Giles Blunt: The Fields of Grief

And maybe Cardinal’s better off, Delorme thought. Maybe it’s not the worst thing for him to be free of this beautiful albatross. Delorme had witnessed the toll on Cardinal when his wife had been admitted to hospital, and at such times she found herself surprisingly angry at the woman who could make his life a misery.

Lise Delorme, she cursed herself as she came to a stop at the crime-scene tape, sometimes you can be a hundred per cent, unforgivable, unmitigated bitch.

If Chouinard had been hoping his speedy dispatch of Delorme would prevent suspect number one from messing up a crime scene, he was too late. As she got out of the car, she could see Cardinal holding his wife in his arms, blood all over his suede jacket.

A young cop – Sanderson was his name – was standing guard by the crime-scene tape.

‘You were first on the scene?’ Delorme asked him.

‘Got an anonymous call from someone in the building. Said there appeared to be a body out back. I proceeded here, ascertained that she was dead, and put in a call to the sarge. She called CID and Cardinal got here first. I had no idea it was his wife.’ There was a trill of panic in his voice. ‘There’s no ID on the body. There’s no way I could’ve known.’

‘That’s all right,’ Delorme said. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘If I’d have known, I’d have kept him away from the body. But he didn’t know either till he got up close. I’m not gonna get in trouble over this, am I?’

‘Calm down, Sanderson, you’re not in trouble. Ident and the coroner will be here any second.’

Delorme went over to Cardinal. She could tell from the damage to his wife that she had fallen from a high floor. Cardinal had turned her over and was holding her up in his arms as if she were asleep. His face was streaked with blood and tears.

Delorme squatted beside him. She gently touched Catherine’s wrist and then her neck, establishing two things: there was no pulse, and the body was still warm, though beginning to cool at the extremities. There was a camera bag nearby, some of its contents spilling out on to the asphalt.

‘John,’ she said softly.

When he did not respond, she said his name again, her voice even softer. ‘John, listen. I’m only going to say this once. What we have here, this is breaking my heart, okay? Right now I feel like curling up in a corner and crying and not coming out till somebody tells me this isn’t real. You hear me? My heart is going out to you. But you and I both know what has to happen.’

Cardinal nodded. ‘I didn’t realize it was … till I got up close.’

‘I understand,’ Delorme said. ‘But you’re going to have to put her down now.’

Cardinal was crying, and she just let him. Arsenault and Collingwood, the ident team, were heading toward them. She held her hand up to ward them off.

‘John. Can you put her down for me now? I need you to put her back just the way she was when you found her. Ident’s here. The coroner’s going to be here. However this happened, we need to do this investigation by the book.’

Cardinal shifted Catherine off his knees and, with futile tenderness, turned her face down. He arranged her left hand over her head. ‘This hand was up like this,’ he said. ‘This one,’ he said, taking her other arm by the wrist, ‘was down by her side. Her arms are broken, Lise.’

‘I know.’ Delorme wanted to touch him, comfort him, but she forced her professional self to keep control. ‘Come with me now, John. Let ident do their work, okay?’

Cardinal got to his feet, swaying a little. Sanderson had been joined by lots of uniformed colleagues, and Delorme was aware of one or two people watching from balconies as she led Cardinal past the scene tape and over to her car. Bits of computer crunched underfoot. She opened the passenger door for him and he got in. She got in on the driver’s side and shut the door.

‘Where were you when you got the call?’ Delorme said.

She couldn’t be sure from Cardinal’s expression if he was taking anything in. Was he aware of the ambulance, its lights uselessly flashing? Did he see the coroner heading toward the body with his medical bag? Arsenault and Collingwood in their white paper jumpsuits? McLeod slowly pacing the perimeter, eyes to the ground? She couldn’t tell.

‘John, I know it’s a terrible time to ask questions …’ It was what they always said. She hoped he understood that she had to do this, probe the wound with the knife still in it.

When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly clear; he just sounded exhausted. ‘I was at the Birches Motel, in my car, with the mayor.’

‘Mayor Feckworth? How come?’

‘He was demanding a full missing-persons on his wife, threatening to go to the chief, the papers. Someone had to break the bad news to him.’

‘How long were you with him?’

‘About two and a half hours, all told. He came to the station first. McLeod can confirm all this. Szelagy, too.’

‘Szelagy was still staking out the motel on the Porcini case?’

Cardinal nodded. ‘He may still be there. He’ll have his radio off. You would too, if you were watching the Porcinis.’

‘Do you know why Catherine would be here at this building?’

‘She went out to take photographs. I don’t know if she knew anybody here. Must have, I guess, to get access.’

Delorme could almost hear Cardinal’s cop mind trying to click back into gear.

‘We should be checking out the roof,’ he said. ‘If that’s not where she went over, then we should be canvassing the upper floors. You should be, I mean. I can’t be involved.’

‘Wait here a minute,’ Delorme said.

She got out of the car and found McLeod over by the Dumpster.

‘Lot of crap all over the place,’ he said. ‘Looks like someone blew up a computer back here.’

‘CompuClinic’s out front,’ Delorme said. ‘Listen, did you see Cardinal earlier this evening?’

‘Yeah, he was in the office till seven-thirty or so. Mayor showed up around seven-fifteen and they went out together. Probably to the Birches Motel, where his wife’s been boinking the Sanitation Department. You want me to call the mayor?’

‘You have his number?’

‘Do I ever. Guy’s been bugging me all week.’ McLeod had already pulled out his cell phone and selected a number from a list that glowed lilac in his palm.

Delorme went over to the ident guys. They were down on their knees picking up small items and dropping them into evidence bags. The moon was higher now, and no longer orange. It lit the scene with a silvery light. A cool breeze carried smells of old leaves. Why do the worst horrors occur on the most beautiful nights? Delorme wondered.

‘You bagged her hands?’ she said to Arsenault.

He looked up at her. ‘Well, yeah. Until we actually rule out foul play.’

Collingwood, the younger member of the ident team, was extracting objects from the camera bag that lay a few feet from the body. He was young, blond, and laconic almost to the point of hostility.

‘Camera,’ he said, holding up a Nikon. The lens was smashed.

‘She was a photographer,’ Delorme said. ‘Cardinal said she went out this evening to take pictures. What else?’

‘Spare rolls of film. Battery. Lenses. Filters. Lens tissue.’

‘About what you’d expect, in other words.’

He didn’t reply. Sometimes it was as if you hadn’t quite hit Collingwood’s Enter button.

‘Found car keys in her coat pocket,’ Arsenault said, handing them over.

‘I’ll check out her car,’ Delorme said, reaching for them.

The coroner was getting up from the body, whacking dust from the lower part of his overcoat. It was Dr Claybourne, already balding in his early thirties. Delorme had worked with him a couple of times before. He had asked her out once, but she had declined, saying she was already seeing someone, untrue at the time. Some men were too nice, in Delorme’s view, too harmless, too bland. It was like being alone but without privacy.