speaking. I’m sorry to intrude, but I have one or two questions. If you’ll bear with me, they won’t appear to be relevant to your wife’s murder, but they are.”
“What else can I do? Shoot.”
“Where did you grow up, and are your parents alive?”
“Are you crazy? A killer’s running around, and you’re interested in my mother and father?”
“I am—it is relevant.”
Rhona was talking to a dead phone. She punched “redial” several times and was rewarded with repeated busy signals—the phone must be off the hook. She’d drop in later in the day.
Two down and no information. She tried Marcus Toberman.
“This is detective Simpson. I have a couple of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About your childhood and your parents.”
“What for?”
“The investigation of Paul Robertson’s death.”
“Should I call a lawyer before I say anything?”
“Your hesitancy makes me wonder.”
“Ask me your questions, and I’ll decide.”
“Where did you grow up? Are your parents alive? Do you have siblings, and what position do you occupy in the family birth order?”
“I can’t imagine why you want the information. I have one mother and one father, both alive, one older and one younger brother. I’ve lived in Ottawa since I was twelve. Before that we lived in Montreal. Is that it?”
“It is. Thank you for your help.”
Two question marks to be dealt with later. Toberman did not slot into Cardwell’s profile. She wouldn’t write him off yet but, if Cardwell was leading her down the right path, he was an unlikely suspect. She’d move on to the second string of suspects. She called them in alphabetical order and, one by one, each man answered her questions without hesitation. No one fit the pattern.
Rhona finished at two o’clock and left the station to grab a quick chili dog, heavy on the onions, from George’s mobile cart before she drove over to the Staynors.
Three cars in the driveway and another on the street told her a support group had gathered. When she rang the bell, she felt no surprise when one of the women she’d last seen bustling around the church hall after Robertson’s funeral opened the door and said, “It’s Detective Simpson, isn’t it? Come in.”
Rhona smiled at her and waited inside the front entrance. Moments later, Staynor shambled into the hall and raised red eyes. “You never give up, do you?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but if you’d tell me briefly about your childhood, I’ll be on my way.”
Staynor didn’t invite Rhona to come further or to sit down. In a low voice he said, “Did you ever read J.M. Barrie? He wrote Peter Pan. Well, he also said the only thing to motivate anyone to return from beyond would be the wish of a mother who had died young to return and reassure herself about the fate of her child. My mother died young; I’m hoping she never returned.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Ten.”
“What happened then?”
“We buried her.”
“Did your father remarry.”
“Eventually.”
“Where were you living when your mother died?”
“Windsor.”
“Do you remember much from those years.”
Two big tears rolled slowly down Staynor’s cheeks as he shook his head.
“I am sorry. I will have to talk to you again, but that’s it for today.”
Wordlessly, Staynor opened the door and showed her out.
Four thirty. Did she have time to drive to the station and speak to Ms Cardwell again?
Nineteen
A dusty cloth covered her head and swirled around her as it was pulled tight.
“What the hell? What are you doing? Let me go.” Hollis coughed, choked and fought panic.
Knox responded by twisting the material more tightly.
She flailed, twisted and tried to scramble to her feet.
“I’m claustrophobic. I can’t bear this. Let me out. I can’t breathe.” She sobbed and sucked in dusty air. Her legs sagged and gave way. She fell forward, with nothing to break her fall.
Everything went black.
A kick in the ribs.
“Goddamn it, don’t pass out. I have to move you downstairs to the car.” Another kick.
“Uncover my head,” she whispered before another spasm of coughing took her breath away.
Silence. Knox shoved her around, pulling and tugging at whatever he’d thrown over her. He yanked the fabric back. Her glasses flew off her nose. Her skull snapped forward and her face banged against the floor.
Pain. Her nose felt like it was broken.
Knox pushed her hard and worked to tie her arms to her sides. Somehow he pinned her left arm behind her.
“Knox, stop. Why, why are you doing this?”
He strained to flip her from one side to the other.
“Roll over.”
Hollis turned her head and regarded his distorted face. “Take it easy. What’s the problem? Let me help with whatever’s wrong. Please give me my glasses.”
Knox stepped away. With his eyes on her face, he lifted his foot and crashed it down on her glasses. “You know very well what’s wrong. And where you’re going, you won’t need your glasses.” Knox spoke in a level, unemotional voice.
“Knox, I haven’t any idea why you’ve done this. Please, please, if this is some kind of sick joke, stop right now.”
“You are going to receive what your dear . . .” His voice altered. She heard the hatred.
The penny dropped.
Knox—innocuous, fervent, boring Knox, had killed Paul and planned to kill her.
She screamed. “Help, someone help.”
Knox grabbed a
