by Janet Brons
“Thanks so much, Andrea. I owe you one.”
“No problem. I have to go now. I have to get to work.”
“Okay, thanks again. See you soon.”
Andrea hung up the phone, unstuck her feet from the floor, and resumed battling her hair.
Liz and Ouellette were among the first at the crime scene, although it was already cordoned off and uniformed officers were keeping curious passersby at a distance. The murdered Daudov lay flat on his back, blood pooling around his torso. He had almost been smashed into the front of the apartment building by the force of the bullet. His dark eyes were wide open and his face frozen in shock. He had clearly been hit square in the chest and appeared to have died instantly.
The coroner and forensics teams arrived and carried out their duties quietly and professionally. Photos were taken, as were measurements, while police attempted to track down eyewitnesses. A couple of people who had come down from the apartment building had seen the shooting, if not the shooter, and were giving statements.
It didn’t take an expert in forensics to determine the cause of death, although Liz was trained not to reach conclusions prior to having all relevant information. But she had seen a similar crime scene very recently.
Who, she wondered, could have wanted both the Daudovs dead? Who would have wanted to cut short their attempt to make a new life? Liz and Ouellette rode back in silence to an emergency meeting of the task force, each mentally pursuing various scenarios that rapidly hit dead ends.
A grim group of officers convened that afternoon in their cramped headquarters. The meeting had been struck as soon as the crime scene had been processed and the bloody corpse of Rasul Daudov transported to the morgue.
Maps and photos of the Russian Embassy, Laila Daudova, and the crime scene on Charlotte Street were attached to the variety of boards on the walls. To these were hastily added information from the scene of Rasul’s death on Frontenac Road.
Notes, including numerous circles and arrows in a variety of colours, had been scribbled on the boards as officers worked to make sense of the murders. Ouellette thought irreverently that the main board resembled a game plan for a football match.
Liz looked for a moment at the cluster of intent faces before her. Then she began. “Alright, so now Laila Daudova’s husband, Rasul Daudov, has been shot dead—this morning, at about 6:45, according to a very frightened passer by. Forensics hasn’t much to say as yet, but it looks similar to the attack on his wife. Shot from a distance, apparently from across the street, alongside a derelict building.”
Ouellette added, “Again, no shell casing found.”
Liz nodded. “But this time, at least, we have some footprints. The snow was soft enough, but they are pretty fuzzy and degraded. Greg, you’ll follow up on that? In fact, get what you can from the crime scene investigators later in the day and brief me, yes?”
Greg Gibson nodded. Of course he would. This was the kind of stuff he lived for. Nothing ever seemed to happen in this dozy Canadian capital. This case was far more interesting than anything he had worked on recently. He took a quick swig of coffee to disguise his excitement.
Forsyth continued. “I know that some of you may be wondering if all of this is some sort of international conspiracy or some intelligence matter. I’m wondering the same thing but have no information on that score.” She shot a glance at Lawrence Fletcher of CSIS, who was sitting at the back of room, gazing at a wall and giving every appearance of paying Liz no attention whatsoever. Fletcher never contributed anything to the meetings but attended every one, with all the charisma of a hall monitor.
“We must continue to investigate these deaths as we would any other homicide. Keep going after the Daudovs’ finances—money transfers, contacts with criminal gangs, that sort of thing. Dissention within the Chechen community. Sexual secrets. In that connection, Cormier,” here Liz regarded a veteran female constable, “take another look at the relationship between Daudov and Madina—something could be a bit off there.
“The press is all over this like a rash, and the Super’s been fielding phone calls from the Prime Minister’s Office and the Privy Council Office. So the sooner we get to the bottom of this the better, and the better we’ll all sleep.”
After the meeting, Forsyth and Ouellette sat together in silence. Then Liz said, “Gilles, I want you to get in touch with Canadian Immigration, border control, whoever has the information. Get me a list of everyone from Russia and the former Soviet Union who has arrived in Canada over the past six months.”
Ouellette looked quizzically at his boss, then asked, “Legally or illegally?”
