Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (246 page)

Sue combed through the article carefully. It read like a press release from the family. Although Longstreet had apparently taken his own life in the apartment he maintained downtown close to the university, the word suicide wasn’t even mentioned. According to his Uncle Cyril, Longstreet used the apartment as a retreat for rest and work during his hectic, sometimes eighteen-hour days. There was a bunch of quotes from students who adored him, from colleagues who hailed him as the next Clarence Darrow—Sue wasn’t sure who that was but had a vague recollection of a famous American human rights trial lawyer—and even from an old schoolmate at Lower Canada College. She assumed Lower Canada College was like its Upper Canada equivalent, an incubator for future captains of the country.

Everyone regretted the loss of a man taken at the pinnacle of his powers, who’d left a legacy of cases untried and a young wife and infant son to mourn his loss. In all this gushing, there was precious little about the death itself. No autopsy results, no mention of nooses or closets. Montreal police were briefly quoted as saying foul play was not suspected, and the landlord who’d blabbed about the body hanging in the closet now had no comment.

Things sure were different in those days, she thought. Today the landlord would have cashed in big time, selling his story to some trashy rag that didn’t give a damn about facts, integrity or family sensitivities. It was interesting to see that in 1978, Harvey Longstreet’s family had enough money, or clout, to muzzle a story that might have blown the guy’s perfect image to smithereens in their faces. Had the police investigated at all, or had the family’s embarrassment shut them down too?

There were many questions that remained unanswered, many secrets that the family and Elena had kept to themselves. But the story seemed deader than a doornail, and Sue couldn’t imagine how an old suicide, no matter how tragic, had anything to do with anything.

At ten a.m. Thursday morning, sixty-four hours and three brutal winter nights after Meredith Kennedy had last been heard from, Constable Whelan of Missing Persons finally managed to persuade his contacts at Meredith’s bank to give him a peek at her records. Officially banks and phone companies required search warrants to permit police access to a citizen’s records, but a warrant required proof of a crime. Being missing was not a crime, no matter what the private fears of the police were. Like all businesses, however, banks didn’t want to appear uncooperative when a young woman’s life might be at stake. After ten years in Missing Persons, Whelan had enough inside contacts to persuade someone to open the books.

By Thursday, things were not looking good. The city had been turned upside down by a burgeoning army of friends, family, women’s groups and other concerned volunteers, and the media was dogging their every move. Medical and weather experts had been thrust on the air, counting down her diminishing chances for survival if she lay injured somewhere. The mood in the incident room had turned sombre, and the search coordinator was already talking in terms of recovery more often than rescue.

Constable Whelan refused to give up. He had been there from the first call, heard the anguish in Brandon Longstreet’s voice, and seen the hopeful laughing face of the girl in the photo he’d sent. When he finally got the official okay on Thursday morning at the end of his graveyard shift, he headed directly over to the TD Canada Trust branch Meredith used. Everyone at the branch had heard of the disappearance, and everyone knew the woman well. She’d been a customer since she was six years old, when her father had brought her to open her very own account, and she still came in regularly to do business.

Recently she’d been in to discuss a small loan to cover some of the travel expenses to Ethiopia. She had a smile and a friendly hello for everyone, they said, and she was so excited about this trip. So thrilled about the wedding. She’d been engaged once before, she’d told the branch manager, but they were too incompatible. This time it had felt perfect.

The branch manager ushered Whelan directly into her office and typed some commands into her computer. “This will show a record of all her transactions in all her accounts, no matter where they occur. She can take money out of an ATM in Vancouver and it will show up here instantly.” She paused as the screen flickered and loaded a long list of entries. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she studied the list. “She has a modest RRSP but that hasn’t seen any activity since last February. Tax time. Besides that, there’s the unsecured line of credit and one personal bank account, a full-service chequing account that typically sees several transactions a day. She uses web banking to pay her bills. Right now this is the balance on that account.”

