Murder At Midnight Page 13

  “There’s something else I’d like to get off my chest while I’m at it,” Webb

  added. “Boyd was blackmailing me for years because he knew Judy killed Lisa.” Then upon seeing Scott’s incredulous expression, laughed and assured him he had not killed Boyd.

  * * * *

  This was a turn of events that Slater did not welcome. It was a veritable bombshell, with the potential to blow the case against Victor Kenny right out of the water.

  “There is still not a shred of physical evidence to back Webb’s story,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps not,” Scott conceded. “However, it does make a convincing case of circumstantial evidence. It is quite flawless when it comes to both motive and opportunity.”

  Slater ignored this and raked impatiently through the Craig file. ”We have strong physical evidence that links Victor Kenny with the murdered girl,” he stated bluntly. “Which includes not only the brooch that she was wearing on the night she was murdered, but the possible murder weapon as well.”

  “But why would Webb make an accusation like this if it weren’t true?” Scott demanded. “He has nothing whatever to gain by it.”

  Slater’s disappointment at this new turn of events was almost comical to watch. “This has to be by far, the most ill-fated, irksome, jinx of a case, that I’ve ever had the misfortune to be involved with,” he declared.

  Greg Mowatt, on the other hand, was elated with the news. “I’ll hold the front page,” he promised with a conspiratorial wink. “We’ll give it the star treatment, big and flashy, with photos of Judy and Lisa and an inch high headline: WEBB CLAIMS HIS WIFE KILLED LISA CRAIG!”

  The noonday sun lanced through the blinds and landed in a dusty pool on Greg’s cluttered desk. “Well done Scott,” he exclaimed generously. “This is going to make our boys in blue look more inept than ever.” He leaned back happily in his chair, frosty eyes sparkling with the triumph of the moment. “We’ll have to run off twice as many copies as usual.”

  * * * *

  “Webb is a bloody liar.” Shelley Roth was furious. She slapped the offending issue of the Morning Herald onto Slater’s desk.

  “Really?” He watched the irate woman through narrowed eyes, as she struggled for a vestige of self-control.

  Her tinted red hair flew wild beneath a sky-blue bandanna, her face as pugnacious as a bulldog, under layers of heavy make-up.

  “Judy was with me on the night of Lisa Craig’s murder,” she stated angrily. “I was convalescing after an operation.”

  “Is there any way you can corroborate this?”

  “After twenty years?” Shelley retorted incredulously. “You’re not expecting much are you? Of course I can’t bloody well prove it.”

  “How can you be so sure that she was with you on that particular night?” he snapped. “After all, as you’ve just pointed out yourself, it all happened a very long time ago.”

  “As if I could ever forget it,” Shelley exclaimed passionately, out of a veritable wellspring of emotion. “I can still see the look of horror on poor Judy’s face when we heard the news about Lisa’s murder on the radio.” She shook her head and took a shuddering breath. “Judy was terrified, Detective Slater. She was convinced that Webb had murdered the girl, and was certain she would meet with the same fate.”

  While she spoke, Slater never took his eyes off her face. But now as she paused and blew her nose, he gazed out the window at a marbled sky, hurling storm clouds towards the horizon.

  “Webb is a violent and dangerous man,” Shelley continued. “Judy had been afraid of him for years.”

  “But what would have been his motive for killing Lisa Craig?” Slater’s earlier suspicion of Webb as Lisa’s murderer had been based on the assumption that she caught him either in the act of murdering his wife, or trying to dispose of her body.

  “Webb is oversexed.” Shelley spat out the insult, with a fine edge of disgust. “You can bet he had been pestering Lisa to sleep with him for ages. There’s nothing quite like frustrated desire, to make someone already prone to violence, go right over the edge.”

  “But there again Ms. Roth, do you have any evidence whatever to back up these allegations?”

  “I do indeed,” Shelley replied triumphantly. She dug into her cheap plastic handbag and produced a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. But it was enough to convince Slater that Alec Webb had been convicted of statutory rape just two years before Lisa Craig was murdered. He recalled Scott Preston telling him that Lisa’s mother thought Webb was a creep.