Liz grinned, probably for the first time that day. “Whatever you can get.”
ELEVEN
England
Two other murders had been committed in Battersea since that of Sophie Bouchard, and the lack of information surrounding her murder was rendering the investigation stale. The battering death of a woman in what appeared to be a domestic dispute, in addition to the stabbing death of a young man outside a sleazy nightclub, meant that some resources would soon be diverted from the Bouchard case. Hay dreaded the regular phone calls from Sophie’s mother, Marie, which must have been costing her a small fortune in long distance charges. Especially as he had virtually nothing new to tell her.
Hay returned to his office after bringing his superintendent up to date. His phone rang before he had a chance to sit down.
“Hay,” he said, picking up the phone and dropping into the swivel chair.
“Hello, Chief Inspector,” said a female voice at the other end of the phone. “My name is Luba Boswell.” The woman took a deep breath and continued. “I would like to offer my help in solving the murder of the young Canadian woman, Sophie Bouchard.”
Hay leaned over his desk and pressed the phone closer to his ear. Was there finally a lead, maybe even a break in this frustrating case? Might he finally have something to tell Marie Bouchard? What did this woman have to say? These thoughts and others were tumbling around his head as he said, “Thank you for calling. What is it you would like to tell us?”
“I think it would be best to meet in person,” she replied.
Nothing unusual in that, thought Hay.
The woman continued nervously, “You see, I’m a psychic medium and I would prefer to deal face to face.”
Hay slumped back in the chair, his mood instantly darkening. Oh, for God’s sake.
“I see,” he said.
“I wouldn’t be calling unless I really thought I could help.”
She had a soft, low voice and sounded genuine, but Hay had already developed a mental image of someone sitting in a dimly lit booth on Blackpool Pier, wearing huge hoop earrings and, most likely, staring into a crystal ball.
“Now, Miss …”
“Boswell. Luba Boswell. No doubt you are skeptical about people like me. But I am having some very strong, persistent impressions about this woman’s death. And you don’t have any other leads, do you?”
Hay reflected that it didn’t take a psychic to work that one out but had to admit, at least to himself, that she was right. He took down her particulars and told her, somewhat reluctantly, that someone would be in touch. As he hung up the phone, he thought, This sounds like a job for Wilkins.
To Hay’s surprise, Wilkins expressed interest in his new assignment.
“Not that I believe in this stuff, Sir. And of course there are a lot of cranks about. But Gemma is very keen on anything paranormal, and sometimes I do wonder if there isn’t, well, something else. Sir.” He finished this last thought quickly, noting the slightly raised eyebrows of his boss. “Probably a load of rubbish, though,” he added.
“Well, here you go then,” said Hay, handing his DS the note he had scribbled of Luba Boswell’s coordinates.
Susan Beck from Penicuik in Scotland was quite possibly happier than she had ever been in her life. She was delighted to be on holiday, delighted to be in London, delighted to be away from home—real
ly away from home—for the first time in her twenty-one years. Free from her nagging mother and alcoholic father, away from the constant criticism about everything: her ambitions, her friends, her weight. Free, single and twenty-one, she thought. Doesn’t get any better than that!
Unfortunately, Susan Beck was also lost. She knew she couldn’t be too far from her hostel but had obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere. This wasn’t an area with which she was familiar. It looked a bit down at heel, almost abandoned. There weren’t many birds to be heard, and while there was a constant roar of traffic, it sounded a long way off.
Susan had visited many of the usual tourist places the previous week: the Tower, the Victoria and Albert, Buckingham Palace … the list went on. It was ironic that she had navigated so many tourist destinations without a single misstep and then, going for a simple walk in the neighbourhood of her hostel, managed to get lost.
She smiled. She couldn’t be so very far from her hostel; this was just another adventure on her journey. As she was pulling a tourist map from her knapsack, a skinny young man carrying a black sports bag approached her and asked, “Can I help you?”
