I wish I could.”
“Thanks. If anything does come to you, phone us immediately. Now tell us about yourself, about your background. Give us a picture of yourself,” Rhona said.
Ginny glanced quickly at the door as if weighing her options for escape. “You mean a photo?” She looked puzzled.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean an actual picture. I meant that we want to learn about you, where you come from, who you know in the city, if you and Ms. Trepanier had any friends in common. That sort of thing.” Rhona smiled as encouragingly as she could. She sensed that any previous encounters Ginny had had with the police had been unpleasant, so she did her best to put the young woman at ease. “Take your time and don’t worry about deciding what might or might not be important. We’ll do that.”
Ginny looked from one to the other. Clearly she felt uncomfortable. She shrugged. “Nothing much to tell. As you can see I’m an Indian. I’m a status Indian and grew up on the Red Pheasant reserve. When I was,” she paused, “eighteen I came to Toronto.”
“How old are you now and where is Red Pheasant?” Ian asked.
“I’m still eighteen. It’s in Saskatchewan.”
“Then you haven’t been here long.”
“No. Four months.”
“Is Red Pheasant where you went to school?”
“Clifford Wuttenee to grade nine.”
“A relative?” Rhona asked.
“Lots of Wuttenees.” She shrugged. “I think he was the guy who signed Treaty 6. No relation.”
“After grade nine?” Rhona said.
Ginny shifted as if sharp nails covered her chair. “Battleford. North Battleford Comprehensive. My grandmother didn’t want me to go to Sakawen. She thought you could fight whites better if you went to their schools.”
“What’s Sakawen?” Ian asked.
“An Aboriginal high school. They’ve got two of them now. I had to go to the white school. Believe it or not I stuck it out to graduate because my grandmother really cared. She wanted me to be proud to be Cree, to be strong. She didn’t want me to end up like my mother.” Unexpectedly, her eyes brimmed and she wiped them with the back of her hand, drawing attention to her bitten nails and cuticles.
“My grandmother insisted that I be proud of who I was and where I came from too,” Rhona said. “It makes a difference in your life if someone who loves you believes in you, doesn’t it?”
Ginny didn’t say anything but she considered Rhona’s remarks. “I don’t think it’s the same when you’re an Indian,” she said.
“I am and it did,” Rhona said.
This time Ginny stared at Rhona as if she could check out her DNA. “You’re an Indian?”
“My grandmother was born on Poundmaker’s reserve. She took me back there in the summers when I was a little girl.”
“But she didn’t live there?”
“No. After she left residential school she worked as a maid in Battleford and married a young Methodist minister. You won’t remember, but until they changed the Indian Act, an Indian woman who married a white man lost her status and couldn’t live on the reserve. We visited family but we couldn’t stay. “
Ginny smiled. “Wow. And now you’re a cop. Pretty good for an Indian kid.”
“Thanks, but we need to get back to you.” Rhona glanced at Ian and knew by his raised eyebrow and quizzical smile that he thought she’d been out of line. He probably considered it a tactic to persuade Ginny to reveal whatever she was hiding. It wasn’t true. Rhona hadn’t intended to reveal as much. She was still reacting to the Spirit Report and her own acknowledgment of the shame about her past that she sometimes felt.
“What happened to your mother?” Ian probed.
“She died,” Ginny snapped without looking at him.
“People do. What did she die from?” Ian said.
“This has fuck-all to do with anything, but for your satisfaction, my father killed her and he’s in the Prince Albert pen.”
“I’m sorry.” Ian did look as if he wished he hadn’t been quite so abrupt. “How old were you?”
“Four.”
Rhona closed her eyes. How horrible and traumatic. Probably another example of a man who felt undervalued and inferior using alcohol to deaden the pain, and when that didn’t work, turning his self-hatred and rage against those closest to him. She opened her eyes and met Ginny’s steady gaze.
“There’s nothing I can say except I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Ginny said.
“What happened after you graduated?” Ian asked.
Pause. Rhona felt Ginny was considering whether to tell them something else. From experience she knew they should sit back and wait. But there was no way to communicate her belief to Ian, who plowed on.
“Well, what did you do?”
“Came to Toronto. Got picked up at the bus station. Worked the street until Fatima found me and here I am.”
“Your pimp must have been angry. Did he come after you?”
“Probably, but he didn’t find me, and now I’m always careful where I go.”
Time for Rhona to issue a warning. “I’m glad to hear that, because we believe you, not Ms. Trepanier, may have been the target. Sabrina was in your bed and the killer may have been after you. That’s why we wanted to know your background, to see if you could think of anyone who might have reason to kill you. Tell us about your pimp.”
A clearly shocked Ginny pulled back as if Rhona had menaced her with a hot poker. “My god,” she said, looking from one detective to the other. “Do you really think so?”
“Your pimp?” Ian persisted.
“Jigs, I never knew his last name. A guy from Nova Scotia. Treated me real good at first but ended up beating me.”
“Drugs?”
Ginny shook her head. “He wanted me to. My older sister, Loraine, got caught in that mess. She died from an overdose and I didn’t want that to happen to me. I just wanted to make money and have nice clothes. Fatima saved my life.” A flash of fear on her face. “If you find him don’t tell him I told you, or tell him where I am. If he could, I think he would kill me.”
“We won’t,” he assured her. “Now tell us about Ms. Trepanier. You were good friends?”
Rhona watched the tension drain from Ginny. Her shoulders, which had been bunched around her ears, resumed their normal position, her hands which had been clenched in her lap, opened and her lips,
