by Janet Brons
Margaret Wilmot nodded. “Twice they spray-painted horrible things on the shop window. And for a time they came to the store every week, hanging around outside and intimidating the customers.”
“Intimidating them?”
“Yes, you know, telling them that only butchers and murderers bought fur. Calling them killers and threatening them. They even spray-painted one of our customers. Green paint, it was. She was wearing her brand new coat out of the store. Mr. Wilmot replaced it for her, though, out of his own pocket. He felt responsible, somehow.”
“You reported all this to the police?”
“Oh yes,” said Margaret Wilmot. “At least my husband did. But they could hardly spend all day defending our little shop, could they? I believe he also went to the Canadian High Commission to report the threats to them, though I’m not sure. We’re still Canadian, of course.” She was struggling now; her voice was so weak it was almost a whisper.
“We will go now,” said Liz, “but may I ask you just one more question? Did your husband ever mention the name Dr. Julian Cox?”
“Cox,” whispered Mrs. Wilmot, “Cox. No, no, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name.”
Sergeant Roy Carpenter let himself into his small third-story flat. He really had to get that lock fixed soon; the bolt was so rusty now it wasn’t sliding across properly. He slung his red and white gym bag on the floor, went into the kitchen, and pulled a Labatt Blue out of the fridge. Carpenter thoughtfully screwed off the top and wandered into the living room. He leaned back into the couch, throwing his long legs over the coffee table. It had been a great day for a run. But it was awfully hot in here today. The apartment building’s centralized heating was turned up far too high for such a sunny day. Still, he much preferred the English climate to that of his hometown of Grande Prairie, Alberta. He had gotten out of there as quickly as possible after high school. Why on earth his parents had left Toronto for Grande Prairie he never knew, and they had never given him a satisfactory answer. He had always wanted to visit England, and this posting had been a welcome one. He loved the sense of history of the place and the vastly differing accents, and enjoyed being called ‘luv’ by women he didn’t even know. He had managed to visit a number of different parts of Britain on weekends off and was planning a visit to Manchester in the near future. While the posting didn’t have the excitement of Bosnia, it certainly had its compensations.
The liaison officer took a long drink. Boy, that Lahaie was touchy, he thought. Roy had wanted to ask him about that hospital business in Bosnia for a long time. After all, Roy had himself been in Bosnia, hadn’t he? Assigned to the International Police Task Force. Now that had been a job. Of course Lahaie had already left Bosnia by the time Roy began his posting there. But Roy had always been curious about those rumors of sexual misconduct at the hospital. And nobody would tell him anything. Colonel Lahaie had been in Bosnia at the time of the allegations; the supposed perpetrators were even in Lahaie’s battalion, for crying out loud. So why shouldn’t Roy ask about it? What was the big mystery? Running into Lahaie like that at the gardens, all casual, it had seemed like a good time to put the question. Wrong. Either something else was bugging the good colonel or Roy had hit a nerve somewhere. He took another long pull on his beer and closed his eyes.
Political Section Head Harry Jarvis was at his desk, not quite knowing why. No one was expected in the office today, and of course no real work could be done without subordinates. Jarvis was staring at a draft report from one of his officers. Everything he had told the police was true, of course. He rummaged in his desk drawer for a red pencil. Except that he had neglected to tell them what had happened a year or two before Guévin had deep-sixed his promotion.
What had occurred then—some years ago—was that Natalie Guévin, the bitch, had rebuffed him, rejected him, spurned his advances, as the romance novels say. He had agreed at first that it was for the best; she had put him off gently enough and it was true that her divorce was only recent. But then a tremendous, all-consuming, passionate hatred had begun to burn. Who was she to reject him? To say no to him, of all people? He’d even been senior to her at the time, although the cow had turned that around quickly enough. Must have slept with half the department to get promoted over his head.
So of course he had bad-mouthed the bitch. Done his best to blacken her name in the department. Innuendos, slurs, double entendres had all been quite effective. He had enjoyed himself for a time but eventually tired of the game. Then there had been that business with his promotion, when she had put the knife in. How could she stoop so low?
Of course, it had been his duty to report Guévin’s affair with Carruthers to the security people at Foreign Affairs. He was pretty sure he had been the only one to twig to it, but then he had always kept a pretty close eye on her. It was conceivable that Paul Rochon knew about the affair, but he was very discreet. Guys like Paul had to be, didn’t they? Oh well, she was gone now. Got what she deserved, no doubt, the whore. Jarvis went back to reading the draft, gnawing on the end of his red pencil.
