OTTAWA’S Byward Market is bounded on the west by Sussex Drive, one block over from the Parliament Buildings, adjacent to the Art Gallery with its giant outdoor spider sculpture, and the US Embassy fortress. To the south, diesel buses belch smoke along Rideau Street under skyways to shopping centres where commuting public servants run the gauntlet of panhandling street people. To the east, King Edward Avenue’s grand old buildings sit proudly, though they clearly have seen better days. To the north, Sussex wends its way eastwards past more embassies, the External Affairs building, the Prime Minister’s residence, and on past the Governor General’s extensive grounds before running into the Rockcliffe Parkway.
The market area proper covers a few square blocks full of open air food stalls, renovated older buildings jammed with produce, trendy restaurants and bars, nightclubs, and scores of little shops. You can get anything from a Wensleydale cheese to a fur coat to sheet music to firewood or flowers, depending on the season. You can also get a full stomach, a hangover, and a sex act of your choice, not necessarily in that order.
Many of the older buildings are owned by Ottawa’s extra level of government, the National Capital Commission, responsible for historic buildings, urban planning, green space, and the network of bicycle paths throughout the city. If you’re connected, you can lease a very nice apartment from the NCC in a renovated historic building in the Byward.
And Rodney Morrison had been connected.
I’d riffled through my old files in the shop’s loft that Saturday morning, and found the laminated card I’d been issued that listed addresses and home and cell phone numbers of all Minister’s Office staff. When you work for a Cabinet Minister, whatever your job, you have to be reachable twenty-four/seven, as they say. And many were the late nights or weekends I had needed to reach someone listed on the card, usually one of the press office people.
The card was now more then two years old, and I had no idea if Morrison’s address on it, 131 Clarence Street, Apt 2, was current when he’d been found dead in the Jaguar over a week ago, or if Albert, his significant other, was still there either. But it was a place to start.
Repairs to the fire-damaged TR6 complete, I now had the shop’s old Mini Cooper loaner back from the Triumph’s owner and his wife. I parked the little beast in the George Street public garage and went for a walk through the market.
It was just after 10 a.m., a cloudy and cool morning. The sidewalks were thronged with customers squeezing fruit and crowding the entranceways of cheese and coffee shops. I managed to get to Clarence Street with only four requests for “spare change” from street people who looked much too young to be living the way they were.
The address was a narrow red brick sandblasted three-storey building, perhaps a hundred and twenty years old, with a flat roof, sandwiched between similar buildings on the north side of the street. The ground floor was occupied by an Oriental rug shop. The door to the upper floors was modern, double-glazed glass and pulled open to a small foyer.
According to the buzzer panel, there were four apartments in total occupying the second and third floors. Unlike the others, apartment 2’s nameplate slot was blank. There was no nameplate indicating that a building superintendant lived on the premises.
I paused to consider. I’d never met Archambault, but it was possible he’d at least know my name as a former colleague of Morrison. It was plausible that I’d drop by to express my regrets at his death. All I needed was to get in the door.
I lifted the entry phone receiver and pressed the buzzer to apartment 2. After about four rings, a voice answered.
“Ello? Qui est-ce?”
If this was Albert, he was clearly French Canadian. I managed to dredge my mind quickly for some vocabulary.
“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Conn Anderson. J’ai travaillé avec Rodney Morrison. Est-ce que c’est possible de parler avec vous, Monsieur?”
“Pourquoi?”
This was an interesting response. The voice didn’t ask who Rodney Morrison was, so I obviously had the right apartment at least. But equally obviously, the voice needed a reason beyond an expression of regret.
Perhaps a little fudging of the truth was in order here.
“Ahhh, c’est un peu complexe, monsieur … Albert, n’est-ce pas? Mais …”
The voice took pity on my obvious struggles with the French language.
“Yes, I am Albert, Albert Archambault. You may speak English, Mr. Anderson.”
