None so blind, p.22
None So Blind, page 22
Marilyn too had arrived, and was hovering at the end of her laneway. Despite the warm sun, she hugged a baggy sweater around her and cradled a hot cup of tea. Green left his vehicle on the road and walked over.
She managed a wan smile. “It never was much of a house.”
“Any word from Julia and Gordon?”
She nodded. “Julia showed up at Laura’s in the middle of the night. The crew here had told her where I was. Gordon has no phone but Julia thinks he’s with a friend.”
“That’s a relief.”
She nodded ruefully. “No casualties. Just my little house.” She tugged her sweater tighter. “We can’t all stay at Laura’s indefinitely, however.”
Green knew that a place to stay, at least temporarily, was the least of Marilyn’s worries. The Red Cross would help with crisis support, but it was the aftermath — the insurance wrangling, the replacement of priceless mementos, the restocking of possessions and clothes, the sheer paperwork — that would wear her down. But for now, everyone had to focus on the immediate.
“Where were they last night?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to ask. I left Julia asleep at Laura’s, and Gordon — Gordon is heaven–knows–where. Some mystery friend. He always had mystery friends.”
They both looked up as the fire chief strode down the lane with a grim expression. “Inspector, a word.”
Marilyn tensed. “What is it?”
“Just part of the investigation, ma’am.” With a tilt of his head, he drew Green out of earshot.
“You found something?”
Flannigan nodded. “Multiple points of origin in the basement, and evidence of an accelerant. We’ve taken air samples for analysis, but I’ll bet my paycheque it’s gasoline. This fire was deliberately set.”
Green frowned. “Is there a pattern of arson in the area?”
“Not around here, and starting in the basement like that is unusual. The insurance company will be really interested. The basement was crammed with old paint cans, turpentine, and other flammable liquids. Pile a few rags nearby and it would have been easy to get a good blaze.”
Green pondered the implications. The arsonist would have had to have access to the house and perhaps knowledge of the flammable potential in the basement. Flannigan was right. This was not a random act of destruction, but a deliberate targeting.
He glanced back at Marilyn, standing watchful guard by the road. Did she know who did it? One of her mercenary children, grown restless with waiting for their share of the profits and deciding to speed up the process by which developers would take over the land? It happened all the time, netting the homeowner a tidy insurance payout as well as the profits from the sale of the land. Julia and Gordon had no attachment to the house and very few possessions to lose inside it.
Green felt a twinge of anger at the thought. According to Marilyn, Gordon had been the last to leave the house the evening before, but Julia had a car and could easily have come back. But how could she have known her mother would be out? And could she or Gordon have had all the equipment ready in reserve to seize the moment when Marilyn left the house?
“It was a bit of overkill,” Flannigan was saying. “Either this is an amateur or he really wanted to make sure to get the job done fast. If your officers hadn’t spotted it when they did, there’d be nothing left but a pile of bricks.”
Green contemplated the blackened shell. From Gibbs’s description, the whole house had been engulfed in moments, with no smoke alarm going off. Perhaps whoever did this hadn’t cared whether Marilyn was inside. Or worse, perhaps they had intended her to be there.
He shook off the thought. Surely that was too callous even for Marilyn’s children. A moment later, Marilyn herself marched up to join them.
“What are you two up to? What’s going on?”
Flannigan pulled no punches. “I’ll be turning this investigation over to the Arson squad as a suspicious fire, Mrs. Carmichael.”
Her face was a mask. She tightened her jaw as if to prevent a word from escaping.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to burn it down?”
“Must have been kids out for a lark.”
“Was there a working smoke detector in the house?”
“Yes. As I said, two.”
“Then they were disabled, ma’am.”
She absorbed this, blinking rapidly. “Maybe I forgot to change the battery.”
“Do you have insurance on the structure and the contents?”
“There is nothing worth insuring inside, but yes, I have some. Can I get inside to look for some things in the ashes?”
“It’s not safe, ma’am. But we will be going through the whole place carefully ourselves.”
“Why?”
“Arson is a serious offence. Can you make a list of valuables we should be searching for?”
“There is nothing worth searching for.” She turned away, her jaw quivering. “I don’t want anything from there. Just … just bulldoze the whole thing!”
“Even so,” said Flannigan impassively, “I’d like you to sit with one of my men and draw up a list. Items may come to you.”
Reluctantly she turned to follow the man across the clearing to his truck. Green pondered her reaction as he watched her progress. Did she suspect that one of her children might have burned it down? And that they might have intended her to be in it? He needed to interview both children as soon as possible, before their mother could warn them. Before they had a chance to cook up a story.
Quickly he set off down the lane. He’d probably be waking Julia up, but it would be worth it to catch her off guard.
He found Laura Quinn’s house on Trim Road on the edge of Navan. The Victorian clapboard, two-storey building was located next to a cemetery and defiantly painted pink with purple trim. It was engulfed by flower gardens, and hand-painted leprechauns, bunnies, and butterflies peeked out between the flowers everywhere. A pink, heart-shaped WELCOME sign hung on the door and a large brass bell said, PLEASE RING. No one answered when he did, but the door was unlocked. Inside, he was greeted by more animals — painted, stitched, and carved. Floral air freshener filled the air.
