Not A Clue

by Janet Brons

  In spite of the views befitting a woman of her generation and profession, Liz still privately wished that Hay would make the first move. True, he had called a couple of times, and there had been that uncomfortable suggestion of them getting together at an Interpol conference (an Interpol conference, for crying out loud ) but she concluded that if she left it up to him she might be waiting for a very long time.

  She looked at her watch. London was five hours ahead. It was now 3:23 in Aylmer. She took a big gulp of cold air and said, “No time like the present, eh boy?”

  Rochester wagged his agreement. They made their way back to the house, although Liz was walking more slowly than usual. She was still unsure whether her decision was the right one.

  Liz kicked off her boots, wiped Rochester’s feet, changed into her sweats, poured herself a glass of wine, and lit a smoke.

  She sat down on her couch and dialled Hay’s number. She heard a series of beeps on the other end and finally his phone began to ring. By the fourth ring, she was getting ready to hang up in some relief when suddenly he answered.

  “Hay.”

  “Forsyth.”

  “Hello,” he said, genuinely pleased. “Just came through the door. Bit of a long day. How are you?”

  Liz heard some scuffling on the end of the line, which sounded as if Hay was kicking his shoes off.

  “I’m fine, actually. Really happy to have got to the bottom of the Daudov murders.”

  “Yes, congratulations. It’s been in the papers and the Yard’s morning briefing. I was, in fact, intending to call you, but you beat me to it. I’m never sure when you’ll be home.”

  Liz laughed. “I have the same problem. How are things going at your end? The press here hasn’t been reporting on the Bouchard murder for a few days now—found other crimes or scandals, no doubt.”

  “That damned case is going nowhere in a hurry. And working its way down the pile. We started off with nothing but an ID, and we don’t have a lot more now. It’s bloody frustrating, but there’s not a whole lot more to follow up on. Sometimes I wish I were one of the television cops.”

  “I’ve thought that, too. How are you keeping otherwise? And Wilkins?”

  “Quite well, really, thanks. Wilkins is fine. Still dating the lovely Gemma. Probably get married one of these days.”

  “How long have they been going out?” she asked.

  “No idea. She seems to have always been around.”

  At this there was a short silence, broken by Hay’s inquiry into Rochester’s health. Rochester seemed to understand that he was the subject of conversation, as he grinned and rolled over onto his back, a soggy rawhide bone still in his mouth.

  After more small talk—if one considers murder small talk—Liz finally took a deep breath and was about to broach the actual subject of her call when Hay broke in to say, “Look, Liz, I’ve been thinking. I’d really like to see you again. I very much enjoyed your company last month, despite the circumstances of course.” He had run out of the deep breath that he had taken, and flopped back into his wingchair to let fate take its course.

  Liz exhaled and said, “I’ve been thinking along the same lines.”

  “You have? Glad to hear it. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Well, actually, yes,” said Liz, deciding she might as well come clean. “Maybe we could meet up in France for a couple of days or something. I have scads of overtime and we’re on a use-it-or-lose-it sort of scheme.” As soon as she said that, she felt her colour rising and was very glad that they were only on the phone.

  “That sounds lovely. You really wouldn’t mind coming all the way out here just for a few days?”

  “It’s not really all that far. And there are direct flights daily from Montreal and Toronto,” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve been told,” she added quickly.

  “Yes, wonderful,” said Hay. “What sort of time frame were you thinking?”

  “I’m pretty flexible at the moment, and nobody will miss me for a few days.” Rochester looked at her briefly and whined, then resumed chewing on his bone. “Your schedule sounds pretty packed, though.”

  “Nothing that’s going anywhere. What do you think about early February? Would that work for you?”

  “Yes, yes it would. Shall I start looking at flights?”

  “Yes, do. That would be brilliant. And I can start looking into hotels and what not …” Now he was changing colour a little.

  With this more or less sorted, they rang off.

  EIGHTEEN

  England

  Susan Beck of Penicuik, Scotland, joined the rowdy group at the bar next door to the Willkommen Hostel. It was about six, and she was hungry. Her companions were an interesting mixture of Americans, Germans, Australians, and French. They were all roughly the same age and split pretty evenly along gender lines. Some had been staying at the hostel for a couple of months; some, like Susan, had only been there a week or two. Apparently, years ago, a tradition had been established that the residents of the hostel would meet up around six for a drink and a bite to eat. The tradition had somehow stuck despite the hundreds of changes in clientele.

  The next-door bar was old but not historic, run-down but not charming, dim but lacking in ambience. It was, however, clean and inexpensive, and while the food was pedestrian, it was filling. So the Drop Inn did quite a good trade from the young tourists from the hostel. The young people didn’t cause a lot of trouble, apart from the odd problem due to an excess of drink and testosterone. Nothing untoward had happened lately, though. The worst the staff had had to put up with was the noise and laughter of the travellers as they recounted their latest adventures.

  Susan felt comfortable here. The people were friendly and happy, and they seemed to welcome her as an old friend. The benches in the booths were wide and comfortable, and she didn’t have to squeeze onto some skinny wooden chair. Susan kept to herself, always a bit shy in company, but she enjoyed watching the others and hearing their stories.

  She ordered a Coke and spaghetti Bolognese. She looked at a few posters on the wall that she hadn’t noticed before—mostly ads for long-forgotten concerts or advertisements for money-lending operations.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Susan started, then looked up into the face of the young man who’d helped her get back to the hostel the other day.

  “Of course,” she said, then faltered, “I mean, no, I don’t mind at all.”

  He ordered a pint and asked Susan how her visit was going so far. She told him what she had done in the last few days, including a coach trip to Hampton Court. As she looked at him in the dim light, she realized he wasn’t as unattractive as she had thought at first.

