The Vault Page 6

  Eleanor nodded and repositioned the print-out next to the series of departmental mug shots.

  “I’d say we’ve identified our victim,” he said taking a long swig of coffee.

  “We’ve a meeting with Giselle’s parents at ten thirty. Let’s get a DNA sample for Susan.”

  “Ok, going to run this idiot down to k9. I’ll pick you up out front in fifteen,” replied Laurence.

  The drive over to the north west of the city took considerably longer than Eleanor had anticipated due to a tremendous summer storm that was causing traffic mayhem. Black clouds boiled menacingly and the clatter of the rain made in-car conversation difficult.

  “We got a cause of death yet?” asked Laurence, as he rubbed his hair vigorously with what Eleanor suspected was a dog towel off the back seat.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “Go right here and double round.” Flinging the towel into the back, Laurence swung the car out of the gridlock and onto a residential street. To their right a row of shops, probably all established in the nineteen sixties, advertised wares of dubious quality and purpose. ‘Baker’s Hardware’ was squeezed between a launderette and a grocery store. An array of metallic and plastic utensils, all linked by a chain, dripped water onto the cracked paving slabs. What struck Eleanor most was that not one single item, attached by its lifeline to the shop, had strayed even a millimeter onto the territory of its neighbour. Moving quickly out of the rain and into the shop, it took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. Standing behind the Formica counter-top stood a man of indeterminate later years. His hair and face were grizzled and unkempt and his expression seemed sour and put upon. “I’m Detective Inspector Eleanor Raven and this is my partner Detective Laurence Whitefoot,” she said, approaching him with her identity card held aloft. Mr Baker stared back at them, his lip twitching fractionally. “We need to talk to you about your son, Mr Baker.”

  For a moment the man seemed more alert, his features almost relaxing. “I have no son,” he said slowly and carefully.

  “We need to talk to your wife as well Mr Baker,” she said calmly.

  “She won’t want to talk to you…”

  “It’s alright love,” came a quietly spoken Welsh voice. “I’m Maura, Richard’s mother. Is he in any trouble?” She was a small, dark-haired, worried looking woman. She wore an apron and was rubbing floury hands against it. “I’ve been baking,” she held out her hand. “Has anything happened to Richard?” her voice was beginning to tremble slightly.

  “When was the last time you saw your son?” Eleanor asked, noting that Mr Baker’s body language became slightly more defensive.

  “Three years ago!” he said too loudly.

  “Have you had any contact with him since then?”

  “No I haven’t,” he snapped. “Now what the bloody hell is this about?”

  “He’s dead isn’t he?” said Maura quietly. “He never did anything bad enough to warrant attention from a Detective Inspector, so you’re here to tell me that aren’t you?”

  There was a pause as Eleanor studied the woman in front of her. “Would you mind if we went somewhere a little more private?”

  Maura Baker nodded jerkily and led them behind the counter and into a cramped but tidy kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said mechanically. “You’d better say now.”

  Eleanor slowly pulled a photograph from her bag and held it up so they could both see it. “Ithis your son Richard?” She’d selected an early police mug shot, which showed a less feminised image. She noted that Mr Baker turned his head away but Maura reached for it. She nodded. “That’s him yes,” she said, clearing her voice. With a quick nervous glance at her husband she added, “He doesn’t really look like that now though.” Her husband’s face was growing crimson.

  Eleanor caught her partner’s gaze, giving an imperceptible nod.

  “Mr Baker would you mind if I spoke to you in private for a moment or two?” Laurence said moving towards the man. Mr Baker’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Laurence moved closer, speaking discretely into his ear. “It’s a rather delicate matter and I think it would be better for your wife if she was to hear things from you later, when we have gone.” Sighing, he led Laurence out of the kitchen and into the main area of the store.

  Eleanor pulled one of the chairs out from the table and invited Maura to sit down. “It is our belief that a body found yesterday was that of your son Richard.”