Once his senses had recovered, he heard the sounds of a shower. Bedding and clothes were piled in a jumble on the couch and a cellphone lay on the coffee table. While he waited for Julia to emerge, he picked it up to peek at recent activities, but a password blocked his access.
Her open purse spilled receipts, candy wrappers, broken pens, and makeup onto the sofa. From the jumble, he picked up a battered old address book held together with an elastic band and flipped through it, trying to locate a phone number for Gordon. There were several numbers under his name, all scratched out, but Green also noted in passing a number for Erik Lazlo. It might be old, but just in case, he jotted it down.
Just then, Julia entered the room, swathed in fluffy towels that slipped off her shoulder. Her face glowed pink, and a flirtatious smile was playing across her lips. It vanished at the sight of her address book in his hand. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He set the book down calmly. “I need to talk to you, Julia. Do you want me to make us coffee while you get dressed?”
“You don’t have permission to go through my bag!”
“If you prefer to be interviewed without coffee, that’s fine with me.” He gestured toward the couch.
Stuffing everything back into her purse, she grabbed it and her phone before retreating to the bedroom. Inside the kitchen, as he hunted through meticulously labelled cupboards in search of coffee, he kept his ear tuned to hear whether she would use the phone. He was absent-mindedly rooting through tins of specialty teas in the pantry when he came upon an antique-looking metal box. He popped open the latch.
A snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 was nestled inside.
The gun was in perfect condition, oiled and shiny, its grip worn smooth by countless hands. The box wasn’t locked, not remotely secure, but Laura Quinn lived alone and probably thought nothing of it. He was not a fan of handguns — in his hands nor in the hands of civilians — but this was the country, where help was sometimes far away. How much havoc could a little old lady who painted leprechauns actually wreak? Besides, it looked as if it had been in the cupboard since before the modern era.
When the dust settled, he would advise her to lock it up, but meanwhile he shoved the box back and moved on to the next cupboard. He finally located the coffee canister sitting in plain view on the counter and had just finished brewing the coffee when Julia re-emerged. She was dressed in a silky blue top that plunged deep into her cleavage, her damp hair fell in artful curls and her lips glistened red. He poured coffee into two mugs shaped like bunnies and held one out to her. She took it without a word of thanks and leaned against the counter, stretching her long, tanned legs before her.
He waited, sizing up the best plan of attack. She grew impatient. “I don’t know anything about the fire, if that’s what you want to ask about.”
“What time did you leave your mother’s house yesterday?”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to establish the chain of events.”
“Chain? What chain?”
He said nothing. She took a sip and made a face. “I don’t even know when the house burned down, but it was so full of junk, I’m not surprised. Luke saved everything. Every can of paint, every broken stick of furniture. I’m just grateful Mum wasn’t there.”
“What time did you leave?”
She pushed herself away from the counter, strolled across to the sofa, and sank into it with a dramatic sigh. “I left at six o’clock. Took my car and went into town to meet a friend.” She smiled. “And no, Mike, I did not burn the house down. The first I heard of it was 4 a.m., when I got back and found it … barbecued. A cute firefighter told me where to find Mum.”
“Who was still in the house when you left?”
“What did you make this coffee with?”
He grinned. “Coffee, I hope. Who was in the house?”
Another dramatic sigh. “Gordon and Mum. Gordon was waiting for his ride and Mum was … Mum was passed out on the couch.”
“Passed out as in …?”
“Drunk. Hammered. It’s not just bad girls like me that go over the top, Mike. Nice, proper British mums do too.”
“Gordon wasn’t taking the car?”
Julia sipped her coffee and ran her tongue over her red lips. “Gordon wanted to party. And he doesn’t think tooling around in a battered old Honda has enough cool factor anyway.”
“So he left the car for your mother.”
“Oh, he took the keys. In case. We do that sometimes when she’s having an especially bad day.”
“When you phoned him this morning, where was he?”
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s having a fling. He’s probably in bed somewhere.”
“Can you give me a name and address?”
“If I knew that, I would call him myself. He doesn’t confide in me. He has a new lover — man this time, I think. Always his first choice. But it’s all very hush–hush. Some married businessman from out of town.” She was watching him coyly, no doubt hoping for a reaction, but he gave her none.
“He still needs to be notified. Where is he?”
Irritation flitted across her face. She set her mug down with a thud, sloshing coffee onto the table. “Is this part of the chain or are you just being nosy? There is nothing more I can tell you. I left at six o’clock and I got back at 4 a.m. The house was already totalled. I wasn’t there, Gordon wasn’t there, and luckily Mum wasn’t passed out on the couch anymore. It was an accident. Period.”
He didn’t reply. Her eyes narrowed. “What — you’re implying it wasn’t?”
He shrugged. “A convenient accident for those of you who wanted to sell.”
She uncurled herself and stood up. “What the hell do you mean by that? Mum set the fire. She was drunk, she turned on the stove, the microwave, the barbecue — whatever — and forgot about it. You know how many kettles she’s burned dry making her damn tea? Stupid, but not ‘convenient,’ as you put it.”
