William Deverell - April Fool

He has a point. Compel her to testify, shove her before the cameras, force her to wade through the jostling throng, subject her to whispers about lesbian lovers-engagements have foundered on less. It’s not Arthur’s role to subject anyone to that. He rises as Shrader’s client returns, lips glistening. “Okay, I’m persuaded. I’ll leave her be. But, between us, did he know about the affair?”

“What do you think? He’s a cop.”

Arthur bids them adieu. Gone is his daydream of thrusting a Perry Mason-like forefinger at the perp, bringing him to his feet to confess in trembling vibrato, I did it and I’m glad . He will stop playing his hubristic role as accusator , he’ll be generous, entrust the job to the state. Daisy may not escape attention, but let the regular authorities make their polite inquiries first.

He rejoins Lotis, who hands him her phone: it’s Brian, exultant, enjoying a smoke before lunching with an inspector and a Crown attorney. “The cat is among the pigeons. The Faloon rape was closed out eighteen months ago, and a notice filed to destroy exhibits, including two vaginal swabs in a zip-lock bag. The record is initialled by the exhibits custodian-a civilian, the cops don’t trust one of their own to do this job-but Flynn’s initials appear too, as a witness. My informant suspects scalawaggery, the document smells of having been backdated.”

“I assume Buddy has been apprised of this.”

“Yup. I’m getting vibes that Jasper had been making the Force uneasy for some time. Assault complaints by his wife, handled outside the court system. Threats. It’s why they bundled him off to Alberni. Some serious stalking was going on when he came back for that two-week stint. That’s why you’ve got Inspector Taylor of ACU sitting in the orchestra pit. After lunch, I’m coming in from the cold. See you then. Ciao.”

Arthur orders a bloodless Caesar and a sandwich. It’s one o’clock. Hubbell is showing Margaret through his apartment. She sees the unmade bed, the rumpled sheets. What does she think of the pillow pictures? I can’t imagine how they get into position number three, Hubbell. Arthur phones 807 Elysian, and there’s no answer. They’re letting it ring…

The Owl figured Jasper might cut ass out of town after this morning’s shellacking, but here he is, the Known Individual, Flynn of the Mounted, still in boots and saddle. Maybe he just couldn’t get away, maybe someone was frozen onto his tail all through lunch, for instance the man in the shiny shoes to Faloon’s right.

This afternoon’s performance is sold out again, you can see people lined up outside. Claudette and Holly are getting on like kissing cousins in the back row, two tough broads from the sticks. Even though the whole courtroom knows he boffed them both, Claudie isn’t pissed off, she’s too kind and forgiving, it’s guilt-making. A wedding next month. Did he actually agree to that? What’s marriage going to feel like for a dashing boulevardier like the Owl? Is it the right step for a man of great hidden wealth? Sebastien Plouffe, Sebastien Plouffe, I love you …

Here comes the jury settling in, here comes Father Time, and here’s the disgraced copper going back into the stand. Faloon, who by now has read the transcripts twice over, is puzzling out Flynn’s MO. Maybe he got advance word that the Owl and Doctor Eve made dinner reservations at the Breakers for March 31, making it an excellent night for murder. A bonus, a gift on top of the fact he had the DNA, the gob on the swab.

He probably didn’t come straight into Brady Beach, instead hid his Cormoran behind one of the outcrops and rowed his dinghy in. Maybe he had time to prowl the town. Maybe he saw that drunk condo guy. Saw Faloon! Saw him sneaking down from the Breakers. Saw him bury the zip-lock.

If thirty-one large has gone to the Sergeant Flynn Retirement Fund, easy come, easy go, it’s chickenfeed. There’s a thousand times more buried in Cimitiere Saint Pierre.

Here comes peppery Miss Rudnicki, breezing into the courtroom like a movie star, settling in beside her learned master. The Owl always enjoys the way Beauchamp snaps his braces when he stands to cross-examine, it means he’s ready, he’s racked.

Flynn looks like he fuelled up at lunch, maybe a beer or two to help relax. He tries to interrupt Beauchamp with an excuse about the print on the fridge door, but he’s cut off by the judge, who has gauze or something in his mouth, you get a glimpse of white sometimes.

Beauchamp begins again. “Let’s try to reconstruct your movements on the eve of April Fool’s Day. You went off shift, joined an officer for a drink, stopped by the detachment…”

“To sign off on some paperwork.”

“Thank you, let me finish. And you arrived home at eight o’clock. Correct?”

“About that.”

“And then what?”

“Oh, I may have unfrozen a steak dinner, watched some television. I was pretty beat. Hit the sack early.”

“Can you give me the name of one person who might have seen you between 8 p.m. and dawn the next day?”

Flynn frowns, struggles, like it’s almost there, a name of somebody, but no, he can’t bring it home. “No.”

“Ever sat around with your mates and speculated about the perfect murder?”

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“I’m sure we’ve all done it. A parlour game. I would imagine police detectives are more prone than most to indulge.”

“Can’t say I’m interested in parlour games, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“It’s always something the murderer leaves behind that does him in, isn’t that the case? A footprint, a hair, a bloodstain-you’ve seen it all. But a tranquilized victim gagged on her own garment leaves no telltale bullets, no knife wounds, right? No blood, no clues.”

The judge can’t take any more of what Faloon thinks is called rhetoric. “Don’t answer that question, witness. It is not a question. It is a speech with question marks.”

“My question is, sergeant, did you ever consider that scenario?”

“Don’t answer.”

“Milord, this issue is at the very heart of the defence.” Bellowed, he actually causes the old boy to jump.

“Are you accusing this officer of murder?”

“Your Lordship will forgive me if I haven’t made that abundantly obvious.”

“Staff Sergeant Flynn? Then this is a serious matter. But I see Her Majesty’s consul isn’t moving a muscle.” The judge turns his black, vacuum-cleaner eyes to Mr. Svabo, but they can’t suck him up off his chair. He’s just watching, arms folded. “Proceed then. Proceed.”

The great man has recovered from yesterday’s reversal with Angella, a rare stumble, but what a trouper, the good don’t stay down. “Sergeant, do you understand my question?”

“I don’t sit around in my off hours contemplating how to get away with a crime. I want to get away from crime.”

Flynn got off a good one, he had too much time to think. Mr. Beauchamp reacts by speeding up his questions. He puts it to the witness that he never went to bed that night, the witness denies. He waited for darkness, then took off in his boat. Denied. At Brady Beach, he anchored out, rowed in. Denied. He had some ground-up rochies on him. Denied. He had the swabs. Denied categorically.

“I’m a little vague on the specifics of your plan, sergeant. Were you hoping to catch her before she went to bed? To share a glass of wine, to talk, to complain about her unprofessional conduct, her seduction of your wife? And did matters then get out of hand?”

Flynn just looks at him.

“Or did it play out this way-there was a light on in the cottage, you saw through the windows that no one was home. You tugged the door open, you looked about. In the fridge was an open bottle of Chablis. You doctored it and hid. Outside? In the loft? Did you take a chance on the loft? I think so.”