  Maura swallowed hard and then nodded. “Was…Was he harmed by someone?” she said in a barely audible voice.

  “Why would you think that Mrs Baker?”

  Maura began to roll her apron between her hands, flattening the material and dusting off the flour. “He had made a rather… dangerous lifestyle choice.”

  Eleanor nodded but remained silent, letting her continue in her own time.

  “He didn’t like being a man,” her voice trailed off. “But you’d know that by now, wouldn’t you?” A tear rolled down her cheek. “He was unhappy. Always had been since he was a little boy. He used to put on my clothes and make-up and swan around in ’em. Drove Harry insane it did. He called him a ‘Nance’, couldn’t bear the thought that he was different. He’d not listen to anything I said. Pushed him out like a dog…” she paused and shuddered. “So he had to make his own way and no wonder he ran into trouble.”

  “When did you last see him?” Eleanor asked.

  Maura spoke almost in a whisper. Eleanor found herself leaning closer in order to catch what she said. “About eighteen months ago. I used to meet him at a little café over on Queen Street West. It was nice there. The Liberty it was called… He wanted to be part of the family. But on his terms… as Giselle.” She bowed her head.

  “Your husband wouldn’t have coped with that?”

  Maura snorted.

  “Why did you stop seeing your son?” Eleanor asked carefully.

  Maura’s head lifted. “I didn’t. We used to meet sometimes on a Friday evening when Harry went to play pool. Then he stopped coming. I texted him lots of times. He never answered them or picked up the phone. I begged him to meet me but there was nothing. He’d met someone you see. I think it was an older man. Someone with money and he was going to go and live with him. He said the man wanted him as a… as a woman, you see. That’s all he wanted really, to be part of a family.” She shook her head and looked away.

  “Did you find out who the man was?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She rubbed her cheek and forehead. “How did he die?”

  “At the moment we don’t know how he died or when.”

  Maura searched Eleanor’s face, “I don’t understand.”

  “Your son’s body was discovered on a waste site yesterday. He appears to have been killed some time earlier.”

  “He was murdered?”

  “It seems likely at this this stage of the investigation.” Eleanor let Mrs Baker compose herself for a moment or two. “What did Richard say about this man?”

  Maura sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t really listen. I was uncomfortable I suppose. He did say he’d money and had given him presents. He had a big house somewhere but I don’t know where.”

  “Did he mention a name or where he’d met him?”

  Maura chewed on a fingernail and crinkled her brow. “I really can’t remember anything more… Did he suffer?”

  “Mrs Baker we need to take a DNA swab from you in order to establish…” Before she could finish the woman’s cheek had transformed from an ashen pallor to a hot red.

  “You don’t need to have Harry’s blood do you?” she whispered anxiously.

  Eleanor looked at her for a moment and then shook her head. “No yours will be sufficient. Would you prefer to come down to the station on your own to give your sample?”

  She looked at the floor, “Yes… Thank you.”

  Eleanor stood up and handed her card to Maura. “If you call me on this number I will arrange for someone to meet you and if there’s anything you re
member that might help us please don’t hesitate to call me at any time.”

  Before she could reach the door, Mrs Baker stopped her with a light hand on her arm. “The park I think. He was working in a park or something and met him there.”

  “I’m not seeing a Liberty’s anywhere,” said Laurence, scanning the buildings as he drove slowly east on Queen. “You want to stop and ask?”

  “There!” said Eleanor pointing to an orange and green shop front. The hand-painted words, The Libertine in curling font were barely visible between two heavily over-planted hanging baskets. The lunchtime crowds, which seemed to consist mainly of male customers, had spilled onto the narrow pavement. There were no seating arrangements but an ample bay frontage allowed diners to cram together, their backs to the window and balance plates of pasta and salad on their laps.

  “What did Susan want?” shouted Laurence, as he slipped past the noisy diners.

  The interior of the café was similarly crowded, all table spaces having been more than filled. Several harassed waitresses were moving efficiently between the tables dispensing food and drinks.