  “He liked them young,” Shelley reminisced. Her eyes glowed with hatred. “ Judy heard him arguing with Lisa on the telephone just shortly before her death. Something about her being a tease.”

  “So where is Judy now?” Slater shot the question at her unexpectedly, catching her off guard.

  She fixed him with a gaze just a trifle too challenging. “We lost touch many years ago.”

  She’s lying, he decided with conviction. She knows exactly where Judy is. But he let it pass and reminded her instead, that she had wilfully withheld valuable information from a murder investigation.

  “You knew that Alec Webb had not killed his wife. That she is, in fact, still very much alive. Yet you expressed to us a belief that he had murdered her.”

  “…I...”

  “That is not only a serious defamation of character against Webb, but a malicious attempt to subvert justice, and waste valuable police time as well.”

  “I know,” Shelley admitted shamefacedly. “I’m truly sorry. But it would have been poetic justice of a sort, if that bastard Webb had been convicted of Judy’s murder, while she was alive and kicking in another town.”

  Slater frowned his disapproval, but held an angry retort in check and asked her if she would be willing to take a lie-detector test.

  “Absolutely,” she replied without hesitation. “In fact, I’ll take several, if that’s what it’ll take to get you to believe me.”

  “Damn the woman,” he muttered to himself once she had gone. “And damn Alec Webb as well for opening up this nasty can of worms in the first place.”

  But Slater was not the only police officer unhappy about this sudden twist in the Craig case. Police Chief Tom Harrington was even more miserable, and let his displeasure be known in a highly voluble fashion.

  “This exasperating…albatross of a case must be solved and closed immediately,” he warned; his face suffused with an ugly purple stain of rage. “It’s veering way out-of-control again, just look at this.” He jabbed at the Morning Herald with a furious finger. “I had a call from the Police Board this morning demanding to know why all this unfavourable publicity is still going on.”

  “New evidence has come to light, Sir,” Slater replied as reasonably as he could. “Are you ordering me to ignore it and to proceed with the Victor Kenny prosecution?”

  “Now I didn’t say that,” Harrington roared, and tossed the offending newspaper into his waste paper basket. “Don’t you go putting words into my mouth like that. I don’t appreciate it one bit, I can assure you. Just get this case closed as quickly and as quietly as you can.”

  * * * *

  Roma’s was catering to a wedding party in their banquet rooms. The sound of laughter drifted into the restaurant, which was quiet for a Saturday evening.

  Scott and Ben shared a pizza, washing it down with frosty glasses of ale. In the midst of a heat wave, even as darkness fell, the sidewalks still burned from the fiery breath of a dragon sun.

  Outside the Skytrain Station across the street, a panhandler solicited coins from tourists; breaking into a grotesque song and dance number as he waved his tin cup in their faces.

  “Now let me get this straight,” Ben said. “Both Alec Webb and Shelley Roth passed with flying colours on their lie-detector tests?”

  Scott nodded.” Which means, that unless they found a way to beat the test, like sticking a nail in their shoe, we have to assume that they are both telling the truth?”<
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  “But they can’t be. Not unless old Judy was in two places at once?”

  “Webb obviously believed what he said about Judy being at home on the night Lisa came a-calling,” Scott agreed. “That she had, in a fit of rage killed the girl. However, it’s Shelley’s version of events that seems to be what really happened. She said that Judy was with her on the night of Lisa’s murder, and the test proves she was.”

  “So according to his performance on the lie-detector,” Ben mused. “Webb didn’t kill anybody. Not his wife, nor Lisa Craig, and he had nothing to do with Boyd’s accident, or the attack on Meg Bryant either.”

  “You’ve got it. Slater is now pressing ahead with the case against Victor Kenny.”

  “You don’t sound too sure about Victor’s guilt.” Ben caught the waiter’s eye and ordered more beer.