  At his home in Pimlico, DCI Hay was looking into the cost of hotels in Paris during early February. This was a pleasant enough task, although he was beginning to realize that he and Forsyth had left much unsaid during their telephone conversation, and that he had a number of decisions to make. One room or two? Two, definitely two. Mustn’t be presumptuous.

  He took a swig of coffee and listened to the rain sluicing down outside. Would they each be paying for their own room? Yes, no doubt Forsyth would insist. What sort of price range? This was tricky. He didn’t want them to go to a dump, but prices were high in Paris, even in February, and he had no idea what her financial situation was.

  He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. What part of Paris? No idea. For how long? She had said “a few days” but he wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. In fact, they had decided virtually nothing during their phone call the previous day.

  Hay decided to propose a series of options. Scenarios, hypotheses, the sort of thing the police were expected to come up with. Three hotels, ranging in price and location. Must also check out what was going on at museums and theatres and such. Or did she go in for that sort of thing? Hay was beginning to realize that he didn’t really know much about Liz Forsyth at all. Not a clue, really. But he did want to find out. Could come up with a few
more scenarios concerning things she might want to do.

  He took another drag from his cigarette, reviewing the notes he had been scribbling about the trip. Suddenly the phone rang, interrupting his pleasant, if somewhat confused, thoughts about the proposed holiday.

  Superintendent Neilson sounded tense, and his voice was about an octave higher than usual.

  “We have another one,” he said. “Young woman, long hair, naked, large. In a small park in Battersea. I want you there immediately.”

  Hay took down the details and hung up the phone. He squashed out his cigarette and mechanically put on his raincoat and boots. Another one, he thought. Surely not. But it sounded sickeningly similar. He locked the door behind him. This was not going to be a good day. Another murder—maybe one of Wilkins’s “cereal killers”? He realized unhappily that he wouldn’t be able to go away any time soon. And now, he thought, I’ll have to tell Forsyth.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am extremely grateful to many people for their support and enthusiasm for this book, starting with Taryn Boyd and her team at Touchwood Editions in Victoria. As always, TouchWood’s professionalism and commitment, combined with its interactive approach, make it a pleasure to work with. My editor, Frances Thorsen, again contributed her experience and insight in shaping the book, for which I am most appreciative.

  For providing both expert advice and solid friendship, many thanks to RCMP Chief Superintendent Lynn Twardosky (ret’d) and RCMP Superintendent MSM Claude Theriault (ret’d). Thanks as well to Eric Hussey, (ret’d) of the Metropolitan Police, London for providing invaluable local context and specifics. I must also extend my deep appreciation to BC coroner Barbara McLintock for taking the time to discuss over lunch things not normally considered suitable at lunch!

  The steadfast support, along with sales and signing opportunities, provided by Sidney Pharmasave went far beyond what could be expected from any local business, and I am extremely grateful for the friendship and encouragement that the great people at Pharmasave have provided me from the beginning of my writing endeavours.

  My thanks go out to my dearest friend of more decades than either of us want to admit, Alison Green, for her staunch friendship, unwavering support, and oft-needed pep talks.

  I also want to thank my brother Cliff and his wife Julie for their ongoing enthusiasm and encouragement.

  For Ian Hill, I am very grateful, not only for his enduring support and constancy, but also for holding my feet to the fire whenever I’ve wanted to take the easy way out.

  To all my other dear friends and neighbours who have shared my excitement in this adventure, thank you all so much. In particular I would like to mention Ann Cronin-Cossette, Christine Rollo, Lee Emerson, and Frank Haigh.

  And to my sister-in-law Chantal, to whom this book is dedicated, my sincere thanks for always being there.

  Before taking to crime writing, JANET BRONS worked as a foreign affairs consultant following a seventeen-year career in the Canadian foreign service, with postings in Kuala Lumpur, Warsaw, and Moscow. She has also been a researcher in the Alberta Legislature and at the House of Commons. She holds a Master of Arts in political science and international relations. Not A Clue is the second installment in her Forsyth and Hay mystery series. Brons lives in Sidney, British Columbia.

  MORE FORSYTH AND HAY MYSTERIES

  BY JANET BRONS

  A Quiet Kill

  Selected as a finalist for the 2015 Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Crime Novel and for the 2015 Kobo Emerging Writers Award for Genre Fiction—Mystery.

  The head of the Canadian High Commission’s trade section is found brutally clubbed and stabbed to death in the Official Residence in London, England. Scotland Yard’s Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Hay is called in to investigate, while Royal Canadian Mounted Police Inspector Liz Forsyth is dispatched from Ottawa. There are a number of suspects from the diplomatic community: the High Commissioner and his beautiful wife, the smarmy head of the political section, the charming military attaché, the high-strung Deputy High Commissioner, and a deeply troubled engagements secretary. After a second murder, the case takes a turn and radical environmentalist Dr. Julian Cox becomes a suspect.

  A Quiet Kill is the first in a new mystery series featuring Forsyth and Hay. Paired up for the first time, the two investigators must overcome insecurities and suspicions as they find themselves wading into the murky waters of the diplomatic community and navigating through a melee of international conspiracy, nationalism, and murder.

  Copyright © 2015 Janet Brons

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (ACCESS Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit accesscopyright.ca.

  TouchWood Editions

  touchwoodeditions.com

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Brons, Janet, 1954-, author

  Not a clue / Janet Brons.

  (A Forsyth and Hay mystery)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77151-148-3 (html).—ISBN 978-1-77151-149-0 (pdf)

  I. Title. II. Series: Brons, Janet, 1954–. Forsyth and Hay mystery.

  PS8603.R653N68 2015 C813'.6 C2015-904114-7

  Editor: Frances Thorsen

  Design: Pete Kohut

  Cover image: Vladone, istockphoto.com

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support for our publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.