couldn’t read him. Was he embarrassed to be discussing his probable financial misdoings, or in a state of shock about losing his daughter? Either way, he was being less than forthcoming.
“I didn’t retain any files from the company when I left,” Terry shrugged his shoulders and hung his head in exaggerated sheepishness. “Turned the high life in for the countryside, left it all behind me.”
Susan didn’t return the conspiratorial smile. “Colleagues, supervisors, that will have to do for now. Surely you have ‘retained’ some of their contact numbers?”
“No problem, no problem,” Terry’s countenance cooled considerably. He slumped back in the couch with the sullen attitude of a teenager brought in for shoplifting. Susan used the moment to examine the room. It looked like the den was a much used hideaway for Mr. Harmon, judging by the well-stocked bar and half-hearted attempt at tidiness. It had none of the carefully placed coasters and throw pillows of the rooms they had passed as they were ushered through the house.
Not bad digs, Susan ruminated, hardly slumming it if this was indeed the result of a mad dash from disgrace in the city. A full minute passed by and Susan’s leg twitched in an effort to stop herself from standing and placing herself between Terry and the blank television screen that his gaze kept sliding towards as if by habit.
“We’ll wait for those numbers then, Mr. Harmon,” Driscoll was the first to give in.
“They used him as a scapegoat you know.” Marion leaned forward as her husband stalked out of the room, his face the picture of persecution. “Not everyone makes money in stocks,” she went on, her fingers picking anxiously at the afghan she held on her lap. “Some have to lose so some can win. They used Terry as a sacrifice, so all those people who lost money could have someone to blame.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” Susan studied Mrs. Harmon. Her face looked like it had once been attractive, but had foregone its earlier charm for downturned lines and an ever-present expression of complaint. “Is that how your husband explained the situation?”
Mrs. Harmon waved her hand in front of her as if the question didn’t merit an answer. “It didn’t need explaining, it was obvious. Don’t you think they would have arrested him if he really did all of those awful things they claimed he did?”
Terry re-entered the room with his Blackberry in hand as Marion finished her statement. If looks could kill, Susan thought to herself as he glared at his wife, seating himself on the opposite end of the couch, there would be another murder on the roster.
Her cell phone chimed and Susan stood. Aldershot was trying to reach her; the autopsy results were likely in.
“Officer Driscoll will take the details,” Susan nodded to the Harmon’s. “We’ll be in touch soon.” She left the room briskly, giving Gary a wink as she passed him.
“Alright George, I’m with you.” Susan stepped out of the house and walked towards the cliff side of the Harmon’s laneway. The Bay view was one you never tired of, whether you lived here or not. Today’s sky was layered with thick clouds, and it turned the water a dark mud colour, no hint of the pale rocks below its surface, waiting for the sun to light to turn them incandescent. “Lay it on me, anything unexpected?”
“Not really,” Aldershot’s low voice intoned. He was a careful speaker, choosing words with a precision that was inherent to his job. Susan inhaled deeply to quiet the urge to shriek “spit it out.” This was a big case and George wouldn’t have seen much aside from the results of DUIs and boating accidents in a number of years.
“She was a healthy young woman,” he cleared his throat before continuing. “No sign of illness or previous violence, except a fractured right forearm, set nicely. Looks roughly ten years old.”
Susan waited while Aldershot consulted his notes, listening to his nasal