Little Boy Blues (34 page)

“A long time ago that boy. So angry when he first showed up at the Youth Club. Setting fires. Stealing cars. Roughing up other children. But he certainly came to life on the stage. He could transform himself. It was marvellous. It’s what drama is all about. Gave him the polish he needs for public life. It helped him to deal with his anger.”

Two burly orderlies appeared.

“He’s still angry, Father. He killed Reefer. He ran you down.
We need to find him before he kills Jimmy Ferguson.”

The orderlies picked me up, one by each elbow. I tried to grab for the bed, then the doorframe.

“No, no. You must be mistaken,” Father Blaise said, his eyes half-closed. “He turned out very well. I’m sure he’ll get elected.”

Holy shit.

I didn’t actually need security to speed me on my way. I was ready to race out the front door of the hospital so I could use my cellphone to call Mombourquette, Deveau, Alvin, Mrs. P. Everybody. But, of course, I didn’t have my cellphone.

Or money for a payphone.

Or money for a taxi, for that matter.

The cab driver was pretty irritated as he accompanied me to my apartment. Some people lack a highly developed sense of humour. His mood did not improve when Gussie, the mildest of dogs, took an instant dislike to him.

“Thank you, Gussie,” I said when I shut the door after the cabby had fled with my last twenty. “You’re like a secret weapon.”

Gussie’s tail thumped.

“In more ways than one,” I said.

• • •

I called Honey Redmore from Mrs. Parnell’s number. There’s more than one way to deal with Call Display.

“Tell me,” I said when she answered, “did your mother lose a Hermès scarf in Sydney?”

“How did you know that?” she said, before she caught herself. “I have nothing more to say to you. One more call and I’ll take legal action.”

“I’d say you’d better be careful who you line up with here. Legal action plays both ways. Since you are choosing to protect people, you may find yourself in the hot seat with them. Your choice.”

While I spoke to Honey, Mrs. Parnell got busy. “Pictures of
Nicholas Southern and Will Redmore? Of course, I can get them off the web,” she’d said.

“Good. We need to show both of them to Alvin. Fast.”

“It will only take a minute.”

“P. J. was in Prince Edward Island with Southern on June 30th when he got called back here because of his mother’s heart attack. I need confirmation Nicholas Southern was in Sydney on July 1st, officially, or otherwise. And I’ll need Southern’s bio, if you can find one.”

Mrs. P. kept her computer and colour printer humming, while I made calls. I had just left messages with Mombourquette, Deveau, Alvin and P. J. when she slapped a sheaf of paper in front of me.

She’d pulled up some good images of Southern and Redmore from the web. “Thanks, Mrs. P. We’ll show them to Alvin. Maybe he can identify them as the boys in the park.”

“We see their faces splashed all over the media. It is hard to imagine young Ferguson wouldn’t have recognized them.”

“Maybe. But it was a long time ago, and the context is so different. And Alvin follows the art scene, not politics.”

“I’ll keep trying to find out where Southern was on Sunday.”

“Thanks, I’ll check the bio.”

“I printed out a couple of them. Try the long version.”

“Holy shit.”

“What is it, Ms. MacPhee?”

“It’s all here. Nicholas Southern lived in Sydney among many other places for a while as a young teenager. Then he moved with his mother to Calgary at sixteen. What else? Business degree on full scholarship. Active in drama and politics at university. Bless you, Mrs. P., and bless Father Blaise too.”

“If I may say so, I believe these are slim grounds to accuse a
public figure of these heinous crimes. But, who am I? You are the lawyer.”

“And I’m building my case.”

Of all the other people I needed to speak to, only Deveau returned my call. His timing couldn’t have been better. “How well do you remember the alleged assault on Honey Redmore?” I said. “Just answer. Don’t give me any bull about the YOA. I’m asking you how well you remember it.”

“Well enough.”

“Do you recall if there was anyone else in the house at the time except for the family and possibly Jimmy?”

“Jeez. You don’t ask much, do you?”

“Answer me.”

“I think there was another guy there. A friend of the brother. He didn’t get involved, though. Just backed up the story.”

“Nicholas Southern,” I said.

“The software guy on the political crusade? What about him?”

“Was he there?”

Silence. Silence from cops, even nice ones, can be a good sign.

