by Janet Brons
Despite herself, Liz’s jet lag had prevailed and she had fallen asleep in an overstuffed armchair patterned with yellow sunflowers on a white, stripy background. Liz needed a lot of sleep and was rarely able to get enough, what with her twenty-four-hour-a-day job, running her home, and attending to the minutiae of personal administration and the gentle demands of her dog, Rochester.
Her eyes seemed to her to be permanently red and swollen, and her head often felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool when she awoke. She had been enjoying her sleep, could have gone on for hours, but Hay was gently shaking her awake. “The High Commissioner’s on his way. Wake up, Forsyth.”
“Tell the High Commissioner to get stuffed,” she grumbled, trying to unglue her eyelids and slowly coming to terms with her surroundings. What the hell was she doing here anyway? She’d had a nice, quiet weekend planned with her collie cross and a couple of videos. Now her dog was languishing in a kennel near her home in Aylmer, and she was so tired she could hardly see straight. She looked up at Hay. He looked worse than she felt.
“Come along, now. We’ve work to do.” He wished that he could nap like that. She’d been out for a good twenty minutes. He never slept well unless he was in his own bed, with a solid seven or eight hours stretched out in front of him.
They had agreed not to ask the High Commissioner about Gerry Middleton, believing the matter would best be dealt with, initially at least, on their side of the table. In the end, the interview was something of a disappointment. High Commissioner Wesley Carruthers was a charming and articulate man, but if he knew anything useful he wasn’t talking. He seemed truly distressed by the murder, though his choice of language befitted a government press release. He was “shocked and saddened” by the death. He had only good things to say of Natalie Guévin, but his comments seemed to be straight from an annual appraisal report. She was “thorough,” “creative,” “dedicated,” and possessed “exceptional organizational skills.”
He had little to say about her social life; he didn’t like to get involved in the personal lives of his employees. He did understand that she rode a bit. Carruthers exhibited none of his wife’s predilection for gossip and innuendo. As to motive, he had no idea who might want to kill Natalie. He was aware of the threats from the anti-sealing lobby but had agreed with Natalie that they were bunk. Finally, he was horrified that such an event should have taken place on High Commission property—he would be speaking with the minister personally later today—and he hoped that the madman would be found as soon as possible.
“He seemed,” said Liz afterward, “to have genuinely liked her, and to be upset by the death. In contrast to his wife.”
“She was a cold fish, alright,” said Hay,
“I know the type. Blue-chip Toronto stock. ‘Never-met-a-man-I-couldn’t-use.’ Pleased to preside over dinners she hasn’t cooked and spend money she hasn’t earned.”
“So you’d be gratified if she committed the murder,” suggested Hay.
“I should be delighted,” declared Liz. “But I doubt she did. She’s probably too clever for that. Anyway, she was in Scotland at the time. So was he, for that matter.”
“Well, stranger things have happened; you know that as well as I. Look, why don’t you get to your hotel and get some rest. I’ll finish up around here, and we can all meet later for a drink and a run-through.”
“Sounds great. I have just one thing to do first. And that’s to have a word with Middleton.”
THREE
They were to meet at the Oak and Barrel at seven. Hay had arrived there early, assuming it could be difficult to get a table on a Friday night. Wilkins joined him shortly afterward, for the same reason. It had been a prudent move. The pub was already filling up, and the small table that Hay had nabbed appeared to be the last one available. The music was just a bit too loud for him, and the decibel level of the surrounding conversations was rising. This wasn’t his regular pub, the Bull’s Head, with its welcome if outdated restrictions on music and television. As it was, Hay found himself distracted by a World Wrestling Federation bout being broadcast somewhere behind Wilkins’s head. At least this place was close to both the High Commission and the Roxborough, where the Canadians were staying.
“Useful day?” inquired Hay, before testing his pint.
“I think so, sir,” replied Wilkins. “We only finished twenty minutes ago; Ouellette, poor sod, hadn’t even checked into his hotel yet. I hope his bags have arrived by now—they seem to have been left behind in Ottawa. Anyway, we did quite a lot of digging on Guévin, and we might have some interesting stuff. Ouellette’s alright, you know,” he added. “Good officer. A bit young, maybe, but a good head for investigation.”
