I found him checking the contents of the last of the four crates against the bills of lading. I’d had a pretty successful treasure hunt in Arizona in January, finding and buying bolt-on fenders, carpeting kits, three overdrive transmissions, plus chrome trim kits, and more bumpers. Some of this was new stock, remanufactured using original tooling for still popular and plentiful cars like MGBs and Spitfires. Other parts were original, in good shape despite being forty years old, thanks to the dry Arizona climate.
There wasn’t much we couldn’t get in the way of parts for most of the English sports cars we serviced, one way or another. I hadn’t really needed to go to Arizona to find stuff. But I was happy to get a break from the brutal Ottawa winter and liked nosing around in the car crazy state anyway.
“Hi, boss. Hey, the pompier was okay. He knew about my record, mais … it is good; he had no problem with me.”
“Good, JP. Like I said, they can see it was an outside job, so it will go to the Ottawa Police. So there’ll be more of the same questions from them.”
“Oui, oui. Funny business. Mais, I must tell you now. We have permission. To go this weekend to see that old car! In the shed in St. Pierre de Wakefield. I’ve got a new camera, digital; it will be perfect for photos. I will show you.”
JP trotted over to his leather jacket, which was lying on one of the crates.
“Just a sec, JP. I need to ask you something.”
I paused for a moment. I wanted to be very careful here.
“Mister Bartlett called.”
“Vraiment? To thank me personally for my beautiful work on his black beauty?”
JP was grinning, knowing Bartlett was unlikely to be that courteous.
“No, JP. But he’s lost his wallet. He thinks he left it in the car. Did you notice it on the floor while you were cleaning the carpets or anything?”
JP didn’t hesitate.
“Wallet? No. He had a, what you say, girlie magazine in with the spare wheel, but I just left it there. No wallet. But look, boss, this camera …”
“JP, he said he left his wallet in the glove compartment. And he says it isn’t there. Did you see it in there?”
JP put down his leather jacket and stared at me.
“I didn’t open the glove compartment.”
I locked eyes with him, then nodded.
“That’s good enough for me. He’s an ass, probably dropped it somewhere …”
“He is accusing me?”
“Yes, he insinuated that you took it.”
“Bastard … bastard …”
“JP, I told him already that he is out of line. I also told him not to bring his car back here.”
JP looked perplexed for an instant, then frowned.
“I work hard on that car every time. I love that car. He is a bastard. If I see it again, I will spit on my own work.”
JP’s reaction worked for me. If Bartlett made good on his threat to pull the Jag club’s business from our shop, there could be damage to our reputation and our business. Well, time would tell.
“Okay JP, let’s see this camera.”
JP was staring into space, but hearing me ask about the camera, he slowly turned to pick up his jacket again, and was reaching into an inner pocket when we both heard the Land Rover’s distinctive rumble through the basement’s pavement level window. Dougald and Marjorie were back from the pet hospital.
They both looked pretty down in the mouth.
“Conn, he’s … Jerry’s lost an eye, he’s … he got burned a bit, but the worst thing is one of his back legs is fractured …” Marjorie said.
“They want you to call them, Conn,” Dougald said. “Seems they can try to save the leg, but no guarantee. It will cost a lot, and they think it might be best to … let him go.”
It was noon. I told everyone to take a break, go for lunch, and take a walk. Then I went to my office and dialed the number on the pet clinic card Marjorie had given me. Eventually, I was listening to one of the clinic’s vets.
“We can try to set the leg once he’s stabilized,” she said. “It may not work. We can deal with the other things. We’d remove the damaged eye, he wasn’t too badly burned, and we’ve treated those skin patches with ointment already. His tail’s broken at the mid-point and it would be best if we took the whole thing off. He’s fighting infection, but we’ve dosed him with antibiotics and his temperature is coming down already. His insides seem all right. No evidence of internal bleeding that we can see at this point. It’s your call.”
“Do what you have to do. Try to save the leg.”
“You’re looking at two or so thousand dollars altogether at least, and again, there’s no guarantee at all. It’s …”
“Just go ahead. Fax me the authorization form, or whatever it is, and I’ll send it right back.”
“All right, as long as we’re clear. He’s not a young cat.” She started to ring off.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “The injuries seem odd. We had an explosion and fire here, and I can understand he may have been burned. He must have been outside in our back compound at the time, but I don’t understand the other injuries.”
The vet paused.
“Okay. Well, I didn’t mention this to the people who brought him in. They explained about the fire. But it looks to me like the sort of thing I’m afraid we see here from time to time.”
“What? What is it?”
She sighed into the phone.
“I’d say someone held him down with one foot on his tail, and then kicked him with the other foot at least twice, as hard as possible.”
We got through the rest of the week, somehow.
A police constable came to interview JP about the wallet missing from Bartlett’s black E-Type. The constable seemed satisfied with JP’s vehement denials of even opening the glove compartment at all, and noted that none of Bartlett’s credit cards seemed to have been used in transactions. Yet. He left with the admonition that JP keep himself available for further questioning.
The clinic worked on Jerry, but by Friday night it was still unclear whether he’d get use of his back leg again. He came through the eye and tail removal procedures all right and they kept him for “observation” over the weekend. The kids who found Jerry came back with the mother of the oldest. I wrote her a cheque for $200 and thanked the kids again. They’d likely stock up on noisy video games and DVDs with which to plague their parents.
Marjorie was busy dealing with insurance matters, and by the end of the week the shop was back to normal physically with new roofing, cladding on the back wall outside, and drywall, plastering, and painting inside finished. I kept signing off on invoices, afraid to look closely at the amounts. Otherwise business was still relatively brisk.
A couple of news items in the Ottawa Sun about the explosion and fire relayed the official view that outside parties were responsible and that the matter was being referred to the Ottawa Police. These stories didn’t seem to have any effect on business one way or the other. Cars came in and went out in the usual way. No repair bookings from the Jag club membership, though.
As a result of the fire department’s report, two other police officers showed up, higher ranking than JP’s interrogator. These were a female detective sergeant named Quinn and a detective constable named Phillips. We all had to go through the business of answering the same questions as before.
Quinn and Phillips finished up by saying they’d be in touch. Obviously, Cardinal’s report placed Britfit staff in the clear concerning the arson. Just as obviously, the police were going to work the investigation as one of hundreds they had on the books, slowly and methodically.
I slept over at the shop Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, checking in with Isabelle only by phone. Sandy was running back and forth looking at apartments near the university and getting her daughter settled in her new school.
I conducted an MG club technical session on tuning carburetors for a dozen or so members Wednesday night. I attended the Austin Healey club meeting Thursday night and put out the word there that my own 3000 was up for sale.
With all that was going on, I never did get to see JP’s new camera that week. He was shaken up over the stolen wallet accusation, and we were all disturbed by the new round of questioning. It doesn’t matter how innocent you are, being questioned by police is no picnic.
Friday night after work everyone just went home, too subdued for any pub gathering.
It’s funny how anger works. I’d felt flashes of temper throughout all this, hot reactions that came and went quickly. The vet’s suspicions about how Jerry’s worst injuries occurred put me into a different category of anger. I’d heard before the seemingly oxymoronic expression “cold with rage.” Now I knew what it meant.
Saturday morning I drove down to the Byward to find Rodney Morrison’s old flatmate.