You probably think self-preservation or, to put it another way, fear of dying is the most powerful human instinct. That is unless you are an insufferable romantic who believes love is what keeps the universe spinning. Either way, you’re wrong. As human beings what motivates us above all else is fear of embarrassment.
Before you accuse me of exaggeration think, for instance, of the thousands of men in wartime who charged towards the enemy in the almost certain knowledge they would be killed. Why? Running away would be the sensible course of action, but the embarrassment of being called a coward really can be a fate worse than death.
Okay, I wasn’t going over the top and into battle, but Dickwit had thrown me into a situation with more than a little potential for embarrassment. I was really pissed off with him for doing that to me and anger overwhelmed any fear of being the next name on his alleged hit list. Even his breakfast was now annoying, as the smoked salmon was beginning to repeat on me. I needed to clean my teeth and check out his ridiculous story with the relevant authorities.
But just who are the relevant authorities in a case like this? Logically, of course, it would be one of our fine law enforcement agencies. So what should I do, dial 911? It’s hardly a robbery in progress or a murder, well not yet anyway. The thought of a literary competition making me the target of a serial killer still seemed ineffably silly.
There was the business card he’d given me with a variety of phone numbers. But I still had a nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that this was some sort of elaborate prank. My call would be recorded then put on YouTube for my colleagues’ continuing amusement. Embarrassment once more conquers all.
That didn’t mean I could ignore the morning’s events. Once I got home to my computer surely I’d be able to find something on the relevant police websites, which would point me in the right direction. Perhaps there’d even be a helpful page on what to do if you suspect a bad guy’s impersonating a police officer.
Walking back across the park I started to picture what would happen when I did get through to the “relevant authorities”. A split-screen movie scene played out in my mind. On the left side, there I am in my apartment, sitting on an armchair delicately holding my phone. On the right, a crumpled, hard-bitten detective, feet up on the desk, cradles the phone between his head and his shoulder as he lights a cigarette. Yeah, I know he wouldn’t be allowed to smoke in a government building, but if my life’s turning into film noir I might as well let my fantasies follow suit.
So my imaginary cop, looking and sounding something like Humphrey Bogart, says: “Let me get this straight sister. A guy finds you on Facebook and buys you an expensive breakfast. He then tells you he’s a plain clothes Mountie who has been recruited to some top-secret division because he’s a crap writer. His case involves a serial killer who has already been convicted, but somehow has an accomplice who has never been mentioned before. Finally our secret Smokie tells you to throw some two-bit literary competition to somehow prevent yourself from getting whacked by a murderous wordsmith.
“Is that a fair summary of what your alleged RCMP buddy told you?”
I agreed.
“And you believed him?”
“Lady, let me give you some advice. Your phone number tells me you come from a nice neighbourhood, but you’re surely not so stuck up that you never watch police shows on TV. So you should know cops don’t have breakfast, we live on doughnuts. Next time a cop invites you out make sure it’s the food that’s got a hole in it, not his story.”
The scene might have been running inside my head, but even the mere thought of embarrassment was enough to make me blush deeply. I was sure people were looking at me. I tried to distract myself by trying to work out which one of them was the man or woman who planned to kill me. But even that frightening thought was not enough to overcome the fear of looking stupid in front of an imaginary cop.
There had to be another way. And I knew what it was. As soon as I got into my apartment I switched on my computer and the Gaggia espresso machine. By the time the former booted up the latter would be ready for coffee. It promised to be a caffeine-intensive day.
For the first time in months I resisted the temptation to check my email or Facebook even though I felt like a chain-smoker without a cigarette. Disgusting thought. Instead I headed straight for the Amazon site. I carefully typed the name “Brad Martin” into the search box. A Brad Pitt illustrated biography appeared at the top of the list; another temptation to resist. Underneath were a handful of bloodthirsty titles apparently written by my breakfast companion.
What I was interested in was the name of the publisher. If I could find out who had commissioned Mr Dim Witt I might be able to find out more about him. Fortunately the world of publishing is small so there was a pretty good chance I’d know somebody from even one of the middle-sized houses. Still I was somewhat taken aback to discover Brad Martin was a Double Knight author. Their taste is usually impeccable. Luckily, I did know somebody there.
Constanza De Ingenio is as classy as her name. She’s a great example of how you can make a small fortune in book publishing, if you start with a large one. When I first met Constanza while on course in graduate school, where we discovered and shared a love of horse riding. I was a country girl from a comfortable background, but she was reputed to be a real Mexican princess although she always played that down.
