Tell Anna She's Safe (31 page)

22.

“D
O YOU SWEAR TO TELL
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

I had opted to swear on a book I didn't hold sacred. The court attendant holding it out was smiling. She seemed to know the procedure was unavoidable, the question ludicrous, and my answer necessarily the first lie. The court's interest was only in the bare bones of the truth: the “facts.” I hoped that was as far as I would have to go. The pre-trial hearing had begun.

Above and to my right sat the judge. Facing me were the two Assistant Crown attorneys, Steve Quinn, and Mr. Blair, who would have the pleasure of cross-examining me later. The rest of the courtroom was filled with high-school students, here to learn the workings of the Ontario court system.

They were dispassionate observers, a role I had given up a year ago.

Before I sat down, I glanced beyond the Crown's bench to a glassed-in box. It was the first time I had laid eyes on Tim Brennan in almost a year. It was important to meet his eyes. I couldn't speak in this court unless I did. That was the only thing I had any certainty about—that I had to, that I could.

He looked straight back at me. No expression on his face.

I took my seat then, out of his line of vision.

The Assistant Crown, Deanne Fortier, rose from the bench. She was blonde and petite and had a sympathetic smile and the trace of a Québecois accent.

“Ms. McGinn, I understand you are a researcher here in Ottawa?”

It was the end of class for the high-school students. They filed out of the courtroom. They weren't drained or shaky, or anxious for the Assistant Crown's smile of reassurance. They were looking forward to their weekend. They weren't worried about being cross-examined on Monday.

I glanced at Tim sitting in his glassed-in box, waiting to be led away. He raised his eyebrows and adopted a sympathetic expression. I didn't return it.

I approached Deanne Fortier. I was keeping both Steve Quinn and the defence lawyer deliberate blurs in my peripheral vision. For different reasons. But it wasn't making any difference. I could feel their focus on me. Also for different reasons.

Deanne was in a rush. She gave me a kind look over the load of thick binders in her arms. “Technically I'm not supposed to speak with you now that I'm finished the examination. But don't worry, you did fine.” She lowered her voice. “Don't let Blair intimidate you on Monday. Answer only what he asks you. Don't volunteer anything.”

I couldn't help looking over at the defence lawyer. He was speaking in low tones to his assistant. Every few minutes they sent glances my way. They were clearly planning their strategy, confident they could expose me.

Deanne started down the aisle. “
Bonne fin de semaine
,” she called back over her shoulder in a teasing sing-song voice.

I sent a quick glance in the direction of the other source of attention on me. And felt my face flush when his eyes met mine. Aside from the brief phone call, it was our first contact in over six months. He hadn't been present at my interview with the Crown.

I was too self-conscious to speak to him in the courtroom. I headed down the aisle after Deanne Fortier, all too aware of him following me.

He caught up at the door to the anteroom and held it open for me. At the second door, he took the handle but stood with the door still closed. “You look like you could use a drink. And maybe something to eat. I've got an hour before I have to be somewhere else. I'll take you across the street to the Lord Elgin.”

He opened the door for the defence lawyer and his assistant to go past us. He seemed not to care if he was heard. This wasn't, I told myself, Steve Quinn, the man who was not supposed to be interested in Ellen McGinn. This was Sergeant Quinn, the police detective concerned about a witness who had just been on the stand for two hours. His concern was legitimate. And accurate. The witness could use a drink, and an opportunity to unload the tension of the day.

At four o'clock on a Friday afternoon in April, the lobby bar at the Lord Elgin Hotel was filled with suited business people and a few casually dressed tourists. Quinn and I settled into two comfortable wingback chairs kitty corner to each other at a round table. He let me order my own drink. A few moments later the waiter set down two single malts in elegant snifters.

Quinn raised his glass to me. “You can relax those tight muscles, McGinn. You did fine. You were a wealth of information.”

His reference to my muscles made me blush. I took a swallow of the warm liquid and tried not to watch his lips on the rim of his glass. He had let his hair grow in a quarter-inch or so and had the beginnings of a trim beard. He was blonder than I would have expected. He'd also shed a few pounds. Was looking more relaxed. The strain from last summer seemed to be gone. But the chemistry was still there. Possibly more intense.

The case was the only safe topic of conversation. I sent a wry look across the table. “I'm not done yet, you know. Blair was having a field day in there, scribbling away every time I said the word ‘dream' and ‘vision.' And don't you think he's going to take me to the cleaners on the statement I gave the
Sûreté?
It says nothing incriminating about Tim. He's going to make it sound like I changed everything in hindsight. God, I wish you guys had taken my statement that first week.”

“Yeah, too bad we never did. But the last thing Lundy and Roach had time for was running around getting witness statements. They were busy concentrating on Brennan. But I told you before, don't worry about it.”

“They probably avoided taking my statement on purpose. They thought it was going to be full of hocus pocus.”

“Here we go again. Are you still apologizing for being psychic?”

“I'm not—” I stopped the automatic denial. “I'm just acutely aware that other people might be skeptical.”

Quinn met my eyes. “That's
their
problem.”

And yours
. The thought zinged through my brain like a bullet. For the first time, there was no doubt.

I changed the subject before he could read my mind. “I've been wanting to know. At least can you tell me…. Can we have one of those conversations we're not supposed to be having?”

Quinn looked around and seemed satisfied that there was no one who knew us, no one listening. “What do you want to know?”

“A few things. About Bill Torrence and the forged cheques for one thing. And about the woman who went searching with Tim.”