“Thank you. There are several of us, who worked with Rodney, who would like to do something … a donation for a memorial, perhaps?”
There was silence for some seconds.
“This is not a good time for me …”
“I’m sorry, but I was in the neighbourhood, and if you could spare a few minutes?”
Again, silence, but I was buzzed in.
At the door of the apartment I was faced with a male about thirty years old, barefoot, skinny, average height, dyed yellow hair worn in a fringe at the front. Archambault was wearing jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt that may have been thrown on at the last minute. He stepped back to let me in after looking me over. His blue eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved yet.
The flat, which looked huge compared with mine, was in a bit of a mess. The living area was furnished with stuffed couches and chairs with Persian rugs on the hardwood floors. Several antique tables were covered with newspapers, and a square glass coffee table was crowded with fast food containers, wine bottles, a small dusty looking hand mirror, a box of plastic drinking straws, and ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts.
There were prints on every wall, mostly large ornately framed art-deco-style depictions of women. Glancing sideways at an open kitchen area, I saw soiled pots, dishes, and glasses on virtually every flat surface.
Archambault waved me to an upholstered chair in the living room, and walked over to the kitchen area.
“You would like coffee, Monsieur Anderson?”
“Fine, thank you. Just black, please.”
While he clattered around the kitchen, I noticed, over by the living room window, a handsome walnut writing desk with three drawers on each side of the kneehole. I could see a pile of what looked like bank account booklets on the desk’s writing surface. They were scattered in an untidy heap, and coloured dark green, dark red, and dark blue.
Albert walked back in from the kitchen area and handed me a mug of black coffee.
“Of course, I do remember Rodney speaking of you, Mr. Anderson. He said you were … in French we say … homme de bien.”
I nodded my thanks for this compliment. We’d see what he thought by the time I left.
He sat down with his own coffee mug on a dining room chair opposite me, close to the cluttered low coffee table.
“Excuse the place … some friends last night …”
“Don’t worry.”
“So, you talked of a donation? But how did you know about Rodney’s death, may I ask?”
“I had a visit from the department’s Deputy Minister. She told me.”
“Ah. You had a visit. But you are no longer with the Minister’s Office, I think?”
“No, I left government just over two years ago, but I keep in touch with people still.”
“Alors, there was only a small service for Rodney. Just a few friends. His family … there is really no one left. I thought it best to have a, how you say, low-key event.”
I studied Archambault’s face carefully. He had a tremor in one of his eyelids, a giveaway indicator of stress. His face was otherwise pasty except for his nose, which seemed quite raw in the area of his nostrils. His eyes flicked away from mine frequently. As he talked, he flapped his hands incessantly. I noticed his right pinky fingernail was quite long, longer than his other fingernails.
“Alors, Mr. Anderson, I must get ready for the day … you and other colleagues of Rodney wish to make a donation, you say. In memoriam, perhaps? There is no grave; I have his ashes in an urn. The police released the body to me last week. Perhaps a bequest? He loved art; the gallery might take a donation in his name.”
It was time to cut this flow of chatter off.
“Actually, Albert, and please, you can call me Conn – actually, there is also something else I wish to ask you about. Rodney had a car, made available to him by Public Works …”
“Yes, yes, but it is gone, back to the government. I know nothing of it. Why do you ask, do you wish to have it? You’d have to talk to the department …”
I held my hand up.
“Albert. Please. The car was destroyed, firebombed by an arsonist. At my place of business. I run a garage specializing in English cars. There was damage, and injuries …”
“That has nothing to do with me! You have insurance? For your business? Ask them to help you …”
He spilled his coffee, and started to stand up.
But even revved up as he was by caffeine and obviously a morning wake-up snort of coke, he was too slow. I simply yanked the back of his chair down toward the floor with my left hand. I bunched his shirt collar with my right hand, which forced him to lean back at an acute angle. He just stared up at me, his eyes wild.
I spoke slowly and softly.