We hadn’t really talked since her wedding to an auto parts magnate. That was quite a show even if it did mean she was now Constanza Jones according to her passport. Her maiden name was still the one in the phone book. Now I wondered how early I could ring her. It was Sunday after all. Then I realized my good manners could be getting in the way of my self-preservation. Somebody had threatened to kill me. Hadn’t they? It still didn’t seem real.
Leaving the laptop on the table I made myself comfortable in an armchair. First I tried Constanza’s home number. The call went straight through to voice mail and I couldn’t think of a message. So I hung up. Then I rang her cell. She picked up immediately.
“Hello,” she said tentatively.
“It’s me Sandilea,” I said.
“Oh thank God, Sandy. I thought it was my mother-in-law. We’re just sneaking away for lunch and she always thinks it’s some sort of family betrayal if Sunday isn’t filled with brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and other tedious relatives.”
“Can you talk?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “Michael’s driving. So as long as the signal holds out we can chat away, provided it’s nothing that will upset my new husband’s innocent sensibilities.”
I could hear the smile in her voice.
“What can you tell me about your author Brad Martin?” I asked.
There was a long silence and I wondered if the cell phone had dropped out. Eventually she said: “Why? You see he’s a bit of an embarrassment our Brad.
“I know I’m supposed to be his commissioning editor, but he certainly wasn’t my choice. Have you ever had the bad luck to pick up any of his books? I certainly wouldn’t accuse you of actually reading one of those appalling pieces of drivel. God they’re dreadful on every conceivable level.”
“So why did you publish them?” I asked.
“Well, I never heard every detail, but apparently Henry was persuaded that the books were part of some cunning plan to catch a serial killer. I think Henry was conned.”
I knew Henry Knight vaguely and could believe he was somewhat gullible. He was brilliant at finding academics with theories that could catch the public imagination, but equally he could be a victim of mumbo-jumbo if it came in the right package. And crime fiction really wasn’t his thing.
Now it was my turn to tell Constanza my story. She listened without interruption until the end. Then she asked: “What did you say he called himself?”
“De Witt,” I replied.
“Bastard!”, she said, with such vehemence that in the background I could hear a slightly shocked Michael chiding her from the driving seat.
“Do you know how De Ingenio translates into English?”
I had to admit that my Spanish was restricted to what I’d learned from a few subtitled Pedro Almadovar films.
“Ingenio means ‘wit’. The bastard,” she said again. Clearly our lousy writer friend had really got under her skin, taking her name in vain. But it wasn’t enough for her to postpone lunch. She just promised to call later.
But what was I to do? Initially her call had been fairly comforting. Knowing that I wasn’t the only one to be taken in by a guy I now assumed was a crank made me feel less stupid. And I now had a valuable ally in Connie.
Quickly though my relief turned to fear. What’s the difference between a crank and a nut? One or the other knew where I lived, worked and had apparently put me on a hit list. All sorts of thoughts and fears tumbled through my brain.
Had I remembered to double lock my apartment’s front door? I tiptoed slowly along the hall and tried to turn the key slowly and quietly. It didn’t move. It was locked.
Still holding my breath I peered through the spy-hole into the dimly lit corridor outside the apartment. The shadows looked strange, but nothing moved. I held my breath, listening to the blood coursing through my veins. I could hear the elevator swoosh, but it did not stop at my floor. Eventually, a few very long minutes later, I decided there really was nobody there.
I slunk slowly and silently back to the living room, sat down and thought about putting on the television. But I needed to hear every sound, every creak if somebody was going to break in to my home. I got up, went to the kitchen and took a Sabatier carving knife out of the block. I turned, had another thought, and hid the block with the rest of the knives at the back of a cupboard.
Back in my armchair I tried to read a book. My eyes travelled down the page, but no words sunk in so I put it down. Staring through my window at the clouds chasing across the sky helped for a while as I turned over all the conman or killer permutations in my head. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a burst of sound from upstairs. But it was just the neighbours letting in guests for lunch.
It was no good. I had to do something. So I went back to my laptop, played a game of Solitaire and won my first time. So that didn’t last long. Then I opened the browser on Google’s home page. I typed in the name of the serial killer’s supposed accomplice “Jeremy Covelak”. Nothing. Even the name “Covelak” on its own didn’t seem to exist anywhere in cyberspace.
