“One of our detectives was assaulted up here yesterday,” Sullivan said. “We’re looking for all the help we can get.”
The man pulled a sympathetic face. “Of course. Detective Peters. How is she?”
“Touch and go. She was investigating the recent murder of Patricia Ross. I understand you knew her.”
Atkinson’s jaw dropped then snapped shut. He made a show of searching his memory before arranging a puzzled frown on his face. “Should I? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You’re both from Nova Scotia.”
Atkinson gave a dry chuckle. “Nova Scotians have invaded everywhere, Sergeant. Even I can’t know them all.”
“She came up here to see you last week.”
“What the devil makes you think that?” Sullivan said nothing.
In the silence, Atkinson groped for his tie, which wasn’t there. Finally, he shrugged. “That’s certainly news to me. We didn’t connect. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
Sullivan reached into his pocket and unfolded the fax of the newspaper article. “This appeared in the Halifax Herald on April 9th. It’s the reason Patricia Ross left Halifax to come here.”
Atkinson reached for the newspaper and dropped it on his desk, but not before Sullivan caught the tremor in his hand. He pored over the article long enough to have read it three times over.
“Nice plug for us,” he said eventually. “Seems fairly straightforward, though. I can’t imagine why it would bring her all the way up here.”
“To see you,” Sullivan said. “You’ve come a long way from your heavy drinking days at the Lighthouse Tavern, Roger, but she remembered you.”
Atkinson’s jaw dropped again, but this time he forgot to snap it shut. He stared at Sullivan a full five seconds before his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, my God. Daniel Oliver’s girl.”
Nice save, Sullivan thought. “You were at the table with them the night he was killed.”
Atkinson lowered his gaze ruefully. “In another life. My misspent youth. I was so tanked I don’t remember a thing.”
“That’s not what the bartender says.”
“The bartender? The place was hopping. I’m surprised he had time to notice a thing.”
“He says you bragged it was a military man from their Yugoslavian mission who killed him.”
Atkinson rolled his eyes. “If I had a dollar for all the bullshit I’ve dished out in bars over the years...”
“Yet right after that, you landed this cushy job near the major military base of Petawawa, and it’s been nothing but upwards ever since.”
The sheepish smile disappeared and the hazel eyes grew cold. “I don’t think I like your implication, Sergeant. Like most men with an ounce of ambition, I wanted to go where the jobs were, and I used my contacts to land a job. Army folks move all over, which was very handy.”
“Then it was just a lucky contact that landed you a job as right hand man to a future Liberal Party star?”
The man’s double chin quivered in outrage. “I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am and I’m good at it. That’s what landed me this job. And by the way, Blakeley is not just a Liberal Party star. When the Liberals win, he’ll be in line for a cabinet post. The Liberal leader himself pressed his nomination, as much as promised him Defence if he could take the riding from the Conservatives. My God, do you know what that would mean to our military and to the country? To have a guy running the country’s defence policy who’s actually walked the walk, and knows one end of a tank from the other?”
Sullivan glanced around the room at the dozens of framed photos and press clippings that covered the walls. “He’s that impressive, is he?”
“He’s that important.”
Sullivan rose and began to peruse the display while he planned his next move. So far, as he’d feared, Atkinson had given him nothing. Most of the clippings trumpeted the missions Blakeley had led or the famous people he’d met. Blakeley’s stern, clear gaze dominated all the photos, whether as an officer surrounded by his men or as a political hopeful shaking hands with the Liberal leader. One picture in particular caught his eye. Blakeley stood in the middle of a semi-circle of men, all in formal dress and smiling broadly for the camera. Atkinson was visible to one side, looking smug. And at the back, barely discernible was a face that rang a vaguely familiar bell. It had been among the many faces Green had shown him earlier in the day. But the name eluded him.
He turned back to Atkinson. “After we’re done here, I’d like a word with Mr. Blakeley too.”
Atkinson’s proud smile disappeared. “That’s not possible. He’s in Ottawa.”
“Oh, does he live there most of the time?”
“Oh no, no. He lives here, but his business with the defence department often brings him into the city for long periods.”
“What business?”
“Consulting on peacekeeping operations, helping to draft new policies.”
“I thought he was retired.”
“He is. But all that expertise... His advice is quite invaluable.”
Sullivan returned to the chair. “Who was your army friend who got you the first job here?”
Atkinson blinked at the sudden change of topic. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“Humour me. Was it Blakeley?”
“Of course not. I’ve only known him a year. It was just an old drinking buddy. No one important.”
“Patricia Ross thought it had something to do with shutting you up. You say it was just a lucky contact. It would be nice to be able to verify that, and get you off my list of suspects.”
Atkinson flushed and clenched his fists involuntarily.
“Before the opposition parties get wind of it,” Sullivan added, to help him along.
Atkinson sputtered a protest. He cast about as if looking for an escape route, but found none. Slowly he deflated. “I don’t want any trouble for him. He was just a friend, a noncom in logistical support. He tipped me off to a job with a company that was going to re-outfit the 2 CMBG .”
“2 CMBG ?”
“Second Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group—that’s the group based in Petawawa.” He pulled on his nose awkwardly. “It wasn’t really illegal but they aren’t supposed to use their knowledge or influence... He put in a good word for me.”
“Why?”
Atkinson shrugged. “I fixed something for him in Halifax. Lost some paperwork at City Hall. It was nothing, but it could have hurt his career.”
“A name, Atkinson.”
“Terry Lawlor.”
“And I can find him here on the base?”
“Oh, not now. This was years ago. He’s retired now, and I have no idea where he is.”
Sullivan swore inwardly. More names, more fucking twists in the trail. He leaned forward on the desk and stared the man down. “Don’t fuck with me now, Roger. The truth. Did you tell Detective Peters about any of this?”
Atkinson whipped his head back and forth, scrambling to recover his shattered cool. “On my grandmother’s grave, no. I never even spoke to the woman.”
* * *
July 22. Some shithole