Two boxes, one large, one small, stood open on a counter that ran along one wall. Cardinal hit a switch and the counter was bathed in bright fluorescent light.

  He peered into the smaller box. Catherine’s Nikon, with its shattered lens, lay among other items that clearly had belonged to her: her camera bag, and contents that may have spilled out of it—a notebook, the flat discs of filters and a couple more lenses. One of these was silver, and labelled Canon.

  There was no camera in the bigger box. Cardinal stood still, thinking. The only sound was the click of Arsenault’s keyboard. Assuming Catherine had been following her custom and taking pictures with both of her cameras, that meant someone had taken the Canon: either someone who had happened onto the scene afterward or her attacker.

  A thief of opportunity seemed unlikely. How many people, happening onto a dead body, are likely to steal a camera from it—a camera that was almost certainly smashed up? And if you’re going to take one camera, why not take the other? Assuming her attacker stole it, that could indicate one of two things: Catherine had been mugged for her camera, the nice shiny new Canon, and the robber had pushed her from the roof when he grabbed it; or her attacker had taken it from the scene afterward. Cardinal could think of only one good reason to do that.

  The bigger box contained items that had been found near the body but were not necessarily connected to it: a cigarette pack, several butts, an Oh Henry! wrapper, a paper cup from a nearby Harvey’s. There were also many bits of electronics, junk from the computer repair centre on the ground floor. Beside the Dumpster, the driveway had been littered with stray cards, drives and chips. Collingwood and Arsenault had dutifully gathered them up and tagged them.

  Each item was in a plastic Baggie, numbered and labelled with the date, the initials of the ident person who had found it, distance and clock position relative to the body. Cardinal looked at several of these through the plastic. He was no computer whiz, but he knew memory cards when he saw them. The ones he was seeing were pretty old-looking, probably from computers beyond even the ministry of CompuClinic, Inc.

  He pulled another couple of items from the box: a CD drive, a pair of headphones, another tiny Baggie encasing a chip. He turned this last item over. It was a chip about the size of a postage stamp, green-coloured and ridged with tiny teeth. The other side was obscured by the label. He opened the Baggie and slid the chip out onto the counter. Pale grey lettering on the green surface of the chip spelled out the word Canon.

  “Hey, Arsenault,” Cardinal said. “Do you guys have a camera that will take this chip?”

  Arsenault looked up and shook his head. “Ours take memory sticks. Different shape. Why?”

  “I think this is the chip from Catherine’s camera. I want to see what’s on it.”

  “That Nikon’s not digital.”

  “She had another camera with her. A Canon.”

  “Really?” Arsenault looked up from his keyboard. “In that case, the printer will show you what’s on the chip.”

  “Don’t you have to plug a camera into it?”

  “Nope. It’s got a tray you can stick the chip in.”

  Arsenault swivelled away from his desk and rolled his chair over to the printer. He pressed a button and a little tray with several indentations slid out. “Just drop it in there,” he said, pointing to the smallest indentation, which was square. Cardinal pressed the chip into the slot and Arsenault slid the drawer in.

  “If there’s anything there, it should show up on the preview screen.” He tapped a glowing rectangle on the printer about the size of a playing card.

  The rectangle turned black and the Canon logo appeared, then the first photograph. It was a high shot of the city, the lights bright pinpricks. Cardinal could make out the twin belfries of the French church in the distance. These were the last things Catherine had seen.

  “You can cycle through them,” Arsenault said. “Just push the Next button.”

  Cardinal hit the button and the image changed slightly: the same view, a little closer. The next picture was a different angle. Off to the right, the red warning lights glowed on the post office communications tower. There were several shots of this and then back to the French church, and Cardinal saw why she had wanted to take pictures that particular night. The orange harvest moon was just beginning to roll into view beside the church towers.

  “Nice,” Arsenault said quietly.

  In the next shot the moon was half hidden. And in the one after that, it was just beginning to appear between the towers. Another moment and the moon would be caught between the towers like a pumpkin. But the next shot was something else entirely.

