from the farm yesterday morning, he got to the river and headed to Ashford Landing. Two kilometres, you said? That should have taken him no more than half an hour, which means he should have reached town before noon. MacPhail places the death after four p.m.”
“But remember he could have fallen earlier and bled for hours.”
“Okay, but he still might have been lurking around town for a couple of hours, which means he could have been seen.”
They had reached the outskirts of the village and Sullivan eased his foot off the accelerator, allowing them to coast over the crest and down into the tiny commercial centre. They passed the general store and the gas station before spotting a big yellow real estate agency sign on the lawn of a Victorian manor house painted a striking Wedgwood blue.
Sullivan had reached Sandy Fitzpatrick on his cell phone from the car, interrupting him in the middle of a showing. The agent had agreed to meet the detectives back at his office, but there was no answer when they rang the doorbell. An old silver Grand Am was tucked at the rear of the house, but the main drive was empty. Through the bay window, Green could see a large office with maps papering the walls and print-outs littering every surface. Looking up at the rambling size of the old home, he guessed that Sandy Fitzpatrick probably lived above his offices.
Sullivan was just returning to the car to check on the street canvassing when a late-model red pick-up revved around the corner and screeched into the drive. Out leaped a tall, muscular man whom Green estimated to be in his mid thirties. The man rushed at the detectives, his hand extended heartily.
“Sorry, officers. The house business—never a dull moment!” He lifted a huge ring of keys from his belt, selected one and unlocked the door with one expert twist. Inside his cluttered office, Green and Sullivan took the client chairs while Fitzpatrick went behind his desk. He flipped on his computer and punched the answering machine button before he’d even sat down. Then, as the first of sixteen messages began to drone, he looked at Sullivan sheepishly.
“Sorry, force of habit. No secretary, no partners, just me always rushing to stay on top of the business.” He paused the machine but couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to his email box briefly before he swung around.
“Okay!” He clasped both hands together on the desk before him like a man salivating to make a deal. “Is it about the body? It’s the talk of the town.”
Green couldn’t resist. “And what’s the town saying?”
“Some homeless guy?”
“No rumours as to his identity?” Green asked.
“None I heard. But what’s it got to do with the Pettigrew place?”
Green didn’t reply, reminding himself that it was Sullivan’s case and he ought to let him decide how to play it. Sullivan chose to play it casual.
“Who’s handling the sale of the church? Your firm?”
Fitzpatrick’s face fell. “Oh no! That’s a firm from Ottawa. I used to list that place, but...no one’s been able to sell it.”
“But you can access the key if you have a client. You have the combination to the lock box, right?”
“Well, I can get it. We can all get it. But I hardly ever show it. People want waterfront properties, not a musty old rock pile in the middle of town.”
Green glanced around the office. Despite the country clutter, it sported the latest in electronic gadgets. There were no pictures of wife and children, but Fitzpatrick clearly loved his expensive outdoor toys. Snowmobiles and four-by-fours were everywhere, and one photo showed him posing with a friend in front of a sleek, white motorboat, holding up a fish that must have been three feet long. Slimy-looking thing, Green thought with distaste, but the two men were grinning from ear to ear.
“I guess the waterfront business has been good to you, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Green remarked.
“Please, call me Sandy. Good investment, in today’s times. People are snapping it up all over Ontario. If you detectives are interested—”
Sullivan stepped in to head off the sales pitch. “What can you tell us about the Pettigrews?”
Sandy looked startled at the sudden change, then his face took on a regretful air. “What can I say? Sad, sad situation. The great-great-grandfather hacked the farm out of the wilderness himself back in the early eighteen hundreds, and his grandson built that brick house in the 1890s. Raised dairy cattle, owned the creamery here in town, had the best stud bulls in the county. Now they’re all gone, and the farm’s been bought by a civil servant from Ottawa, who’s not going to raise a single head.”
“What can you tell us about the more recent Pettigrews?” Sullivan asked. “Did you know them?”
“Oh yeah, everybody knew them. I went to school with the Pettigrew boys, and the adjacent farm is still in my family, thank God. What do you want to know for?” His jaw dropped. “Oh my God, was the dead man a Pettigrew?”
“Who’s been living there recently?”
“Just—just the old man. And Robbie off and on. He’s the youngest. There were five boys, so it gets confusing. But all the others...well...”
“Do you know where the others are?”
Sandy stared across the table at them in silence, his hearty façade quite gone. “If you think one of them is the body in the churchyard, I want to know, because they used to be friends of mine.”
Sullivan laid the photo on the desk without a word. Sandy stared at it fixedly, his colour slowly draining from his face.
“Holy crap,” he muttered. “What a mess.”
“Can you recognize him?”
Sandy wagged his head back and forth helplessly. “It might be one of the boys. It’s hard to tell from this, and I haven’t seen them in a long time.”
“Have you got their current addresses? Or any idea where they are?”
Sandy’s eyes strayed to the photo again, and he stared at it in bewilderment. “When I was growing up, they were a happy family. Religious and strict, but happy. I used to love to play over there. But they’ve had more tragedies than any family was ever meant to bear—one by one they left home, until in the end all that remained was Robbie and his father.”
“Could this be Robbie?”
Sandy shook his head firmly. “Robbie’s much younger than the others. In his late twenties, I’d say. But I haven’t seen any of the others since they were in their teens or early twenties, so it’s impossible to know. I mean, that’s twenty years ago.” Sandy eyed the photo again with a shiver of distaste. “Poor Robbie. Now he’ll have one more thing to contend with. Some guys never get an even break.”
When Green and Sullivan emerged from Sandy’s office, it was past five o’clock and the autumn sun was sinking fast. Green realized a quick check with both home and office was in order, to ensure that no major crises had occurred in either place while they’d been vacationing in the country. Sullivan, meanwhile, wanted to check on the progress his team had made in the village.
The massive white truck that