Dickwit had obviously invented the name. I wondered if it was an anagram. Running “Jeremy Covelak” through wordsmith.org showed 541 permutations. “Every male jock” was the most amusing, given De Witt’s stature and skin-care regime. It was hardly a clue though.
I had to be thorough so I Googled “Martin De Witt”. I had decided by now the name was made up so I was sure the search would produce no hits. I was wrong. There were hundreds. Who’d have thought it was almost a common name?
What surprised me even more was there were mentions in newspaper court reports of a Canadian detective called Martin De Witt. The cases were not exactly big time: burglaries, car thefts, that sort of thing. Strangely, what I could not find were any references to him for the last 18 months or so. And a search of images didn’t produce any pictures of my breakfast companion.
The results did seem to show he had not pinched Connie’s name, which cheered me up in a slightly malicious way. For once she was not the centre of attention. To be fair to her, it is difficult not to be noticed if you’re a beautiful, multimillionaire Mexican princess.
My Google research should have been a relief. It seemed Inspector De Witt could have been telling the truth. But his story still had many holes on the whole. I moved away from the computer to try and make some sense of it all. I couldn’t concentrate. My formerly peaceful apartment seemed to have become a host of distractions.
There were so many small sounds I hadn’t noticed before. Focusing on them brought me to an almost trance-like state as I tried to interpret the meaning of the creaking floor, the rattling windows and the muffled buzzing noise coming from the hall table. Suddenly I remembered; my cell was still on silent alert from a meeting on Friday, it was vibrating in my purse.
I snatched it from the front pocket, flipped it open and heard Connie’s voice. “Are you all right darling? I was thinking of you suffering at home so I thought we could get your problem sorted as quickly as possible. I’ve arranged for the best lawyer I know to come over and see you this afternoon. His name is David Weinbaum and he will sort everything out for you. Don’t worry about the bill. This is my treat. Does that sound good to you?”
I nodded, then realized I was on the phone and said: “Yes, sounds great.”
“I hope you don’t mind but I’ve given David your cell number so you two can make arrangements. He’s divorced, but I’m sure that can wait until later,” she giggled. “Ring me this evening when you’re through. I’m dying to know the details. Oops, wrong turn of phrase.” She hung up in a blizzard of laughter, clearly still enjoying her obviously somewhat liquid lunch.
Of course her generosity was only skin deep. Double Knight had a lot to lose in reputation if it ever got out that they had been conned into publishing work by a writer who did not even qualify as third-rate. But I certainly wasn’t going to turn down the services of one of the city’s best lawyers.
I sat looking at the cell phone in my hand like a teenager waiting for a date. Unlike those adolescent days it not only rang, but it was the guy I was waiting for. Sadly a trip to the police station is not the stuff that dreams are made of and neither was David, unless it’s the size of a man’s wallet that is his main attraction.
“Can I come over to your place in about ten minutes?” he asked. “We can talk through what you’re going to say. Then we’ll nip over to the police station where you’ll make a statement. It should all be over in a couple of hours and you’ll be able to forget all about it with a bit of luck.”
As I put the phone down I realized I’d forgotten to look for De Witt in Facebook. That’s where he told me he’d found my contact details. I rushed to my laptop to check before the lawyer arrived. A rapid search showed there was no Martin De Witt among my 537 “friends”. There were three others with the same name registered on Facebook, but none of them seemed to have anything to do with my elusive detective. I began to wonder if he’d assaulted my privacy by getting onto my list under a false name. There was only one way to find out.
But almost as soon as I started to work my way through 537 profiles the intercom buzzed. I walked briskly along the hall and picked up the handset. “Hello, it’s David,” said the voice. I pressed the button to let him in, waited and realized I was holding my breath to better hear the elevator arrive. Only when I saw him through the spy-hole did I undo the locks and pull back the chain. He stiffly shook my hand as he came in and my nervousness must have showed.
“Don’t worry,” he said as we walked to the living room. “You’re unlikely to be in any real danger. Think about it. How many serial killers have you heard of? I’d be impressed if you could manage ten and one of those would probably be Jack the Ripper. A 19th century London murderer isn’t too much of a threat.”
That was the end of his small talk. He sat down, pulled out a large notepad and refused all offers of refreshment. “Just tell me the whole story. Don’t miss out anything. I’ll tell you what’s relevant.”