“Did you know him in Sydney? My source says he got into plenty of trouble as a kid.”

“I remember him.”

“Don’t get slippery. Answer this question. Was he in trouble with the law as a juvenile?”

“Come on now. We’ve been all through this.”

“Fine. You could tell me where he lived. That wouldn’t violate any laws.”

“I don’t see what difference it would make, but he and his mother had an apartment on Charlotte Street.”

“Near the park?”

“What of it?”

“Okay. Now I’ll talk. You listen. Here’s what I think happened. Nicholas Southern and Will Redmore are buddies. A couple of smart kids with chips on their shoulders and nasty dispositions. Get in a bit of trouble in school. They push the younger kids around. Rough them up. Maybe get noticed by the cops. You with me?”

“I’m not breaking the law.”

“Good. So one day, things get out of hand, and a child is injured seriously. The child is Jimmy.”

“No one ever suggested those two kids were involved with that.”

“That’s part of the problem. There were no witnesses. Jimmy’s too damaged, and Alvin has blocked everything out. It looks like they got away with it.”

“Go on.”

“But it wasn’t the only thing they did. There were other things, small fires, thefts. Sooner or later, they’re in trouble. Redmore’s parents clamp down on him and ship him off to boarding school. But Southern’s not from money. His mother connects him with Father Blaise and his Youth Club. Father Blaise sees the kid has promise. He gets him into drama and other things, and first thing you know the little bastard has a scholarship to university and a ticket to success. A happy ending for everyone but Jimmy.”

“A lot of speculation, Camilla.”

“But it’s all falling together, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“Here’s another idea. What if Nicholas and Will touched base again, ran into each other somewhere, Dalhousie maybe. Nicholas comes for a visit for Thanksgiving. His mother’s out west, and he’s finishing up at Dal. So is Redmore.”

“That’s really far-fetched.”

“What’s far-fetched about it? Two guys from the same town, who were friends as children, and I read your silence before as a ‘yes’ to that, these guys reconnect at university and one visits the other. Big deal. Hardly the
X-Files
.”

Deveau cleared his throat. He hadn’t managed a single chuckle during this phone call.

“Are you with me?”

“Yes.”

“So, let’s say during this visit, Jimmy Ferguson is waiting to see Honey. Maybe he sees these two guys together, and maybe some memory is triggered. Maybe Southern gets nervous that Jimmy will tell people what he did. Or maybe Redmore does, and they decide to create a distraction. Or maybe, once a bully always a bully, and the bully found an opportunity to pull a really vile trick on a former victim.”

“Go on.”

“Only it goes really wrong, and the father dies. Maybe that’s what created the tension between Redmore and Southern. The stakes are way up. But neither one can let the cat out of the bag, because they’re both guilty of something the public won’t take lightly.”

“Career limiting,” he said. “In a big way.”

“No kidding. Does it answer a lot of questions so far?”

“I hate to admit it.”

“A lot of things are starting to crystallize. Try this for a theory: Southern was in Sydney the day Jimmy disappeared. So was Redmore. So was Honey.”

“I’ll call Sydney and see if someone can review those old files. No guarantee we’ll find anything useful.”

“Right. Why don’t you check this out? I suggest that you ask Honey yourself.”

“Do you think she was part of it?”

“I find it hard to believe. I liked her. Even if she didn’t like me much. But a woman was driving the car, both times. Mrs. Redmore must be in her early sixties. We know she held Jimmy responsible. Maybe she could have been driving the car that killed Greg Hornyk in Sydney. Somehow I can’t see her rolling out of the Buick and sprinting away from Gadzooks. That would have to be a younger woman. Honey fits the physical profile.”

“But you said Honey knew Jimmy wasn’t to blame.”

“True. Even so, she’s close to her brother. Maybe he could weather accusations of childhood bullying, but his career wouldn’t survive framing an innocent kid for an incident that led to the death of his father.”

“I’m sorry, Camilla. I can believe those guys were involved, but I’ve met Honey, and it just doesn’t ring true to me.”

“Yeah well, maybe I haven’t figured all the angles yet. But I’m getting there. Anyway, this whole topic upsets her. That’s good. You should be able to get her flustered. My guess is she’ll let something slip.”

“She didn’t let things slip when you talked to her.”

“I didn’t ask her the right questions. You have the background now,” I said.

