Read Online The Dead Letter by Finley Martin - Free Book Online Page A

services. The only catch was that neither of them could speak of the incident again. The entire affair was classified under the Security of Information Act. Both Anne and Ben accepted the terms, although they were quite sure that they had no option. A year later, Anne had seen little to indicate that she would receive any reward for her effort in uncovering the plot and keeping the secret, and the ink had scarcely dried on the legislation authorizing Ben’s new post.
    Ben’s title was Provincial Special Investigator and Liaison for Intergovernmental Law Enforcement Operations. What exactly that meant, he scarcely knew. Nor did anyone else, really, and today was Ben’s third day on the job.
    Today was also the first day in his own office on the fourth floor of the Jones Building, one of five structures that formed the heart of provincial government operations in Charlottetown. The office was small but bright, and the furnishings smelled new. The walls were bare, and his desktop devoid of pictures or personal items. That morning his part-time secretary, Ida Treat, had shown a technician into the office with a trolley full of computer equipment. The computer was connected in about ten minutes. The technician left, Ida disappeared to her other job down the hall at Pesticide Licensing and Control, and Ben was alone again.
    Ben found himself leaning vacantly against a filing cabinet that filled one corner. He opened the drawers one by one. Three were empty. The fourth held a telephone directory and a freshly amended copy of the Police Act. He slipped the book under the desk phone and placed the packet of legislation in the centre of his desk.
    The window next to the desk had a view of Victoria Park and a bit of Hillsborough Bay. He looked out over the thin spread of red and orange foliage below and at the dark blue streaks of water beyond and wished he were a detective again at his coffee-stained desk in the drafty squad room with his old friends downtown.
    Ben jerked at his necktie as if it were strangling him. Then he sidled into his chair and pulled the copy of the Police Act toward him. He fingered through the legislation until he came upon a sub-section entitled “Provincial special investigator” and began to read.
    â€œI expected that you would have at least a suite of offices,” interrupted a voice. A head had poked itself through the doorway and looked around. “You’d need that much space, maybe more, just to fit your job title through the door. What is it they call you now?”
    â€œProvincial Special Investigator and Liaison for Intergovernmental Law Enforcement Operations.” Ben forced an embarrassed grin and added, “Bureaucrats. They like big words and big titles. What brings you up here, Chief?”
    Jamie MacFarlane flashed a big smile, removed his hat, and sat down in a chair opposite Ben’s desk. His hair was short, thinning and grey at the temples. He wore the uniform of Stratford Police Department and the insignia of police chief on his shoulder. Ben guessed that he would be about forty years old. He had known him for six or seven years, and their paths had crossed several times when investigations spanned both sides of Hillsborough River. MacFarlane had grown heavier since their last meeting, thought Ben. Then again, so had he.
    MacFarlane put several thick binders onto Ben’s desk.
    â€œYou…or somebody…called the station and requested an old case file.” He motioned toward the binders. “This is it.”
    Ben leaned forward and glanced at it as if he were uncertain what it was. It was labelled with a serial number.
    â€œThe Simone Villier murder,” said MacFarlane.
    â€œOh, yes, I recall it now,” Ben said. Anne had asked for the file. It was the first and only official action he had taken since becoming Provincial Special Investigator. “Thanks, but you didn’t need to make a special trip.”
    Ben leaned back in