place a call on this thing.” Cartwright smiled faintly. “I’d wipe that look off your face, missy.”
“You have to turn it on.”
“Take me through it.” Melanie Cartwright took the phone from her and pushed the power button.
Everyone at the station house had the newspaper. Hazel walked into the pen and one of the duty officers, PC Ashton, held up his copy and said, “Apparently we’re still at square one.”
Hazel took the paper away from him and held it at her side. “All of you may be as shocked as the rest of the readers of the
Westmuir Record
that a murder has happened in our sleepy little town. But unlike those people, we don’t get our news from the
Westmuir Record,
no matter how tempting it may be. Now, how many of you in this room spoke to reporters at this newspaper?” No one raised a hand, but all looked around; they took her question to indicate that someone had broken rank. But instead, Hazel smiled at them. “Right. None of you did. And none of you will. And that’s why I want to see every copy of the
Westmuir Record
in this room in the recycling bin immediately. It has nothing to say to us, and I don’t want you getting your facts mixed up with other people’s speculation.”
“Um, Inspector,” said Ashton, whose paper she’d taken. “I was actually looking for a used fridge. Mine’s on the fritz.”
She handed Ashton his paper back. “Adrian can buy a new fridge, but the rest of you . . . ” The room seemed to rise as one. “Greene, Wingate: I’d like to see you in the conference room when I’m done with the hordes. Howard Spere will be here any minute.” Both detectives nodded at her. “I’ll be back in ten.”
She recognized Paul Garland from the weekly
Dublin Ledger,
Patricia Warren from the
Beaton Advertiser
(monthly), and two younger reporters from parts unknown. She suspected they might
be from the cable access station in Mayfair. But there was no Gord Sunderland. “We’re going to wait a minute,” she said, and Garland put his hand up.
“Any chance we can go inside? It’s the middle of November out here.”
“It’s the middle of November inside too.”
“But it’s warmer inside.”
“This won’t take long,” she said, “and my people are pretty busy with this investigation, as you can imagine.”
“Do you have any leads on the Chandler murder?” asked one of the two kids.
“Who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Alex Finch and Janet Turner—” Janet waved sheepishly “—CKBF Mayfair. I hear that there was a strange black car spotted on Taylor the day of the killing.”
“First off,” said Detective Inspector Micallef, “I’m here to make a statement, not to answer questions. Secondly, if you’re getting your facts from the paper of record, you should know that nothing you’ve read in today’s issue of the
Westmuir Record
is based on statements made by the Port Dundas PD.”
“So there’s no car?”
“Here’s the statement.” She took a single sheet of paper out of a folder and held it out in front of her. The wind caught the corner and folded the paper over on itself. “‘On Saturday, November 13, the body of Delia Chandler, age eighty-one, was discovered in her home. At this time, the Port Dundas Police, in cooperation with personnel from Mayfair, and under the direction of Central Region of the OPS, have embarked on a full-scale investigation. In the interest of the investigation, we are unable to enlarge on the particulars of the case; however, we will update the public with
pertinent details when they become available and thank you all in advance for your understanding.’ Our community liaison officer, PC Eileen Bail, will be out shortly with copies of this statement should you like to have one.” She looked around the small gathering. Their eyes seemed to have glazed over. Patricia Warren looked down at her notes.
“Um, Inspector?”
“Yes?”
“Can you confirm that Delia Chandler was
“You have to turn it on.”
“Take me through it.” Melanie Cartwright took the phone from her and pushed the power button.
Everyone at the station house had the newspaper. Hazel walked into the pen and one of the duty officers, PC Ashton, held up his copy and said, “Apparently we’re still at square one.”
Hazel took the paper away from him and held it at her side. “All of you may be as shocked as the rest of the readers of the
Westmuir Record
that a murder has happened in our sleepy little town. But unlike those people, we don’t get our news from the
Westmuir Record,
no matter how tempting it may be. Now, how many of you in this room spoke to reporters at this newspaper?” No one raised a hand, but all looked around; they took her question to indicate that someone had broken rank. But instead, Hazel smiled at them. “Right. None of you did. And none of you will. And that’s why I want to see every copy of the
Westmuir Record
in this room in the recycling bin immediately. It has nothing to say to us, and I don’t want you getting your facts mixed up with other people’s speculation.”
“Um, Inspector,” said Ashton, whose paper she’d taken. “I was actually looking for a used fridge. Mine’s on the fritz.”
She handed Ashton his paper back. “Adrian can buy a new fridge, but the rest of you . . . ” The room seemed to rise as one. “Greene, Wingate: I’d like to see you in the conference room when I’m done with the hordes. Howard Spere will be here any minute.” Both detectives nodded at her. “I’ll be back in ten.”
She recognized Paul Garland from the weekly
Dublin Ledger,
Patricia Warren from the
Beaton Advertiser
(monthly), and two younger reporters from parts unknown. She suspected they might
be from the cable access station in Mayfair. But there was no Gord Sunderland. “We’re going to wait a minute,” she said, and Garland put his hand up.
“Any chance we can go inside? It’s the middle of November out here.”
“It’s the middle of November inside too.”
“But it’s warmer inside.”
“This won’t take long,” she said, “and my people are pretty busy with this investigation, as you can imagine.”
“Do you have any leads on the Chandler murder?” asked one of the two kids.
“Who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Alex Finch and Janet Turner—” Janet waved sheepishly “—CKBF Mayfair. I hear that there was a strange black car spotted on Taylor the day of the killing.”
“First off,” said Detective Inspector Micallef, “I’m here to make a statement, not to answer questions. Secondly, if you’re getting your facts from the paper of record, you should know that nothing you’ve read in today’s issue of the
Westmuir Record
is based on statements made by the Port Dundas PD.”
“So there’s no car?”
“Here’s the statement.” She took a single sheet of paper out of a folder and held it out in front of her. The wind caught the corner and folded the paper over on itself. “‘On Saturday, November 13, the body of Delia Chandler, age eighty-one, was discovered in her home. At this time, the Port Dundas Police, in cooperation with personnel from Mayfair, and under the direction of Central Region of the OPS, have embarked on a full-scale investigation. In the interest of the investigation, we are unable to enlarge on the particulars of the case; however, we will update the public with
pertinent details when they become available and thank you all in advance for your understanding.’ Our community liaison officer, PC Eileen Bail, will be out shortly with copies of this statement should you like to have one.” She looked around the small gathering. Their eyes seemed to have glazed over. Patricia Warren looked down at her notes.
“Um, Inspector?”
“Yes?”
“Can you confirm that Delia Chandler was
Similar Books
