Crime Machine by Giles Blunt Read Free Book Online Page B

something to go on. We need to know what they …” Mr. Schumacher looked at his wife.
    “Look like,” she said.
    “The man’s in his late sixties. The woman’s in her mid-thirties. They were both dressed in expensive fur coats.”
    “We don’t know anybody like that,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “Nobody who owns furs. You said the man was wearing a fur too?”
    “Yes, ma’am, the man too.”
    “We don’t know anybody like that. Not that I can think of.”
    “But your place is for sale, no? You have a sign up. Carnwright Realty?”
    “That’s right,” Mr. Schumacher said. “Carnwright’s son-in-law’s looking after it for us. Randall …”
    “Randall Wishart,” Mrs. Schumacher said. “That’s right, we did give Randall a key. To be honest, we’re asking too much for the house—on purpose to discourage actual buyers. Mr. Wishart doesn’t know that, of course. We’re actually trying to prod Michael—that’s our son—to moveback here and decide to buy it. He lives in the States, but he keeps saying he’s going to move back.”
    “Aside from Mr. Wishart and your son, who else knows the house is empty?” Delorme said.
    “Well, anybody who goes by on a snowmobile, of course,” Mrs. Schumacher said.
    It was too early in the winter for snowmobiles. The ice on the lake wasn’t nearly thick enough.
    —
    The Violent Crime Linkage and Analysis System, ViCLAS for short, revolves around a national database that categorizes crimes, both solved and unsolved, according to MO. Most murderers not thinking to leave bits of nursery rhymes or other riddles at the scene, investigators have to rely on things like choice of weapon, victim, location and a host of other variables. But before the investigator can glean any information from the system, he or she is first required to fill out a form demanding answers to a great many questions about the current case.
    When Cardinal got fed up with trying to answer them, he headed over to Carnwright Real Estate. The Carnwright family had been a force in Algonquin Bay’s housing market for three generations. Lawrence Carnwright, the current avatar, was a highly active public figure, constantly turning up on committees and associations, a handsome white-haired gent who would appear on the news when an opinion was wanted on the economic future of the city. Lately his daughter seemed to be following in his footsteps.
    The office was located in an exquisitely maintained corner house on Woodrow at Sumner, with a wraparound porch and casement windows and a well-tended lawn. It looked like a set from a TV series about a happy family; all it needed was a swing set on the side lawn. Cardinal had been here several times, when Larry Carnwright had handled the sale of his house.
    The receptionist informed him that Randall Wishart was representing the Schumacher property. Wishart came out and shook hands with him and led him back to an office decorated with flattering photographs of Algonquin Bay houses that the Carnwright firm had sold. This being a high-end outfit, there was also a fair bit of art around the place. A small,squat Inuit sculpture of a polar bear sat on top of a bookcase full of binders, and a large, colourful painting or print—Cardinal was never quite sure of the difference—had one wall to itself. There were also plenty of pictures of a sharp-eyed blond woman—in a skiing outfit, in a poolside lounge chair, and a professional portrait in a blue pinstripe suit. She had the startling blue eyes of the Carnwright family.
    “Have a seat,” Wishart said, indicating a chair. He was handsome in a conventional way, late twenties or so, with something of the look of a politician. Not a hair out of place. “Are you here on police business or about a house?”
    “Both. I have some questions about the Schumacher place out on Island Road.”
    “Don’t tell me they’ve had a break-in.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Happens all the time with lake properties—well,