Hay thought the comment on youth a bit odd coming from Wilkins, who must have been all of thirty-one. He spotted the Canadians standing in the door and waved them over. Inspector Forsyth, Sergeant Ouellette, and Gerry Middleton had been squinting in the entrance, trying to get their bearings. Two more pints and a glass of red wine, and they got down to business.
“Just one item first,” said Liz Forsyth, lighting a king-size cigarette. “Middleton here has something to clear up.”
When Middleton began to speak, Hay realized he had not heard the security man say more than a word or two before. Middleton had a shrill, somewhat whiny voice, whose only virtue was that it could easily be heard over the music.
“I believe,” Middleton began, “that my visit to the High Commissioner earlier today may have caused some misunderstanding.” Wilkins and Ouellette exchanged puzzled glances. “You see,” he squeaked, “I have known Wesley, personally, for years. When he was just a Member of Parliament, and I was fresh out of university, I worked for him as a researcher on the Hill. I called on him for purely personal reasons, you see. I guess I should have mentioned it before, but it didn’t seem important. So that’s that. No harm done.”
Liz looked expectantly at Hay. She wanted this member of the Canadian team—though he hadn’t been her own choice—to be in the clear. But Hay’s face was impassive as he continued to regard Middleton. It was Ouellette who broke in politely, “And what year was that?”
Middleton responded, “Let’s see, eighty, eighty-one. Yes, eighty-one. Seems like another life now.”
“Okay, fine. Thanks,” Hay said with a glance toward Liz. “Now let’s get on with it.” Hay and Forsyth reviewed the highlights of their interviews and the unexpected intervention of Mary Kellick. “And now, you lads,” said Hay, “what have you been up to?” Hay pulled on his cigarette, conscious of a mild sinus headache hovering behind his eyes. He realized it had been there all day.
With a polite nod to Ouellette, Wilkins began recapping their activities. A search of Guévin’s flat had elicited nothing of importance, and her office had been similarly devoid of interest. No death threat letters had been found. Her appointment book for yesterday, the day of the murder, indicated an early morning staff meeting, a ten o’clock call at the Ministry of Commerce, lunch with her opposite number at the Australian High Commission, an early afternoon meeting with a Canadian telecoms representative, and a four-thirty appointment with a Dr. Julian Cox of some organization called Eco-Action. A scribbled note in the margin read “Spk Claude.”
“Do you have the appointment book?” asked Forsyth.
“Yes, ma’am,” nodded Wilkins.
Liz winced. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am,’” she said. “Makes me feel about a hundred.”
“She prefers to be called sir,” grinned Ouellette. He was quite fond of his inspector. She was one the best, and she didn’t take herself too seriously. Not like a lot of the senior types he had dealt with.
“Yes,” agreed Liz, “‘sir’ is far more dignified. ‘Ma’am’ sounds like someone who runs a brothel. Okay, what’s next?”
Ouellette picked up the story. “Another interesting thing—I got this from Ottawa earlier today—Guévin was her married name. Her birth name was, in fact, Natalia Lukjovic. She was bor
n in the former Yugoslavia, in a small town outside Pale. Her parents got out in the late fifties; Natalia would have been three or four. Ended up in Montreal, where her father opened up a dry-cleaning business. She was an only child and subsequently attended Université Laval. Married a Philippe Guévin in 1974. The marriage only lasted a couple of years, but she hung on to her married name and seems to have made the transition from ‘Natalia’ to ‘Natalie.’ No kids. Monsieur Guévin is now an architect in the Montreal area, and preliminary inquiries suggest he hasn’t been outside Québec for at least six months. It seems they haven’t been in touch for years.”
Wilkins added, “Her only real hobby seems to have been the horses. Competitions, even. Seems to have done quite well in local horse shows—dressage, is it called? She joined the Canadian foreign service in 1979 and had a steady if unspectacular climb through the ranks. Postings to Buenos Aires, Singapore, Rome, Bangkok, and London.”