  “I’m not I suppose,” Scott admitted. “Still, the facts do point to him as the murderer. Hard physical evidence as well as a load of circumstantial stuff.”

  “I bet Slater’s delighted with this turn of events,” Ben laughed. “He can announce that they have solved the case, and simply ignore the fact that it took them twenty long years to do it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Several months later, on a crisp October evening, Slater enjoyed a relaxing meal at his favourite Chinese restaurant. The Golden Rickshaw offered attentive service and a well-stocked bar. From the windows you could see the world’s narrowest building––only six feet wide––on the corner of Pender Street.

  Slater let his thoughts wander to the satisfactory conclusion of the Craig case. Victor Kenny had been declared mentally unfit to stand trial for the murder of Lisa Craig and the attempted murder of Meg Bryant. So now he was safely locked up in a medical facility for the criminally insane.

  He felt confident that he would have been able to get a conviction even if Kenny had been of sound mind. His obsession with Lisa Craig and the shrine he built to her; combined with the physical evidence; her brooch, found in his possession, and the blood encrusted golf iron were pretty convincing of his guilt.

  But although the latter was not identifiable as Lisa’s blood, due to the tiny amount that remained, and its advanced state of decomposition, there was still a strong possibility that the rusted iron was the murder weapon. There wasn’t a jury around that wouldn’t be swayed by this.

  Victor insisted he found Lisa’s brooch in Roanoke Park, and his lawyer stressed the point that as Victor was well known in the area for wandering around at all hours, this was entirely possible.

  As for the golf iron, Victor claimed that he killed a rat with it years ago. Thus, accounting for the nano-flake of blood that still clung to it.

  However, it was all a moot point now, Slater decided contentedly, biting into a fortune cookie.

  * * * *

  Ben, who had been apartment hunting, sank down wearily on a chair and propped his feet up on the corner of Scott’s desk. “The only place I liked that was at all affordable was a fifth floor suite at the Romney.” He stifled a yawn. “I was surprised, because I thought it would be way more expensive.”

  “The Romney?” Scott was reminded at once of Lisa’s strange remark about the building. There appeared to be something about the luxury complex that Lisa, who worked for Philip Mitford who built it, did not like. Of course, this could run the gamut from a faulty plumbing or heating system, to insufficient soundproofing between the floors.

  “There may be nothing to it,” he advised Ben. “But it’s worth poking around a bit to see what you can find out about the place, before diving in and signing a lease agreement.”

  * * * *

  “Well, there is an unusually high turnover of tenants at the Romney, I can tell you that much.” Ben stopped by Scott’s desk on his way to a photo shoot. “I checked with a former manager, and he joked that he had been thinking of installing a revolving door.”

  “But no mention of a reason for this?”

  “A number of vague complaints about health problems, which were attributed to the building’s close proximity to the harbour.”

  Scott nodded. “It can get damp, no doubt about it. But then why doesn’t every other building near the harbour have the same degree of problems? In my place, for instance, there is seldom a vacancy.”

  “I have an appointment tonight with one of the tenants who left recently,” Ben confided. “She only stayed there for a few months.”

  * * * *

  “I never had a well day while living in that blighted place.” Caroline Foster looked fit and athletic. Her silver hair bounced when she moved. “There is something inherently unhealthy about it, that cannot be simply explained away by its closeness to the water.”

  “So you were always healthy until you checked into the Romney?” Ben asked.

  “Absolutely,” Caroline nodded. “I was one of those disgustingly healthy people who’ve never had a sick day.”

  Ben sipped at a cup of weak tea, and listened attentively about the woes of former Romney tenants, who kept in touch with each other. “Your working for the Morning Herald may be just the break we need to get something done about it,” she suggested hopefully. “I’ve always smelled something rotten about that place, but could never put a finger on exactly what it was.”

  But whatever it was, Lisa Craig must have known about it, thought Ben. He promised Caroline he would be in touch.

  Driving home cautiously over wet city streets, he pondered over the Romney and its evil reputation. It was the time of night and the face of Vancouver he liked best, dark and quiet beneath a mantle of misty rain.

