by Janet Brons
It was almost midnight, according to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. He had visited with the dancers following the performance and confirmed that they had all been pleased with the evening. It was a good performance, Paul acknowledged to himself, but it would have been awfully nice to have spent an evening at home, maybe doing something mindless like watching television.
He took off his stiff formal attire and changed into his nightclothes. He poured himself a short scotch and sank into the couch in an attempt to unwind from the day’s events. Paul knew he had an early start in the morning, but, he thought, when hadn’t he had an early start? He was stressed, exhausted, and lonely. He wasn’t particularly surprised when the phone rang.
Ottawa, he thought grimly. Which it was, but not with any inquiries about the Bouchard case. A successor to Wesley Carruthers was finally being proposed. Of course, the British government would have to accept the nomination of the new High Commissioner, but that would just be a formality.
Paul’s heart sank when he heard the name of the new Head of Post: Lucien Roy—a flack and party bagman of the highest order. He was a political insider and great friend of the sitting prime minister. And reportedly a nasty piece of work to boot.
The director of the Heads of Post section of Personnel tried to break the news gently to Paul, telling him how excellent it would be for the post to practically have the ear of the prime minister; that Roy’s recommendations to Ottawa were virtually guaranteed to be acted upon; that Roy was clearly held in high regard by the party.
When Paul hung up the phone, however, he knew what he really had to look forward to. And that was working for someone with no diplomatic experience or even government experience, possessed of unbending and politicized opinions, and a reportedly vicious temper. Paul topped up his scotch.
TWELVE
Canada
Madina Grigoryeva lived in a two-storey walk-up near King Edward with an older sister and a male cousin who had entered Canada close to three years prior to Madina’s arrival in the nation’s capital. The blue-eyed Chechen woman regularly demonstrated in front of the Russian Embassy.
Cousin Aslan had, in fact, immigrated to Canada legally. He had filled out the paperwork, attended the interviews, and provided proof of a job offer in Canada. He was proud that Canada saw him as a desirable immigrant. He had even learned French in his spare time back in Chechnya. As a result, he felt somewhat superior to many of his Chechen compatriots, and even members of his own family, who had entered by different routes. Aslan was agitated by the presence of the Canadian police in his home and decided it would be best to say nothing.
Madina invited Liz and Ouellette to sit at a small wooden dining table. They learned that Madina’s sister was at work. Cousin Aslan, a corpulent man who appeared to be in his forties, had withdrawn to a corner of the room when the detectives arrived. He sat in a deep armchair, crossed his arms across his broad chest, and silently observed the proceedings.
Madina was perhaps in her early twenties, with those remarkable, ice-blue eyes and long, glossy hair. She spoke in halting but very correct English.
“I am sorry you had trouble finding me. The apartment is in Aslan’s name,” she said, gesturing towards the brooding, silent man seated in the corner.
“You were at the Russian Embassy the day Laila Daudova was shot, yes?” Liz began.
“Yes,” replied Madina. “My husband disappeared from Grozny three years ago. Finally Cousin Aslan and my sister convinced me to come to Canada. They said it was hopeless to try to find Hamid.”
“So, how long have you been here?” asked Ouellette. He noticed a furtive glance exchanged between Madina and her cousin, and wondered again just how some of these people actually made it into Canada.
“One year,” she replied.
“Have you found work?” asked Liz conversationally.
“Sometimes, as a Russian translator. Some documents from companies doing business in Russia. Aslan has contacts,” she said with another nod towards the immobile Aslan.
“Did you know Laila Daudova well?” asked Liz.
“No,” said Madina flatly.
“Yet it was you who went to inform Mr. Daudov of the death of his wife.”
Madina coloured a little and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I knew Mr. Daudov—Rasul—better than I knew Laila.”
“Why was that?” asked Liz.
“We both attend a small community group where Chechens can meet and talk together. We meet about once a month, at our different homes. Discuss events in the old country, talk about how to get along here, find work.”
“And Laila did not attend these meetings?”
“No,” replied Madina. “Rasul said she was not interested to come. I attended with my sister and cousin.”
“That’s how you got to know Mr. Daudov?”
Madina nodded. Liz noticed that Cousin Aslan had begun shifting his considerable weight about in his chair.
“Is it true,” asked Liz, “that Rasul Daudov did not approve of his wife attending the demonstrations?”
Madina nodded again. “He was worried that she might become a target of the Russians.” She blushed more deeply. “He was right, perhaps.” She thought for a moment, then added, “So that was why I went to tell Rasul. It was his worst fear, and I thought it would be best if I told him before the police came.”
No, Madina had heard nothing, seen nothing unusual on the day of Laila’s death—nothing until the crack of the bullet. The demonstration had been small that day; most people had stayed home due to the ice storm. Madina told Liz and Ouellette that, to some extent, she knew Omar Glausov—the man whose twin was missing—because he sometimes came to the monthly meetings as well. She didn’t know the elderly Mrs. Umarova well at all. Madina had absolutely no idea why the people from Independence United attended the demonstrations, and had never spoken to them.
