to her voice, Hollis imagined an earnest face with a frown on her brow and worried creases at the corners of sincere eyes behind round glasses.
“I’ve worried about this for a long time. It’ll be a relief to tell you what happened. First of all, I liked Reverend Robertson and felt very simpatico to what he was doing. Actually, he made me feel I might help increase tolerance and understanding.” She laughed apologetically, “I probably sound terribly naïve. Little Miss Pollyanna in the flesh. Actually, I’m a really up kind of person, and I’m always hoping that if people were familiar with the facts they’d act better. Of course, I had to keep the information in my files confidential; consequently I spoke to Reverend Robertson in general terms about several cases where I felt quite sure . . .” Ms Cardwell hesitated. “Actually, we have psychiatric reports in the files. Our patients are seriously disturbed. This is a longer-term care facility. I had a number of reports on my desk because I wanted to refresh my memory before Reverend Robertson arrived.”
When she stopped, Hollis encouraged her to continue.
“This part embarrasses me. Are you familiar with Crohn’s disease?”
“No.”
“Actually, it’s a condition characterized by severe bowel upsets. I’ve had it since my late teens. When Reverend Robertson visited us, I was in the middle of a bad spell. I had to dash to the toilet, and I left him with the files I hadn’t had a chance to put away. When I re-entered the room, I suspected he’d read them. Ever since, I’ve felt absolutely awful. I wondered whether to tell my boss or not, but finally decided not to, because Reverend Robertson had said he would not reveal anyone’s identity in any book he wrote. I figured I’d worked here too long and paranoia had taken over, but I felt terribly guilty.” After a pause she said, “Do you suppose it would have changed things if I had reported what I suspected?”
No point adding to her distress. “No, I don’t. What could you have said? ‘I think he might have seen the files, but I’m not sure.’ It wouldn’t have solved anything or saved anyone.”
“It’s nice of you to say that. I suppose you want to know whose files were on the desk but, actually, I’m not permitted to share information—it’s not ethical.”
“Ms Cardwell, could you at least tell me if the individuals remain in the hospital and/or give me a synopsis of the files’ contents without identifying the people?”
“Actually, I can’t do a single thing until I clear it with my boss. She’s on a week’s holiday canoeing in Algonquin Park. Can you imagine what the blackflies will be like in May, let alone how cold the water will be if she falls in? But you don’t care about that. I’d need her permission. I’m terribly afraid it will be Monday before I can do anything. But I’ll prepare a précis of each file and have them ready to go first thing Monday if she says I can. I hope that’s okay?”
“If that’s all you can do—I’ll have to wait.”
Bingo. The jackpot. The big enchilada. If Hollis found the master list, the field of potential murderers would narrow considerably.
An idea edged into her mind. She left the folder on the desk to remind herself to deal with it later.
With her eye on the door, she thought about the writing process. Paul, like every other writer, always collected more information than he used. When you’re in the gathering stage, you aren’t sure what shape your book will take and what information you’ll include in the final product. It happens to everyone—you stumble upon unexpected facts, get a new slant on a subject, or think about an ancillary article or another book.
She flashed back to a morning in the fall when Paul had walked into the kitchen lugging a bulging briefcase.
“What on earth is in there? Gold bars?” she’d said.
He’d reached in, pulled out an elastic wrapped packet of file cards and waved it at her. “You won’t see these again. I’m organizing for another book that’ll be even more controversial than Push.” He stowed the packet in his briefcase. “I should read John LeCarré or Wilbur Smith to figure out how to do it right, but the way I’m arranging it, no one will be able to figure out anything without the keys to my codes.”
Codes. Would they be in the safety deposit box?
When Rhona had interviewed Dr. Yantha, his office had been as she’d imagined a psychiatrist’s office would be. She had no idea what to expect in a thoracic surgeon’s office.
The pleasant-voiced secretary welcomed Rhona and apologized because her boss hadn’t returned. At that moment Dr. Uiska strode in, shook hands with Rhona and motioned her into the inner office. Austere was the word to describe the office. Filing cabinets lined one wall. No personal items, no plants, no paintings allowed the observer to speculate about the doctor’s interests or personality. But an impressive collection of black-framed professional diplomas reassured the timid that they were in good hands.
Dr. Uiska was all edges and corners. Nothing rounded. Her short, prematurely silver hair sliced aggressively into points framing a thin face. Dark straight brows contrasted with her hair and drew attention to chilly pale blue eyes. She reminded Rhona of a desert fox in the nocturnal animal display at the London Zoo—predatory but finely drawn and perfectly adapted to her environment. When they shook hands, Rhona registered that these fine-boned, strong, supple, fingers belonged to an accomplished surgeon.
“Your name was in Reverend Robertson’s appointment calendar. What was your relationship with him?”
With raised eyebrows, Uiska said, “Certainly not an ‘intimate’ one. I’m sure you’ve uncovered the fact that Hollis and I have been friends for more than twenty years?”
Rhona nodded.
“It isn’t telling tales out of school to confess I’ve never understood why she married Paul.” An embryonic smile hovered on her lips. “I’ll be frank. I thought Paul Robertson was a reprehensible character or, as my children might say, a ‘jerk’.”
“Thank you for your frankness. Why did you meet him?”
Without fidgeting or exhibiting any unease, Uiska looked directly at Rhona. “A good question. I’m sure you wondered. The answer will surprise you.”
Rhona doubted that. In her job, she heard such a variety of stories, she felt surprise-proof.
“Kas and Hollis have birthdays close together. I wanted a double celebration, a bang-up party, and I enlisted Paul’s help.”
Rhona reconsidered: she was surprised. Tessa Uiska didn’t fit the mould of a surprise party type and, from what she’d unearthed about Paul Robertson, planning a surprise party was even more out of character for him. “What did you plan to do?”
Uiska paused and assessed Rhona before she shifted in her chair, removed a key from her pocket, unlocked the lower desk drawer, extracted her navy leather handbag and withdrew her pocket diary.
Her actions struck Rhona as theatrical.
“We settled on a dinner party at the golf club, with Kas thinking it was for Hollis and vice versa.”
