The Delicate Storm. Giles Blunt

Besides, I figured the guy’s already dead, I’m not hurting him any.’

      ‘We know you took the body into your shack. Did Ferand help you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Was he involved in this in any way? You’re not helping yourself if he was and you don’t mention it.’

      ‘Thierry had nothing to do with this. I never told him about it till after.’ It was true the ident guys hadn’t found any evidence linking Ferand to the crime.

      ‘Did you cut the body up yourself, or did you have help?’

      ‘Myself. There was quite a bit of blood. To tell you the truth, the first thing I did when I got in there was throw up. I don’t know, I’ve seen a million dead animals, doesn’t bother me, but there’s something about a dead person, even if you don’t know them. Know what I mean?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      ‘Anyway, I didn’t want to get blood all over me. I bundled up the pieces and attached a rope so I could drag it to the bear trail. I knew they were awake and I knew they’d be hungry. I didn’t figure there’d be too much left of the guy.’

      ‘Was the body stripped when you found it?’

      ‘No, I did that. Didn’t want to be sawing through clothes. Didn’t figure the bears’d be interested in polyester or whatever, either.’

      ‘We found some material in the stove. Was there anything else with the body – any kind of ID or personal effects you might have kept?’

      ‘I didn’t keep nothing. There was nothing to keep. I slung everything into the stove.’

      ‘Did you recognize the victim?’

      ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

      ‘Frankly, I’m still a long way from buying the godfather angle. Do you have any idea why Petrucci would have wanted this guy dead?’

      ‘No. And I wasn’t about to ask, either.’

      ‘You have a good business, Paul. A wife. Nice house. Why’d you do this to a guy you didn’t even know?’

      ‘Why?’ Bressard looked away at the far wall of the interview room. After a few moments of reflection he turned back to Cardinal. ‘Two reasons. One: Leon Petrucci. And two: Leon Petrucci. What do you think he’s going to do if I tell him thanks but I can’t do it? You think he’s just going to let me walk away from this? I don’t think so.’

      ‘And there was the ten thousand.’

      ‘Five. I’m still waiting for the other five.’

      

      Cardinal had Bressard sign a brief statement, then led him back to the cells. He would be formally charged that afternoon and let go on his own recognizance, mostly so he could be watched.

      Cardinal called Musgrave, who was still on the road.

      ‘You think it’s the mob?’ Musgrave said. ‘You think that note means the order came from Petrucci?’

      ‘Well, Bressard has worked for Petrucci before. I think the case was before your time – about eight years ago?’

      ‘Yeah, I was in Montreal back then.’

      ‘We had a case where Bressard beat a guy pretty bad on orders from Petrucci. We could never nail Petrucci for it because Bressard was too scared to involve him. But when we were making the case, lots of characters did mention him – and one of them had a note, initialled P. We knew Petrucci had his larynx out years ago – it wasn’t unusual for him to write notes. On the other hand, Bressard could be lying through his teeth.’

      ‘I’m impressed that you got him to talk at all, considering. But you know Leon Petrucci moved down to Toronto.’

      ‘Yeah, I heard.’

      ‘Which leaves it barely in the realm of the possible. Tell you what – why don’t you let me handle the Petrucci angle? I’ll get someone from our Toronto detachment on it. They work organized crime all the time.’

      ‘Sounds good to me.’

      Musgrave let out a curse.

      ‘What’s the matter? You all right?’

      ‘Goddam truck driver just cut me off. I’m telling you, there’s never any cops around when you need one.’

       9

      The Crown attorney’s office was on MacIntosh Street in an aggressively ugly building of poured concrete that also housed local offices for the Ministry of Community and Social Services. It was right across the street from the Algonquin Lode, a location that came in handy when Reginald Rose, QC, wanted to make his opinions known to the public, which he often did.

      Everything about Reginald Rose was long. He was tall and thin, with a slight stoop that gave him the look of a scholar. He had long fingers that handled documents and evidence and even the knot of his tie with grace. He was given to red neckties and starched white shirts and red suspenders that – when he wasn’t wearing his habitual blue blazer – gave him the look of a crisp new Canadian flag.

      He was just now addressing himself to a group gathered around a long oak table – an odd-looking group, Cardinal thought. Aside from the elongated Rose himself, there was Robert Henry Hewitt, a.k.a. Wudky, who kept drooping over the table like a dormouse. There was Bob Brackett, his pro bono attorney – deceptively plump and harmless-looking, but a lethal criminal lawyer. And there was Cardinal himself, who was sure he must look as uncomfortable as he felt, because although he was usually perfectly clear about what side he was on, just now he had his doubts.

      ‘I must tell you right from the start,’ Rose said, ‘that I am not of a mind to make a deal in this case. Why should I? According to all the evidence – and there’s a mountain of evidence – Robert Henry Hewitt is guilty of armed robbery. And not just a little guilty, but absolutely, positively, deadbang guilty. We have his admission of guilt—’

      ‘Of course you do. Obtained without benefit of counsel.’

      ‘Mr Brackett, let me finish. We have your client’s admission of guilt. We have the cash from his knapsack. We have the plaid scarf he wore over his face. We have the holdup note written in his appalling but distinctive penmanship – written on the back of his previous arrest warrant, which coincidentally provides his name and address. Why should we make any deal?’

      Bob Brackett leaned forward against the conference table. He was dressed in impeccable pinstripes; he always was – perhaps because it lent an edge to his portly figure that otherwise had no edges at all. Pinstripes were nothing unusual in the legal trade, of course, but the gold hoop gleaming in Bob Brackett’s left earlobe most definitely was – especially on a half bald, tubby man in his mid-fifties. He had never married, and in a place the size of Algonquin Bay that alone was enough to feed rumours. Toss in one gold earring and the whispers rose a good deal higher in volume. Not that it mattered; as far as his clients were concerned, Bob Brackett could show up in a tutu as long as he was in their corner.

      ‘Come now, Mr Rose,’ he said. His voice was soft, reasonable, friendly. ‘Don’t you take any pride in your work? Are you really so desperate for victories that you have to corner a mentally impaired young man and put him away for fifteen years?’

      ‘Have him plead guilty – I’ll ask for ten.’

      Brackett turned to Cardinal. Cardinal was ready to give his views on the Matlock case and how Wudky had tried to help them out. Unfortunately, Brackett had something else in mind. ‘Detective Cardinal, I believe you have a nickname for my client down at police headquarters.’

      Cardinal coughed, partly from surprise, partly as a stall. ‘I don’t think we need to go