The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  I dream of Madeleine. She is sitting on a swing in the apple orchard. But she isn’t a girl. She is Lulu. Her legs arch and beckon. She waves to me and I run towards her, stumble on a root and when I look up again, she isn’t there. Only the swing creaks a little in the wind. I hear her voice in it and I follow it, up and into the house. My house. My childhood house. The old one with its red brick and wrap-around porch. I climb the steep stairs in search of the voice. My legs have grown shorter and my knees are bare.

  Madeleine is in the bed. It is very white and very high off the ground. She stretches her arm out to me and I take it. Her hand is hot and dry and very thin, but larger than mine. I look up at her. Her face has changed. It is soft and pale and distant and the eyes are vast and dark. Not Madeleine, no.

  My mother’s voice is tender. ‘Au revoir, mon Pierre,’ it says.

  But I don’t want to say, good-bye. No. No.

  ‘Maman,’ I call. ‘Maman.’

  I tug at the sheets and scramble and pull myself up onto the bed. As I climb towards my mother the bed tips, up ends itself so that it is hanging in the air. My mother is hanging in the air, high, high up above me. I don’t want to look, but my eyes reel upwards tugged by the rope round her neck.

  ‘No! No!’ I shout. I stretch my hand towards her feet, towards the blue silk of her nightie, but I cannot reach. I cannot reach and my scream won’t scream.

  Pain swirls round me, clutches at my throat, invades my stomach, coils and heaves through me, crushes. My mother has abandoned me and run off with Death. He wears a doctor’s white coat, but beneath it he hides a tail and his eyes are red like the devil’s. I retch. The retching won’t stop.

  Light invades my eyes. Morning. I struggle for a sense of my whereabouts, try to calm the heaving of my stomach, this dry gagging.

  It is then I hear the noise.

  6

  _______

  One by one the locks on Madeleine’s apartment door click and give.

  Who else has access to her keys? A cleaning woman who is oblivious to her death? A lover whose existence I am unaware of? Or worse.

  Fear pricks at my confusion. With an effort at balance, I edge towards the greater shelter of the bathroom.

  The intruder is not interested in silence. The slam of the door reverberates through the apartment. It is followed by voices. I listen, but the walls muffle sound.

  One of the voices is coming towards me.

  ‘The bedroom must be through here.’

  Quickly I run a hand through my hair, tuck my rumpled shirt into bed-creased trousers, try to still my stomach. Eradicate the horror of that dream image of a double loss -- Madeleine and my mother, one death re-invoking another.

  I force myself into composure. I listen. I recognize that voice.

  ‘Detective Contini! Why didn’t you ring the bell?’

  My attempt at startled privacy isn’t altogether successful.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  His bruiser’s face is vivid with irritation and censure. Blatant suspicion follows. ‘Heh. you tell me you hardly see Mlle Blais, yet you’ve got a key to her condo?’

  ‘Mme Tremblay asked me to… check on the place.’

  He is staring at the disordered bed, the scatter of notebooks. ‘You’ve been going through things, messing everything up. Great. Just fucking great! Not bad enough we’ve had one of Gagnon’s incompetents here, we’ve got you to deal with as well.’ He paces disconsolately, then his gaze settles on me and he guffaws. ‘Bad night eh? Well, sort yourself out, cause we’re going to have to run you down to headquarters and get you fingerprinted.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Because we’re carrying out an investigation here and you’ve left your pawmarks everywhere, that’s what for.’ He lifts one of Madeleine’s notebooks and flicks the pages. He is still wearing his outdoor gloves and the clumsy carelessness of his gestures makes me want to tear the book from his hands.

  ‘So the great Madeleine Blais kept a journal. Lots of journal by the looks of it. Found anything revealing?’

  His manner is suddenly conciliatory.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well go and wash the grit out of your eyes and come and tell us what you did find. You’ve obviously been making your own feeble attempt at detective work.’

  I splash cold water on my face. It does nothing to neutralise the haggard eyes which stare at me from walls which are all mirror.