Hay and Forsyth walked slowly back down the path to his battered Rover 2000. They were lost in thought, oppressed by the sadness of the tiny woman in the little bungalow. As they got into the car, their silence was broken by Wilkins’s voice crackling over the radio. “Sir, we’ve been trying to reach you. We’ve been round to Cox’s, sir. He’s disappeared.”
SIX
Anthony Thistlethwaite was sitting at his kitchen table, making a list of things to do before the Christmas reception. Brief waiters. Set up Christmas tree. Ensure furniture in living room is moved. He was trying to concentrate on his work plan, but his eyes kept straying to the newspaper lying on the corner of the table, the one with the headline blaring, ECO-MADMAN MURDERS MERCHANT!
Anthony, a thin, highly strung man, couldn’t believe that the man who murdered Natalie Guévin had committed another such crime, and against another Canadian national. He wondered if there was a serial killer on the loose in London, and, indeed, how many murders one had to commit before becoming an official serial killer. The article made a convincing case, explaining how Canadian hunting and trapping techniques had been mimicked in the commission of both murders. It was ghastly.
These eco-warrior types were clearly a bit off, Anthony reflected—even dangerous, perhaps—but you never thought about them being a gang of serial killers. He wondered when it would end. At least security had been tightened at the High Commission and Residence, which was a relief to Anthony, but he wondered how well members of the general Canadian community in London were sleeping these days.
He was feeling very sorry for High Commissioner Carruthers, whom he held in considerable esteem. Carruthers had been very fair and kind to Anthony since being appointed High Commissioner to London. Some of Carruthers’s predecessors had been downright cruel and had left Anthony wondering how they could have been accorded such a prestigious appointment. As chauffeur, he knew that a head of post’s true colors came out if the official vehicle was held up in traffic on the way to an important event, and as butler, knew that any glitch in official entertaining could bring out the worst in the most benign of diplomats. Carruthers, however, was consistently calm and considerate, although the same could not be said of his wife. What Carruthers apparently lacked in spite was more than made up for by his beautiful, bitchy wife. Although, thought Anthony, as he flicked his pen between his long, nervous fingers, he had met her type before. Always best just to nod and agree and promise to get it right next time.
He looked at his list again, adding items automatically, but his mind was still full of murder. Check bar supplies. Purchase new supplies as necessary. Find large tub for Moose Milk. He almost added “try to placate Luciano” to his list; the talented chef was showing definite signs of strain these days. Then he said aloud, “Oh yes—polish the silverware.” That should have been Annie Mallett’s job, but she hated it and always did a substandard job. So it was left to him. He added that chore to his
list as well.
Even during the morning meeting, Forsyth found something a bit odd about Hay. He seemed moodier than usual, quick to pounce on the smallest oversight of even the least-experienced constable. She glanced over at him, then watched, fascinated, as he mutilated a paper napkin.
The first order of business would be to locate Dr. Julian Cox. So far they had no leads: his ex-wife professed no knowledge of his whereabouts, his associates were playing dumb, and his apartment had yielded no clues. “The cat,” commented Wilkins, “wasn’t talking.” The media had already made the apparent environmentalist link between the murders and was show-jumping to its own conclusions. As to the note found in the Hyde Park locker, it was thus far a blind alley. It could have been generated by any computer found in the High Commission—or almost anywhere else for that matter—and produced by as many printers. So it was back to interviews to try to determine Guévin’s mystery man. Liz reflected on how simple the days of typewriters must have been—when an A with a missing lower half could solve a crime. At least that’s what the mystery novels said.
Liz wasn’t sure why she always felt compelled to jolly Hay out of his sulks. When the investigation team had been dispatched and they were seated alone at the table, she asked airily, “Zee leetle gray cells, zey do not co-operate zis morning, Detecteev Chief Inspector?”
He slowly raised cold eyes to meet hers. “I could have you up on charges for hindering an investigation,” he said quietly.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, shocked. She had no idea what was bothering him, but his tone was almost threatening.
“Go ahead and have your little joke, Forsyth. I have a few contacts of my own, you know, and I’ve used them. So don’t play silly buggers with me.”
The room was spinning slightly. “Calm down, Hay. I don’t understand any of this. Talk sense, will you?”
“I’m talking about Middleton. About what he’s really doing here. Ring any bells, Inspector?” he asked sarcastically.
“And just what might he be doing here?” she asked, flinching imperceptibly. She was on guard now, wondering what was coming next and wishing she had never heard the name Middleton.
“You want me to bloody spell it out, do you?” snarled Hay. They were both on their feet now. “I placed a call to a contact in Special Branch over the weekend. He rang me back this morning. Seems there was some talk of a love affair between Guévin and the good High Commissioner.”