“Nice for some,” muttered Middleton into his beer.
“Not so nice for her, was it?” snapped Hay. He turned back to Wilkins, trying to ignore the strongman competition now taking place over the detective sergeant’s shoulder. “Good. Is there anything further from forensics?”
“They’ve confirmed their preliminary findings. No evidence of alcohol, drugs, or toxins in the blood, although further tests will be run. That thing the killer used to clobber her with, the red and white club, was identified as an ax handle. Moreover,” Wilkins added, “it appears that Ms. Guévin was about twelve weeks pregnant.”
Liz sat on the end of the bed in her hotel room, staring blankly. Three glasses of wine had done nothing to organize her thoughts, but she doubted things would be any clearer were she stone cold sober. This was unlikely to be cleared up in a day or two. Who had killed this woman? And who had this woman been? A kind, gentle person who took the time to talk to the Mary Kellicks of the world? A promiscuous tart? A horsewoman dedicated to her job, with a quiet, even non-existent, social life?
The room was lovely, peaceful. Dark, rich paneling throughout, with heavy floral curtains sealing out the wind and drizzle. What had been evident was that Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Hay had not believed a word Gerry Middleton had said. A pretty shaded floor lamp illuminated a broad, deep-seated wing chair; an antique desk stood below an ornate gilt mirror. The mirror, Liz decided, she could have done without. Her eyes, rimmed in black like a raccoon’s, stared back at her, and the unwelcome lines in her face were yet more deeply etched due to fatigue. Her last thought before she went to sleep was, At least I’m going riding tomorrow. It was a thought that had brought her comfort since she was a little girl.
It was 11:30 at night, and Mary Kellick was making meatballs. Mary loved to cook. She couldn’t cook like Luciano, of course, but then he was a real chef de cuisine. He was nice, though, and would talk to her about cooking anytime she wanted. Mary cooked with great precision. If a recipe called for half a cup of water, she could spend up to five minutes crouching at the counter, pouring water out and adding it again until the measuring cup registered exactly half full.
Tonight’s recipe included beef, veal, and pork, plus eggs, onions, parsley, paprika, and Worcestershire sauce. Now Mary was rolling perfect little spheres between the palms of her hands and placing them on cookie sheets.
She was, she thought proudly, a perfectionist. Not just in cooking either; she tried very hard to do things right. But that muddle over the invitations that time—she cringed yet again over the incident. She had been over it countless times in her mind, and she still didn’t know what had gone wrong. How had she gotten the dates wrong? It was impossible. Surely she had checked and double-checked. Mary tried to push the unwelcome thoughts out of her head as she plunged her hands again into the bowl of wet, sticky meat.
FOUR
The stable yard was of another era—charming, right down to the cobblestones. Liz estimated that it housed some twenty to twenty-five horses, but she couldn’t begin to guess at the vintage of the yard itself. She looked at the sky, realizing it was only a matter of time until the rain resumed. The penetrating damp was unpleasant. But it would be comfortable enough to ride.
Colonel Lahaie was more casually attired now, but there was no question as to his profession. Even in riding breeches and ribbed sweater, he looked every inch both officer and gentleman. He introduced Liz to the resident riding instructor, a grizzled Lancastrian with the unsurprising name of Albert Taylor. Taylor was leading a tall slate gray gelding that was already fully tacked up. He handed the reins to Lahaie.
“I were shocked to ’ear about Natalie,” said Albert Taylor, doffing his peaked cap. “She were a delight to ’ave ’ere. I shall miss ’er, and no doubt so will Reckless. That were ’er ’orse, th’knows,” he explained to Liz. “Well, not ’er own, but she rode it all t’ time just t’same. It’s not an ’orse we let just anybody ride.”
“Inspector Forsyth here is with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Lahaie broke in. “Perhaps she might exercise Reckless today?”
Liz was about to protest—it seemed indecent somehow—but Albert Taylor acquiesced immediately. “The Mounties, is it?” he said, impressed. “’Ast thou e’er seen that musical ride of theirn?”