“No, you’re the one who believes this. You should talk to her. Make the accusation to her face. I don’t want to jeopardize the case if it comes down to that. Not that I believe it will.”

“She won’t talk to me, but you’re the police. You can easily ask her if Southern was there on the Thanksgiving when Jimmy was accused. Ask her in person. Face to face. See what happens. While you’re at it, you should interview Father Blaise. They might let you in to the
ICU
now. He knew both these kids. I believe he saw Southern on Canada Day. If you
can get in, you can find out where and we can see how it fits in with what we know so far.”

“Camilla?”

“What?”

“There’s so many holes in your story, I don’t know where to start counting.”

“I’ll be busy filling in those holes. While you’re talking to people, you might fill in some of them yourself.”

“I know you believe you’re on to something, but I have to tell you, as a police officer I can’t go out on that limb. This is pure conjecture. I’m sorry.”

“Ray, you’re here to look for Jimmy. You can’t take a chance. You have to follow up.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t really have a choice.”

“You just put the finger on your reporter friend, and now this is a complete about-face. I’m not going to badger Honey, and I am not going to harass a frail old man in intensive care. Try to get used to the idea.”

“Sure. I’ll get used to it. And, Ray?”

“What?”

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

I may have slammed the phone down. Mrs. Parnell raised her eyebrow and her glass of Harvey’s in a sympathetic salute.

“Sometimes, Ms. MacPhee, discretion is the better part of valour.”

“Yeah, well, discretion is not my best thing. And it’s too late for that now. What am I going to do? We’re really out of time.”

“You can’t blame Sergeant Deveau. He doesn’t know you well.”

“And he won’t be getting to know me any better.”

“Let us be strategic. Who can talk to Honey?”

“I need to think about that.”

“Have a look at this while you’re thinking. I found a bit more background on our Mr. Southern. Mostly the theatrical stuff. Do you notice anything?” Mrs. Parnell shot a little jet of smoke in my direction.

I said, “Just a write-up mentioning some of the activities this Southern person was involved in.” I stared at the article. It appeared to list every activity Nicholas Southern had ever taken part in. As far as I could tell they were all innocuous. “I’m surprised they don’t list sleeping seven hours a night and flossing his teeth as achievements. Are these people paid by the syllable? What are you driving at, Mrs. P.?”

“I thought you might find the theatrical history illuminating.”

“You’re kidding, right? And am I supposed to be really impressed that he once drove a tour bus for a summer job?”

“Examine it closely, Ms. MacPhee.”

I took my time, but after two rereads, I wasn’t wiser. “Out with it,” I said.

“Look at those performances.
Some Like It Hot. Victor Victoria. La Cage aux Folles.
What was different about them?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m not getting this. Oh. Shit. How could I miss that?”

“Precisely, Ms. MacPhee.”

“Men dressed as women.”

The last piece of the puzzle. “Father Blaise said he really got into his roles. Shone on the stage.”

• • •

Dogs are not allowed at Bluesfest. So it took a certain amount
of ingenuity to get in with Gussie. I already had the sunglasses. Gussie did a great seeing eye dog routine. I thought the white cane would come in handy anyway.

Youth night at Bluesfest was something new. The Matthew Good Band was supposed to pull in younger crowds. A quick glance told me the tactic had worked. It was like another species. I looked around at the surging mass and saw ten thousand reasons why I was not a youth. Body surfing was only one of them.

Lots of the youth had cellphones. I hoped they were having better luck with them than I was. Deveau didn’t answer his. Mombourquette didn’t answer his. Alvin didn’t answer his. Mrs. Parnell didn’t answer hers. I blamed the goddam walkietalkies. I didn’t have one of those.

P. J. didn’t answer his phone either. I hoped he wasn’t in the slammer.

I kept leaving messages as Gussie and I wove our way through the crowds. Gussie sniffed jean legs and pulled here and there. “Find Jimmy, Gussie,” I said. Not that Gussie understood a word, but if Jimmy was near, Gussie would know.

I looked around desperately for Platoons A, B and D. No luck.

Like any band worth its salt, the Matthew Good Band wasn’t going to start on time. It was already dark when the tuning up on stage started. Dark enough to make the search through the crowd tricky. Even with my sunglasses off, half the crowd would have had the same basic description as Jimmy.