“Albert. I want you to just listen to me very carefully. Comprenez-vous?”
He gulped and tried to nod.
“Bon. The fire department and police are investigating. Someone did this, perhaps to destroy evidence in the car. Crack cocaine was found in the wreck, under the rear seat. You enjoy a little coke, don’t you, Albert?”
He tried to get out of my grasp, but was reduced to wriggling.
“Non, non …”
He was gasping a bit now.
“Albert. Listen to me. I am not interested in your drug habit. But I’m going to find out who destroyed that car, damaged my business, and hurt my employee.”
It was a bit of a stretch, perhaps, to refer to Jerry as an employee.
“So, Albert,” I continued, “how did Rodney get a Jaguar from the government? Who arranged it? Who at Public Works authorized it?”
Albert tried to nod his head. I released his collar, and slowly let the chair tilt forward to its normal position. I kept standing over him, though, to prevent him from getting to his feet.
“Please, Mr. … Conn. Rodney arranged everything. He learned to drive last year, finally. I made him learn. So then he had to have a beautiful car, he said …”
“Okay, go on.”
“He … he … called someone, oui, at Travaux Publiques, Public Works, I don’t know who. Rodney just came home one day with the car. A beautiful car. He was very pleased. Said he was entitled, as being with the Minister, to have his own car …”
I thought a bit. The fact was, only Ministers and Deputy Ministers could be allocated cars at taxpayers’ expense. Executive Assistants, formerly called Chiefs of Staff, in Ministers’ Offices got a lot of perks, but not cars, ordinarily.
“And he didn’t say who his contact was at Public Works?”
“No, I don’t know.”
Albert avoided looking at me when he said this. He could have been just intimidated, or bent out of shape with his morning snort. Or lying.
“Albert. I’m going to talk to some people. Including the police. If you know who at Public Works arranged the car for Rodney, you’d better tell me now. Because this isn’t adding up. Rodney wasn’t entitled to a free car, a government car.”
Albert now looked sulky.
“I tell you, I don’t know who it was.”
There seemed little point in continuing to badger him. I walked out of the flat.
I hadn’t been home in days, so pointed the Mini Cooper south.
I listened to messages on my answering machine to hear that Marjorie had checked with the vet’s office, and Jerry was holding his own. He could be picked up Monday, but was still going to need to be kept comfortable for a while somewhere, and Marjorie doubted that the shop was the place. Did I have any ideas?
There was the usual spate of automatic hang-up clicks from the charity callers, but also a message from an Austin Healey club member wanting to look at my 3000. He wondered if he could drop by on Sunday.
My siblings had called from Toronto, just checking in, and there was an invitation to a party from Tom and Linda, old friends from the time before Liz died. They, among other couples, had tried to set me up with single or divorced female friends from time to time. Nothing had jelled from these efforts, but they kept trying.
I called back the Austin Healey club member’s number and left driving directions with his wife for viewing the 3000 on Sunday, between 10 and 11 a.m.
I chatted with Tom about the party, promising to show up the next Saturday evening if at all possible. Tom had read the newspaper articles about the fire at my shop, and I filled him in on some of the details.
“By the way, Tom, would it be all right if I brought a date to the party?”
“Oh sure, sure. There’ll be lots of people here, including Susan – remember her?”
“Yes, and I’m not sure if my friend will be available, but I’m going to ask her anyway.”
“No, that’s fine. The more the merrier.”
I wandered over to the flat’s front window and saw Sandy outside Isabelle’s house, raking up some dead grass on the lawn. It was now the last weekend in April, and keen gardeners were already trying to get a jump on getting their lawns back up to scratch in preparation for the summer. Little Jane was nowhere in sight. She was probably inside, torturing Isabelle with her piping chatter.
I looked at my watch. It was just after 1 p.m.
I picked up the phone, left a message for the person I had been thinking about on the drive back from Rodney and Albert’s apartment in the Byward Market, then walked down the stairs outside to see Sandy.