, and everyone says that's when things started to get really bizarre. One of the sons went so crazy they had to lock him up. The mother was afraid he was possessed, and this house—”

Isabelle looked at him with alarm. Jacques had a deeply religious core and had not totally shaken off the strong Catholic indoctrination of his childhood among the priests. If he started believing that the house was haunted—or worse, possessed—she might never be able to persuade him to feel at home.

She slipped into his arms and took his face in her hands. “
Chéri,
this is our home now. We'll take it apart, every board and wall, and we'll make it ours.”

A frisson passed through him. “But they are everywhere! Their initials are still carved on the windowsills, their names are glued to the bedroom walls. And the worst thing—” He paused. “Isabelle, they said the wife hung herself in the very room where we are sleeping!”

Fifteen minutes after leaving Robbie's apartment, Sullivan was inching the Impala through the Glebe in bumper to bumper traffic. To save time, Green radioed ahead to Gibbs, but before he could even relay his request, the young constable's stutter burst over the wire.

“I—I'm afraid I struck out on Derek Pettigrew's dentist, sir. Seems the man who used to treat the family died about ten years ago, and the old files have been destroyed. So we have no dental
ID
.”

Green sighed. That meant they would have to identify the body by process of elimination. He instructed Gibbs to find out as much background as he could about the Pettigrew family. Gibbs was Green's favourite gofer, eager, tireless, relentless and intelligent to boot. By the time the two detectives reached the Major Crimes Squad room, he had not just the full names, but the dates and places of birth and death of four generations of Pettigrews.

“I'm sorry I don't have all the current addresses yet, sir, but I'm working on it. None of them are in the system.”

Green had doubted they would be, for until amalgamation a few years ago, Ashford Landing had been under the jurisdiction of the Ontario Provincial Police. He advised him to check with the
OPP
.

“I already did, sir.” Gibbs smiled and met his eyes. The kid's finally getting some confidence, Green thought with relief. Gibbs had a wonderful investigative nose, but he was scared of his own shadow, which was a major drawback in Criminal Investigations. “They've nothing on them either, sir. Except for one son, Benjamin, victim of a one-car fatal in 1990.”

“Any particulars?”

“It was labelled driver error, but the accident occurred at one-thirty in the morning, so alcohol might have been a factor. Although County Road 2 is pretty dark and deserted at that time of night.”

County Road 2 is also pretty straight, Green thought, remembering their recent drives along the road leading to Ashford Landing. He looked at Benjamin's date of birth and did a quick calculation. Benjamin had died on his twenty-first birthday, possibly on his way home from one too many celebrations. Green felt a twinge of sorrow for the beleaguered family. Had this been the tragedy that had turned their lives upside down?

He returned his attention to Gibbs's notes. Benjamin had been the second youngest son, but still seven years older than Robbie. The mother had died twelve years ago, two years after Benjamin. Gibbs had not yet been able to track down any additional details beyond the name and birth date of the remaining three sons. Derek, Tom and Lawrence. Green pointed to their names.

“Concentrate on Derek, but just to be thorough, see if you can locate the present whereabouts of all three—or at least their most recent known address. Lawrence would be the fifth son we forgot to ask about. Check if Robbie Pettigrew or any of the villagers know where he went. Let Brian know if you find anything useful.”

After Gibbs had scurried off, Sullivan eyed Green with disapproval. “You just gave him the work of two officers. You know, just because he'll do it, it doesn't mean you should ask him to.”

Green smiled. “That's why you're going to give him a new partner. The new woman you just got from General Assignment? Sue Peters? I think she'd be a great fit for Gibbsie.”

Sullivan laughed without humour. “Where did you get that bright idea? She'll scare him half to death.”

The idea had only just occurred to Green when he saw the new confidence in Gibbs. It was about time he took on a more senior role and began training others in that wonderful investigative nose. And who better than the cocky young detective who was clawing her way resolutely through the ranks. Learning to dot every i and cross every t under the meticulous tutelage of Bob Gibbs ought to slow her down a touch. As well as maybe make a decent investigator out of her.

But he said none of that to Sullivan, who was clearly irked by Green's cavalier invasion into his territory yet again. “It'll do them both good,” he replied instead, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he headed for the third floor. “I'd like a quick update after my meeting before I go home. And I'm leaving at three.”

“Three!” Sullivan's tone registered his disbelief, for Green almost never left before six.