“Sure. In fact, I was assigned to it for three years early on. Best detail I ever had.” She meant it.
Now there was no question: Liz should have Reckless. She disappeared to groom and tack up the horse herself, to the surprise of the old instructor. “She’s a bit like Natalie in ’er ways, int she?” he asked Lahaie. “Natalie always did that an’ all.”
The Anglo-Arab craned her neck around and rolled her eye to get a better look at the person who had just entered her stall. The bay mare was already spanking clean but evidently believed she merited the full treatment anyway. The tack room was in the center of the barn. Liz found the locker with Reckless’s name on it and pulled out the grooming kit. She brushed the mare’s glossy coat and picked out her already pristine hooves, but at least Reckless seemed mollified.
Liz returned to the locker to fetch the bridle and fine English-made saddle. She slung the saddle over her forearm and grabbed the headpiece of the bridle with her other hand. Suddenly she froze and hurriedly replaced the tack. In the back of the locker was a small pile of riding clothes. “Plain view,” she muttered to herself, inwardly rehearsing the exceptions by which police officers could obtain evidence without a warrant. She carefully riffled through the clothing. There was one unexpected find. A note, computer-generated and printed on good-quality bond, had evidently been wadded tightly into a ball and then smoothed out again to be placed carefully under a pair of tan riding breeches. Liz didn’t have a plastic bag on her, although some were in her purse in front of Reckless’s stall. She couldn’t risk running back and confronting Lahaie or Taylor, so she hastily folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in her jodhpurs. Liz then quickly tacked up the mare, who had become quite indignant with waiting.
DCI Hay was on his third cup of coffee and his fifth cigarette. The Saturday papers had already been dissected and were scattered across the dining room table. He had another hour or so before he needed to get to the High Commission given his new colleague would still, no doubt, be trampling the flowers in Hyde Park.
Not a brilliant day for a ride, he thought as he looked out the window at the gathering clouds. He wandered into the kitchen to refill his cup and leaned back against the kitchen counter. He still liked this house. It was an attractive two-story in Pimlico, inherited from his father some ten years ago. The house could be a bit cranky—especially the plumbing—but it had been a good home despite its vintage. It was, in fact, the house of a man who lived alone and was comfortable with it. It was decorated to his taste: not overfurnished, but with furniture of good quality. Some of it might have been antique, although Hay just thought of it as old. A few nice oils, a good mantel clock, the occasional piece of pottery, and several hundred books—largely French and English literature.
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sp; It was not a house that had seen a woman’s influence; there was an absence of dried flowers, ornaments of any kind were infrequent, and the requirement for a complete dinner service had never been foreseen. Since losing Paula those many years ago, Hay had chosen to live alone and had never seen any reason to do otherwise. There had been others since, of course, but he had never again experienced the intensity of passion he’d had for Paula, and anything less was, quite simply, not good enough. This house suited Hay. He supposed he would be there a long time yet.
He remained leaning against the counter, gazing out the window at his small garden. He was still vexed about this Middleton business. He thoroughly disliked the squeaky Canadian security man, although he was not entirely sure why. Lighting another cigarette, Hay wondered whether Middleton’s story would stand up under closer scrutiny. And if it would be undiplomatic for him to make a few independent inquiries.
He didn’t know if Middleton was lying, but it would be unsurprising. Hay had been lied to many times in his life; he was a policeman after all. When he thought about it, it seemed that most of the people he dealt with on the job lied about something or other. Any piece of information could be denied, distorted, or embellished. Sometimes people lied to cover up a crime, but more often than not lies were simply designed to obscure unworthy actions, indiscretions, or character flaws. Lies were expected.
When they came from colleagues or people he cared about, however, Hay was less philosophical. These were not lies—this was betrayal. And he had been betrayed too many times. As a young constable he had learned that a so-called friend was belittling him behind his back while pretending to be best mates. And then a boss whom he had tried very hard to please had used him as a dumping ground for unfinished work simply because he knew that the conscientious Hay would do it, and do it well. And then Sarah, a lady he once believed he would marry, betrayed him in the way that only a woman can.