Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (8 page)

Following my little dissection of the play within the play, the company tackled the scene again with new vigour. Hamlet found real appetite for the event, discovering that the hyperactive desire to expose Claudius overrode all social niceties. He was crude and rude to Ophelia, and to both the King and Queen. Following the rehearsal, they knew they had tapped into the relentless motion—the inevitability—of Shakespeare's tragedy. The Mousetrap is the turning point in the play. There's no going back once you catch the conscience of the King.

“What is it that makes this so powerful?” George wondered.

I thought for a few seconds before I replied. “I think it's Shakespeare's conviction that there is an undeniable morality. It's what makes his wicked characters like Claudius so fascinating; they act out of avarice or lust for power, blindly believing they can get away with it, but deep down inside they know they've transgressed. Finally, they come face to face with their own wickedness and they recognize it. This raises them and makes them part of the moral tale that's being told. In the tragedies, the recognition comes too late—everyone dies—but it's recognition nonetheless, and it makes us better for witnessing it. Our humanity is what's at stake. As Hamlet says:
‘Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth oe'r whelm them, to men's eyes
.'”

Sophie added, “I believe the play is so popular today because…just look at this world! It's so in our face with greed and corruption that we find ourselves reaching for things that hold ancient truth and wisdom in them.
Hamlet
is one of those things.”

Tom, who was playing Hamlet, said, “I think we find it meaningful because understanding the play helps us to believe we're capable of saving ourselves from ourselves.”

The cast went on like this for some time, exploring and trying to articulate the rich feeling that the play gave them. As I drove home, I thought about my life. What was I doing? What was I striving for? Was I capable of doing any good—of raising myself up to something worthwhile?

While Shakespeare's poetry could lift you and make you feel grand, the sheer scope of his accomplishments could reduce you to utter insignificance.

When I got home, it was already after eleven. The message light was flashing on my phone. “Hello Rosalind. It's me, Daniel. I just wanted to thank you for our chat this morning. I'm sorry I had that little breakdown, but talking to you meant a lot to me. I'm flying back to Ontario tomorrow knowing that someone cares about my father and about finding out what happened to him. So thank you and good luck. Please keep in touch. Mr. McBride has all my numbers. Oh and if you need to reach my mother, he has a London number for her—but I tried to call her today and apparently she's gone on to Paris. I'm trying to get a number for her there. The contact name is Spiegle or something like that. Take care.”

My mouth was open. This was too weird! Spiegle? Hadn't I already heard that name this afternoon when McBride told me about his City Hall fiasco? I immediately dialed McBride, but to no avail. He might be at Sophie's, but it was too late to call there. “Call me, McBride—it's urgent,” I said in response to his message.

I opened the back door and whistled for the cat who had gone out when I came in. “Come on,” I called, “bedtime!” Just as I was about
to close the door and leave her out—she flew in—her long fur out to its fullest as she brushed past me on her way to her dish.

I locked the door with both bolts. Can't be too careful, I thought.

I was pleased that I had brought Daniel a little hope that the real story of his father's death would someday be told. But hearing his voice also made me feel anxious about whether we'd ever get anywhere. Go to bed, I thought, get a good sleep, and make something happen tomorrow.

I was in a dead sleep when McBride called at 2:00
a.m.
“Sorry Roz. You said urgent.”

God, I thought, nothing's that urgent. “Right,” I said, trying to surface. “It's…um…oh yeah—it's Spiegle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn't that the name of the guy in Planning that you mentioned?”

“Yeah—Carl Spiegle. Seems to be the supervisor in charge of the treatment plants.”

“But he's away, right?”

“On vacation, they said.”

“Well, Daniel King left me a message saying his mother has apparently gone on from London to Paris. Guess what the contact name is?”

“That's pretty wild. Give me the number.”

“He didn't have it—says he's tying to get it. What should we do?”

“I'll come over for breakfast and we'll discuss it. See you at nine for pancakes. I'll bring the bacon.”

“Aren't you bushy-tailed,” I said hanging up. He'd be lucky to get coffee.

