Peter Turnbull - Deliver Us from Evil

‘That’s a good point,’ Marianne Auphan said, ‘it goes to premeditation. . very calculating.’

‘That’s what I think. But what was. . what is still very suspicious, really very suspicious, is that the old man only ever used to drink beer, just Budweiser out of cans or bottles. . non-flammable no matter how much he spilled, but on that weekend the carpet was soaked with whisky, so it turned out when the police and the fire service investigated. Then there were all the empty whisky bottles in the garage, they appeared from nowhere that weekend. They were not there when we went camping on the Friday but were there when we came back on the Sunday, giving the authorities the impression that father was a long term whisky drinker. . which, of course, is flammable.’

‘I see,’ Auphan nodded. ‘You are correct, sir, that is very suspicious.’

‘She hung around for a while after the fire, playing the grieving widow, even though they were not married. We had no home. After a while in a church shelter we were taken in by relatives, which was when Heather left us, and then we entered adulthood, inheriting nothing.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘She milked him for all she could, emptied his account. . that is certain. . but why she murdered him, why she didn’t just leave him having taken all his money,’ Fisco shook his head, ‘that I will never know. That we will never know. Either he had woken up to the fact that Heather had bled him dry and was about to make things awkward for her. . or. . she saw an opportunity to do something she could get away with, even if that thing she saw was murder, just for the sake of doing it.’ He shrugged. ‘The house was fairly remote. It was already an inferno by the time the nearest neighbour called nine-one-one and by the time the fire department had arrived at the house it was a pile of ash. Then, like I said, after she hung around for a week or two Heather left. . once we were safely with relatives. She gave a statement about knowing nothing about how the fire started but overplayed dad’s drinking. The coroner recorded death by misadventure. There was smoke in dad’s throat you see. . I don’t know the proper name.’

‘Trachea,’ offered Ventnor.

‘Yes,’ Fisco smiled, ‘that’s the word. Smoke deposits in his trachea, so he was alive when the fire was burning and he breathed in the smoke. That apparently made it accidental.’

‘Apparently?’

‘Well, I don’t drink, I don’t drink at all. . children of heavy drinking parents usually don’t. . but I would have thought it would have taken more than beer to knock someone out and so heavily that they wouldn’t wake up in a fire.’

‘I would think the same,’ Marianne Auphan spoke softly.

‘But no examination for poison in the bloodstream was done and ironically, what was left of him was cremated soon after. The city finished the job the fire had started. But the point is they then could not dig him up and test for poison in his blood. The Coroner just accepted that he was drinking whisky and fell unconscious and dropped his cigarette on the carpet and ‘woosh’, and fortunately his children were at their usual character building camp by the lake an hour’s drive away and Heather was in town shopping. No one saw her leave the house, it being remote you see.’

‘Yes.’

‘What else did you find out about her private or her social life whilst she was living with you. . anything at all?’

‘Nothing. She had no friends that we knew of; I believe that she used to spend her time in McTeer’s Bar on Dunlop Street. . if you know it. You could ask in there. Been a long time now but she might be remembered by someone. . she’s the sort of woman who would make a lasting impression for all the wrong reasons. So it is highly likely that someone in McTeer’s will remember her and may be able to provide some information.’

George Hennessey replaced the phone and stood and walked from his office down the CID corridor to the reception area. He stood beside the uniformed officer who indicated a young woman who sat on the highly polished hardwood bench on the opposite side of the room to the reception desk. Hennessey smiled at the woman. ‘You wish to see me, madam?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The woman stood and approached the reception desk, nervously opening her handbag as she did so. She extracted a clear plastic bag of the type used by banks to contain coins. She placed the bag on the desk. Within the bag was a book of matches. ‘Mrs Stand of the Broomfield Hotel asked me to drop this in, sir.’ The woman had a timid way of speaking and seemed to Hennessey to be working very hard to avoid eye contact. ‘I am to say that it has not been touched except by the chambermaid who picked it up, sir.’

‘Thank you. Appreciate the care and consideration.’ Hennessey picked up the bag and examined the book of matches. It read, ‘Sign of the Whale, Barrie, Ontario’.

‘It was found in the room occupied by the Canadian gentleman, sir. It had slipped down behind the bed and was missed during the first clean, sir. I am in York to buy bacon, sir.’

‘Bacon?’ Hennessey smiled.

‘Yes, sir. It’s cheaper in York.’

‘I see.’

‘So I am to hand it in to you when I am in York, buying the bacon, sir.’

‘Oh. . now I understand. Well, thank you for this Miss. .’

‘Lloyd, sir.’

‘Miss Lloyd, thank you, very much. Thank you very much indeed. And please thank Mrs Stand also.’

Hennessey immediately ordered an email to be sent to DS Yellich, care of the Barrie City Police, advising him that the Canadian he is seeking is probably a customer of the Sign of the Whale bar on Bayfield Street. He added that latents are to be lifted from a book of matches and will be sent to him.

That done he returned to his desk to complete the six month evaluation of DC Pharoah. He was enjoying writing it. It was a positive assessment, very positive. She was making no secret about her desire to return to London eventually, and he knew that when she did, she would leave a gap. A very noticeable gap indeed.

It was an old house, Yellich thought; at least it was old for Canada. Wholly built of timber, it had turret rooms and a porch on the upper floor as well as on the ground floor. It stood isolated from many nearby houses by approximately one hundred feet on either side. The rear garden rose in a gentle slope to a thick stand of woodland. The house was in a rundown condition and so badly in need of paint or varnish weatherproofing that Yellich doubted that it could be saved. Rot, he believed, must be, in fact could not have failed to be, well established in all that exposed wood. Two large Alsatians appeared at the front door window as Yellich closed the car door behind him. An elderly woman opened the front door but kept the screen door shut. She stared intently at him, unafraid and hostile. She was dressed in black and had long, silver hair. Yellich walked up to the screen door and showed his ID.

‘That’s not a police badge,’ the woman snarled.

‘You can phone the Barrie Police for confirmation.’ Yellich spoke calmly.

‘I have my dogs.’

‘I can see.’ Yellich looked at the two Alsatians who growled and barked menacingly at him.

‘Well you look like a policeman, but the dogs will have your smart little ass if you try anything.’

‘Understood.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘Heather Ossetti.’

The elderly woman groaned, ‘That name. . that woman. So long ago now, thirty years. . more. How did you know she lived here?’

‘St Saviours, they gave your home as her discharge address.’

‘I see. They were a bit free with that information.’

‘We assured them it was a murder inquiry. . so they relented. Your address was not freely given.’