She paused to write the figure down for him. $11,328.32. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. So much for the global economic recession.

“The five thousand dollar loan came through,” the manager explained. “It was deposited three days ago, and it’s reflected in her line-of-credit figure.”

“Can I have a printout of that entire banking summary, and also of the recent transactions in her chequing account?”

“Of course. How far back do you want?”

“The last two weeks.” He hesitated. You never knew what would be important. “Make that the last two months.”

She clicked some buttons and the printer beside her began to hum. While they waited, she studied the screen, then glanced at her calendar with a frown. “That’s funny.”

“What?”

“Her last two transactions were December 14. That was Tuesday.”

The day after she disappeared, he realized, just as the manager must have. “Is there a delay in registering it in the system?”

She shook her head. “Not with debits. On weekends or after business hours, yes, but only to the next business day. Not a whole twenty-four hours later.” She plucked the printed sheets from the machine and handed them to him.

He glanced at the latest two entries. One was an ATM withdrawal for $300 and the other a payment of $176.25 at The Bay department store. Neither one would have been a preauthorized automatic withdrawal.

“Can you tell where these transactions occurred?” he asked.

“I can tell you the ATM right away.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “The TD bank on Pretoria Avenue in the Glebe.”

Whelan frowned. The Glebe was an old residential neighbourhood south of Centretown and Pretoria was a short street running along its northern edge. However, neither Pretoria nor the Glebe was anywhere near Meredith’s work, her home or her fiancé’s home.

“For The Bay, you will have to find out their store code through them.” The manager smiled. “But I’m sure with a little detective work you can find out not only what store she shopped at but what she bought there. It’s all on computers now.”

Whelan nodded absently as he folded the printout into his growing file. His mind was already racing ahead to a better idea—the security camera at the ATM in the Glebe. As he rose to leave, she looked up at him, startled.

“Don’t you want to know credit card activity too?”

He sat down with a thud, cursing his stupidity. Getting old and soft behind a desk.

She clicked more links. “Now, there is a time lag with credit cards, because businesses have to submit the charge to VISA, which has to approve it. It can take a couple of days, so to get the most up-to-date charges, we will have to contact the VISA office itself. However, this list is worth a look.” She printed off the past two months, and Whelan studied them. At first glance there was nothing suspicious. The card had a modest balance of $2110.36 owing, and the latest charge had been posted on the Monday of Meredith’s disappearance—a charge of twenty-five dollars at D’Arcy McGee’s, a trendy downtown pub, the previous Saturday. Other charges over recent weeks were for shoes, liquor, gas, adventure gear, pharmacy supplies and odds and ends. As he scanned the list, he was aware of the bank manager on the phone with the credit card company. She was jotting notes as she listened and a flicker of curiosity crossed her face. When she hung up, she glanced again at her calendar.

“Any activity after Monday?” he prompted.

“No, but on Monday she did make another charge, which is just going through now. To the bus company for sixty-eight dollars.”

Whelan blinked. Bus company! “What did she buy?”

“You’ll have to ask the bus company. Our records just show the transaction.”

He was already on his feet again, ignoring the creaking in his knees as he stuffed the papers into his file. His heart was racing with excitement. If the purchase was for a bus ticket out of town, the woman might still be alive!

In his excitement, Whelan revved his unmarked car so fast that the tires spun on the ice coming out of the parking lot. Sunlight glared off the snow and snowbanks canyoned the streets, further reducing visibility. Cars raced by, splattering salty slush on his windshield as he tried to merge onto Carling Avenue. He steered carefully towards downtown, his thoughts running ahead. First the bus station and the ATM. Should he call this in? At least ask for some help with the security tapes? He was an old desk jockey working a double shift and in the field again for the first time in three years.

He slipped onto the Queensway for the latter half of the trip and took the exit for the bus terminal. First things first. Find out where the woman had gone, and when.