  It looked accidental, as if she had been jostled, or startled: a wall, slightly blurred, a streak of light from overhead and in the right-hand corner someone’s arm. A man’s arm. You could just see the shoulder, arm, glove and the side of his overcoat.

  Cardinal hit the Next button and heard Arsenault suck in his breath.

  They both stared at the image glowing before them.

  “She got him,” Cardinal said quietly. “She got him cold.”

  The man’s arm was raised in greeting. The light above the roof door threw a sharp shadow of his arm, raised like a warning, to the ground. Despite the shadows, he was clearly recognizable, with that wide smile and his open features like a large, friendly dog. He looked like the sort of man anyone would want for a friend or a teacher—even a doctor.

  47

  THE PILLS WERE ON her desk, little blue lovelies the soothing indigo of late evening. There were nearly thirty of them, just under a month’s supply, kindly prescribed by Dr. Bell when she had first started seeing him. What a blessing they were when sleep deserted you. When the night stretched ahead and the inside of your skull seemed lit up with floodlights, they soothed your brow like a mother’s warm touch.

  A tall glass of water stood on the desk beside them, drops of condensation beading on the sides. Melanie lifted it up and put one of her Northern University notebooks underneath.

  Saying goodbye was taking longer than she had expected. She had intended to write just a brief farewell and then be gone. But she found she could not do that to her mother. Or to Dr. Bell, who had tried so hard to help her.

  She spread the pills out in a line on her desk, tiny blue pillows. Twenty-five of them. Using a ruler, she divided them into groups of five. She lingered over this process for a few minutes, arranging the pills into little star shapes.

  Don’t ever blame yourself, she wrote, this is not your fault in any way. You were always a good mother to me, you always gave me everything I needed. Anyone else would have grown up into a happy, well-adjusted young woman.

  She swept five pills off the desk into the palm of her hand and tossed them to the back of her throat. Two swallows of water and they were down.

  I love you very much, she added in neat script, and paused.

  A few moments went by, during which she just stared, not at the note, but through it. Then another five pills. She would have to be quick now, or she would just fall asleep and wake up feeling worse than ever. She didn’t want to wake up.

  Dr. Bell, I don’t blame you for turning away from me. Some of the things I said to you were pretty disgusting and it’s understandable they would make you sick.

  She tossed another five pills into her mouth and picked up the glass of water. The memory of the things she had told Dr. Bell last time made her choke. She got the pills down, but had an uncomfortable coughing fit and had to drink nearly all her water to calm it. Her eyes stung with tears. But I won’t cry, she told herself. I’m done with crying. Forever.

  Being a good doctor, I guess you saw that I was beyond help, even though you tried so hard to help me and couldn’t bring yourself to tell me I was terminal.

  Another five pills.

  I’m sorry.

  Another five pills.

  So sorry for everything.

  48

  DESPITE WHAT HE RECOGNIZED as his previous misbehaviour, Cardinal was a firm believer in procedure. And the proper procedure on this frosty night—still no snow and yet the temperature heading toward freezing—would have been to call his detective sergeant and tell him the evidence he had. If Chouinard agreed the evidence warranted immediate arrest, the D.S. would assign other detectives to assist him. If not, a discussion with the crown might be arranged to see what more was needed.

  As he drove past the cathedral toward Randall Street, Cardinal knew very well he was violating procedure by not calling his D.S. But then, he was violating procedure by working on the case at all. And he was violating procedure by not calling for backup. He could see D.S. Chouinard’s face forming in the frost on his windshield. He could hear his angry words somewhere within the blast of the Camry’s heater.

  But none of that stopped him.

  The Camry zoomed through a red light, cherry flashing on the roof. No siren. He didn’t want the doctor to hear him coming.

  Three minutes later he was pulling to a stop a few doors from Bell’s house. There were lights on at the back and upstairs. He went around to the rear, passing the kitchen windows; there was no shadow of movement inside. The BMW was still parked in the driveway.