  When I come back into the bedroom, Contini is standing there with a woman. They are bending over the open drawer of Madeleine’s night table. The woman looks little more than a girl disguised in a mannish striped suit. Her hair is short and as spikey as a medieval marauder’s helmet and hennaed an outlandishly playful orange. In contrast, the face beneath it is evenly featured and set in a sterness which gives away nothing. But it is what the woman holds in her transparently gloved hand which makes me take a step backward.

  The pistol is small and delicate, like a clockwork toy or a piece of jewellry.

  The woman cocks it. ‘Loaded,’ she murmurs. She removes the bullets and drops the gun unceremoniously into a plastic sack.

  ‘Rousseau, meet my partner, Ginette Lavigne.’ He doesn’t give me a chance to register my surprise at the pairing. ‘Did you know about the gun?’

  I shake my head. ‘But I told you. Madeleine was scared.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Contini grunts. He is shuffling through the books in the nighttable. ‘I’m not surprised, given what she’d been reading.’ He flings a couple of paperbacks towards me and I see the imprint of a True Crime series. ‘There’s even a bio of the Yorkshire ripper.’ As if it were a challenge, he tosses a hardback onto the bed. ‘She talk to you about all that?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Ginette Lavigne asks, a little breathlessly, as if she wants to know for more reasons than one. I have the distinct impression she doesn’t like my face.

  Suddenly I need to get out of the room, out of the apartment. The air here is too thick to breathe, viscous with Madeleine’s fear. I don’t want to confront the aphrodisiac nature of that fear. It has no part of the man I am now. No part.

  ‘Look, I could use some coffee,’ I mutter.

  Right now I feel I could mainline it.

  ‘Good idea. Get some for us too. We want you back, remember.’ There is the steel of an order beneath Contini’s breeziness. ‘A double espresso for me. Ginette, here, prefers capuccino. With a dash of cinnamon. And a couple of Danish would go down nicely.’

  I flee the apartment. Outside it is so cold, that the hair in my nostrils freezes over with the first deep breath. An icy wind gusts up the hill from the river. It jars me into wakefulness as I push my way down towards Sherbrooke Street.

  There is a coffee shop at the corner of Guy. Not that coffee shops are difficult to find in Montréal. Oblvious to recessions or depressions or political rifts, they flourish across the city and sprout ever increasing gourmet blends.

  In this one, the board above the glistening chrome of the counter lists some twenty variations on a theme. I read them with the care and difficulty of a Martian on his first visit and then watch the steam and roar of the espresso machine as if it might magic me to a different, more kindly planet.

  The waitress throws me a reassuring smile with my giant cup of froth. Maybe she can tell I need it.

  I go and sit at a shiny corner table and wait for the jolt the coffee will bring. By the time it comes, I have leapt to my feet again, my eyes and ears glued to the television set which juts from the height of a side wall.

  Mme Tremblay confronts me from the screen. She is standing in her living room amidst the pictures of Madeleine. Her hands are tightly clasped in front of her. They betray more emotion than her face or steady voice. She is speaking English. She is saying, ‘My grand-daughter was not a woman to take her own life. Of that I am as certain as I am of the camera in front of me. The police, the press, are being blinded by appearances.
I will not rest, I will not allow the police to rest, until the truth is out.’

  The newscaster’s face fills the screen. He says something about the investigation continuing, but I am no longer listening. I pick up Contini’s order and race out. At the front door of Madeleine’s building, I pause. A thought, at once perfidious and tantalizing, has crept up on me. Perhaps it would indeed be better if I disappeared, went off right now to some place wholly untouched by Madeleine’s presence? As my brother recommended.

  Too late. My hand is already on the bell.

  Contini is talking on his mobile phone when I come in. He paces. With his free hand, he picks invisible fragments of lint from his grey jacket. His face does not look friendly.

  I take the paper cups from the bag and place them carefully on the cluttered coffee table. As he tucks the phone into his jacket pocket, I say, ‘I just saw Mme Tremblay …’

  ‘Ya. I heard. She’s putting the heat on.’ He leans back into the sofa, carefully edges the cover from his cup and takes a sip, before roaring, ‘Ginette. Coffee’s here.’

  When she comes in, he prods the cup towards her and asks, ‘Find any drugs yet?’