  “Wanna order drinks? There should be a table free in ten if you wanna eat in. We do ‘take out’ though,” said a woman mechanically from behind the bar, as she poured wine into three glasses lined up in front of her.

  “Take out will do,” said Eleanor as she grabbed two of the menus from a box next to the coffee maker, handing one to Laurence. The waitress scooped up the glasses and sped past to deliver them while they perused the options.

  “What’ll it be honey?” said the waitress, squeezing past an irritated looking colleague and smiling at them. She had a round, open face, her skin shiny with oil and sweat and a damp lock of hair was plastered over her forehead. “Sweet Jesus, I’m gonna die if it gets any hotter! Now, what d’ya both want?” She reached for her notepad, her eyes and smile never straying from Laurence’s.

  “This is excellent!” trilled Susan, folding in another mouthful of the Libertine’s special mozzarella burger. “And this is?” she said, peering into one of the paper bags Eleanor had placed on her desk.

  “It’s pecan pie. Sorry, no peanut things,” said Eleanor, scanning the information sheets that Susan had passed over to her.

  “What did you have?” Susan asked wiping her hands and mouth on a napkin.

  Eleanor shrugged and carried on examining the file. “Have we got a cause of death yet?”

  “We’ll be saying the same about you if you don’t get some calories down you,” worried Susan. “Eat the pie or I take my official lunch break.” She raised her eyebrows.

  Eleanor sighed, reached for a slice of pie and took a small bite. “Happy?”

  “Delirious! Now do you want your snake?” Susan handed the wooden toy over, sealed into a marked evidence bag. “I’ve managed to extract fourteen whole prints and three partials. We ran the prints through Richard Baker’s AFIS tag and got a positive on eleven wholes and one partial. The unidentified prints are being processed but time-wise it’s anyone’s guess. Even if the other prints are in the system it could still take days.” She stood up and walked over to a fridge next to a row of filing cabinets that took up the rest of the room in her office. She selected a couple of opaque plastic bottles with loud writing on the front and handed them over to Eleanor. “What’s the problem? I doubt it’s psychological so what is it?”

  Eleanor read the label, “Protein shake?”

  “Four hundred calories a bottle and I’d say you need at least six a day in your current condition. Which you’re just about to explain to me and me only.”

  Eleanor paused uncomfortably but Susan carried on staring with raised eyebrows. Eleanor sighed, “I find it hard to swallow.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know… some scar tissue, apparently.”

  “When Lee Hughes attacked you?” asked Susan, carefully.

  “Uh-huh. It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Just makes it difficult to swallow.”

  “It’s going to get better?” asked Susan.

  “Everything does… Eventually,” smiled Eleanor. “This is great” she waggled the protein shake. “I’ll have it later.” She took in Susan’s expression. “I’ll have it now.”

  “I’ve been having a little play with those photos you gave me.” Susan got up and opened the glass partition that separated her office from the lab. On a long bench next to a row of high tech equipment banks, punctuated by microscopes, was a tray covered in photographs. Each one had a small tab with a number on it. “I’ve managed to separate most of them and am putting digital copies into a work base for Jan. If you look –” she slipped on a latex glove and turned one over “– the oil lifted some of the ink and glued it to the back of the adjacent one, or in this case…” She pointed to one image that had a second snapshot partially imposed upon it. “We’ve just got to separate the two images.”

  Eleanor picked it up and scrutinised the chaotic swirls of colour, trying to pick out a recognisable face.

  Susan handed her a heavy magnifying glass. “That’ll help. I’m not sure what it is but I reckon that’s a bandstand. Like the ones they have in parks.”