  * * * *

  “This gets more mysterious by the minute,” Scott exclaimed.

  “Yeah, there’s something very wrong about the Romney,” Ben agreed.

  “I think it’s time to do a thorough check of the building plans, development applications, contractors etcetera.” Scott switched the phone to his other hand and jotted down a few notes. “Let’s start first thing in the morning.”

  That night he dreamt again of Lisa Craig, standing as before, on the small Humpback Bridge, deep in the icy recesses of Roanoke Park. There was a stagnant sense of foreboding and malice permeating throughout, as the tall trees clustered claustrophobically around her. But he could not see her face, as her back remained stubbornly turned towards him, only her long flaming mane of hair was visible, and the green cloak that billowed elusively around her.

  * * * *

  “What kind of health problems do the Romney tenants have?” Violet toted up the day’s receipts.

  “Well they vary.” Scott locked the shop door. “Headaches, nausea, sore throats and a generalised feeling of fatigue and malaise are among the most common.”

  “So all the good things.” Her expression was sardonic. “I must run it past Philip. See if he can shed any light on the problem. After all he was the builder.”

  But Philip was tight-lipped and uncommunicative about the plight of the Romney tenants. “These kind of rumours have been flying around for years,” he declared impatiently. “They’re just unsubstantiated nonsense.”

  They were dining in the Chateau Blanc, an exclusive French restaurant that catered to a wealthy clientele. An elegant silver fir tree decorated with blue lights stood in the foyer.

  “It does seem to have an unusually high turnover of tenants though,” Violet insisted. She sipped on a champagne cocktail.

  Mitford brushed this observation aside. “Probably no more so than most comparable buildings,” he stated testily. “But when wild rumours begin to circulate, they stir up all sorts of hysteria, among the uninformed.”

  “I can’t buy that everyone is simply imagining their symptoms,” Violet retorted. She found Philip’s attitude both irritating and condescending.

  “Well neither can I my dear,” he answered carefully, trying to defuse what was turning into an unpleasant exchange. “But by the same token, we simply don’t know what made them sick.”

  The delicate fragran
ce of a single Bourbon rose, drifted up from the crystal vase on their table.

  “What I mean to say,” Mitford continued, upon seeing Violet’s stony stare. “Even if it wasn’t the building that made them sick, and I frankly don’t see how it could be, they will still be convinced that it was.”

  “It is very close to the water,” Violet suggested. “That may have something to do with it?”

  Mitford sighed and tugged impatiently at his ear. “Look can’t we just forget about this for a while, and talk about something else?”

  “Oh, but of course Philip, I didn’t mean to spoil such a lovely evening. However, it’s going to be a difficult topic for you to avoid in future.”

  “Why is that?” he asked sharply.

  “Scott is writing an article about the problem for the Morning Herald.”

  “Damn that meddling nephew of yours,” he retorted furiously, an angry flush stealing across his handsome features.

  Violet was amazed by this outburst, from a man admired for his good manners and almost rigid self-control. But what followed next would surprise her even more.

  In one angry movement Mitford lurched unsteadily to his feet, almost knocking over his champagne glass in the process. Then leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane, with a face dark as pitch, marched purposefully out the door.

  * * * *

  “I’ve just had Philip Mitford on the telephone.” Greg scratched the top of his head. “He’s threatening lawsuits galore if we go ahead with our story about the Romney building.”

  A white pool of sunshine dodged its way through the slats in the blinds, and highlighted the scarlet poinsettia on top of the credenza.

  “All the people I’ve interviewed, have medical backup for their complaints,” Scott insisted. “I can’t see how merely stating the facts can be defamatory.”

  Greg stirred his coffee, splashing a few drops over the blotter with the vigour of his movements. He had taken an instantaneous dislike to the prominent realtor, with his supercilious attitude and condescending manner. He pegged him at once, as one of those insufferable types who think their wealth can control everybody and everything. Well not so Greg Mowatt of the Morning Herald, and Mitford was just about to find that out.