Read Online By the Time You Read This by Giles Blunt - Free Book Online
Authors: Giles Blunt
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just something I have to do.”
“But why? It’s just going to make you crazy.”
“Actually, it’s making me feel better in a weird way. I have something to focus on other than the simple fact that Catherine’s …”
Kelly reached out and touched his sleeve. “Maybe that’s exactly what you should be focusing on, rather than going over her notebook. It’s not healthy, Dad. Maybe you should just lie down and cry. Scream, if you have to.”
Her father was holding the notebook under the light that hung low over the kitchen table. He tilted it this way and that, first examining a blank page and then a page with writing on it. His concentration was irritating.
“Look at this,” he said. “I mean, not if you don’t want to. But this is interesting.”
“What, for God’s sake? I can’t believe you’re messing with that stuff.” Thinking, I sound like a teenager. I must be reverting under the stress.
“As far as I can tell, this is Catherine’s handwriting.”
“Of course it is. I can tell that, even upside down. She makes those funny loops on her t ‘s.”
“And it’s written with this pen—or one just like it—on a page torn from this notebook.”
“Surely your colleagues already determined that, Dad. Why? Do you think somebody else wrote Mom’s note for her?”
“No, I don’t—not yet, anyway. But look. Come round this side.”
Kelly debated whether to just go into the other room and turn on the TV. She didn’t want to encourage her father, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to do anything that would make things worse. She got up and stood behind him.
“See, what strikes me funny about this,” Cardinal said, “is that this suicide note is not the last thing Catherine wrote in this notebook.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can see the impressions back here, earlier on. They’re very faint, but you can just make them out when you hold the notebook at the right angle. Can you see?”
“Frankly, no.”
“You’re not at the right angle. You have to sit down.”
Cardinal pulled out the chair beside him and Kelly sat down. He tilted the notebook slowly back and forth.
“Wait!” Kelly said. “I can see it now.”
Cardinal held the notebook steady in the light. There at the top of a page of random notes was a faint impression of the words Dear John . Cardinal tilted it slightly. Lower on the page Kelly could just make out any other way … Catherine . The middle was obscured by other notes, including a reminder for Cardinal’s birthday.
“My birthday’s in July,” he said. “Over three months ago.”
“You think she wrote her note three months ago? I suppose it’s possible. Pretty weird to carry around a suicide note for three months, though.”
Cardinal dropped the notebook onto the table and sat back. “On the other hand, there could be some perfectly simple explanation: she wrote it out one day, intending to … but then she changed her mind. For a while, at least. Or maybe she accidentally skipped a page in her notebook three months ago, and then, the other day, she just happened to use the first blank page in the book.”
“Out of a concern for neatness? Seems a pretty odd time to be worried about using every page in your ninety-five-cent notebook.”
“It does, doesn’t it.”
“But it’s her writing. Her pen. In the long run, what difference does it make what page she wrote it on?”
“I don’t know,” Cardinal said. “I truly don’t know.”
Cardinal had learned long ago that a detective thrives on contacts. In the overworked and underfunded endeavours of forensic science, the slightest personal connection can help nudge a case along quicker than the average, and an actual friendship can work magic.
Tommy Hunn had never been a friend. Tommy Hunn had been a colleague of Cardinal’s back in the early days of his career in Toronto, when he was still working Vice. In many ways Hunn had been a police force’s nightmare: excessively
“But why? It’s just going to make you crazy.”
“Actually, it’s making me feel better in a weird way. I have something to focus on other than the simple fact that Catherine’s …”
Kelly reached out and touched his sleeve. “Maybe that’s exactly what you should be focusing on, rather than going over her notebook. It’s not healthy, Dad. Maybe you should just lie down and cry. Scream, if you have to.”
Her father was holding the notebook under the light that hung low over the kitchen table. He tilted it this way and that, first examining a blank page and then a page with writing on it. His concentration was irritating.
“Look at this,” he said. “I mean, not if you don’t want to. But this is interesting.”
“What, for God’s sake? I can’t believe you’re messing with that stuff.” Thinking, I sound like a teenager. I must be reverting under the stress.
“As far as I can tell, this is Catherine’s handwriting.”
“Of course it is. I can tell that, even upside down. She makes those funny loops on her t ‘s.”
“And it’s written with this pen—or one just like it—on a page torn from this notebook.”
“Surely your colleagues already determined that, Dad. Why? Do you think somebody else wrote Mom’s note for her?”
“No, I don’t—not yet, anyway. But look. Come round this side.”
Kelly debated whether to just go into the other room and turn on the TV. She didn’t want to encourage her father, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to do anything that would make things worse. She got up and stood behind him.
“See, what strikes me funny about this,” Cardinal said, “is that this suicide note is not the last thing Catherine wrote in this notebook.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can see the impressions back here, earlier on. They’re very faint, but you can just make them out when you hold the notebook at the right angle. Can you see?”
“Frankly, no.”
“You’re not at the right angle. You have to sit down.”
Cardinal pulled out the chair beside him and Kelly sat down. He tilted the notebook slowly back and forth.
“Wait!” Kelly said. “I can see it now.”
Cardinal held the notebook steady in the light. There at the top of a page of random notes was a faint impression of the words Dear John . Cardinal tilted it slightly. Lower on the page Kelly could just make out any other way … Catherine . The middle was obscured by other notes, including a reminder for Cardinal’s birthday.
“My birthday’s in July,” he said. “Over three months ago.”
“You think she wrote her note three months ago? I suppose it’s possible. Pretty weird to carry around a suicide note for three months, though.”
Cardinal dropped the notebook onto the table and sat back. “On the other hand, there could be some perfectly simple explanation: she wrote it out one day, intending to … but then she changed her mind. For a while, at least. Or maybe she accidentally skipped a page in her notebook three months ago, and then, the other day, she just happened to use the first blank page in the book.”
“Out of a concern for neatness? Seems a pretty odd time to be worried about using every page in your ninety-five-cent notebook.”
“It does, doesn’t it.”
“But it’s her writing. Her pen. In the long run, what difference does it make what page she wrote it on?”
“I don’t know,” Cardinal said. “I truly don’t know.”
Cardinal had learned long ago that a detective thrives on contacts. In the overworked and underfunded endeavours of forensic science, the slightest personal connection can help nudge a case along quicker than the average, and an actual friendship can work magic.
Tommy Hunn had never been a friend. Tommy Hunn had been a colleague of Cardinal’s back in the early days of his career in Toronto, when he was still working Vice. In many ways Hunn had been a police force’s nightmare: excessively
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