  Cardinal stepped silently onto the back porch. The upper part of the back door was glass, mostly covered by gingham curtains on the inside. He peered through a small gap and saw the far wall, with its fridge and calendar, a cuckoo clock above the far door, which was closed. And, changing his angle a bit, he could see the still form of Mrs. Bell, curled up on the floor in a dark pool of blood.

  Cardinal broke the glass with his elbow and reached in to open the lock.

  He paused for a second in the doorway, listening. The house was huge, and the kitchen door was closed. If Bell was home, he might not have heard the window break.

  Cardinal tiptoed around the blood and touched the side of Mrs. Bell’s neck. She was still warm, but there was no pulse, and the size of the dark pool beneath her indicated there never would be. There were defensive wounds on her forearms and a terrible gash across her throat.

  Not your best work, Cardinal thought. You’re used to having people kill themselves for you. She took your discs, stole your precious trophies, and you went into a rage. The question is, what do you do next? What does a man obsessed with suicide, and guilty of at least two murders, do next?

  Cardinal turned the handle of the kitchen door and moved silently into the front hall, the waiting area. It was lit by a small, elegant chandelier, but the doctor’s office, off to the left, was dark, as was the living room on the right. He tried the office door. Locked. The stairs were carpeted, but old. He stepped on the edges to minimize creaking, his Beretta in his hand.

  Upstairs, the only light flowed from the front room. Four steps and Cardinal was there, gun at the ready, safety off, right hand cradled in left palm. The room was large but overfurnished, with two armoires, two armchairs, an antique vanity and a vast bed covered in a red quilt on which a suitcase lay open, half packed with men’s clothes. A quick check showed no one behind the door, no one under the bed, no one crouched in the armoires.

  Cardinal worked his way swiftly through the other rooms: A bedroom set up as a sewing room. A guest room, spicy with the scent of potpourri. And two other rooms done up in subtle colour schemes, one a small TV room, the other a comfortable-looking library with a small billiard table and a fireplace.

  There were two more doors leading off the hall. The first proved to be a closet.

  A creak. Was that a floorboard overhead? Someone on the third floor? It could have been nothing, just the kind of noise an old house makes, but Cardinal went dead still, listening.

  49

  FINDING FRANK ROWLEY’S PREVIOUS wife required no subtleties of police work. A few phone calls, a check of marriage records, and Delorme found herself at the home of Ms. Penelope Greene. Few houses in Algonquin Bay were smaller than Delorme’s bungalow, but this one managed it. It was a tiny brick cottage hunched between two much larger houses like a toddler between its parents.

  The pretty woman who answered the door was in her forties, with hair fighting to stay more blond than grey. Her face had a wary expression, the green eyes narrowed, but that was less likely to be pure physiognomy than the result of finding a policewoman on her doorstep.

  “Mrs. Rowley?” Delorme said.

  “Not anymore. I changed back to my maiden name years ago.”

  “I’m Sergeant Delorme.”

  “Melanie’s not in any trouble, is she?”

  “No, your daughter hasn’t done anything wrong, but I need to talk to you about something that almost certainly involves her.”

  Ms. Greene showed her into a miniature living room. A doll-sized loveseat and two compact armchairs seemed to jostle each other for breathing room, but the place had a comfortable, dog-eared charm. Delorme sat on the loveseat, which was so low-slung that her view of Melanie’s mother was framed by her own knees. And as she sat down, Delorme realized it was the loveseat from one of the photographs: intricate wooden trim around red plush cushions. And through the doorway beyond Ms. Greene, a partial view of the kitchen showed the distinctive blue tiles that had appeared in several of the pictures. Yes, Delorme had come to the right place, but it did not make her happy.

  “Ms. Greene, how old is your daughter?”

  “Melanie’s eighteen. She’ll be nineteen in December.”