I didn’t like him. And he really wasn’t doing anything to calm my nerves. So I tried the old trick of imagining him naked. But there was no way I could see him in any less than a neatly pressed pair of newly laundered striped pyjamas, buttoned to the neck.
He showed no reaction as I told the story in what to me was now tedious detail. It still didn’t take that long. He carried on making copious notes for several minutes before he looked up. Then he said: “Right. No mention of Ms De Ingenio or Double Knight. They’re not relevant. Otherwise just tell the police officer exactly what you told me.”
I nodded. “Right let’s go,” he said and I followed him to the door. I was quite happy to let him take charge. There was no eye contact as I carefully locked the door and he pressed the button for the elevator. As it was Sunday he had been able to park his car right outside. It was standard issue for a well-heeled lawyer; a black BMW, still as shiny and inconspicuous as it was when it left the showroom. The stereo wasn’t switched on. Shame, it would have been interesting to know what his taste was, news-talk or classical, certainly it wouldn’t be rock or top 40.
Instead the loudest noise inside the car was the gentle hiss of the heating fan. There was no chitchat either as we made our way out towards the airport. We drove into the almost deserted car park of the RCMP offices, stopped and he politely opened the BMW’s door for me before I followed him through the glass doors into the foyer. He motioned for me to wait while he went to the desk.
A few minutes later a woman came down and introduced herself as DI Johnstone and handed us a couple of clip-on visitor passes. I felt slightly disappointed. This was not the hard-boiled, hard-living cop I’d secretly hoped for. Instead it was a woman probably in her thirties, dressed in a navy wash-and-wear suit, she could have been a librarian, bank clerk or a school secretary.
She showed us into the slightly shabby interview room, than asked if the proceedings could be recorded. Johnstone told me to go through everything that had happened that day. I repeated everything I’d told the lawyer earlier. Like him, she said nothing, her face completely blank, as she took notes. I finished everything I had to say and there was a long silence.
Eventually she said: “Is that everything?”
I nodded and she said: “Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes?” It wasn’t exactly a question.
Looking over to the lawyer I hoped for some sort of reassurance. If there was some ripple in his expression that would indicate; “You did okay” it certainly wasn’t obvious to me. His inscrutability is probably effective in court, but I wanted an ally.
Then, something like my earlier daydream came true. DI Johnston came in with a proper detective, a real cop. The crumpled tie askew, with a wrinkled tan shirt undone at the neck, and two photographs in his hand.
“Do you know this man?” he asked, placing two official looking mug shots in front of me on the table.
“Yes that’s Martin De Witt. I had breakfast with him this morning,” I said.
“You’re probably half right. You maybe did have breakfast with him, but his name’s not De Witt, it’s Brad Martin. He works here as a sort of filing clerk, well, he’s got a fancier job title than that, but he’s a civilian, most definitely not a detective.”
“So who is De Witt?” I asked. “I know he’s a detective here. I Googled him and saw the newspaper reports from some of the cases where he gave evidence.”
“De Witt was a detective here,” said the real cop emphasizing the past tense. “Unfortunately he died about three months ago.”
“So why didn’t that show up on Google?” I asked. “Surely even in this violent day and age a cop getting killed is a story that the newspapers would pick up.”
“The thing is De Witt wasn’t killed, well not in the way you’re thinking. He had a heart attack a couple of years ago, bad enough to get himself invalided out of the force and onto a pension. Then, about 18 months later, he had another attack. That killed him. Pity, he was a nice guy, a real big teddy bear.
“I guess if anybody’s responsible for his death it’s Mr Krispy Kreme. Martin seemed to live on coffee and doughnuts. No really. It sounds like a cliché, but in this case unfortunately it was true.
“Anyway, for now, we’ve sent a squad car round to try and find what’s happened to your breakfast blind date. Brad’s not answering his phone at the moment. Mind you I’d be too embarrassed to pick up if I’d pulled the sort of stunt he seems to have done. Dick wit!”
“Don’t worry. As far as we know he’s never committed a serious crime before today, unless you count those books of his, but a crime against literature is not a felony. Not yet. Still I wouldn’t take a shower round at his place, at least not while his mom’s upstairs in a rocking chair.”
The detective headed for the door. “Be back in a few minutes,” he said, leaving the lawyer, the female detective and me staring silently in different directions.
