Maid of the Mist (12 page)

A forensics team.

Scenes-of-crime team.

Cops, in Niagara, and he didn't know any of them.

'Do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?'

One of the cops raised the butt of his rifle and might have shattered Corrigan's kneecap if the guy in charge hadn't stopped him. He then tapped Corrigan's passport against his leg and said: 'OK, let's go.'

As they dragged him through the door Corrigan struggled for the first time; it had more to do with modesty than wrongful arrest; then something hit him on the back of the head, a fist or a gun, and he stumbled forward, but they had too good a grip on him to let him fall.

There were six vehicles parked in the middle of the road. He was hurried along to the third and placed in the rear seat. The leather was as cold as the handcuffs that pinched his skin.

'What's this about?' Corrigan asked again.

'Murder,' said the cop beside him.

It was like a thump to the head with a big stick, with a nail in the end of it. Penetrating his brain, lacerating his eyes, paralysing everything but his voice, and his memory.

'What the fuck're you talking about?'

The convoy travelled at speed, sirens blaring.

'Shut the fuck up.'

'You can't just say
murder
and leave it like that.'

'Shut the fuck up.'

'You can't just break into my house and search my arse and say murder and not tell me what the fuck this is all about. I'm a police officer for fuck's sake. This is my town.'

'Not any more.'

'I have rights. You can't just . . .'

They shut him the fuck up.

They uncuffed him, then shoved him into a cell, his arms and legs aching from the beating. A blanket landed on the floor beside him. It was grey and jagged and he picked it up and pressed his face into it, willing the nightmare to end. But when he pulled it away he was still in the cell,
his
cell, and there were fragments of grey fluff stuck to his stubbled face. There was a bed, mattress, no pillow, a table, two chairs, a bare lightbulb, linoleum floor stained with blood and cigarette burns. It smelt of . . .
Dettol.
The door opened and he looked up, hoping for a familiar face, but it was another stranger. Corrigan said: 'What the fuck is going on?'

But he was ignored. His arm was grabbed and his watch wrestled off.

Murder.

As the constable left the cell Corrigan heard a long stream of something loud and guttural. The constable was framed in the doorway, but behind him he caught the merest glimpse of Lelewala being dragged fighting and screaming into the next cell.

Corrigan leapt towards the door. He grabbed the constable back by the shoulder and yelled: 'What's going on?' in his startled face. 'What's she done?' he demanded.

The constable thumped him.

Corrigan tasted the blood on his lip even before his head cracked off the linoleum. And he could feel the bump on his head beginning to rise even before the boot thumped into his ribs.

He groaned and retched. The constable began to circle, looking for the next exposed area to strike. He found it: the lower back. Bending, he shot his fist into the soft flesh and Corrigan was face down. Then the toe of his boot in his arse.

He couldn't move. Then the constable was kneeling beside him. When he spoke his voice was a rough hiss. 'She was pregnant.'

Corrigan blinked uncomprehendingly. 'Lelewala?'

'Your wife.'

His body was suddenly racked by great involuntary shudders; it was as if his soul was choking. He spread his hands out on the floor of the cell, trying to hold on. But he could not. He was falling. He forced his eyes shut.

But there was no place to hide.

Nicola.

Nicola dead.

Nicola pregnant and dead.

He could not stop the tears. The shudders. Racked by pain and guilt and memories.

Please God. Please God no.

Hours later. Countless, miserable, lonely, cold, shaking hours later, a cop, a cop he knew, a cop who worked for
him,
came into the cell. Bringing in water. Looking uncomfortable. 'Jimmy. . . Jimmy,' Corrigan whispered urgently, 'what the fuck is going on? What happened to my wife?'

Jimmy put down the mug and looked at him awkwardly. 'Sir. Sorry. They told me not to . . .'

'Jimmy, for fuck's sake – my wife!'

'I know. I'm very sorry. But you shouldn't've . . .'

'I didn't do . . .' He was about to launch into an anguished defence. But he stopped himself. He took a deep breath. Steady.
Steady.
'Jimmy, please, just tell me what's happened. Who the fuck are all these cops?'

