“We could have gotten Reicher to turn,” Delorme said. “To go back to his initial statement. You could have offered him a better deal.”
Romney laughed. “Did you ever meet Reicher?”
“Once in chambers for depositions, that’s all.”
“Fritz Reicher-aside from having a remarkably low IQ-was a known fantasist, and that’s putting it kindly. All sorts of claims about his background and huge ideas about the future, both unencumbered by any connection to reality. He would have made the world’s worst witness-he had the affect of a zombie and an accent right out of the Berlin bunker.”
“The Luger was found at one of Priest’s sex clubs,” Cardinal pointed out.
“A club where Reicher was employed. He had twenty-four-hour access to the Ottawa club. And they were Reicher’s prints on that gun, not Priest’s. Please. I know you both as first-rate investigators, but it was a weak case against Priest two years ago and it’s a lot weaker now.” Romney stood up and transferred the cardboard box back to his chair. “I frankly don’t even know why you’re here.”
“Because you and I have presented a lot of cases together,” Cardinal said, “and we usually see eye to eye. It wasn’t like you to give Priest a free pass.”
Romney slammed a stack of files into the box. “The Charter of Rights and Freedoms gave him the free pass. The facts gave him the free pass. Do you seriously think I’d not press charges if I thought we had a case? You think the guy paid me off or something?”
“I might,” Cardinal said, “if it was somebody else. But you enjoy winning too much.”
“Exactly. And now I get to enjoy judging.”
Delorme had been in front of the mirror for more than half an hour, going systematically through the work side of her wardrobe. She pulled out one of her more sober ensembles. Grey suit, white open-collar blouse-probably the most unsexy outfit in her possession. She had worn it to court more than once.
She considered the effect.
She took off the jacket and exchanged the blouse for a silky dark top. Still prim, but with a lot more neck and throat. She changed her mind again and went for severe.
Leonard Priest was mostly known for his former association with an English fusion band called Ward Nine. He was not the front man-that honour had belonged to a berserker named Patch who had died of a heart attack at the age of thirty-two-but Priest had been a solid rhythm guitarist and the only member with the slightest head for business. Ward Nine’s flame had burned but briefly, and once Patch was gone the flame expired and the fans went home.
After Priest moved back to Canada, he turned his business acumen and entertainment know-how to the creation of a series of highly successful nightclubs in Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa. Other types of clubs followed, and one or two restaurants. His business presence in Algonquin Bay amounted to a single enterprise, a modest English-style pub called the Quiet Pint. The local paper had interviewed him when it opened and asked him why a nightclub mogul-a man with flourishing enterprises in big cities-would choose to come back to the north, even if he was from there originally. He wanted a refuge, he had said. He loved the quiet of the north. It reminded him of his childhood.
The pub was on a side street, a few doors from the public library. The small parking lot was empty and Delorme parked right by the building, under a sign that promised No Television!
She had come to the Quiet Pint once in the course of the Choquette investigation, never as a patron. It hadn’t changed: dark wooden booths along one wall, scattered tables in the centre and a couple of plush banquettes at the front. A gas fireplace put out considerable heat. Two young couples were giggling in one of the booths and a middle-aged man sat at a centre table, but the only other people in the place were the bartender and a waitress crisply turned out in a white blouse and a very short plaid skirt. A jukebox was playing Blue Rodeo at low volume. Quiet pint indeed.
Delorme sat toward one end of the bar under a hanging light and ordered a glass of red wine. She pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. She read a memo on staff parking, another on cubicle decoration, and an office circular, impossibly prolix, concerning a New Year’s charity event.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
It was the man from the centre table. He had an elongated, hound-dog face, with the eyes of one who expects rejection.
“No, thank you,” Delorme said, and patted her papers. “I really have to read this stuff.”
“Why would anyone try to work in a pub?”
“It’s where I want to work.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
The man went away and Delorme watched in the bartender’s mirror as he left the pub. Another couple joined the four in front and the noise level went up a notch. The music had switched to Sarah McLachlan and Delorme was on her second glass of wine when Priest came in. She remembered this about his routine from two years ago: nine o’clock he would come in and sit at the end of the bar for an hour.
She didn’t look up as he greeted the bartender and ordered a Guinness. Cold air wafted from his coat as he removed it and hung it on a hook under the bar. The bartender brought his beer and they talked about the day’s receipts and some inventory issues. Then the bartender went to make drinks for the waitress, and Delorme, although she was half turned away from him, sensed that Priest was looking at her.
She took a sip of her wine and turned a page. She reached for her briefcase and pulled out a ballpoint and made a note on the paper.
Priest came over and stood beside her. “What are you doing in my pub?”
“I thought pub was short for public.”
“You’re not public, you’re police. What are you doing here?”
“I’m not on duty, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Bollocks. The briefcase? The don’t-fuck-with-me suit? You look like you’re about to tell a lot of lies under oath and sell some poor sod down the river.”
“That isn’t what I do for a living.”
“You going to harass me at my place of work? Is that your plan?”
“At the moment, I’d say it’s the other way around. I don’t see you cross-examining the group up front.”
“They’re not the Old Bill, are they. You’ve never set foot in here before. What are you doing here now?”
Delorme lifted her papers. “I’m reading some stuff I’ve been putting off for weeks and I’m having a glass of wine. I was actually enjoying it until you came along-the wine, anyway.”
Priest folded his arms and went completely still, looking at her. His eyes scanning Delorme’s face, the topography of her deception. Priest’s own face was angular, expressionist: twin deltas for eyebrows, architectural cheekbones, his eyes high-intensity blue.
Delorme turned to her papers again and reread a memo on the protocol of assisting the Children’s Aid Society in the removal of children from abusive homes.
Priest pointed at Delorme’s wineglass and said to the bartender, “On me, Tommy.”
“No, no.” Delorme’s hand automatically covered her glass. “That’s all right.”
“Thought you were off-duty.”
“I am. I just prefer to buy my own drinks.”
“Course you do. Evidence is useless if you’ve been accepting favours. Otherwise, why turn down a friendly gesture?”
“It isn’t friendly.”
He turned his face to the bartender again. “On me, Tommy. Anything she leaves is yours.”
He went back to his Guinness at the end of the bar.
Delorme shook her head at the bartender and he shrugged. He was just a kid. College age.
Delorme stared at her papers a while longer, and came to the conclusion that coming to Leonard Priest’s bar was one of the most boneheaded ideas she’d ever had. She took out her wallet and asked for the check.
The bartender smiled and shook his head.
Delorme put fifteen dollars on the bar and pushed it toward him. She put her papers in the briefcase and reached for her coat and put it on. When she turned around, Priest was in front of her.
“You want to talk about Laura Lacroix?”
