He introduced himself and reminded her of their last visit. He heard a little gasp of dismay, but she said nothing. He wondered if her husband was in the room.
“Can you talk?” he asked.
A wary “Yes.”
“I’m told Ian kept a diary of his months in Yugoslavia. It may be very helpful to our investigation here. The man who killed Daniel Oliver has tried to kill again, this time one of our police officers.” He paused, debating how deep to poke the knife. She waited in silence. “He may also have killed an innocent bystander. I think the key to the man’s identity may lie in your son’s diary.”
Still silence.
“I’m really hoping you’ll let us have the diary for a day or two. I could send someone from the local RCMP to pick it up.”
A slight moan.
“I promise we’ll handle it with care and send it back as soon as possible.”
“It’s gone.”
Green was so startled he wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. “Where?”
“It disappeared years ago, and I don’t care where,” she repeated, her voice gathering force. “I didn’t want to ever be reminded of those hateful, hateful times. They killed my boy, as truly as if they’d pulled the trigger. They killed his soul.”
Oh, fuck. Green sank back in his chair, listening to her slowly spin out of control. He reached out to stop her.
“Did you read it?”
“No!”
From her vehemence, he suspected she might be lying, but he also knew he was not going to budge her. He forced himself to be gentle. “Did Ian ever mention a Constable Weiss? Or a Captain Blakeley?”
“He didn’t talk about those times. He kept them deep inside, as if he was ashamed. And nothing I said...” Her voice broke horribly.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacDonald. I’m so sorry I had to trouble you this way. If you do remember anything you want to tell me, please, please give me a call. Any time.”
Green dropped the receiver back into its cradle with a despairing thud and took a moment to collect himself and make sense of this latest news. What had become of the diary? Had Daniel Oliver taken it at the same time he took the medal? If so, had he read something in it that led to his fatal confrontation with Blakeley? And where had it ended up after Oliver’s death? In Patricia Ross’s apartment, lost among the photos and letters from Daniel’s army days?
Green glanced at his watch and was dismayed to see his ten minutes was long over. Reluctantly he picked up the phone, prepared for battle. But Barbara Devine was not answering her cellphone or her phones at either the office or home. Grateful for small mercies, including the fact that Devine’s efficient secretary was not on duty Sunday to take up the search, Green left urgent but vague messages on all lines, then grabbed his notebook and headed to the incident room.
When he walked in, seven detectives were assembled around the table. Only Gibbs was missing. They were casually dressed but sat upright in silent attention. Notebooks were open, and a sense of anticipation hung in the air. Green stared at them all gravely. A good bunch, seasoned and level-headed. They would need both those qualities in the next few hours.
He walked up to the head of the conference table and slipped a fresh disk into the laptop which was used to collect and organize all the reports on the case. He dreaded the task ahead.
“The Ross/Peters investigation has reached a highly sensitive and confidential point, and I’m going to ask you not to tell anyone—anyone!—what we’re looking at. We’re going to be investigating a fellow officer. Anyone uncomfortable with that had better leave now.”
Eyes widened, but no one moved.
“Has the officer been charged?” Leblanc asked.
“No, he has not been charged.” Green summarized the latest developments in the case, including the disappearance of Twiggy and the involvement of high profile Liberal candidate John Blakeley. The energy around the table was electric, until Green came to Weiss’s role. As they listened, Green could see the outrage and disbelief on their faces.
“This is all just coincidence and speculation,” Charbonneau protested. “You don’t actually know anything.”
Green nodded. “That’s right, and that’s why you’re here. To clear him, or to expose him. Let’s hope I’m wrong, but remember, if he’s guilty, he betrayed Sue.” He waited a moment for that message to sink in, then resumed quietly. “We have five tasks to complete. First, we have to find something more than coincidence to tie him to the case. Charbonneau and Leblanc, I want you to prepare a photo line-up with Weiss in it, then pay a visit to a witness named Hassim Mohammed, a manager at the Tim Hortons on Bank Street.” He handed over the photo he’d taken from Weiss’s file. “Ask Mr. Mohammed to ID the man who was asking about Twiggy. And get going, because the next steps hinge on that ID.”
The tension in the room eased as the detectives focussed on the job. Charbonneau and Leblanc jotted some notes and rose to go. “Have you got a home address? It’s Sunday.”
Green read off the address. “Nice cooperative guy with a soft spot for Twiggy, but he’s a bit jumpy, so go easy on him.”
The two detectives rolled their eyes before hustling from the room.
“Second, search warrants—”
The door burst open, and Gibbs rushed in, his face flushed and his eyes shining. “Sorry I’m late, sir. I was just waiting to confirm something up in Petawawa. That mystery cellphone? I just got the phone log on it, and it received a call about two minutes before the call went to the bartender at the King’s Arms—” He stopped, looking flustered. “I mean, whoever called the Petawawa bartender to set up Sue? He got a call two minutes earlier from another phone.”
“We got that, Bob,” Sullivan said patiently.
Gibbs grinned sheepishly. “That other phone? It was a payphone in a convenience store just down the street from Sue. One of the places Jeff Weiss would have been canvassing at the time she was attacked.”
Silence descended as the grim implications set in. Had one of their own really set her up for the kill? Or received instructions to do it himself?
Green spoke first. “Good work, Bob. We’ll have to tie Weiss to that call, so send the Petawawa OPP the same photo line-up and get them to follow up with the staff at the store. Meanwhile, it’s more ammunition for our search warrants. We need two— one to access Weiss’s phone records, both cell and landlines, and another to search his house. Jones, you’re the search warrant genius. You and Wells get started on the paperwork. We’ll have to wait till Mohammed’s positive ID before we finalize it.”
Jones was nodding as he scribbled in his notebook. “What are we looking for?”
“Jean Calderone. AKA Twiggy. And/or evidence she’s been there.”
Jones stopped writing and looked up in surprise. “He wouldn’t be stupid enough to take her to his house.”
“No, but it gets us in the door, and we’ll have to search everywhere very thoroughly to find evidence of her, like fingerprints and stray hairs. And while we’re searching, who knows what else we might turn up.”
Soft chuckles rippled through the room.
“You should also add stuff like clothing and shoes, for traces of blood, dirt from the crime scenes, you know the drill. We’ll seize every stitch of clothing he owns if we have to.”
For a few minutes they ironed out the contents and timing of the search warrants. Both detectives recorded everything