Jimmy looked warily at the door. 'From headquarters. As soon as they found . . . Mr Stirling called them in as soon as he realized who. . .'

'Stirling called them in?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Fuck,' said Corrigan.

'Fuck indeed,' said a voice from the door, and he didn't have to look up. Chief of Police Dunbar. In beige suit and hairstyle, and still only one of them from choice. There was another beige suit with him. Younger, square-jawed, blue eyes. He nodded at Jimmy and Jimmy scooted out.

They entered the cell. 'Frank,' Dunbar said, 'this is Carl Turner. He's going to ask you some questions.'

Turner nodded at Corrigan, then pulled out a chair from the table and sat. He looked at Corrigan again and said: 'Sit.'

'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?' Corrigan spat.

'A murderer,' Turner said.

Corrigan looked at Dunbar. 'There's no need for this,' he said. 'For godsake, I'm a friggin' cop . . .'

Dunbar smiled. 'Indeed you are. Which is why we have to be seen to be treating you the same as everyone else. If not worse.' He walked out of the cell, pulling the door closed behind him.

Corrigan slapped his hands against the cell door. He rested his forehead on it. His wife was dead. Nicola was dead. Aimie's mother. Dead. Dead.
Dead.
He took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out. He turned and looked at Turner.

'Have a seat, please,' Turner said.

Corrigan walked across to the table and sat down. Turner was looking at the bruise already forming up on Corrigan's cheek. 'Fall?' he inquired, with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

'Aye,' said Corrigan. 'Shouldn't there be two of you?'

'This is just a preliminary interview.'

'Shouldn't someone read me my rights?'

'Someone did. Although very quietly.'

'Tell me about my wife.'

'Why don't you tell me?'

Corrigan shook his head. He stared at the table. 'She's dead,' he said quietly. 'Murdered.' Turner nodded. 'And you think I did it.' Corrigan looked up abruptly, anger suddenly flashing across his face. 'Although if you don't mind me making a wild suggestion, picking up the fucking fat bastard who broke her jaw might be worth considering.'

Turner ignored him. 'You have quite a background. Five murder charges.'

'Acquitted,' Corrigan said. 'Acquitted. Acquitted. Acquitted. Acquitted.'

'Still,' said Turner, 'makes you wonder. What brought you to Niagara?'

'I came for the waters.'

Turner smiled. 'OK. Where were you last night?'

'At home.'

'Talk to anyone?'

'No.'

'What time did you go out at?'

Corrigan shrugged. 'I went for a walk.'

'Meet anyone?'

'No.'

'When did you last see your wife?'

'Yesterday.'

'Last night?'

'No.'

'Tell me about Gretchin Solyakhov.'

'What?'

'Tell me about Gretchin Solyakhov.'

'You just told me everything I know about her.'

'How much did you pay her?'

'I didn't pay her anything.'

'So she did it for nothing? A crime of passion, then?'

Corrigan shook his head. Turner took out a packet of cigarettes and offered him one. Corrigan accepted and managed to stop his hands from shaking as he bent for a light.

'Frank,' Turner said quietly, 'you know how it works here. Make it easy on yourself. Tell us what happened; we'll do the best we can for you.'

Corrigan stroked his bruised cheek. 'Somebody already tried.'

Turner looked a little miffed, said, 'It wasn't
an order.
The guys get upset when a pregnant woman gets murdered.'

Corrigan closed his eyes. 'I didn't know she was pregnant.'

'Would that have stopped you killing her?'

'I didn't fucking kill her.' He sighed. He put the cigarette out. 'Do I get to see a lawyer?' he asked.

'Eventually,' said the cop. 'How did you meet Gretchin Solyakhov?'

'I have never met Gretchin Solyakhov.'

'How did you meet Bobby Doyle?'

'I came home one day, he was fucking my wife.'

'When did you last see him?'

'Yesterday. I went to see him because he broke my wife's jaw.' He paused, managed a weak smile. 'Look at that, a clue.'

'You threatened him.'

'Did not.'

'He broke your wife's jaw and you didn't threaten him?'

'I'm not a violent man.'

'He made a complaint about you yesterday afternoon. Down at headquarters. Something about a gun.'

Corrigan shrugged. 'I didn't threaten him. I gave him some advice.'