  She shakes her spikey head.

  ‘What is it with you and Gagnon?’ I grumble. ‘You’re obsessed with drugs. Madeleine didn’t… well, maybe occasionally, a little coke to get her through a long shoot, but nothing…’ Contini’s pitying look makes me falter.

  ‘Okay, okay. Forget that.’ He bends towards me, lowers his voice. ‘So what do you think? Was Madeleine Blais the kind of woman to take her own life or the kind of woman to be done in?’

  ‘What do you mean “kind of woman”?’ I don’t like the look on his face, the way the eyes have turned into narrow slits.

  He rides over my question. ‘Bit of a slut, wasn’t she?’

  I give him a venemous stare, but he carries right on. ‘Maybe she deserved to die. Doesn’t make it legal mind. But some women, they take you by the balls and just wring them, until pow, the man explodes. Heh, maybe they’re all a bit like that? What did our Latin master used to say?’ He quotes pompously. ‘Woman is a temple built upon a sewer. Templum aedificatum super cloacum. Tertullian, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sounds like pure Continian to me,’ Ginette Lavigne mutters. ‘Men score. Women are sluts.’

  Despite her words, her features are free of insubordination. What challenge there is in her eyes is aimed only at me.

  ‘Got it in one, Ginette.’ Contini guffaws. ‘You also got one hell of a lot of work to do. So get busy.’

  With a smile, Ginette ambles towards the study.

  ‘Talented cop, that one. Meticulous.’ Contini confides, loudly enough for Ginette to hear. ‘But she’s got a little something to learn about men. So what do you say? Ginette, I should tell you, is convinced Monique Blais was murdered.’

  I have a sudden sense that this whole scene has been laid out as bait. The voice I manage to find in response is astonishingly cool. It is the voice I use with difficult clients. ‘Have you had the lab reports yet?’ They should tell us more than these wild speculations.’

  He chuckles. ‘Don’t like your Madeleine being called a slut, do you?’ From his pocket he unearths a pack of du Maurier and offers me one. ‘We have actually. Not much help. That’s the problem. She was definitely killed by the rope. Whether she put it there or someone else, we have no immediate way of knowing. Probably she was roughed around a bit before that.’ He touches his neck daintily while his shrewd eyes follow my every gesture.

  ‘Suicide? Assisted suicide? Murder? Can’t tell yet. But they discovered she’d bedded someone not so very many hours before her death. Trouble is, the sperm on the inside was not the same as the dried bit they found on her coat.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s like I told you.’

  I hide my wince behind a cough. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. A black hair; a bit of dark blue woollen fluff beneath a finger nail. You got a blue coat? A blue sweater?’

  I gape down at my sleeve. ‘You don’t really think I…’

  He lets out a short, sharp laugh, almost a growl. ‘I’m a cop. My suspicions are democratic.’

  I am about to protest when the phone rings. It is not the phone in his pocket and he leaps up, walks quickly towards the study. I am right behind him.

  Ginette Lavigne moves to pick up the phone, but Contini waves her away. He points at the answering machine where the tiny red light is already flashing. Why didn’t I notice this last night? Why didn’t I listen to Madeleine’s messages? The machine was sitting there, right next to the desk, only slightly obscured by the leaf of a figus.

  I hear Madeleine’s disembodied voice, warm, light humourous. First in French, then in English, eliciting messages. My hand trembles. I hide it in my pocket. When the beep comes, Contini leans forward tensely. But there is only silence, followed by a click.

  ‘Damn!’ he mumbles.

  It occurs to me that perhaps Mme Tremblay is trying to reach me, impatient to hear what I may have found, as troubled by Madeleine’s voice as I am. I don’t bother to say any of this.

  ‘Have you listened to the other messages?’ Contini addresses his partner.

  ‘Gagnon’s man listed them. But we need i.d.’s.’

  Contini gestures to me. ‘Maybe you can help us.’ He presses the button and I hear Manou’s silvery tones wishing Madeleine a very happy Christmas. The message is repeated by other voices, two unnamed women whom I don’t recognize and two men, one of whom identifies himself as Armand.

