BY 6:30 p.m., all the cars on the forecourt had been collected by their owners and their credit card payments had been safely made.
JP was still hanging around, and I knew what he wanted to do.
“JP, I know you want to look at the Lagonda, but you’ve got something else to do now, right?”
He shrugged. “Okay, I will go to my apartment and ask the others about the Bartlett kid.”
“I want you to call me here when you’ve talked to them; let me know whether he’s been at your place or not.”
“Okay, boss. It may be late before I can talk with them … to all of them. Some ’ave funny hours, you know.”
I nodded and thought a bit more.
“Look, we’ve got other cars to work on here tomorrow. And Saturday I’ve got other things to do. But why don’t we plan to meet here around 1 or so Sunday afternoon? We’ll pull off the tarp and take a look.”
His face lit up.
“Great! Superbe! We can start taking it apart …”
“Whoa, hold on, JP. We’re going to go very carefully. Bring your digital camera, fully charged up. We’re going to be looking for serial numbers, on the chassis, on the engine … We won’t be taking anything apart at this point.”
“Okay, okay … you are right as usual, boss.”
He was grinning.
“You’re not out of the woods, yet,” I said.
“I know, I know.”
He turned serious.
“I … thank you … for … your confiance with me …”
“That’s all right. Now, go on, you’ve got a few questions to ask at your apartment.”
I thought of heading out to dinner somewhere, and then changed my mind. Checking the refrigerator, I saw there were still some sandwiches left. I didn’t want to miss JP’s call. I turned to an MGB with sticking brake caliper symptoms, picked up a lug wrench, and began to loosen the nuts of the passenger side front wheel.
I was dreaming I was in a witness box in a court of some type. My late wife, Liz, was the judge, very much alive behind the bench in black robes and powdered wig. She was regarding me with a severe, unhappy look that I recognized. DS Quinn was very fetchingly outfitted in a tight police uniform and visored hat with, and this was definitely not a good sign, a large black revolver in each of her hands. She was making some sort of case against me that was filling me with heart-pounding dread.
Derek was sitting off to one side, apparently not terribly interested in standing up with objections on my behalf since he was preoccupied toying with a mouse-sized version of Jerry the cat.
Then an alarm bell started to ring, and in my mind this was a signal that Liz was about to render a decision that would not be favourable to me at all.
I suddenly, gratefully, woke up. It was 1:15 a.m. according to the radio clock next to the cot.
I threw off the covers, grabbed my jeans, and stumbled down the loft steps to my office. The telephone answering machine had kicked in and I could hear JP’s voice. I lifted the receiver, pressed the button on our old-style technology answering machine to stop the recording tape, and told JP to hold the line for a minute.
I went to the office refrigerator and grabbed a soft drink which I gulped half-way down. The dream had made my mouth very, very dry. Perhaps I had been yelling out loud trying to get my lawyer’s attention in the nightmare court.
“’e was here, the Bartlett kid …” JP told me. “’e was a … plombier …”
It took a while to get this clear in my mind, but what it boiled down to was that one of JP’s roommates was indeed friendly with Ted Bartlett. Ted had visited the roommate, nicknamed Sparky for some reason, last Sunday afternoon, the day after a youth had tried to use Bartlett senior’s credit card in Maniwaki.
During the visit, Sparky had complained that the kitchen sink was plugged and no amount of clog clearing liquid seemed to make it run better. Ted Bartlett had said he knew what to do, went to the kitchen, and simply unscrewed the plastic cap from the bottom of the trap and fished out a thick wad of soaked and filthy paper scraps caught there. This freed the drain.
More to the point, the cupboard under the sink was filled with all kinds of stuff, and it would have been the work of a couple of seconds for Ted to slip his father’s wallet into the cupboard and conceal it.
“JP, this is very important. Your roommate Sparky … Is he there now?”
“Oui, oui, this is why I am calling so late. He works as a waiter and just came in from work.”
“Okay, I’m going to call Derek as early as possible this morning and we’ll try to meet him later today. Can Sparky be available to come to Derek’s office today? He’ll have to explain this to Derek, and will have to go the police station as well to make a statement.”
“Well, he is going to sleep now, but I will make sure he will do this.”
“Good, good. Has Sparky talked to the Bartlett boy since Sunday?”
“I don’t think so, boss. He says Ted is not a big friend of his, he just knows him from school, I think. He just dropped by …”
“Well Sparky should avoid talking to him at all for now.”
“I will make sure … This is good for me, non?”
“Yes, very good. All right, see you around 8.”
By 6 p.m. on Friday, we had accomplished a lot.
Besides securing payment from a steady stream of owners, Marjorie had successfully wrested a final settlement from our insurance company for the damages caused by the arson, and the payment was “in the mail.” She’d also managed to ensure that Public Works, as owner of record for Morrison’s blue Jaguar, would have to negotiate directly with our company over the loss of the car.
My insurance agent was dealing with Tate of Public Works for starters, and there was a chance our premiums wouldn’t be hiked as drastically as I had feared over all this insurance claiming and counter claiming.
Marjorie was in a good mood, having lunched at some trendy little bistro with Ottawa Fire Department’s Corporal Fleming. He’d picked her up around noon, blushing to the roots of his fiery red hair.
I still hadn’t heard from the Jaguar club librarian about whether he’d been able to convince his club’s membership that Britfit deserved a break, but it didn’t matter. I’d be giving him some new information on the theft myself.
I’d managed to catch Derek early this morning before he went to court on a case. JP’s roommate Sparky had dashed in by cab to meet with Derek while he took a quick break at his office for lunch. He told Derek about Bartlett’s son’s visit to the apartment Sunday, his plumbing expertise, and obviously his opportunity to incriminate JP for theft by stashing his father’s wallet under the kitchen sink.
Derek had this statement made into an affidavit for Sparky, an acne-ravaged but cheery youth of JP’s age, to sign, then made a phone call. JP and I high-fived each other on the sidewalk before heading back in the Mini Cooper to Britfit while Derek took Sparky to the Elgin Street station to meet with police there.
By 5:30 p.m., Derek had called to say that the Crown Attorney’s office was dropping the charge against JP. He would need to appear with Derek at this evening’s night court for formal discharging of the allegation. Police were still interviewing both Bartletts as we spoke. The son had already confessed to the theft. What he would be charged with was unclear. Bartlett senior had his own high-powered lawyer on hand, and Derek’s guess was that charges of obstruction and mischief against the Bartlett kid would be kicked around the table for a while yet.
“Thanks, Derek. I owe you one.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be billed, my friend. Anyway, glad it worked out. You should be thanking your landlady for suggesting this line of inquiry.”
I had a quick chat with Isabelle, telling her that we were all in her debt and that I’d see her tomorrow, when I’d be there to pick up Sandy. I locked the front door of the shop to join the others who’d already left for the pub.
Martello’s Lincoln screeched to a halt in front of me before I’d taken two steps.