By the time I'd been able to fall back to sleep
it was close to 4:00
a.m.,
and McBride was ringing my bell at 8:45. Molly bounded in as I opened the door. Only a Lab could be that happy to greet someone first thing in the morning.

“You're early,” I said, standing there in my housecoat and bare feet. “You can start breakfast, while I get dressed.” I headed back upstairs wondering what McBride would do to my kitchen.

“No, really, they're not bad, McBride. I mean eggs, baking powder, and a little salt might improve them a bit, but it is possible to make them just with flour and milk as you've done.” I reluctantly took a second gummy pancake from the heap. “Anyway, they're really just an excuse to eat syrup,” I said, watching him empty the dregs from my maple syrup bottle onto his plate.

“And bacon,” he said, taking the remaining crispy rashers. “Okay Roz, down to business,” he said as I poured his coffee. “You're getting the lab results today? Don't you have any
cream?”

“Sorry, just milk. I put a rush on the samples,” I said, “but what are we going to do about looking into this Spiegle thing?”

“That's on today's agenda. I'll do a backgrounder and try to find out what his family connections are. I'll also call the London contact and try to get more information on Greta King's whereabouts. If that doesn't get us anywhere we may have to go back to the City and get Spiegle's vacation itinerary.”

“Speaking of the City, Sophie mentioned at rehearsal that you wanted her to call the Planning Office and see if she could make contact with Aziz, so I guess that means we're going for that idea.”

“Let's see how she feels about it later today.”

“Doesn't it seem like we're just treading water on this case McBride? I mean, we have these avenues of pursuit, but we're just noodling around on the periphery. We're not really in the centre of it. It's driving me crazy.”

“This is a tough one—one of those potentially perfect crimes. If Daniel wasn't questioning his father's death, the perpetrators would likely get away scot-free. You're not normally so anxious, Roz. What's going on?”

“Good question,” I said. “Peter King has gotten under my skin. It's like he represents more than just himself to me. I want justice for him. I feel like the future of the world is on our shoulders.”

“You know what I think. It's that crazy theatre stuff you're involved in. Whenever you work on a play, you get weird.”

“I do?”

“Definitely.”

“Definitely? Like this is some kind of pattern. Some kind of recognizable state I get myself into when I'm working on a play?”

“It takes you over, Roz. Anyway, you're going to Ecology Counts to track down that report, right, so you can learn even more about Peter King today.”

Ecology Counts was housed in a mid-nineteenth-century house on Spring Garden Road, the office on the upper floor. The organization had been functioning for many years and had championed numerous environmental and greenspace battles as well as pushing hard for the Organic Waste system, which was a pioneer program in Canada.

Leading the charge was Eloise Radner, a transplant from
Montreal who had been in Nova Scotia for twenty-five years but was still considered “from away.” I had gotten to know her a little bit at the numerous protests prior to the Iraq War, when people from every walk of life and all the humanitarian organizations were out in full force. Eloise had been a spokesperson on the potential environmental damage the bombing of the Iraq oil wells would cause, as well as the risks of destroying the Iraqi people's water and electricity infrastructure.

“In fact,” she said, as we reminisced about the pre-invasion marches, “it was Peter King who really got on the bandwagon about the threat to the Iraqi water system. And of course, everything he predicted has come to pass. The damage was so extensive that many Iraqis still have no access to water, in spite of the highly touted American engineering firms who've been paid millions to fix it. It's like that's the real new economy. Go in and bomb the shit out of a country—and then make billions rebuilding it.”

“Feeling a little cynical these days Eloise?” I said.

“Goes with the territory, I guess,” she replied. “I got depressed when Peter King died. I hadn't realized how much I was leaning on him to help me through some of the issues we deal with. He was an optimist in many ways.”

“So you knew him quite well?”

“Uh, yeah. Quite well.” Her tone made me curious about their relationship, but I was reluctant to pry.

“I understand you commissioned him to write an analysis of the sewage treatment development plans, ” I said.

