Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

my paralegal processes all of the cheques — but it’s actually from a numbered company.”

      “Is that unusual?”

      “Not really, though it’s usually either from the opposing firm or directly from an insurance company.”

      “And this isn’t?”

      “I don’t think so, but to be honest, I never checked. Like I said, I don’t really get involved in processing the cheques. Besides, the funds cleared and everyone was happy. Well, sort of.”

      “Can we get the number?”

      “I don’t see why not. It’s 819640 Ontario Ltd.”

      “Thanks.” Smith scribbled the name in his notebook. “I see the cheque was made out to your firm. Is that normal?”

      “Yes. Our fees and disbursements are deducted, and the balance is paid to the plaintiff. In this case, it was to John Senior, because of Nancy’s age. I can give you the exact amount, if you think it might be relevant. I only charged them ten percent.”

      “If you wouldn’t mind.”

      “It was forty-three thousand, even.”

      Smith pictured the Ridgeways around the kitchen table looking at the cheque, which seemed like a paltry sum for all their troubles.

      “Any idea what they planned to do with the money?”

      “None of my business, but if I know John Senior, it will be put away for the benefit of his daughter and her baby.”

      “And John Junior wouldn’t have any right to any of it?”

      “Not unless they had some kind of agreement within the family, but I doubt it.”

      Marshall resumed with a few more questions before they thanked Bell and headed out into the warm afternoon sunshine.

      “So?” Marshall said, as Smith fumbled with his notebook, feeling a sudden and powerful urge to smoke. He tried to focus on the case instead.

      “I’m gonna give commercial crimes this company and see what comes back. If it’s not an insurer, who would be paying Ritchie’s debts ?”

      “Lifestyles of the rich and famous…. Maybe some slush fund in the Caymans.”

      “But this was before he was drafted, remember?”

      “True.”

      Smith placed the call as they began strolling back toward the OPP detachment. Smith had just finished his call when his phone rang again. He said a few words, looked at his watch, then hung up.

      “What’s up?”

      “That was Howard. Gravelle — the dishwasher — called. He’s on his way to the station. Howard’s going to meet us there,” he added.

      They were less than a hundred feet from the detachment, almost at the crosswalk, when the air filled with the throaty roar of a sports car’s engine.

      “There he is now,” Smith said, turning to see the shiny new Mustang pull up at the light.

      “Thanks for coming in,” Smith said as he took a seat between Marshall and Howard. Stephen Gravelle sat opposite, looking decidedly hung over, and nervous.

      “Do you prefer Steve or Stephen?”

      “Steve’s fine.”

      Smith pointed to the little black ball affixed to the wall by the door. “Just so you know, that’s recording video and audio.”

      Gravelle shrugged. “Uh, okay.”

      “I understand you work at the Hard Luck Cafe, is that right, Steve?”

      “Used to, yeah.” Gravelle was dressed in shorts and a checkered shirt, and Smith’s well-trained nose picked up the smell of stale smoke from the cotton.

      “You don’t work there anymore?”

      “No, I quit. I’m going to Trent now.”

      “When did you quit?”

      “I don’t know. Around the beginning of May, I guess.”

      “Summer off, huh? Nice. What are you studying at Trent?”

      “Psychology.”

      Good luck finding a job with that one , Smith thought, as he made a note. “But you did work at the Hard Luck, back in the spring of this year?”

      “Yeah.”

      “And you did witness an altercation between Curtis Ritchie and John Ridgeway ?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Can you tell us about that?”

      Gravelle fidgeted in his chair. “Look, is this to do with Curtis Ritchie’s … murder?”

      “Yes, as we said at the start, we’re investigating his death.”

      “Should I have a lawyer here, with me, I mean …”

      “Steve, we might be getting a little ahead of ourselves here. You signed a statement regarding the incident at the Hard Luck. That’s what we want to ask you about. You’re not a suspect in his murder, and you don’t need a lawyer, but if you want one, you’re perfectly within your rights to call one right now if you’d like.”

      Gravelle’s shoulders dropped a couple of inches and the tension in his posture seemed to flow out of him.

      “Would you like to get a lawyer, Steve?”

      “No, that’s fine.”

      “Okay, why don’t you just tell us what you saw?”

      “Nancy and Curtis Ritchie came through the kitchen doors, yelling at each other. I guess it had started out front.”

      “What were they yelling about?”

      “She was crying,” Gravelle said, leaning back in his chair. “Saying why don’t you love me anymore, that sort of thing. He was calling her names.”

      “Like what?”

      “He called her a slut, and a whore, I think. He said the baby wasn’t his and she was just a gold digger. That’s when Johnny came in.”

      “Her brother, John Ridgeway?”

      Gravelle nodded. “He must have been out front when they started arguing, and followed them in.”

      “Go on,” Smith prompted.

      “He and Ritchie had some words, and then Nancy was saying something and Ritchie shoved her and called her a whore again. That’s when Johnny lost it.”

      “How’d he lose it?”

      “He took a swing at Ritchie, but he missed. I think he was kinda drunk. Ritchie just shoved him to the floor and pinned him down.”

      “What was Nancy doing?”