‘Yes, the streets round here are all named after poets, not throughout Letitia Heights, just this particular area.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, this is about as bad as Barrie gets,’ Marianne Auphan turned to Ventnor and smiled.
‘Listen, this is not bad at all, you should see parts of York, the places the tourists don’t get to see.’
‘Yeah, I’d like that,’ she turned her head again to look at the road, ‘that would be good.’
‘Same in every town,’ Ventnor observed dryly, ‘always an underbelly.’
‘Dare say. I have ancestors from near London, is that close to York?’
Ventnor smiled. ‘Well, I dare say it’s quite close if you’re in Ontario but Londoners don’t consider themselves close to York and vice versa. It’s about two and a half to three hours by fast train.’
‘Oh. . OK, but that’s close, believe me, that’s close. Here guys do that drive to work and then back again and think nothing of it. Kingston Female Penitentiary, which serves Ontario province, that’s five hundred miles return from Barrie. I can do that journey in a single day.’
Ventnor gasped, ‘That’s not much short of the distance from the north coast of Scotland to the south coast of England. . astounding.’
‘Different world, but we have freeways and drive cars that are built for distance working.’ Marianne Auphan slowed the car to a halt outside a small house with an untidy garden, which was separated from the nearest house by a thick stand of spruce. It was similar to the nearby houses, with a brick built base and thereafter the outside wall and roof were the same sort of dull green painted aluminium sheeting. Marianne Auphan opened the car door and invited Ventnor to accompany her. They walked side by side and in close proximity up the short drive and on to the wooden porch which creaked under their combined weight as soon as they stepped on to it. ‘You’d better let me do the talking.’ Marianne Auphan pressed the electric door buzzer. ‘The English accent could be a barrier, a lot of Irish descendants, a lot of French Canadians, they don’t like the English, already.’
‘Fair enough, whatever you say. Interesting though that you have English ancestry. Myself and Somerled Yellich thought you were French Canadian.’
‘I am,’ Marianne Auphan turned and smiled and looked at Ventnor with dilated pupils, ‘in the main. You see my mother’s relatives came over in the Empress of Ireland. They sailed from Liverpool in the early twentieth century and settled in Vancouver in the west of Canada but she married into a French Canadian family who lived here in Ontario and so I grew up in a large French Canadian family. Only my mother, and her relatives in faraway Vancouver, are my English Canadian connection, so, that’s me, mainly French Canadian but with a little English Canadian in the mix.’
The lightweight wooden door was opened by a middle-aged woman with matted hair and hard, cold-looking eyes. Ventnor recognized the type, hostile, he sensed, very hostile towards the police. She held a cigarette in the corner of her mouth which she had smoked almost to the filter. She wore a tee shirt which hung loosely on her body and black shorts which revealed lower legs covered in hair. She was barefoot. ‘Snow was called on the radio this morning so I expected that,’ she spoke with a harsh rasping voice, ‘but I didn’t expect the police. You’re going to throw me in the bucket. Again.’
‘No need to show you our ID in that case.’ But Marianne Auphan did so anyway. Ventnor did likewise. ‘And no, we’re not going to bucket you. . we do have plenty of room in there though. We’re looking for information.’
‘Just information?’ The woman sounded relieved.
‘That’s all.’
‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped aside with unsteady and uncoordinated movements and the two officers entered her dark and musty smelling home. ‘Sit if you want to but if I were you I’d stand, I truly would.’ She indicated a pile of empty beer cans on the floor next to an ancient looking gas fire. ‘All the chairs are damp if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I can guess what you mean, ‘Marianne Auphan replied, ‘and thanks, but we’ll take your advice and stand.’
‘Sensible.’ The woman sank heavily into an armchair which was ripped and torn in many places. She dogged the cigarette butt in an overflowing ashtray and lit another cigarette from a blue packet.
‘Better for you to be indoors anyway,’ Marianne Auphan spoke quietly, ‘your feet look cold.’
‘Can’t really feel them,’ the woman smiled, ‘circulation problems.’
‘You’re not helping any by smoking and drinking already.’
‘That’s what the clinic told me but what else is there for me but smoke and the booze? I only got that for company.’ She jabbed the air indicating an old television set in the corner of the room. ‘And maybe that.’ She indicated an equally ancient hi-fi system which made Ventnor feel like he was back in Tang Hall YO10.
‘So what do you want?’ The woman lit the cigarette with an orange coloured disposable lighter, activating it with a clumsy twin-handed method. She inhaled deeply and breathed the smoke out through her nose. ‘So what can I tell you? Hey, I thought I’d get snow but I got cops instead, but at least cops can talk. . snow don’t say much.’
‘We also listen. So are you Jordana Hoskins, already?’
‘Yes.’ The woman had the remnants of an Irish accent. Mainly she had a Canadian accent, thought Ventnor, but the Irish came unmistakably through. He fully understood the need to keep silent. His place was to listen, to look, to observe, and to receive an impression, but not to say a word.
‘Yes, that’s me, Jordana Hoskins, from Dublin City. . but that was forty years ago. I had no say in leaving; my parents brought me over on a boat. So it’s the Garda in Ireland, and the police in Canada, all wanting information. So how can I help you?’
‘Heather Ossetti.’
‘What about her?’ Jordana Hoskins was clearly standing her ground against the officers. She wasn’t denying knowing Heather Ossetti but was also certainly very protective of her. Ventnor realized that information would not be easily forthcoming from the woman.
‘You and she were buddies, already,’ Marianne Auphan said, ‘what we call “criminal associates”.’
‘Yes, we got thrown in the bucket together, me and Heather. A few times.’
‘We know. When you lived in Ottawa, already.’
‘Ottawa is a good province. I like Ottawa.’
‘So where is she now? Do you know?’
‘Heather?’ Jordana Hoskins once again drew heavily on the cigarette. ‘Not seen her for some time. . like years. . maybe a few years.’
‘You won’t be seeing her again. Not in this world anyway.’
Jordana Hoskins gasped, allowing a large cloud of cigarette smoke to escape from her mouth. ‘She’s dead?’
‘Yes, already,’ Marianne Auphan spoke matter-of-factly. ‘It happens to all of us, sooner or later.’
‘Yeah, I worked that out some time ago, but Heather. .’ The officers thought her reaction to be genuine, she definitely did not know where Heather Ossetti was.
‘I’m afraid so. Don’t like to bring bad news, not when we’re looking for help, but that’s the way of it sometimes. . like a hand in a glove. . bad news wrapped up inside a request for information.’
‘Yeah, reckon it is.’ Jordana Hoskins stared into the middle distance. Her eyes did not seem focused on anything. ‘How? I mean Heather. . Can you tell me?’