Maid of the Mist (10 page)

He gave Corrigan a thin smile, then led Pongo down the steps. Pongo averted his eyes as he passed.

Corrigan went through the doors, fast. Chief of Police Adrian Dunbar was standing in the hall, talking to Stirling. He wore a beige suit and a monk's hairstyle, though only one of them from choice. As Corrigan approached the Chief turned towards him. Stirling took advantage of it to raise his fingers to his lips and mouth a pleading
shush,
but Corrigan ignored him.

'What the fuck is going on?' Corrigan spat.

The Chief looked at him dryly. 'Indeed, Inspector, what the fuck
is
going on?'

'We had a cast-iron . . .'

'You had nothing. You kept a superstar in solitary for eighteen hours, you denied him access to his lawyer, you prevented him from taking his medication, you failed to inform headquarters . . . indeed, Inspector, what the fuck
is
going on?'

Corrigan looked at Stirling, who raised an eyebrow. Just one.

'Pish,' said Corrigan. '
Medication?
Who the fuck is he . . .'

'Inspector. . .'

'Jesus Christ, the Barracuda, he's . . .'

'He's gonna hit us with half a dozen million-dollar lawsuits, and it isn't going to come out of your pocket, Inspector, it's going to come out of mine.'

'Chief, for fuck's sake, Pongo as good as admitted . . .'

'Inspector, I believe you haven't even informed the dead girl's parents.'

Corrigan cleared his throat. 'No, sir, I thought it. . .'

'Inspector, I want a full report on my desk by this evening. And then we'll see if we can get you a nice cleaning job somewhere, OK?'

He pushed past, out the door, and down the steps.

Stirling, at his elbow, said: 'You can clean my house, if you want.'

Stirling stared morosely out at the countryside. They were about twenty minutes out of town, heading for Fort Erie. The sun was making laborious jabs through the clouds like an over-the-hill boxer on the comeback trail. 'I just think you're taking things a little far.'

'I'm just checking it out. What harm can it do?'

'To my reputation or my chances of promotion?'

'Lighten up. It'll be interesting.'

Corrigan had come to a decision. He was the boss, at least for a while, he was allowed to come to decisions. The Barracuda's presence had swung it. Yes, he was probably one of the most powerful lawyers in the country. Yes, he could smack a million- dollar lawsuit on them without blinking. And yes, he was a Mafia lawyer. He was well known for it. He represented drug dealers and gangsters. He was a bad egg. A rotten egg. The black banana in the fridge. The skin on a custard. The mould on the bread. Corrigan knew it. Stirling knew it. The Chief knew it. So why was the Chief so anxious to pander to him?

'Because he's powerful,' Stirling said, 'and much as I hate to admit it, he does have a point. We've hardly done this by the book.'

'Because you wanted the glory.'

'Oh, blame me.'

'Only because it's
all
your fault.'

'You're my boss, you should have told me to wise up.'

'I only went along with it because you were hell-bent on getting your face on TV.'

'So? You didn't have to indulge me. And besides, I'm not the one going to get busted down to cleaner.'

'Don't bet on it.'

They'd thought about Pongo and his convention fantasy.

Corrigan had typed the names into the computer
again
and
again
his finger had hovered over the
send.
Stirling had looked at him and said: The Barracuda.' They'd both sat back and discussed how that changed things. And decided they had no idea how that changed things, except it made them even more hesitant about pressing the
send.

Then Corrigan had a brainwave. And now they were looking at house numbers on the outskirts of Fort Erie.

'This is stupid,' Stirling was saying. 'It's just a horticultural convention.'

He rested his head against the passenger window. The last three months, Niagara had been dead in the water. Nothing. Zilch. They'd been reduced to busting drunk drivers and hookers, usually at the same time. Not a robbery in the whole region, hardly even a careless tourist whacked over the head and his money belt stolen. The only thing on their books was a stolen police car, and that was too embarrassing to make a big deal out of. Then suddenly there was the Indian fished out of the Niagara, then a little girl flattened by the Coke lorry and now a horticultural convention which might be a front for the biggest drugs convention in the history of organized crime. Or a platform for selling daffodils.

Stirling decided to wait in the car while Corrigan went and got embarrassed.