As Liz and Ouellette drove back to the office, Ouellette wondered aloud if something might have been going on between Madina Grigoryeva and Rasul Daudov.
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Liz, “especially as Cousin Aslan seemed uncomfortable when Rasul’s name came up. But even if there was some sort of romantic involvement, Madina was demonstrating in front of the embassy at the time. And she certainly doesn’t come across as a killer.”
“Agreed,” said Ouellette, “and it’s hard to imagine her organizing a gun-for-hire scheme to get Laila out of the way. But stranger things have happened.”
Liz couldn’t argue with that.
They got out of the squad car and climbed the slippery front steps of the RCMP office on Cooper. It was already eleven in the morning but still sixteen below. A stiff westerly wind made it feel even colder. They entered the front doors accompanied by a blast of freezing air, and stomped the snow off their boots. The constable at the front desk caught Liz’s eye.
“That girl,” he said with a jerk of his head, “says she wants to speak with you about the Daudova case. She calls herself Mila …” He double-checked his notes. “… Kras-ni-ye-va.”
Liz and Ouellette spun around to see none other than the flame-haired siren, the spiritual leader of Independence United. She rose and approached the detectives, her long black coat sweeping along behind her.
“I have to speak with you. You see, I did actually see something on the day that Laila Daudova was murdered.”
A few moments later, the three were seated in an interview room. Ouellette pulled out his well-thumbed notebook and began writing.
“Well, it’s like this,” said Mila. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “I told the others that I couldn’t attend the demonstration that day because I had other business to attend to. That wasn’t entirely true. Although I guess it was, in a way …” She gazed at a wall, apparently trying to determine exactly what it was she meant to say.
“What were you doing instead?” Liz prompted.
“Well, I did in fact go to the Russian Embassy.”
Ouell
ette glanced up, puzzled.
“I got off the bus a couple of stops early and walked towards the embassy on Charlotte. Then I sort of hid behind one of the houses across the street. There never seems to be anyone in those houses. I think the people must be away a lot.”
“Why were you hiding?” asked Liz, genuinely interested.
“I wanted to make sure that Tony, Pierre, and Andrea actually turned up at the demonstration.” She coloured a bit and said, “Sometimes, you see, I wonder if all of them are as committed as they say they are. Sometimes they’ve not told me the truth about what they’re doing in support of the cause. I’ve become a bit, well, wary about a couple of my colleagues. Some of them seem to have other agendas.”
No shit, thought Ouellette.
“I’ve sometimes even wondered if some of them might be government plants,” she said, looking suspiciously at Liz and Ouellette.
Ouellette kept his head down, taking notes and smiling to himself. Can she really imagine that her little gang of misfits is important enough to warrant planting an informant?
Liz wondered if the woman was a bit paranoid. Really, spying on her supposedly like-minded supporters to ensure they were actually freezing their butts off in support of Chechen independence? Instead Liz said, “And were they all there? Tony, Pierre, and Andrea?”
The girl shook her head slowly.
“Well, no,” she admitted, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“But they weren’t all there,” said Liz. “Who was missing?”
Mila regarded Liz dubiously but answered the question.
“It was Tony. Tony wasn’t there.”
“Tony Blackwell,” said Ouellette, remembering the young man they had met in the grubby basement apartment along with his confederates from Independence United.
Mila nodded. Liz asked her if she knew where Blackwell was when he was meant to be at the demonstration.
“No,” answered Mila.
“And did you confront him later about his absence?”
“No.”
“Did Pierre or Andrea tell you that he hadn’t shown up?”
“No,” said Mila, annoyed at this evident lack of loyalty.
Liz made a mental note to re-interview the young anarchist about his whereabouts on the morning of Laila Daudova’s murder.
“So,” continued Liz, “what did you want to tell us? You said that you saw something while you were watching from the other side of the street.”
The girl nodded. “I hadn’t been there long. I saw that Pierre and Andrea were there and that Tony wasn’t. I was really mad. I trusted Tony. I was about to go back home—it was awfully cold. Really damp,” she said with an involuntary shudder. “Then I heard what I thought was a small explosion and I saw the poor woman drop. It was, of course, the gunshot, although I’ve never actually heard one before.”
She glanced up at Liz, who was thinking that the girl looked very young and quite frightened. Mila continued. “It sounded as if the shot had come from nearby. I sort of froze, but I looked towards where I thought the shot had come from and I saw a man walking quickly away from the back of the next house.”
“Walking?” asked Liz. “After just shooting someone?”
“It sounds strange,” agreed Mila Krasniyeva, “but it was very, very slippery. The ice had hardened on top of the snow and it was like a skating rink over there. I was having trouble staying upright and was just standing still.”
Liz nodded. That was the reason there had been no footprints. “And he didn’t see you?”
“No. And I didn’t see him until I heard the shot. We were both, I guess, in hiding.”
Good thing you didn’t pick the same spot, thought Liz. “That’s quite the coincidence.”
“Well, yes, it was,” said the girl with a small shrug. “But no, he didn’t see me at all, and after the shot he turned away and headed in the other direction. He didn’t actually seem to be looking around at all, come to think of it. He certainly didn’t look nervous.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about your visit to the embassy before?” asked Ouellette.