  “And she has blond hair like you?” This was probably an unnecessary question. Ms. Greene had the same green eyes as the girl in the photographs, the same perfect eyebrows, the same upturned nose.

  “Well, it’s much blonder than mine. It’s like mine used to be. Why could you possibly want to know that? There hasn’t been an accident, has there? Tell me right now. She’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “No accidents. As far as we know, she’s all right. Her father is Frank Rowley, is that correct?”

  “Stepfather. He came into our lives when Melanie was just starting school. He left nearly five years ago, though. Married life didn’t suit him, it turned out—or so he said. He moved away to Sudbury and didn’t keep in touch. He should have kept up some relationship with Melanie, at least, but he didn’t. He’s living in town again now. I’ve seen him a couple of times, but I crossed the street to avoid him. He has a new wife and a step-daughter who looks about six. I haven’t even told Melanie he’s back. I should, though. It’ll upset her if she bumps into him.”

  Delorme took out the file of pictures and selected an enlargement that just showed the girl’s smiling face, aged seven or eight.

  “Is this your daughter?”

  “Yes, that’s Melanie. Where did you get this? I have tons of photos, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one.”

  Delorme selected another enlargement. Head and shoulders, the girl at thirteen, the same wary gaze as her mother.

  “Yes, that’s Melanie too. She would have been thirteen. Sergeant Delorme, you’re scaring me. Why do you have pictures of my daughter—old pictures—that I’ve never seen?”

  Delorme pulled out another two photographs, carefully cropped to show only the perpetrator—not what he was doing or to whom. Long hair, naked torso, turned mostly away from the camera.

  “Ms. Greene, do you recognize this man?”

  She took the pictures from Delorme with excessive care, as if they were germ cultures. “This is—this is Frank. My husband, Frank. Former husband.”

  “You’re sure? The pictures don’t show much.”

  “Well, I just know it’s him. The way you do, when you’ve lived with someone for years—the tilt of his head, his jawline, just his stance—that slight bend to his shoulders. Besides which, he’s got those three freckles on his shoulder.” She tapped the photograph. “His left shoulder. They’re like Orion’s belt, a slight triangle. This isn’t going anywhere good, is it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Ms. Greene. Can you tell me where I can find Melanie?”

  “She has her own place now. It’s just a boarding house, but she wanted to be on her own once she went to college. I’ll give you the address. But not until you tell me what’s going on.” Ms. Greene stood up and clenched her hands open and shut, as if preparing for a terrible fight.

  “You might want to sit down,” Delorme said. “What I have to say is going to upset you.”

  “Please just tell me, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry to have to say this, but we have other photographs of Frank and your daughter. Photographs in which he is having sex with her. They were found on the Internet.”

  Ms. Greene’s right hand rose to her chest. “What?”

  “There are at least a hundred of these photographs. Where he posted them originally, we’ve no idea. People who collect porn often like to trade it. The result is that now, when the Toronto police arrest someone for possession of child porn, they often find images of your daughter among all the others on the suspect’s computer.”

  Ms. Greene still had not moved, the hand wavering uncertainly above her heart in the hopeless quest to protect it.

  “We need to speak to your daughter to see if she’ll testify against Mr. Rowley. We’re dealing with serious crimes here, and it seems there’s now another little girl to worry about.”

  But Ms. Greene was barely hearing her. Delorme watched the process of shock turning into heartbreak, pity, sorrow and regret, and a thousand other emotions that could only be guessed at. It was like watching the slow-motion toppling of a building: both hands rose to cover her face and she gave a muffled cry, her legs gave way and she crumpled back into her chair, tipping forward over her knees.

  Delorme went into the kitchen, which was as tiny and neat as a ship’s galley, and made tea. By the time it was ready, Ms. Greene’s weeping had subsided into sniffles, and as she sipped delicately at her cup, misery was shifting into anger. “I’ll kill him,” she said at one point. “I’ll absolutely kill him.”

  “You can’t do that,” Delorme said gently, “but you can help make sure he never does this again.”