“We did. And he did a fantastic job investigating the Europa proposal that was before Council—looking at it for overall viability and for its ramifications in terms of international trade. He was dead set against it for many reasons. His report was excellent, very thoughtful and articulate, and even though City Staff tried to repress it—water it down, so to speak—it did ultimately have an impact. The councillors voted against the Europa contract on the final draft, even though they ran the risk of having to pay a penalty. I believe it's a valuable legacy from Peter—one of many.”

“Why on earth would City Staff try to repress it?” I said. “How did they become so gung-ho about this notorious conglomerate that was already being taken to court in other countries for not fulfilling their obligations?”

“It's a mystery,” she said. “We and other organizations presented them with so many reasons not to go forward, and yet it seemed as though they were intractable. Maybe they were all exhausted and just wanted to take the option that was right in front of them because it seemed easy. As I say, it really was a last-minute turnaround and I think that was through Peter personally meeting with each and every councillor. He was tireless.”

“Did he ever say anything about anyone in particular at the City who was deliberately throwing up roadblocks?” I asked.

“He tended to be very circumspect about individuals,” she replied, “although we used to share a bad laugh about how the Mayor and the Big Cheese from Planning must be sitting on Europa stock.”

“The Big Cheese from Planning—who's that?”

“His name always escapes me…it's odd sounding. Um,
Spiegle?…Carl, I think.”

“I've heard the name before,” I said. “How long has he been in the job?”

“He was hired four or five years ago. I don't recall him being on the scene before that. But you know who would know plenty about him is my good friend Harvie Greenblatt. He's a lawyer—used to be on Council. Very smart lawyer. Lefty. Good friend of Peter King's and very knowledgeable about the ins and outs at the City. He'd probably be happy to talk to you. I think I even have his card.” She looked through her desktop cardholder. “Here we go.”

“That's fantastic, Eloise, thanks,” I said taking the card. “And could I also get a copy of the report that Peter King prepared for you?”

“Oh, for sure. We actually had them printed up for distribution.” She walked over to a bookstand that held various flyers and publications and took a copy of the report from one of the shelves. “What are you researching exactly?” she asked handing it to me.

“I've gotten interested in all this water and sewage stuff and someone mentioned that Peter King had done a comprehensive study. I'm just educating myself about my own city, and about the work that Peter was doing. It sounds like you worked with him on all kinds of things.”

“He was generous, gave us a lot of free legal advice. He ended up being a very good friend to me and just was—I don't know—the best. We should have lunch sometime.”

“I'd love that—here's my card. Call me.”

“Criminologist!” she said looking at it. “That's funny—I thought you worked in theatre.”

“Theatre's a passion of mine,” I replied, “but not really a job, though I am actually working on a production of
Hamlet
at the moment. Yeah, I guess I should change my business cards to read ‘Criminologist and Dramaturge.'”

“Multi-tasking—it's all the rage,” she said laughing.

“Keep up the good work Eloise…and your spirits,” I said. “Oh, can I use a telephone for a moment?”

“Sure, on the desk at the front. Just pick any line that's free.”

I called the lab to confirm that the toxicology report was ready. Picking it up was next on my list.

It was a
beautiful day for the end of November. The snow from the recent storm was almost melted away and it was warm enough that the brine was in the air. I opened the car window on the way to the Burnside Industrial Park and took a deep breath. If only this was spring instead of the dark time of year, I thought, turning towards the Angus L. Macdonald Bridge
.

The morning light was clear. From the bridge, I could see George's Island and out to the mouth of the harbour. Off to my left, I could see the new bridge and beyond into the Narrows. Approaching the Dartmouth side I moved into the left turning lane and it was as I was switching lanes that I first noticed the vehicle behind me as it switched lanes as well. It was an older-model, dark blue sedan. A Dodge? Something about the look of the driver rang a bell, and all at once I remembered seeing him sitting in his car when I left the Ecology Counts office. I'd been having a pretty good day, but now I was shaking. Was I being followed?