William Deverell - April Fool

He leads Flynn through the chronology: his visit to Faloon, his return to Vancouver to pilfer an exhibit that would falsely incriminate him. Flynn claims not to remember seeing a notice to conclude the old Faloon case. If there was one, the exhibit custodian would have acted on it. Documents would be on file in his office.

A switch, back to Flynn’s sports boat. “Did you take your Cormoran inboard for a spin on the night of March 31?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Where were your two boys that night?”

“They were, ah, in Vancouver for the weekend. I sent them off with tickets for a Canucks game.”

“They were with their mother?”

“I assume. She has them a weekend a month. The lawyers work it out.”

“You don’t talk to Daisy?”

“Desiree and I do not communicate, haven’t for months.”

“When did you finish work on that Friday?”

“Close on to eighteen hours.”

“Six p.m., then? Some of us old-timers have an aversion to the twenty-four-hour clock.”

“Five-thirty, six. I had a drink with a female member, and later that evening I popped into the detachment.”

“What time was that?”

“About eight.”

“So maybe you had a couple of drinks with this female member.”

“Okay, two drinks.”

Three or four, probably. To sedate him, lower tension, give him courage, the balls to go through with his plan. “And then you went home.”

“Yes.”

“And how long does it take, going all out, for a fleet craft like yours to get from Alberni to Bamfield?”

“Ninety minutes. I would never run her all out at night, Mr. Beauchamp.”

Arthur is working at a fast rhythm, allegro vivace, snapping each question after the last answer. Flynn is finding little room to sulk, to play at being wrongly accused, but he is far from being broken. Arthur has spun a sticky web, but is it enough? The jury may see this as just another example of a counsel’s shifting tactics, accusing almost every witness of being Dr. Eve’s assassin.

The clock nears 12:30. Arthur has more punches to throw, but no knockout blow-unless Daisy comes out of hiding. But he’ll leave the jury with something to chew on over lunch.

“Officer, help me out with this difficulty. When you and Constable Beasely attended at the crime scene, you went directly to the bedroom.”

“Yes, initially we saw the deceased through the window and so…yes, we went right to the bedroom.”

“The first thing you did after looking for vital signs was to put on latex gloves?”

“That’s standard, sir.”

“And you kept them on as you did a cursory check of the cottage?”

“Yes, of course. To avoid contaminating evidence. Procedure is to ribbon a dwelling off after you’re satisfied there’s no one else inside.”

“And you waited outside for the Identification team to fly in.”

“Exactly.”

“Then explain why your right index fingerprint was lifted from the refrigerator door.”

“It…it was where?”

Arthur recalls to him the evidence of yesterday, the fingerprint specialist who took the lifts in Cotters’ Cottage. “‘Known Individual JF, upper refrigerator door.’ You are known individual JF.”

“Well, I may have looked inside the fridge…I must’ve taken the glove off, they can get itchy. I’m sorry, I can’t imagine why that happened.”

“Try imagining you were there the previous night. Imagine you wanted a late snack.”

“Don’t answer that,” says Kroop. “We’ll take the noon break.” The witness stand isn’t far from the door to his chambers, where he pauses, studying Flynn, having trouble accepting this man as a bad guy, this wise, gruff cop with his fifty school visits. We all accept that he’s a sterling fellow.

It’s 12:30. Hubbell will have picked up Margaret by now, to escort her to the city, to his posh suite where she’ll be uncomfortable, it’s aseptic, inorganic, unwelcoming. The reunion will be edgy, difficult.

These fusspot thoughts are, thankfully, interrupted by Lotis, walking beside Arthur with her phone to her ear, nudging him, drawing his attention to Gilbert Gilbert. Though said to have been driven to madness, there he is, shoulders back, head high, walking up Robson Square to the Law Courts, returning to his clerkish duties.

“Good on you, Gilbert,” she calls, raising a fist in salute to his gritty spirit. Gilbert walks on, expressionless, eyes distantly focused, too embarrassed to acknowledge them.

Lotis snaps her phone shut. “I’m getting the big stall. Daisy doesn’t want to get involved, that’s her lawyer’s hidden message.” B.K. Shrader, a sly divorce practitioner with a reputation for seducing the more attractive of his clientele.

“Phone him back, I’ll talk to him.”

Arthur doesn’t want to force Desiree Flynn to court, but if he is to prove Flynn guilty, he must impale him on the sword of scienter , guilty knowledge of the lesbian affair that smashed his marriage. Was he motivated by powerful jealousy-or by failure, the ego-shrivelling awareness that his wife had found a better lover in a woman?

As they enter the El Beau Room to lunchtime buzz and clatter, Lotis passes the phone to Arthur, who exchanges greetings with Shrader, parries, joshes. “B.K., you still hold the record of eight decrees in one day?”

“Nine, but who’s counting. I’m slowing down, the body can’t keep up with the demands of my grateful clients. Thought we got rid of your ugly face-and it’s a lot uglier than it used to be. Who’s the little dessert treat beside you? Must be your junior, what’s her name…Nookie. Rudnicki.”

Arthur stops dead, the dessert treat running into him. He stares at the phone-where’s the hidden camera? The phone speaks. “Look up.”

Arthur sees him at a balcony table with, presumably, a gay divorcee, plump and pink-lipped. He’s waving his phone, a crooked grin on his lumpish face. It’s a mystery how a fellow like him attracts women. It must be the scent he gives off, the gonadotrophins, they cloud women’s sensibilities. (What scent vents from Arthur? Something fusty, old books, worn boots, and potting soil.)

Lotis will wait at the bar with her busy phone. She has lots on her plate, including the breach-of-contract claim against Garlinc. Arthur shook hands with Clearihue. Lotis witnessed that, and will sign an affidavit. But they face a formidable problem: by ancient law, land sales must be evidenced in writing.

Upstairs, Shrader offers Arthur a chair, then encourages his companion to touch up her lips in the ladies. “No, Arthur, I won’t give you Desiree Flynn, and I won’t break client privilege by saying what I know. Except what’s already on the record-our pleadings allege, inter alia , rages, beatings, murder threats. If she was scared to death of Jasper before, how do you think she feels now, with you painting him as a jealous, vengeful, murderous son of a bitch?”

“Nonsense. If he goes scot-free she’s forever in danger. She’ll feel safe only if he’s convicted of murder. I don’t ask for anything dramatic. She doesn’t have to testify that Flynn threatened to kill anyone, just that he was suspicious about her goings-on with her therapist.”

“What the fuck are you doing in that court? Defending or prosecuting? If you’re prosecuting, you got it backwards, you’re supposed to lay a charge first. You’ve got reasonable doubt coming out your yin-yang, you don’t need Daisy. She doesn’t need the lurid publicity, she’s camera-shy.”

“I can get an order forcing her into court.”

“Give her a break, Arthur.” Drawing close. “She has a new life. The lesbian adventure is over. She’s going on thirty-four, an age when chances start to run out, even for the gorgeous. She’s engaged to a widowed pharmacist with three kids. It looks like she can finally grab a little happiness out of life. Why steal that from her?”