The house was big, but not as big as Corrigan had imagined. Maybe there wasn't that much money in books. The pool already had an autumnal look about it; indeed, the closer they got, it was the previous autumn's look. Leaves lay dank and black on the surface, hemmed in by a thick scum line. A few more years of similar neglect and they could start prospecting for oil. Corrigan ordered Stirling out of the car. He climbed out slowly, complaining, then trailed behind as Corrigan walked up a short flight of mossy steps to the door and pressed the bell.

'Your last chance, Frank,' Stirling said.

Corrigan ignored him. Stirling stepped up beside him and hammered on the door.

'Now you're part of it,' Corrigan said.

Stirling gave him a weak grin. Then there was a shadow behind the grimy glass and the door opened.

James Morton was looking pretty autumnal himself.

Like everyone else in the world, Corrigan had been glued to his television during the Empire State Building siege five years before. Like every dedicated policeman he was half jealous at not being involved, and half relieved. The President had survived, the kidnapper Nathan Jones had become a national hero and most everyone, save for all of the dead people, seemed to have prospered from it.

James Morton, the FBI Chief in New York at the time, had written the best-selling
Shield of Honor,
then retired from the Bureau and moved across the border into Canada to escape the continuing media frenzy. Soon after arriving he agreed to lecture students at Westlane Secondary School. He told them he was writing a novel. Corrigan had attended the lecture in an official capacity, his contribution the local angle on crime. What he had to say had seemed small and petty and deathly dull compared to Morton's exploits, but the former FBI man had made a point of congratulating him.

Now, standing in the doorway, Corrigan hardly recognized him. His hair had been tawny and thick, now it was grey and thin, his eyes seemed to live in dark hollows. Where there'd been a square FBI jaw, there hung loose flesh jagged by an unkempt beard. Corrigan didn't want to look too closely at it in case he found leaves there too. Suddenly his idea didn't seem so hot.

'I told you not to come,' Morton said, his voice nicotine-husky.

'I know . . .' Corrigan began.

'And I certainly didn't invite Hitler.'

But he stood back and nodded them in. He led them down a dark corridor to a conservatory at the back of the house. The whole place smelt of neglect. So, for that matter, did Morton. The conservatory windows were speckled with birdshit, which lent an odd, yellowed light to the proceedings. Morton dropped heavily into an armchair, then waved them on to a wicker lounger.

'You didn't give me much of a chance to explain,' Corrigan said.

Morton looked to the glass, then beyond to the overgrown garden. 'No,' he said quietly, 'perhaps I didn't. The singer. The crash. The conspiracy. What of it?'

'I thought you could clear something up for us. I mean, I have this list of names of people Pongo says are attending the convention. I thought maybe you could tell us whether you'd heard of any of them.'

'Haven't you got computers for that sort of thing?'

'Well, yes,' said Corrigan.

'He, uh,' said Stirling, 'said we'd get disappeared if we tried to check up.'

A little grin made its way slowly on to Morton's face, like a hedgehog searching for winter accommodation. 'Got you spooked, huh?'

Corrigan smiled weakly and handed the list over. Morton held it away from his eyes and squinted. His cracked lips began to move silently as he studied the names. After a little he looked back up at Corrigan, then his eyes flitted to Stirling and back. 'Have you told anyone about this?'

Corrigan's heart stopped. 'No, sir.'

'Good.' Morton curled the list up into a ball and tossed it across the room. It bounced off the top of a crowded wastebin and rolled under a table. 'Save yourself the embarrassment.'

'Fair enough,' Corrigan said.

'Do you know what the weak link in your story is, Mr Corrigan ?'

'It's all weak,' opined Stirling.

Morton nodded, where Stirling had expected a smile. 'The weakest link, then?' Corrigan shook his head. 'I'm prepared to accept that drug dealers might feel the need to hold conventions. I accept that if they did they would have to disguise them as something else. And I don't see any reason why they shouldn't hold them somewhere nice and scenic and quiet where no one is going to suspect a thing. Holding it in Thailand would rather give the game away, don't you think?' Corrigan nodded. 'No, sir, the weak link is Pongo himself. Today's drug dealers are highly sophisticated, their deals involve billions, not millions of dollars. They are not drug
users.
They don't employ fuck-ups like your Mr Pongo, and they don't allow little girls to get killed. They don't exactly court publicity. No sir, I'm afraid you've been led astray by your guest. My advice to you is to throw the book at him, and make sure it's a big book for wasting your time.'