  The final message has nothing to do with Christmas.

  A male voice speaking heavily accented French. I can’t locate the accent. Greek perhaps and the French it goes with is French, not Quebécois. There is no name. Like some of the others, the caller assumes proximity and recognition.

  ‘Spoke to our producer,’ the voice says then pauses, audibly uncomfortable. ‘He’s not keen. It’s like I told you. Let’s talk later. Maybe we can still convince him. And thanks.’ The voice swallows. ‘Thanks for everything. Ring me.’

  I don’t like the sound of this last thanks, but I have no time to reflect on it. Contini is quizzing me. I tell him what I know.

  ‘Manou is a friend of Madeleine’s in Paris. Armand is the director at the Nouveau Monde. The others I don’t know.’

  ‘Not even the last?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘This is obviously a machine one can ring into to pick up messages. The last one sounds like a brush off. A part she didn’t get? Did she mention anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  Contini scratches his head. ‘Right Ginette. Let’s run a check on Bell Telephone. Get a list of the numbers Mlle Blais dialled most frequently. And where the hell are the crime scene team? I want to get this place dusted.’ He curls his hand into a fist and with the other, cracks his knuckles. It is as if he missed the nuts on my table.

  ‘So what’d you find in here Rousseau? Anything that’ll help us? We could be here for days sifting through all this junk.’

  ‘It’s not junk.’

  ‘No, no of course not. Sorry.’ He turns a smile of sudden and angelic sweetness on me. ‘I forgot myself. Tell me about it.’

  Before I can open my mouth, the bell rings. Contini strides toward the ansaphone. Moments later a man and a woman come into the apartment. The woman is stocky and pertly pretty and greets us with a ‘Hi’. The man has the grey skin of a creature who has rarely seen the open air. They each carry a metal case.

  Contini takes them aside without bothering with introductions. ‘Concentrate on the kitchen and the bedroom,’ I hear him say. ‘Prints, any blue woollens, and check the bed.’ He ushers them towards the kitchen and lowers his voice, but I can imagine his instructions.

  When he comes back to me, he grins like an old friend. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Look, I really should get back to Ste-Anne.’

  ‘You working today?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I decide not to lie. ‘It
’s Mme Tremblay. I should look in on her.’

  He picks another piece of invisible lint from his jacket before his eyes fix on me again. ‘She gave you the keys, right?’

  I nod. ‘And where did you get yours?’

  ‘Gagnon via Mlle Blais’ coat pocket. It was considerate of her to leave them there for us, since Mme Tremblay wasn’t forthcoming. So what did the old lady want?’

  ‘The journals,’ I murmur.

  ‘Well, she can’t have those. Not if she’s so keen on this truth she talks about.’

  ‘She’s afraid… of the press. You know. There are private things in there. Things that…

  ‘Wouldn’t look good,’ he finishes for me with a salacious twist to his lips. ‘Well we won’t tell if you don’t. You report that back to her. Tell her it would be obstructing the law. In fact you can ring her right now and explain you have to take a little trip to HQ. Then pass her over to me.’

  He hands me his mobile and I do as he asks.

  Mme Tremblay sounds resigned. ‘At least they’re doing something,’ she mutters.

  When I pass the receiver over to Contini, he is at his most polite.

  ‘Mme Tremblay? I hope you’re feeling just a little better today. Yes. You know that man with the pony-tail you were talking about? I’d like to get a photo-fit done. Do you think you could get someone to drive you up to Montréal? I can arrange for the local constable, perhaps? No? Whatever you say. Yes. At headquarters. With the computer… Perhaps you can come to Mlle Blais’ apartment and we’ll go together? Yes, we’ll still be here.’

  He presses a button and beams at me, then glances at his watch. ‘You know what, I’ll just sort out a few things with HQ and then you and I can leave these people in peace and get ourselves some lunch with our chat. There’s a nice little place just off Crescent. My uncle runs it.’

  He goes off to have a few words with Ginette in the study. I walk casually towards the kitchen. The woman is brushing silver powder onto every available surface. It floats through the air like talc. With a latex-gloved hand, the man carefully deposits a glass into a plastic sack.