Susan felt slightly nervous, but this was an American, it seemed (by his accent), and she was lost. And it was broad daylight, after all.
“I’m looking for the Willkommen Hostel, on Water Street.” She smiled and added, “Just took a wrong turn or something.”
“I know the Willkommen,” said the young man with a smile. “You’re not that far at all. I can walk you back.”
“Okay,” said Susan, tucking her map back inside the pocket of her knapsack. They introduced themselves, and she walked with him along several quiet streets. If she had harboured any concerns about her companion, they evaporated as soon as her surroundings began to look familiar.
She’d had enough of walking for one day and was getting very tired. Presently the man pointed out the Willkommen, which was just a couple of doors down. She thanked him and said goodbye, though a bit sadly. He had been good company.
DS Richard Wilkins, accompanied by PC Etheridge, pressed the buzzer in the entryway of the apartment building. It was a newish building in a quiet, residential area. This surprised Wilkins, although he had never before wondered what sort of money psychic mediums made. They were buzzed in and took the elevator to the fifth-floor flat occupied by Luba Boswell.
The flat was spacious and attractive. Numerous prints and paintings adorned dark, panelled walls. Most of the paintings featured winged creatures and dainty female forms. Wilkins wondered if Ms. Boswell had painted them herself—there was a certain dream-like quality to them. Several tall bookshelves were filled with hardcover books, and the hardwood floors boasted good quality Middle Eastern carpets. Wilkins and Etheridge followed Luba Boswell into her large, somewhat cluttered office.
There was nothing particularly elegant or ethereal about Luba herself. She was short, wide, and round, and her face was of similar proportions. She was plainly attired in a brown pantsuit and cream blouse with large lapels. Her dark hair was drawn up in a bun, and no make up embellished her plain, pleasant features. Wilkins supposed her to be in her late forties. Luba gestured to two chairs in front of her desk, and the officers sat across from the self-described psychic medium.
“Thank you very much for coming,” she began, a bit hesitantly. She was accustomed to dealing with people who came to her because of her abilities. It was unusual to be called on by people whom, she suspected, didn’t believe she was genuine. Luba Boswell had never had dealings of any kind with the police before.
“As you know from your chief inspector,” she continued, “I am a psychic medium. I know the police in general don’t believe in psychics, but sometimes people with psychic abilities have proven useful to the police.”
She looked hopefully at the two young men across from her, and Wilkins smiled. He very much hoped that this woman would be the real deal—whatever that was—but he was doubtful. PC Etheridge, who was not remotely interested in anything he couldn’t see with his own eyes, found this a colossal waste of time. Etheridge had to concentrate on his note-taking, however, as his spelling abilities were challenged by Luba’s next declaration.
“I am clairvoyant, clairaudient, and clairsentient,” she stated. “That means,” she added with a quick smile towards Etheridge, “that I can see, hear, and feel impressions from people who have passed from this dimensional plane to the next.”
“And you believe,” said Wilkins, “that you have received information about Sophie Bouchard, the young woman murdered behind the Mallard Council Estate?”
Luba nodded, absently shuffling some papers in front of her. “From her. She is very upset.”
Of course she is, thought Etheridge, having given up on his spelling. She’s dead.
“She’s upset about her mother,” Luba continued. “Her mother, Sophie tells me, is frantic with worry and won’t rest until this case is solved.”
No surprise there, thought Wilkins. Of course the mother is upset. Who wouldn’t be?
Luba stopped riffling through the papers and became still, staring intently at an item on her desk. She picked up a chain from which dangled a small crystal orb.
Oh gawd, not a crystal ball, thought Etheridge. Although it’s very small. She must be a rookie.
Luba’s eyes glazed over and she twirled the pendant in her chubby fingers. “She’s showing me a young man, thin. Friend, she thought. She’s telling me that she is just the first. That he must be stopped or he will do this again.”
Wilkins stared hard at the woman. She looked sincere and quite possibly believed what she was saying. But could it be true?
“She is very strong, very insistent that the police must not forget her, or these things will continue.”