Mila flushed. “I didn’t want the others to know what I was up to. That I didn’t trust them.” She thought for a moment, then added, “And of course we have a great deal of suspicion about the authorities in general.” Now she was on more comfortable ground. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she pronounced, “The state authorities are devoted solely to keeping and expanding their own power and safe guarding the regime. We believe that the police are—wittingly or not—a part of the apparatus that is designed to keep the peoples under the thumb of the state …”
Mila had hit her stride. Before either detective had a chance to intervene, they were treated to another extended diatribe direct from the manifesto of Independence United, if such a document existed. Liz could have interrupted but reminded herself that the girl had come in of her own accord; if the young woman wanted to launch into a polemic, it might be best to listen politely for a minute or two.
Ouellette pretended to take notes but was in fact scribbling a number of insulting phrases in colloquial French that would prove difficult for anyone else to decipher.
Liz diplomatically stifled a yawn and finally interjected, “And the shooter was definitely a man?”
“Definitely.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Not really, no.”
Liz cocked her head.
“He was about average height and build,” said Mila. “Wearing one of those ugly puffy ski jackets that look like a lot of stuffed patches sewn together. Dark. You know the kind—they were popular in the seventies, I think. Some kind of fur hat. He was carrying a duffel bag.”
“Would the bag have been big enough to hold a rifle?”
“No idea. I only saw it from the back.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I think I must have been in shock or something. I started walking quickly back the way I came. By the time I thought to catch the bus I was already halfway home.”
They sent her off to give a statement, and Liz and Ouellette looked vacantly at each other.
“Interesting,” commented Ouellette once Mila had flounced out of the room.
“Yes,” agreed Liz. “Except all we have is a pretty useless description. And an indication that Krasniyeva is either paranoid or not as silly as she sounds. In any event, we’ll need to talk to Blackwell again. Find out why he lied to Mila and where he was at the time of the shooting.”
Ouellette nodded. “They’re a weird bunch of kids. But what motive could Blackwell have to kill Laila? He was supposed to be supporting her cause.”
Liz shoved her hair back from her face, vaguely realizing that she was overdue for a trim.
“Perhaps it is political,” ventured Ouellette. “In which case …”
“We’re out of our depth,” agreed Liz. “But for the moment, let’s just focus on the crimes. We’ll talk to Blackwell as soon as possible. I also want to find out if there was anything going on between Rasul Daudov and Madina Grigoryeva.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Ouellette with a grin. He knew his boss hated being called “Ma’am” and this case was clearly getting her down. Him too, for that matter.
Liz smiled and reached for her jacket. “Let’s go for it, then.”
At the end of a long day, Liz collected Rochester from the Greens’ house. As usual, she declined their kind offer of a glass of wine or a cup of tea. It was late and she was dead tired. Rochester licked Liz’s face as she bent down to greet him, then looked at her intently as though he would have loved to go for a run. It was ten o’clock, and the last thing Liz felt like at the moment (or any other time, for that matter) was to go for a run. So the two of them walked to the house in silence. Rochester bounded through the back door, trotted up to the fireplace, walked in three circles, lay down, and went to sleep. Pouring herself a glass of Cabernet, Liz looked enviously at her dog. She wished that she could ju
st turn around three times and fall fast asleep as well, but her head was spinning.
Half an hour later she was beginning to unwind and was watching a television programme. A pretty, happy-looking woman was demonstrating how to use stencils to brighten up cupboards and walls. Liz looked around at her walls and decided that her landlord would be unimpressed if he walked in to find the place covered with butterflies and flowers. Still, she found herself somehow drawn to the woman on the television, who was now constructing an elaborate table setting. The woman was intent on beautifying the things around her, and had a serene and joyful presence. Liz was surprised that she was envious, even though she knew that she would be bored brainless by stencilling bluebirds or arranging flowers. But at a time like this, such things seemed immensely more pleasurable than trying to find an assassin who, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared as soon as he had killed.
Rochester yipped in his sleep, dreaming. Liz sometimes wondered what dogs dreamed about and how they understood the difference between dreams and reality. Some humans seemed unable to make that distinction, but she had observed that both dogs and horses dreamed, and then seemed to carry on as normal once they awoke.
Now the television woman was painting, freehand, a rose on a glass vase. Liz wandered into the kitchen and refilled her glass. When she slumped back down onto the couch, the crafty lady had been replaced by an equally pretty, happy-looking woman describing how to make a three-course meal for four in under half an hour.
Liz awoke suddenly from a nightmare that rendered her body numb and immobile. Her heart was pounding, she was drenched in sweat, and she felt nauseated. She sometimes thought that the ancients were right: not everything was in the brain. For her, emotion was lodged firmly in the viscera.
She was sleeping terribly tonight. Whenever she did get to sleep, she was awoken by a nightmare. This was the second in as many hours. She looked at the clock and decided she might be able to eke out a bit more sleep. Then, her thoughts clearing slightly, she wondered whether it had been a nightmare or an idea.