“I have to see a kid about a crucifix.”

Hannah flounced into the passenger seat and immediately changed the radio station from Green's classic rock to extreme rock, casting him a look that dared him to object. Ignoring the bait, Green pulled out of the school drive and accelerated up Carling Avenue towards the Queensway. It was half past three, and the autumn sun was slanting through the window onto her face. She jerked the visor down and hid behind dark glasses.

“How was school?” he ventured neutrally.

“Kyle wasn't there today.”

“Oh? Sick?”

She shrugged. “Seemed fine yesterday. Till you started asking him all those questions.”

“Well, we'll try to make this like a game today. Make sure you explain to him that he hasn't done anything wrong.”

“He understands English, Mike. He's not an idiot. I mean—” She broke off, flushing.

“I know he isn't, but I'm a police officer, and he may think that means he's done something wrong. Tell him we just want him to help us figure out who the chain belongs to.”

To her credit, Hannah tried her best when they arrived at the McMartin farm. Kyle was in the barn, looking perfectly healthy as he mucked out stalls. The reek of manure clung to his clothes, and he seemed oblivious to the flies that swarmed around him. Green was struck by how big and muscular he was in his overalls and rubber boots. A boy's mind in a body that was fast becoming a man's. Green's impression was reinforced by Kyle's reaction to Hannah, which was pure adolescent male. Red-faced, tongue-tied and tripping over his limbs.

But as soon as she mentioned the crucifix, he started to wag his head back and forth.

“I don't remember. I get mixed up.”

Green watched him carefully. “What were you doing when you found it?”

“Walking.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

Kyle began to shake his head when Hannah stepped in again. “Was lunch finished?”

A nod.

“Was dinner finished?”

“No. Not started.”

“Good.” She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Were you walking home from the village?”

“No.”

“Were you walking to the village?”

Kyle squirmed and looked away, shaking his head. Green picked up the cross-examination technique. He pointed towards the woods in the direction of the river. “Were you walking over there, Kyle?”

“Kyle's not allowed to go in the woods, Mr. Green,” came a sharp voice from behind them, as Edna McMartin strode into view from the interior of the barn. Her grey hair stood on end and wisps of straw stuck to her clothes.

Kyle shook his head vigorously. “I didn't. I didn't go there.”

Her eyes were hostile, and Green felt all chance for cooperation slipping through his fingers. He thought he knew why; they had not informed her of their arrival nor asked permission to speak to her son. Kyle had come out to greet them and, hoping to keep the interview as casual as possible, they had simply slid right in.

He apologized to her as humbly as he could and explained the importance of pinpointing the discovery of the chain. “We believe the dead man was probably Derek Pettigrew and that this chain was lost by him shortly before his death. We're trying to trace his movements leading up to his death.”

Edna McMartin fixed Kyle with a firm, unwavering gaze that Green suspected would see through anyone's subterfuge. “Did you go to the woods near the river, Ky?”

He swallowed and shook his head. “No, Mom. Never.”

“Then where did you find the chain?”

“I was walking to the village. Through the field.” Kyle pointed across a stubbled field towards the distant church spires of the village. Green studied him thoughtfully. The boy was lying; he had earlier denied this. But why?

“Why is Kyle not allowed to go in the woods?” he asked the mother casually.

“Because of the river, of course,” she answered in a tone that implied a silent “you idiot.”

“Of course. Have you lived on this farm long?”

“Long?” She snorted. “Is all my life long enough?”

Green felt as if he had hit a gold mine, if he could only figure out how to mine it. “Then you would have known the Pettigrew boys before they all left.”

Her gaze grew wary. “Some. We stay pretty busy on the farm.”

He turned abruptly towards Hannah. “Sorry, honey. I need to have a few words with Kyle's mother inside. Do you think you and Kyle can amuse each other out here for a while?”

Poor choice of words, Green thought with a grimace as he ushered the reluctant mother into her house. She seemed as uneasy about leaving them alone as he was, no doubt for opposite reasons.

“I don't know what I can tell you,” she said as she perched on the edge of her sofa, looking ready to bolt at any moment. Unlike last evening, she made no effort to remove the quilt or offer him a drink. “I haven't seen any of the older children in years. And I never had much to do with him—” She jerked her head in the direction of the Pettigrew farm. “—since he started pickling himself in booze and bawling at the moon at three in the morning. Could hear it clear across to the village some nights.”