If Blakeley was surprised, he betrayed no sign. His brown eyes looked thoughtful, then sad. “That is correct. I remember him well.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’d been recommended for a medal of bravery— and subsequently got it—and I was expecting a damn fine soldier. In fact, I requested him.”
“Why?”
Blakeley didn’t hesitate. “Because he sounded like the kind of soldier that I needed for the job. He had strength, courage, but most importantly heart. When we walked into the villages after the fighting, I wanted the first Canadians those poor people met to be men like Ian MacDonald.”
“And was he what you expected?”
This time Blakeley did pause, ever so slightly before he nodded.
“Why the hesitation?”
Blakeley handed coffee to Sullivan, then tended to his own, drawing out the silence. “It was a difficult mission. Most of the boys struggled with it one way or the other.”
“What was MacDonald’s struggle with it?”
“He went in, as we all did, expecting to help relocate and bring medical aid to the local population, and also in his case to the animals. He ended up bagging bodies, burning dead livestock to prevent disease, and putting cruelly injured animals out of their misery.”
“Our information is that this sweep mission changed him in a way all his previous operations had not. He became depressed and remote, dropped all his plans for vet school, and eventually killed himself.”
Blakeley nodded grimly. “I heard. I was appalled.”
“What happened to him?”
“Beyond what I’ve just told you, I don’t know.”
“Come on, John, it isn’t enough to talk about trauma and disillusionment.” Hoping to unsettle him, Green speculated further. “Something very real happened to MacDonald. Something he couldn’t reconcile himself to, and ultimately couldn’t live with.”
Blakeley looked from one to the other as if gauging the threat and the appropriate response. He set down his coffee. “Boys, we were at war. Make no mistake about it. Forget all the peacekeeping rhetoric. Half the time there’s no peace to keep, and we Canadians are the only ones who believe in it. The rest of the world solves conflicts by war, and it’s only the losing side that calls in the UN . We get over there, with our heads filled with peacekeeping fluff and both our hands tied behind our back by the UN , and we’re told to take care of things. Don’t come whining for hardware, because there isn’t any; don’t try defending any civilians or fighting back, because that’s taking sides. And then when the whole operation goes down the toilet, everyone including our own military and political leadership says what the hell were you boys playing over there, tiddlywinks? Well, yeah, because that was the only game in town.”
“Mr. Blakeley—John, we’re talking—”
“I’m getting there! But you know how it is, Mike. On the street day after day, you cops make judgement calls that you hope like hell you’ll never have to defend to the press, or to your superior officer. A little entrapment here, undue force there... It isn’t pretty, but it gets the job done.” He held up a hand. “I’m not condoning it. And I’m not condoning any wrongdoing a soldier does in the heat of the moment either. But they’re out there halfway around the world, laying their lives on the line twenty-four seven in somebody else’s war, and if for two or three seconds they’re less than exemplary soldiers—”
“Are you saying Ian MacDonald did something wrong in the heat of the moment?”
“No, I’m not. I’m talking about the standards we demand of our boys—”
“I don’t want a campaign speech, Mr. Blakeley. I want to know what really happened with Corporal MacDonald.”
Blakeley’s face flushed, accentuating the angry white scar. He calmed himself by reaching for a scone, which he buttered with care. “Why? Will it bring him back? Ian MacDonald was a hero. If we put all our boys under a microscope and dissect their every move, we won’t have any more heroes. And whether you care or not, we need heroes in the military. We need inspiration and glory, and all the things that are no longer in fashion, or we won’t find anyone willing to go out and fight these dirty little wars on our behalf. And the victims of this world will be the worse for it. Look at Afghanistan—”
“So you’re saying we should sweep this all under the carpet as a small price we pay for the help we provide to the world?”
“No, I’m saying our boys are human. When we send them into these hell holes, we have to understand that. If we expect them to be God, we’d better not send them.”
Green leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Blakeley’s. “I might be willing to do that, John, except that in this case his friend Daniel Oliver died because of what happened to Ian MacDonald on that sweep team. And that’s not something we cops are prepared to sweep under the rug.”
Blakeley had just taken a bite of scone, and his hand froze in mid air. “What are you talking about?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Green had been aware of Leanne moving quietly about in the kitchen, and she chose this moment to glide back into the room. She slipped onto the sofa next to her husband and took his hand in hers.
“I don’t think my husband is suggesting you should sweep anything under the rug, gentlemen.”
To Green’s surprise, Blakeley did not object to her interference, nor pull his hand away. “Of course I’m not, and I know that’s not what the inspector means. He’s saying that a young man died—two young men if we count Ian MacDonald —and finding out why is more important than personal reputations or public trust.”
“Not just finding out why,” Green said, “but who. Because the killing hasn’t stopped—”
“You’re not implying my husband had anything to do with that!”
Since she was running such effective interference, Green decided perhaps she was the one he needed to reach. “He knows something, Mrs. Blakeley. He was the leader of the mission where Ian MacDonald’s troubles began. He can’t pretend ignorance when the victims keep piling up. First Ian MacDonald, then Daniel Oliver, his fiancée Patricia Ross, Detective Peters, and the latest, a homeless woman whose only crime was to be in the vicinity when Patricia Ross was killed.”
Blakeley looked shocked. Almost stricken. He looked at his wife searchingly, and she tightened her grip on his hand. For a moment neither spoke, then Blakeley shook his head. “I don’t know what happened. I wish I could be more help.”
“Where were you on April 9, 1996, ten years ago?”
Blakeley frowned. “I have no idea. In 1996 I was posted here in Ottawa from January to August.”
“Did you travel to Halifax during that time?”
“Not that I recall.”
“That was just before our wedding,” Leanne said. “You proposed to me in April, remember, darling?” She smiled at the detectives. “I don’t think we spent a single night apart for nearly a year.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Green asked. “No business trips, brief consultations? Because we will be verifying this.”
Blakeley was shaking his head back and forth, but Green thought he looked distracted. Even pale.
“How did you get on with Corporal MacDonald?”
Blakeley shrugged. “He was no trouble. As I said, he was that