least to Cardinal’s nostalgic eye – a gentle, soulful look. Why did these girls scar themselves with fashion?
Joe came back the length of the counter to the cash register. ‘November, I think it was. Early November. Must’ve been five or six fire trucks out there.’
‘You sure it wasn’t later? After New Year’s?’
‘Definitely not. It was before my hernia operation, and that was November tenth.’ Joe swung his girth around and poured more coffee into Cardinal’s cup. ‘How could you miss a fire like that?’
Two missing kids. And November was when Catherine had started to drift. Cardinal had had other things on his mind.
He took his coffee to the other end of the counter, near the front window. On the west side of the square, a funeral was coming out of the cathedral, four men in black suits bearing a coffin on their shoulders. They had to be freezing with no overcoats on. Across the square in the empty lot stood a man wearing a green and gold parka with matching toque. He was writing notes of some kind, his breath ragged plumes lit by the sun.
Cardinal left the soda fountain and dodged through the traffic on Algonquin. The man was filling in a form on a clipboard. Cardinal introduced himself.
‘Tom Cooper. Cooper Construction. Just certifying our lack of progress with the demolition guys. They were supposed to clear the entire mess away by Tuesday. It’s now Friday. It’s hard to find professionals in this town. I mean real professionals.’
‘Mr Cooper, I imagine a contractor keeps an eye out for lots like this. You wouldn’t happen to know of any other vacant houses on Main West?’
‘Nope. Not on Main West. Got one over on MacPherson. Another one out on Trout Lake. But in town here they don’t stay empty long.’
‘It’s just I heard there was an empty place on Main West. Empty in December, anyway. Some teenagers were hanging out there, possibly a drug thing. You hear about anywhere like that?’ Cardinal could hear the hush in his voice. Such a frail thread, this lead, the slightest weight might snap it.
Cooper pressed the clipboard under one elbow and squinted west up the street, as if an empty house might appear there. ‘Nothing on Main that I know of. Oh, but maybe you’re thinking of Timothy.’ He swung back around, seeming to pivot on his heels. ‘It’s not really a Main Street address, but it’s on the corner.’
‘The corner of Timothy and Main? By the railroad tracks?’
Cooper nodded. ‘That’s it. No way teenagers were hanging out there, though. Place is sealed tight as a drum. It’s been in probate court for over two years. Contentious family’s what I heard.’
‘Mr Cooper, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘This wouldn’t be in reference to that wretched Windigo thing, would it?’
Cooper, like everyone else in Algonquin Bay, was keeping abreast of the case. Any suspects? Was it strictly a local thing? Any chance of the Mounties coming in on it? You couldn’t blame people for being curious. Cardinal had to listen to a theory involving a satanic cult before he could get free.
He drove the half-dozen blocks to Timothy Street, taking it slow over the ridge of the railroad tracks. The northern line was mostly freights taking oil up to Cochrane and Timmins. The hoot of its whistle as it crossed Timothy woke Cardinal every night when he was a kid. A lonely sound but somehow comforting, like the cry of a loon.
The house was an old Victorian place with a wraparound veranda. The red brick above the boarded-up windows was blackened with years of railway soot, so that the building looked not just blind but black-eyed. Massive icicles were fixed to the roof corners like gargoyles. The yard, which was large by Algonquin Bay standards, was surrounded by a high hedge.
Cardinal got out of the car and stood on the snow where the front path should have been. Except for the faint hieroglyphics of bird tracks, there was not a single footprint.
The stairs to the veranda were filled in with hardpack snow. Gripping the rail, Cardinal stomped his way up and examined the front door, also boarded over. The public trustee’s seal was intact. The lock had not been tampered with. He checked the boarded-up windows, and then did the same around the side of the house.
The crossing bell started to clang, and as he checked the side door a train clattered by, a long one.
Anyone breaking into this house would be likely to go through the back: there was nothing there but the high hedge and the railroad tracks. And thieves liked basement windows. Trouble was, the basement windows were buried below the snow. Using the heel of his boot, Cardinal dug a trench along the back wall of the house.
‘Damn.’ He’d scraped the back of his leg on the thick crust of ice. About four feet from the corner he found the top of a window. After clearing away the crust, he pulled the rest of the snow away with his hands.
‘Gotcha,’ he said quietly.
The Provincial Court in Algonquin Bay is on McGinty Street. It’s a modern, plain brick building with no pretensions; it might be a school or a clinic. Perhaps in compensation for its plainness, the sign that announces it as Provincial Court, District of Nipissing, is the size of a highway billboard.
The receptionist told him Justice Paul Gagnon was in traffic court until lunch, and lunch was booked for a meeting.
‘See if he’ll squeeze me in, will you. It’s for the Katie Pine case.’ Cardinal knew Gagnon would never grant him a search warrant to pursue some runaway Mississauga youth who was now over the age of sixteen. He filled out the necessary form and, while waiting for court to get out, called in to headquarters. Delorme was out on the Woody case and was not expected back for at least another hour. Cardinal felt a twinge of guilt for leaving her out of this; she’d been upset about handling his backlog.
Justice Gagnon was a small man with very small feet and a toupee that was two shades lighter than his hair. He was a few years younger than Cardinal, a completely political animal whose robe drowned him as if he were a child. His voice was a reedy pipe.
‘Sounds pretty feeble, Detective.’ Gagnon hung his robe on a coathook and put on a camel-hair sports coat. ‘You think the person who killed Katie Pine and abducted Billy LaBelle may have stayed in the Cowart house? And you base this on information received second-hand from Ned Fellowes at the Crisis Centre – information that doesn’t even relate directly to the killer but to another missing person, this Todd Curry.’ Gagnon checked his tie in the mirror.
‘The house was broken into, your Worship. I’m sure the parties contesting the will would want that investigated anyway. But if I go through them, it’s going to take a long time and upset people who are already upset about the will.’
Gagnon’s skeptical eye fixed him in the mirror. ‘For all you know, it may be one of the family who broke in. Maybe to haul off some contested stick of furniture. Family heirloom. Who knows?’
‘The window is only about ten inches high, maybe two and half feet wide.’
‘Jewellery, then. Grandpa’s pocket watch. My point, Detective, is that you have no substantive reason to suspect a killer was there.’
‘It’s the only place I have reason to suspect the killer set foot, other than
