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“It’s here.”
“I’ll need a copy.”
“I’ll drop one off at the station.”
“Another question. I’m interested in your finances. Who paid for what? Did you have joint bank accounts?”
“We had separate current accounts. We each paid a share of the bills. Why?”
“Just another lead I’m following.”
Following the conversation, she rotated to the computer and drafted a cover letter requesting the fax recipients to contact her immediately about an urgent police matter. Once she had the list of acknowledgements, she’d fax each of them.
The phone rang.
Dr. Axeworthy, brisk as ever, wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Absolute nonsense. I can’t imagine what you or Dr. Uiska are playing at. Completely normal autopsy results for the last six months. I’ll send you a statistical synopsis. As if my staff doesn’t have enough to do.” She hung up without allowing Rhona to thank her, apologize or say anything at all.
Time for the press conference. With her notes in hand in case she was required to answer questions, she marched down to the interview room.
“I have a prepared statement for you regarding the Reverend Paul Robertson case. We are making technical progress. Reverend Robertson was killed with a single blow from a knife classified as an ordinary kitchen variety but which was, technically, a boning knife, a knife not as long as a standard carving knife. It was well worn and will be difficult to trace unless someone voluntarily identifies it.
“We’re verifying every marathon runner’s name and address as well as any possible connection with Reverend Robertson.”
“Ross, Toronto Star. Have you eliminated the runners ahead of Rev. Robertson?”
“No. Although it would have been impossible for someone to turn against the tide, an elite runner could have positioned himself or herself, we’re not ruling out women, further to the rear in order to kill Robertson and divert suspicion.”
“Belanger, Montreal Gazette. Do you think it’s possible the murderer killed him and went on to finish the race?”
“We’re not eliminating anyone at this stage. We’ll have a complete computer print-out soon.”
“Ramsami, Toronto Sun. Do you have any idea about motive? Did it have anything to do with the Reverend’s crusades?”
“At this point, we’re not ruling out anything. I have nothing else to add and will keep you informed of our progress.”
Not too bad. Because the press had not learned about the break-in at the church and the attempted break-in at the manse, she had more time to uncover the answers.
On the drive through the city to her appointment at the psychiatric hospital, Rhona savoured the sun slanting through the lightly leafed trees and making the grass glow with a brilliance no artist could ever capture. When Rhona entered Dr. Yantha’s waiting room, the door to the inner office stood open, and he beckoned her in.
A broad beaming grin lit up his face. “Great day. Come in and tell me what I can do for you?”
This was a different man than the one she’d interviewed the other day. Rhona returned his smile. “Answer questions about Ms. Grant and about men like Reverend Robertson. First, I want your opinion on something you told me yesterday. Do you think the changes in Ms Grant might have been symptoms of a mid-life crisis?” Before Dr. Yantha answered, she amended the question. “How old is Ms Grant?”
“Hollis was forty-four in January.”
“And you, are you forty-four?”
Dr. Yantha grinned. “No. I’m hanging on to forty-three for a couple of weeks. To answer your question, forty-four isn’t a particularly bad year. Forty—that was traumatic. Fifty probably will be too, but there’s nothing special about forty-four. No, I don’t think it was a mid-life crisis.”
“To change the subject. Have you found out why your wife was preoccupied?”
“I’m not clear on why you think it’s any of your business, but, no, I haven’t.”
“How did your wife get along with Robertson?”
The doctor frowned, and Rhona thought she glimpsed a deep uneasiness before his customary professional calm masked whatever she’d seen.
“As far as I know, she met him once and didn’t like him.”
Rhona posed a number of questions about philanderers and obsessive sex. Finally, she thanked Dr. Yantha and left him to his three o’clock, a small, nervous man perched on the edge of one of the waiting room chairs, drumming his fingers on the table.
At five to six, the commissionaire at the reception desk downstairs buzzed to say Dr. Uiska was on her way up.
By the time she arrived, Rhona had risen. Dr. Uiska paused in the doorway, and they appraised one another.
Again the doctor’s clothes revealed her insistence on perfection: everything pressed, unsullied by hard labour and perfectly matched. After Rhona’s fiasco with the tea and the red dye, she wished she could hide under the desk.
“Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”
Silence hung in the air. Rhona was in no hurry, and Dr. Uiska seemed prepared to wait. Only the persistent twisting of her wedding ring revealed any impatience.
“Would you tell me again about the party you and Robertson were planning?” Rhona said.
“I can’t imagine it has any bearing on the murder.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear about it. Tell me as much as you can remember about your meetings with Robertson.”
“It was a while ago. I called and said I’d drop by his office.”
“When you phoned, did you tell him why you wanted to have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t think I did.”
“And he wasn’t curious? Wasn’t surprised to hear from you? I expect he realized you disliked him?”
“He didn’t sound surprised. I had the impression he was a super egotist. It probably didn’t occur to him that I disliked him. If it did, I don’t suppose it bothered him.”
“And how did the discussion go?”
“I made sure he not only realized it was a big birthday but also understood it was important to have a joint party because Hollis and Kas had been friends for twenty years.”
“What birthday did you say it was?”
“Their forty-fifth.”
“Your husband says it isn’t going to be his forty-fifth, it’s his forty-fourth and of no significance whatsoever to him.”
Dr. Uiska started, recovered her poise, opened her eyes wide and said, “But it is his forty-fifth. I know that perfectly well. He must have been joking.”
Not a bad performance, but how could she expect to bluff it through? “Actually I ran his name through the Ministry of Transport computer, and he will be forty-four.”
“You mean I’ve lived with Kas all these years and got it wrong?” She shook her head.
“Odd to think Paul Robertson wouldn’t know his wife’s age.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t, because he agreed we should throw the party.”
“Before we discuss this hypothetical party, tell me the dates of the two birthdays.”
“A