'Tell me about Gretchin Solyakhov . . .' Turner asked.

Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'What would you like to know?'

'Whatever you would like to tell me.'

Corrigan took a deep breath. 'She's a Russian immigrant.' A flicker of excitement crossed the detective's eyes. 'Her father was a scientist. Her mother mined lithium near St Petersburg. She studied classical violin at the Sorbonne.' Corrigan paused, as if he was having second thoughts about spilling the beans. Turner blinked hopefully at him. 'I would like to tell you that, but I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. Who is Gretchin Solyakhov?'

'She's the woman who was pulled out of the Niagara.'

'Lelew. . .'

'She was found at the murder scene. In fact, beside the bodies.'

'Bodies?'

The officer nodded slowly, noting the surprise suddenly etched on Frank Corrigan's face.

Corrigan did not sleep. He lay on the bed and tried to stop the world from revolving and his heart from exploding. He picked at his fingernails. They had come earlier and taken samples from beneath them and now they felt uncomfortable. A lock of his hair. A syringe full of his blood. A gob of his saliva. It wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that they would ask for semen too. They had given so little away. He had no idea how Nicola had died. Or the Fat Man. His wife was dead and they would ask him to wank in a bucket. He closed his eyes, rubbed the top of his nose. His face was grim and his mouth was tight, and it wasn't just the thought of masturbating to order.

Nicola.

On a slab.

It was a small-town police station and not usually that busy, but throughout the night the sounds of murder throbbed through the linoleum. Double murder was big. Double murder with a cop involved was bigger still, and double murder with a cop and a love triangle was biggest of all. Not that there was a love triangle: there was something to do with love, but it was formless and did not adhere to any of the established rules of geometry.

The big fat bastard was dead.

And of course Corrigan was implicated.

But Lelewala?

Lelewala?

At
his
house?

How? Why? He closed his eyes. He rubbed at them. What possible reason could she have for killing them? For even knowing of their existence? She had come back to fight a great evil. If the worst she could find was Nicola and Big Trousers then she was not only bonkers, but had a poor understanding of the state of the world.

He listened. He knew the station intimately. The nights he had spent here, working, drinking, seeking refuge from Nicola's infidelity. If you were quiet enough, if you stilled everything, then there were no bounds to what you could hear. Every whisper. Every creak. Every ring of a phone, the tramp of anxious feet. Words. Whispered. Shouted. Gossiped. Even
sung.
They left the cell light on. Every half-hour an eye appeared at the spyhole to check that he had not begun tunnelling out. Somewhere, somewhere, there was a TV playing.
It's A Wonderful Life.
Snatches of it.

At some point in time there came a soft tapping on the wall dividing him from Lelewala. He listened for a while, trying to detect if it was semaphore, but it was formless and arrhythmic. It could well just be the plumbing. He tapped some simple words in response anyway. Just
Hello
and
Nice here, isn't it?
He could picture her only as he had seen her at the women's refuge, naked and beautiful, and he found it difficult to equate such beauty, and such nudity, with death and horror. How could she? And why?

When he had finished tapping, he waited for a response. But nothing came. And then he wondered if the bizarre acoustics of the station were sufficient to relay his ghostly wall-taps to others, to detectives, and if any of them were intelligent enough to read them. He tapped:
I am ready to confess.
Then waited thirty minutes for a rush of feet outside.

When he was just on the verge of sleep, when his eyes finally, finally gave up the fight and reluctantly began to lower the shutters, they came back in and questioned him. Again and again. Turner, always, he was the constant, but other detectives too. None that he knew. It seemed like Chief Dunbar had moved half of Toronto's detectives in to grill him. But they got nothing more, because there was nothing more to tell. He got a little out of them: not that they volunteered it, but he could detect it from the pattern and content of their questions. That Nicola had been shot three times. Fat Trousers likewise. That Lelewala had been found at the scene, but no weapon. His gun had been checked by forensics, but was clean.

The door opened again. He was lying on his bed, eyes closed. He didn't even bother opening them, just rolled up into a sitting position and tried to stop himself yawning, because yawning somehow suggested that he was relaxed, and he was anything but. He was taut.