Quinn stared at me. “I didn't tell you about that last summer?”

“No, you didn't have much time. Remember?” I looked him in the eye, feeling suddenly bold.

“Or maybe you were just asking too many questions.”

“And not getting any answers.” The Scotch was loosening my tongue. I braced myself for the rebuke.

But he grinned. “Well, you'll get your answers soon enough in the papers. Bryn's going to be on the stand in a few days.”

“Bryn?” My voice was sharp. “Did she have an Irish accent? Was she a private detective?”

Quinn was nodding, a question in his eyes.

“She phoned me. Sometime last May. I meant to ask you about her then, but you—I forgot.”
Because you disappeared
. “I was too scared to talk to her.”

“You were too scared to talk to anyone,” said Quinn.

His mocking tone pissed me off. “So, what if I was?”

Quinn raised his arms in surrender. “Easy, girl. I was just teasing. I'm not putting you down.”

You are
. It was another clear thought.

I put him back on track. “So it was Bryn who was with Tim, not an undercover officer?”

“Yes, as you say, she's a private investigator. She heard about the case and called Brennan. Offered to help him search. But then Lundy and Roach got in touch with her and convinced her to work for them. She went searching with Brennan—the few times he actually went.” He shook his head, smiling. “What a woman. You should get Lundy to tell it. I'm not familiar with all the details of how they set it up, but it's a pretty amazing story.”

“But she was with him when they found Lucy's remains?” I felt sick and angry whenever I thought about the little of Lucy that had remained. It must have been even worse for Bryn, to actually see it.

“Yes, she was with him.”

“Did the forensic testing ever reveal anything more?”

“No, we still have nothing except the teeth to go on.”

“So she could have drowned.”

Quinn looked at me, uncomprehending.

“You said drowning was one of the things that could account for the pink teeth.” In a dry voice I added, “In one of my visions, she'd been put in the river. Remember?”

“Masham's a long way from the river,” said Quinn.

I spread my hands. “You see why I get embarrassed when I talk about the so-called psychic stuff.”

“But there
are
parallels. You don't have to be embarrassed. We think she was strangled in the bath or the shower—that's water. And remember you talked about her being wrapped in a synthetic material? In the first interview Lundy and Roach did with Brennan, he kept mentioning the shower curtain. Said Lucy had told him to wash it. He said it had torn to shreds in the washer and he'd had to replace it. Lundy and Roach just let him talk. They never questioned him about it, but he mentioned it about three times. Sure enough, there's a brand spanking new shower curtain in the bathtub when the house is searched. And one or two of the shower hooks were reversed. Which seems very unlike Lucy; from what I understand she was very meticulous. It's likely the curtain tore when he attacked her. He may well have wrapped her up in it to carry her to the car.”

I shook my head. “Don't you remember? I got later that it was a sleeping bag she was wrapped in.” And there was no way I was confusing bath water with a river.

I looked straight at him. “She could have been taken out of the river. If they realized she had resurfaced.” I hesitated. “I heard a motorboat out on the river a couple of times—in the pitch dark.”

Quinn was shaking his head. I didn't blame him. His theory, the cops' theory, was so logical. So reasonable. Unbelievably reasonable.

“I'm going to be laughed out of court when Blair brings up my visions. He'll have a field day.”

“So what?” There was impatience in his voice. “I've told you before, we often use psychics.”

But you don't believe them
.

It was another zinging bullet of truth.

“Well,” I said to test him, “this psychic had it as an accident.”

Quinn stared at me. His expression said, don't be naive. But his words were: “What if I told you that on the evening before he called you, the man who is so worried about his missing girlfriend rents a video called
Wolf
. A video about a werewolf.”

My stomach turned. “It sounds sick.”

“Not sick,” said Quinn. “Evil. Do you know what I see when I look in Brennan's eyes?”

I shook my head. I couldn't look in Quinn's eyes.

“Nothing. This guy is the most evil character I've ever dealt with—and I've dealt with a lot of bad characters.”

“Speaking of potentially bad characters. Can you tell me about Bill Torrence?” I wanted to change the subject.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, I remember you saying he was offering Tim a big loan to pay off his debt to Lucy. Or at least Tim said he was. Was it just a lie?”

Quinn nodded. “A big fat lie about a big fat mythical loan. We've talked to Torrence. He was in contact with Tim at Lucy's about the cattle transport idea, but Tim turned him down. He never offered any loan at all, let alone one for thirty-five thousand dollars.”

He told me what he knew.

*

SOME NIGHTS TIM DIDN'T COME
home. When he did come in, waking her up at dawn, he was drunk or stoned. She stopped asking where he'd been. Stopped reminding him he was violating his parole. He could deal with his parole officer on his own. She wasn't going to try to make it better.

No one could make it better for her either. There was no one to call. No one besides Trish. Kevin had all but disappeared. There was no point in calling her father or Anna: what would she say? And Ellen was keeping their relationship brutally professional. Ellen seemed to have barely heard last week when she had asked her to keep an eye out for a cottage in the Gats. Where was Bill Torrence and his money?

She kept asking Tim. And came upstairs one morning to find him talking in animated tones on the phone. When he got off, he looked ecstatic. He swung her around so fast she got dizzy.

“What? What is it? Stop!”

Tim put her down. He was beaming. “Bill's just leaving Toronto. He's got a cheque for thirty-five thousand smackeroos. Made out to you, baby. He'll be here in five hours.”