“You may be right,” he said blandly. “I’m sure it will all come out in the investigation. It’s amazing what they can tell from the ashes these days.”
On that note, Green left the house and pulled his vehicle around the corner, curious to see what Julia might do now that he’d stirred things up. His phone vibrated on his belt and a quick glance revealed it was Archie Goodfellow. Surprised, he picked up.
Archie’s operatic voice blasted through the little phone. “Paige Henriksson called me. She said you guys have new information? Rosten had a visitor that night and you guys suspect her and her husband?”
Green hesitated. Sullivan was far too experienced an interviewer to give information away by accident. He had planted this tidbit for a reason. Green ducked the question. “Archie, we’ve uncovered a lot of things. We believe he contacted someone in the days before his death, and we’re trying to determine who.”
“Well, you certainly freaked her out.”
“It’s complicated. Did Rosten have a Facebook account?”
“Are you kidding? We monitor stuff like that.”
“So you found no trace — on his computer or in his emails?”
“Not unless he used the library computer and a fake account. The guys do that, but Rosten’s never been that devious.”
“Archie, Rosten did a whole lot of things we knew nothing about.”
Archie fell quiet. “Okay. Does the name Erik Lazlo mean anything to you?”
Green nearly dropped the phone. “Where did you get that name?”
“On a scrap of paper in Rosten’s jacket, along with a phone number. The man isn’t anyone Rosten has been dealing with since his release, to my knowledge.”
“Did he mention the name to you at all, ever?”
“Nope.”
Green asked for the phone number and, as Archie read it out, he compared it to the one in Julia’s address book. They didn’t match. He was so excited he barely paused to thank Archie before dialling the station. He was surprised to find Gibbs at his desk despite orders from the paramedics to take the day off. The young detective’s voice was hoarse and he struggled to suppress a cough.
“Bob, you should be at home.”
“I’m taking it easy, sir. J — just desk work, tracing Lazlo and Mullenthorpe.”
“Don’t overdo it. I want you home by noon. Any luck locating Lazlo?”
“No, sir.” Gibbs coughed. “But his business colleagues are upset. He missed an important meeting with their Eastern European partners a couple of days ago. When he shows up, he’s going to be fired. They gave me a cellphone number, but it seems to be turned off.”
Movement outside Laura’s house caught Green’s eye and he glanced up just in time to see Julia sweeping down the front walk and knocking over a china bunny before climbing into her rental car. Two seconds later, the white Accent shot down the road. He debated following her but his tailing techniques, such as they were, were woefully out of practice. Furthermore, this new lead on Erik Lazlo was more important.
“Is Lazlo’s cell number either of these?” Green read off the two numbers from Archie and Julia. “They’re both local.”
“No, sir. But I’ll get right on these.”
“Keep me posted.” Green paused, reluctant to push him further. “If you get a chance, dig around to see if Rosten had a Facebook account under a fake name.”
“That’s pretty hard, sir, without …” He was stopped by a fit of coughing.
“Don’t try to talk, Bob. I’m on my way in to the station now to talk to the Arson squad.”
“Arson, sir?” Bob sputtered.
“Looks like the Carmichael fire was deliberately set. You and Sue hadn’t a hope of stopping it, Bob. You could have been seriously hurt.”
“Who? Who would do such a thing?”
“Did you and Sue see anyone around the scene? Perhaps running away? Or a vehicle driving away?”
“We weren’t looking for that, sir. We came up the road the back way and when we saw the fire, all we thought about was getting people out. But I’ll ask Sue.”
With a word of thanks and an admonition to be gone by noon, Green signed off and started his car. Just as he was pulling away from the curb, an aging pickup rattled into the drive of Laura’s house and a plump, middle-aged woman with orange hair clambered out. She struggled up the walk as if she had bad knees, pausing to pinch a dead iris from the border and to pick up the china bunny that had toppled over into the flowerbed.
She swung around with wide eyes as Green pulled into the lane behind her. She pressed her hand to her heart until his hasty introduction brought an instant gasp of relief.
“You’re Laura Quinn, Marilyn’s friend?”
“Yes, and you must be the inspector she talks about all the time. Come in, come in. Poor Marilyn, what a shock. After all she’s been through and not even back on her feet yet. Your heart just breaks for her, doesn’t it? I’ve left her going over household contents with the fireman. Poor lamb looks done in.”
Laura had a faint Irish lilt that had been worn down by years in Canada. Despite the outlandish orange hair, she looked older than Marilyn, and had probably immigrated in the post-war boom of the 1950s. From cozy Irish village to cozy Ontario one.
Laura led him back inside, where she stood surveying the clutter left by Julia. Wet towels bunched on the sofa, mug leaving a wet stain on the coffee table, tote bag on the floor, overflowing with discarded clothes. Laura tightened her lips but refrained from criticism as she silently mopped up the coffee.
“Difficult for them all, of course, although I haven’t seen Gordon or Julia since … well, not since poor Jackie, God rest her soul. I’ve been hoping their arrival would be a comfort to Marilyn, but …” Her voice trailed off. After straightening some crystal lambs on the coffee table, she turned to the kitchen.