'And this Old Cripple,' Stirling ventured, 'you haven't heard of him?'

'I think I might have remembered a name like that.' He stood up. 'Gentlemen?'

There was an awkward silence while they gathered up their coats. Then Corrigan extended his hand. 'I'm sorry for disturbing you. I just thought . . . well, you're a hero all over the world for what you achieved at the Empire . . .'

As he shook hands Morton smiled sadly. 'I achieved nothing,' he said. 'The bad guy got away.'

'Well . . . I just thought . . . if there was anything to it. . . you know, you'd probably want to get involved.'

'It's not that we're scared,' Stirling added needlessly, 'it's just not our area of expertise.'

Corrigan rolled his eyes.

'What exactly is your area of expertise?' Morton asked.

Stirling looked to Corrigan, who tried to raise a single eyebrow, but failed. He raised two. Stirling shrugged. 'Smaller stuff,' he said weakly.

Morton walked them to the door. On the steps he took a deep breath, as if he hadn't ventured outside in months.

'So you reckon we should just forget about it?' Corrigan ventured.

Stirling, already opening up the car, said: 'I've already forgotten about it.'

Morton nodded. 'Coke means paranoia, paranoia leads to delusional conspiracy theories. We spent a lot of years tracking them down at the Bureau, and usually they weren't worth shit. Sorry. I know things can get pretty boring round here.'

Corrigan nodded and walked down to the car.

'Drive carefully,' Morton called after him.

When they had gone Morton poured himself another drink then returned to his chair in the conservatory. He sat for a little while, thinking. Then he put his glass down and crawled under the table to retrieve the rolled-up list of Pongo's international drug dealers.

Corrigan stared moodily ahead as they drove. Stirling looked out of the side window. After a couple of miles Corrigan said: 'It's not that we're scared.' He rolled his eyes again.

'Sorry,' Stirling said. 'I was just trying to contribute something.'

Corrigan shook his head, then slapped the wheel. 'Well,' he said, 'that was a fucking big waste of time.'

'Told you,' Stirling replied.

'How old you reckon he is?'

'Who? Morton? Dunno. Sixty.'

'Try knocking twenty off that.'

'Seriously? Jeez.'

'Yeah, I know. He'll be in the morgue before the year's out.'

'What happened to him. Bad reviews?'

'Good reviews. Bad driving. Someone totalled his wife and kid. Out near St Catharine's, couple of years ago.'

'And he blames himself.'

'God no, blames the other son of a bitch. He was never caught.
She
was never caught. Whatever. Been hitting the bottle ever since.'

'Sad.'

'Yeah, it's sad.'

They drove on in silence for a while until Stirling said: 'What are we going to do now?'

'We're going to visit a dead girl's parents. We're going to write a report. Then we might as well go out and get pissed.'

Stirling nodded. He took out a cigarette and lit it. 'You're disappointed, aren't you?'

Corrigan shrugged. 'It would have been kind of interesting.'

'It would have been fucking dangerous.'

'Yeah. Well. We aren't going to know.'

The message from Nicola was distinct in its indistinctness. It began:
Corrganimsuhlnotfelunthbest, hekinduhskaruhsme. . .
and continued in a similar vein for two minutes.

Corrigan listened to the tape, then wiped it. He couldn't be bothered translating it.
You've dug your own grave, now you can lie in it.

It was a little after 11 p.m., it was dark. It had been a difficult afternoon. The girl's parents had asked questions he did not have answers for. He had escorted them to the morgue. They'd done a good job with her, but death was death. There were few smiling corpses, but seemingly she always smiled. He had to tell them that a Negro driver had admitted the crime. And they'd said goddamn niggers. On the way back to their house he'd switched the radio on, maybe to take their minds off it, and for the first time in his life Corrigan heard one of Pongo's songs. It didn't mean a thing to them – he hadn't been allowed to tell them about Pongo's involvement – but it near forced tears into his eyes, and not just because it was crap.