Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

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      Smith sat in the passenger seat, sipping his coffee and looking out the window, taking in the kaleidoscope of Lanark County on the brilliant fall morning. They had left Ottawa just before seven, when it was barely light, but as they made their way west along Highway 7 toward Peterborough, the morning mist ceded to the sun’s warmth and left the roadside a rolling mix of gold and green. They had stopped in Perth for coffee and had another couple of hours to go, but they would be there in plenty of time for their meeting at the OPP detachment in town. Marshall was humming along to some country tune that Smith was trying to block out by focusing on the scenery.

      It had been after midnight when Smith had finally fallen into bed, exhausted after a long day of gathering information, none of which pointed them to their killer. Another runner — a University of Ottawa student — had turned up at Elgin Street claiming he had passed a large man in a hoodie, hat, and sunglasses on the lower canal path around twenty past six. The student hadn’t been certain about the time, but thought he was close. If so, he was the second person to encounter the killer before Curtis Ritchie. He had noticed the other man on the opposite side of the Somerset Bridge, apparently stretching as he faced the Queen Elizabeth Drive side. Assuming the student had seen the killer, his position on the bridge overlooking the path was consistent with the other runner’s statement, and the fact that the student was only five foot four and a hundred and thirty-five pounds could explain why the man on the bridge had stayed where he was, rather than descending to the path for closer inspection.

      There would be follow-up interviews with as many friends, family, and teammates as possible over the next twenty-four hours, in an attempt to find out who might have known Ritchie’s running schedule and route. The decision for Marshall and Smith to head to Peterborough had been made by their staff sergeant, since Nancy Ridgeway represented the only person with a documented beef against Curtis Ritchie so far. Besides, it was under three hours by car, and they would be back by late afternoon.

      Smith picked up one of the morning papers and read the headline in big black letters: “Hockey Star Murdered.” A photo of the crime scene, taken through the trees from the upper path and showing a plastic tarp over Ritchie’s body, dominated the front page, the balance taken up with background on Ritchie’s life and whatever details of the investigation media relations had allowed to be released. Smith had already read most of it, and the gist was that Ritchie had been stabbed and tossed into the canal, and that the police had no suspects. Practically all of the sports section and most of the city section was taken up with more on Ritchie’s life and death. There were quotes from many of the same people Smith and Marshall had interviewed the day before, including Ellen Ritchie, James Cormier, and Quinn McAdam. Ottawa’s other main daily was similarly focused on the Ritchie murder, though its headline was less restrained: “Ritchie Rich Buys It.” Smith scanned some of the articles and made his way to the back of the paper, to the sports section.

      “Let’s see,” Marshall said, glancing over.

      “What?”

      “What do you mean what? The girl … lemme see….”

      Smith realized he meant the full-page photo of a barely dressed young woman — a daily feature that preceded the sports section — and turned the page over so Marshall could see it without driving off the road.

      “Candy. Not bad.”

      “Says she’s into yoga,” Smith said. “And older cops with beer bellies.”

      “Very funny. What’s it say about Ritchie?”

      “What doesn’t it say? They’ve got his whole life in here, and a prediction of doom for the Raftsmen this season. I wouldn’t want to be McAdam right now, that’s for sure.”

      “Yeah, I noticed a few not-so-subtle shots at him already, questioning his choice to put all his eggs in one basket, and all that.”

      “As for Ritchie himself, he was apparently a saint. They got a quote from his elementary school teacher in here, for God’s sake. How do they get this stuff on a Saturday morning?”

      Marshall scoffed. “You didn’t see the vultures outside the station yesterday?” The media crowd had swelled to a horde by the end of the day, with reporters and camera operators — mostly the out-of-town crowd — hovering around, chattering and texting while they waited for the latest update. Marshall glanced over. “You don’t think he was a saint?”

      “How many eighteen-year-olds with that kind of cash in their pockets wouldn’t have some skeletons in their closets?”

      “Well, it’s the first day after his death. They’re not going to print anything negative yet, but give it time. Speaking of skeletons, what do you think of the Ridgeway woman?”

      “Probably just a harmless gold digger. I do think it’s odd that the letters just stopped, though.” Smith pulled the copies of the lawyer’s letters from the file folder he had brought along. “I mean, I know the idea is to threaten and blow everything out of proportion at the beginning and settle later, but aren’t they supposed to at least file a statement of claim?”

      Marshall frowned. “But they were written before the draft, right? And before Ritchie signed his contract.”

      “Sure, but everyone knew he was going first overall, and that whoever got him was gonna pay big bucks eventually. I wonder what happened.”

      Marshall tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and turned the radio up a notch.

      “I guess we can ask her ourselves.”

      Nancy Ridgeway’s parents’ home was a rundown Victorian on the outskirts of Peterborough. But while the exterior looked in need of plenty of TLC, the inside was clean, if spartan. Smith and Marshall sat at a harvest table in the kitchen in awkward silence as Ridgeway’s mother prepared the coffee and her father sat opposite, stone-faced. Ridgeway herself sat at the end of the table, eyes firmly fixed on her hands. She had a youthful, attractive face and slender arms that were in stark contrast with the round belly under a T-shirt and jean overalls. She was seventeen years old.

      “So, when’s the baby due ?” Marshall asked, breaking the silence as Mrs. Ridgeway deposited steaming mugs of coffee in front of them. They were both jacked up already from the two cups they had consumed on the drive over, but a refusal would have been impolite. Nancy looked to her parents before speaking, and seemed to read permission in the silence.

      “October thirtieth.”

      “Just in time for Halloween. He’ll have lots of fun with that over the years.” Marshall grinned, before adding, “Or she.” He sipped at his coffee, and when it was clear that small talk wasn’t going to work, he decided to get to the point. He was about the same age as Ridgeway’s father and, with a teenage daughter of his own, he could sympathize with the other man’s pained silence. He was keen to get the information they needed and leave this family alone.

      “I guess the Peterborough OPP told you why we were coming. You’re aware that Curtis Ritchie was killed yesterday morning?”

      “Was he murdered?” Ridgeway asked, looking up at them for the first time. Her eyes looked bloodshot, as though she were exhausted, or had been crying — maybe both.

      “It’s officially a homicide investigation, so yes, we think so.”

      “My СКАЧАТЬ