Just before Christmas, the inter-city station was full of travellers, many of them students laden down with backpacks and shopping bags of presents. Long lines had already formed at the platforms for the Montreal and Toronto Express buses. A chatter of voices reverberated around the huge room. The station manager looked harried from his efforts to handle the overflow, but he barely glanced at Whelan’s badge in his eagerness to cooperate. The plight of Meredith Kennedy had captured the city, and any assistance that the bus company could provide in finding her would be not only a goodwill gesture but a PR coup as well. It took the manager less than two minutes on his computer to locate the purchase involved.

“It was a return ticket to Montreal purchased at 9:27 a.m. on December 13. Departing at 10:00 a.m. and returning at 6:00 p.m.”

“What day?”

“The same day. Monday. She bought the ticket and left right away.”

“Do you have confirmation she was on the bus?”

The manager’s face fell. “Not in the system. But why would she buy a ticket? She bought it right here.” He gestured out his office window to the large open area where customers snaked behind guide ropes up to the wickets.

“Then one of the ticket agents would remember her?”

“Possibly, although with these crowds...and of course, she could have used one of the machines.”

“You mean you don’t keep a record of who actually gets on the bus?” Whelan allowed some cop disapproval to resonate in his voice. He knew that the bus company had been under fire for their poor security controls, knew also that there was little money or political will to invest in changes. The bus system ferried Canada’s poor and working class from one little town to another across the country. Those with money and influence generally preferred planes, or at least VIA rail.

The manager glanced anxiously at the crowds milling in the room outside his office. Ticket sellers were overworked and frazzled, and carriers scrambled to add extra buses to handle the long lines. He started to shake his head then spoke reluctantly. “Well, we could check the ticket stubs. The bus drivers hand them in at the end of their shift. Do you want me to have someone go through those?”

Whelan arched his eyebrows. “Yes, please. And could I have the names and contact information of the bus drivers on those two runs?” Hauling himself to his feet, he stifled a grunt. Each hour his joints stiffened more. He handed the man his card and was pleased to see that before he was even out the door, the manager was already on the phone, eager for his own small moment of playing hero.

Outside the bus station, Whelan had to lean on his car roof to steady himself. Black spots floated before his eyes and a wave of fatigue crashed over him. The ATM had better be the last stop for today, he decided, before he became more a liability than an asset to the case.

SIX

He moved between sleep and wakefulness, drifting up and down as if billowing on a soft, fluffy cloud. He felt no pain or anguish, drugged by the Valium he’d taken at two in the morning. After two sleepless nights, he’d finally acknowledged he needed chemical help. He could barely think straight. On his latest shift, he had misread a consultant’s order and forgotten to sign a patient’s chart, and yet he’d lain awake at the end of it, exhausted but staring at the ceiling, unable to escape his thoughts. Meredith needed him. What help would he be to her, what guidance could he offer the police if he collapsed? If he could just get some rest, maybe everything would be clearer and calmer when he woke up.

But the Valium didn’t quite pull him under. He could still hear voices. The radio news droning on, the commercials blaring. Time stretched. Slipped away. More voices, different now. His mother on the phone. Endless people calling. How many friends did she have? He knew some of the calls were probably for him. Friends and colleagues wanting to help, the Addis Ababa people wanting to know if he was still a go. Curiosity seekers, psychics and other disaster junkies salivating for their next fix.

Meredith, what have you done? The cry welled from deep within him, jerking him above the surface. He wondered if he had spoken it aloud, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He’d better be more vigilant. Valium was dangerous stuff, lowering his guard and loosening his tongue when he could least afford it. His mother had already warned him about that.

“Of course you’re angry!” she’d said at two in the morning when she found him pacing the kitchen. “No matter what happened, no matter who’s to blame, she’s gone. But you mustn’t show it. Anger loses public sympathy, no matter how justified it is. People don’t like anger; it scares them, offends them and raises their suspicions. You’re the victim here, Brandon. Fear and grief are acceptable; they arouse sympathy and understanding. The police expect you to be panic-stricken and distraught.”