The Delicate Storm. Giles Blunt

      ‘Somebody not a bear.’

      Arsenault sat back on his haunches, chewing one end of his moustache. ‘If there’s a pattern, I don’t think we’re going to see it from here. We need an aerial view.’

      ‘The fog’s thinning, but we’re still not going to be able to see anything through the trees. Not even with red markers.’

      Arsenault chewed the other end of his moustache. ‘We could put up helium balloons. My daughter had a birthday last week, and we’ve got a bunch of ’em at home.’

      A constable was duly dispatched to Arsenault’s house and returned twenty minutes later with the balloons. They attached thirty yards of fishing line to each balloon, tied to a weight on the ground near each piece of evidence. Then the OPP took pictures from the air.

      

      Cardinal and Delorme were back at Skyway Service Centre redeploying searchers when a black Lexus pulled up. Cardinal recognized it and sagged inwardly. Dr Alex Barnhouse was the kind of irritant an investigation didn’t need. A good coroner, true, but he ruffled feathers, and not just Cardinal’s.

      Barnhouse rolled down his window. ‘Let’s get a move on, shall we? I haven’t got all day.’

      Cardinal waved cheerily. ‘Hi there, Doc! How are you?’

      ‘Can we get moving, please?’

      ‘Isn’t this the most gorgeous day you’ve ever seen? The trees? The mist? Right out of a storybook, don’t you think?’

      ‘I can’t imagine anything less relevant.’

      ‘You’re right. Better park that beautiful Buick of yours over there and we’ll get started.’

      Barnhouse got out of the car, carrying his bag. ‘God help us,’ he said, ‘when the local constabulary can’t tell the difference between a Buick and a Lexus.’

      ‘You’re being naughty,’ Delorme said quietly as they headed to the backyard.

      ‘He does tend to bring out my immature side.’

      Barnhouse examined the severed arm, then followed them into the woods, black bag in hand. He barely glanced at the various body parts.

      ‘Detective Cardinal,’ he said. ‘It is my professional opinion that this unidentified male met with his fate in an unnatural manner. There being no clothes near the body is one such indicator. The small amount of blood is another. Given the severity of the injuries inflicted by the animal or animals, these trees and leaves should be covered with blood. They are not.’

      ‘But that could just mean the bears killed him someplace else and dragged the body all over the place.’

      Barnhouse shook his head. ‘The bear or bears ate him. They didn’t kill him. You can see it in the major bones. It is my opinion that some of the injuries were inflicted not by an animal but by a man or men wielding an axe or other sharp object. The bones appear to be chopped through, not yanked out. I am no expert in such matters and no doubt you will be availing yourself of the services of the Forensic Centre in Toronto.’

      ‘What can you give us on time of death?’

      ‘Great God, man. How can I give you anything on time of death? We haven’t even got a stomach to measure contents.’

      ‘Well, what about this axe business? Was that inflicted after death, or before?’

      ‘After. There’s no bleeding into the bones, which means the heart had stopped before the chopping up. And for that, I’m sure we’re all grateful.’ Barnhouse scribbled on a form, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Cardinal. ‘Give my regards to the Forensic Centre. Now if someone will be good enough to show me the way out of here, I’ll bid you good day.’

      Cardinal motioned to Larry Burke.

      ‘This way, Doc,’ Burke said. And Cardinal watched the two of them head off into the mist.

      ‘I should be used to him by now,’ Delorme said. ‘But I’m not.’

      Cardinal’s walkie-talkie squawked and a voice said something unintelligible.

      ‘Cardinal. Could you repeat that?’

      ‘I said we’ve got a structure down here.’ It was Arsenault’s voice. ‘I think you should take a look.’

      ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Downhill from the service centre. Follow the creek west.’

      Delorme looked off into the woods, the webs of pale grey. ‘West? It would be nice if there was a trail.’

      

      They found the creek and followed it, and eventually they heard voices. The dim outline of a cabin took shape. Arsenault was on his knees beside a bush, doing something with a penknife and a test tube.

      ‘What have you got?’ Cardinal asked.

      ‘Paint scrapings. Looks like someone drove in here recently.’ He jerked his thumb behind him, where there was a faint outline of tire tracks. ‘This could be where it went down,’ he added. ‘I mean before the bears got to him.’

      Cardinal took a closer look at the tire tracks. ‘You think we can get a mould out of these?’

      ‘Nope,’ Arsenault said. ‘Too many leaves.’

      ‘That’s what I figured. What is this, an old logging road?’

      ‘Yeah. Must be from eighty years ago. You can see it’s been used, though. Probably by whoever owned that wreck of a place.’

      Arsenault’s ident partner, Bob Collingwood, was inside the shack.

      ‘Gah,’ Delorme said. ‘The smell.’

      The cabin was hardly more than twelve feet square, constructed of rough-hewn lumber that did little to keep out the cold and nothing to keep out the damp. There was a fridge, a rusted cot with a stained mattress rolled up at one end, a metal counter with two sinks and an ancient cast-iron wood stove with the door hanging open on a broken hinge. The whole place smelled of decay – mildew, mould and rotting wood.

      ‘There was no lock on it,’ Arsenault said from behind her. ‘The door was just hanging open.’

      ‘Hasn’t been used for a long time.’ Delorme pointed at the giant cobwebs around the doorway. ‘Is it a trapper’s shack?’

      ‘Totally illegal, of course,’ Cardinal said. ‘They build them wherever they damn well want. The question is, whose trapper’s shack? There must be at least a dozen guys make their living out here.’

      Collingwood was young, jug-eared, thorough and silent. Cardinal could count on one hand the number of complete sentences he had uttered in his entire career, because he tended to speak, when he spoke at all, in single words. He was pointing silently to the sinks. They were the kind with a pump handle where the taps should be. Wearing a latex glove, Collingwood stuck his finger in the drain and brought it up again, stained.

      ‘Is that rust or blood?’ Cardinal asked.

      ‘Blood.’

      ‘So he could have been killed here. On the other hand, it may just be animal blood.’

      Delorme was kneeling in front of the wood stove. ‘Looks like somebody tried to burn clothes in this thing. Collingwood, have you got a drop sheet?’

      Collingwood opened a leather case that contained all the tools of his craft and together they spread a thin plastic drop cloth, white so that evidence would be visible against it. They used a pair of tongs to extract the blackened mass from inside the stove. There was a pair of denims, reduced to little more than the waistband, a shirt collar, several buttons, most of a pair of shoe soles and a mass of burned, unidentifiable material.

      Collingwood took an instrument from his case and measured the shoe soles. ‘Elevens.’