“So who did it, then?” broke in Etheridge, with just a touch of impatience in his voice. He didn’t notice the look of warning that Wilkins gave him.
“Thin, she says. Foreign? Maybe. She seems confused about that. He is here now, though. He was away but now he’s back.” Suddenly Luba’s face cleared and she said, “I’m so sorry. I had no intention of going into a trance. She is very strong.” Luba shook her head. “I was only going to tell you what she had told me before, but she insisted on telling you herself.”
Wilkins didn’t quite know how to reply, so he muttered that no apology was necessary and thanked her for calling in with her information. As they were leaving, Luba Boswell gazed up into Wilkins’s face and said, “Your lady. She is very beautiful, yes?”
Wilkins, confused, nodded.
“Has a name like Amber … Ruby?” Wilkins didn’t reply but suddenly felt cold. “Very beautiful. Kind, smart lady. But not the right one for you. Don’t move too fast. She is not the right one.”
DCI Hay and DS Wilkins were attending the London première of a Canadian jazz dance company, at the invitation of Acting High Commissioner Rochon. A reception was held prior to the performance at the theatre, in an elegant hall illuminated by several large chandeliers. The walls were yellow, and tall, gold-framed mirrors graced one wall. The effect, to Hay, was of glittering light bouncing and shimmering throughout the room.
“Well,” said Wilkins. “This is nice.” Both detectives accepted glasses of wine proffered by a passing waiter. Wilkins, having procured some sort of meatball on a stick, was now attempting to dip it into a small dish of red sauce, while simultaneously holding onto a napkin and trying not to spill his wine. He succeeded, but only just, then quickly waved away a waiter holding a large tray of skewered shrimp.
Hay’s mind wandered to the last elegant reception he had attended, the huge Christmas affair held at the Official Residence the previous month. He, Wilkins, and Liz hadn’t lasted very long, partly because they felt out of place, but largely because of the phone call from Sergeant Gilles Ouellette in Ottawa, which had led to the resolution of the Guévin murder. Liz had looked wonderful that night, he remembered, but these pleasant ruminations were interrupted by a “glad
you could make it” from Paul Rochon, who was approaching, glass of wine in hand.
At the same time, Wilkins recognized one of the High Commission staff he had met during the previous investigation, and turned to speak with her.
Rochon said to Hay confidentially, “Luciano asked if you were coming.” Luciano Alfredo Carillo was the extremely talented, if excitable, High Commission chef. Hay learned that Carillo had personally overseen the catering for this event, and that he “particularly recommends that you try the salmon and dill en croûte. You certainly made an impression on him as a man of fine taste.”
“If he knew what sort of thing I eat most nights, he’d change his opinion of me pretty quickly,” said Hay with a smile. “But please do thank him for me.”
“Will do,” said Rochon.
“By the way,” added Hay. “I want to thank you as well.”
“Me? What for?”
“I can only imagine that your authorities and the press are all over you for information about the Bouchard case. Thanks for not pushing us on that score. You know we’re doing all we can, so thanks for just letting us try to get on with the job.”
Rochon shrugged. “Some people expect miracles. And it’s quite a sensational case, so people are naturally interested. But what would be the point of pressuring you or the Yard when I know you’re doing what you can? I just hope that one day we can get the answers that Mme Bouchard needs. That’s all that matters.”
Hay nodded and shook Rochon’s hand warmly. The lights dimmed briefly, indicating that it was ten minutes until the performance, so Hay and Wilkins entered the theatre to take their seats.
Paul Rochon returned from the jazz dance performance to his luxurious flat in London. He could have moved into the official residence in the absence of a replacement High Commissioner but thought it would look pretentious to the rest of the staff. Besides, he liked his own place, with paintings and books and items of furniture that he recognized. They had accompanied him on many foreign postings and were sometimes the only things providing much comfort, especially in the tougher, hardship postings. He had learned that diplomats from some other countries designated Ottawa a hardship posting, based on the weather. He couldn’t honestly disagree with that.