  Chapter Six

  Toby had been staring at the display cabinet for so long that he no longer truly knew what he was looking at or essentially why. He had slipped into a familiar reverie, that of his upcoming conversation with Olivia regarding their future family. He had pondered long and hard about how he would broach the subject to her but so far had failed to come up with an adequate scenario. Should he be direct about his desire or more circuitous? He couldn’t really imagine walking up to his beloved Livie and demanding that they should be thinking of expanding their family to include a child. His wife was not a robust woman and the thought of seeming ungrateful or brutish in her eyes, was more than he could bear. But he was a man of complex needs and desires and to miss out on such a small window of opportunity might leave him feeling resentful. In fact he’d even seen the ideal child for them, a small boy who came regularly to the Saturday morning children’s club. So far Toby hadn’t managed to learn the child’s name but he had estimated him to be about six years old, he had a mop of blond hair and round tortoiseshell glasses, which made him seem studious and considered.

  “That was a big sigh Tobee,” came the nasal twang of Enda Miller, his assistant technician from somewhere behind him. Toby loathed everything about Enda, from his snide tone to his sanctimonious approach to the artefacts under their charge. Why he had endorsed his appointment three years ago was an endless source of disbelief to Toby. “You thinking of changing this display then?” Enda said tapping on the glass with his knuckle.

  “There are so many beautiful items in the Forester collection, I thought it would be an idea to start thinking about making a little space for some of them,” Toby replied, carefully.

  “Hmm, well you can’t go clearing out the Native People’s cabinets. There’d be an uproar!”

  “I seem to recall that you were vociferous in your condemnation of our Native People display in last month’s meeting. You felt it was colonialist if I remember correctly,” Toby hissed.

  “Oh I do stick by what I said about that but you can’t boot out our history to stick some other bugger’s in can you?” replied Enda, a smug grin splitting his acned features.

  “Well something’s got to give,” snapped Toby, turning abruptly and heading back to his office.

  “I think it might be that nasty display of stuffed birds,” Enda called after him. Toby recognised that he was being baited but couldn’t rise above it.

  “What do you mean?” he said, grittily.

  “Those stuffed birds. No one wants them anymore. People come to see the dinosaurs, not some flea-bitten, badly stuffed penguins. I propose that we clear out those three cabinets… Maybe, leave the little one with the hummingbirds and then we can expand the Native People to include the Old World as well,” said Enda, provocatively.

  Toby took a deep b
reath. “Our bird collection is the greatest in Canada and rivals a great many of those across the continent.”

  “Mmm, no doubt. However, Isabel seemed extremely interested in the idea when I spoke to her earlier this morning.”

  Toby was more than a little perturbed by this knowledge. Isabel Drake was the Head Curator of Mankind at the Museum and generally her ideas held sway.

  “By the way!” called Enda. “Some woman’s been trying to get in touch with you. She called twice. I wrote her name and number down and put it on your desk.”

  Toby let the door slam behind him. As he walked briskly towards his office he contemplated whether there could be any truth in what Enda had just said. Surely Isabel wouldn’t have considered moving the birds? They were, he knew, the highlight of many a school visit. Children were astonished as they walked under the giant wingspan of the Wandering Albatross and saw the huge central display of birds that varied in size, ferocity and colour. He idly picked up the note that Enda had scrawled and propped against his telephone. It took several seconds for the name to fully register with his consciousness but considerably less for the feeling of nausea to spread throughout his body.

  “Thanks for your help sir. If there’s anything else you can think of please don’t hesitate to reach me on that number… You too.” Mo put down the phone, stretched and rubbed his right ear energetically. “I’m still pressing the phone too hard to my goddamn ear.”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Why not use the headset?”

  “Doesn’t feel right. Anyway, here’s the latest on the preservation front. No one is claiming to having embalmed Richard Baker slash Giselle and no one is admitting that they may have mislaid a body. Apparently after the Tri-State Crematorium incident in Georgia, the authorities have tightened up on funeral homes and their ilk. It’s almost possible, that your body was embalmed and then stolen but the chances are infinitesimally small. I also spoke to the EPA at city hall and they said they’re all over these guys. Every body that goes through the system has to be accounted for.”