“Carruthers,” said Liz dully. This made some sense.
“It was seen as some kind of security risk, you see, by your Foreign Affairs people. Presumably that rates as a foreign affair.” But he wasn’t smiling at his joke. “That’s what Middleton is doing here, isn’t it? Trying to find out if Carruthers had anything to do with the murder? And you with your cutesy little fake love letter. You knew about it all along, didn’t you?” He was staring at her, hard. “Didn’t you?” he repeated loudly. They remained there, motionless, for a fraction of a second.
Liz was astonished by her own reaction to this accusation from her British counterpart. She was part angry, part offended, and even a little bit frightened. “And what do you think gives you the right to go snooping around behind my back?” she asked, frozen. “It never occurred to you to come to me with your suspicions instead of going straight to Special Branch?”
Stephen Hay suddenly felt exhausted and dropped into a chair.
“If your source was half as good as you think he is,” Liz continued, voice shaking slightly, “then you would know that I had no knowledge of this whatsoever. If this is true, there will be hell to pay back in Ottawa. But let me observe that it appears your people didn’t keep you in the loop, either. Meanwhile, Detective Chief Inspector, I trust this browbeating is at an end. I’ll get Middleton.”
Hay remained still for a time. He believed she was telling the truth and wondered why he had been so angry. He had not intended to get so worked up, but then, he had always felt strongly about betrayal. He stood up slowly. He needed a cigarette.
Gerry Middleton was annoyed. He had been enjoying a nice breakfast at the hotel, only to find himself summoned like a child to the High Commission by that RCMP inspector woman. Must be having a bad hair day. The tour bus for Hampton Court was leaving in an hour, and Gerry had no intention of missing it. He’d never been to Hampton Court. Whatever this is, they better make it quick, he thought as he entered the Brandy and Cigars room.
Gerry missed that bus, and the next one, and the next. When Gerry left the High Commission he was no longer interested in visiting Hampton Court. He was too worried about what his boss would say when informed that Gerry’s quiet little mission had been blown wide open.
“I trust,” said Inspector Liz Forsyth coldly, “that you believe me now when I tell you that until today neither I nor my organization had any knowledge of either the liaison between the High Commissioner and Natalie Guévin or Gerry Middleton’s real objectives here.”
Hay nodded. It had been clear from the interview that Middleton had been working for Foreign Affairs, and Foreign Affairs alone, in privately confronting the High Commissioner about the affair. “Look, Forsyth, I—” he began but was not allowed to finish.
“We’ll call Carruthers in now, shall we?” she asked, stone-faced. Hay nodded again. Gawd, he’d really messed this one up.
The High Commissioner arrived and shut the door behind him. His clear light blue eyes swept the room nervously, finally settling on DCI Hay. “I understand that you have been made aware of my affair with Natalie Guévin,” he opened immediately. “I admit it.”
As if you’ve any choice, thought Hay, then said, “Take a seat, High Commissioner.”
“We loved each other, very deeply,” continued Carruthers, sitting down. “I wouldn’t want you to think this was a casual affair.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “Things went . . . sour . . . between Sharon and myself some time ago. Natalie was a beautiful, gentle person, and I came to love her very much.” His eyes were beginning to glisten. “I planned to leave Sharon once this posting was over. There was only about another six months to a year left anyway.”
If you last that long, Hay said to himself.
“This note was written by you, then?” Liz asked, producing the crumpled paper. Her cutesy little fake love letter—wasn’t that what the Scotland Yard bully had called it this morning?
“Of course. Natalie was getting fed up. She was tired of sneaking around, tired of all the stress. She had started to believe I didn’t really care about her because I didn’t want to tell Sharon. But if you knew Sharon—well, you’d know it’s not quite so simple.”
Hay and Forsyth unintentionally exchanged a glance.
“Anyway, Natalie broke it off with me as a result. I guess she thought I was weak, or insincere, or both.”
“When was this?” asked Hay.
“A couple of weeks before Sharon and I were scheduled to go to Edinburgh. I was miserable. I don’t think I’d really realized how much I loved Natalie until then. So I screwed up my courage and I told Sharon. Then I wrote the note to Natalie. She agreed to meet me later that night—at a little pub in the East End—and we made up.”
“And how did Mrs. Carruthers react to the news?” asked Liz, genuinely curious.
The High Commissioner reflected a moment. “Strangely enough, Sharon had already guessed. She thought it was funny.”
“Funny?” asked Liz.
Bang goes Forsyth’s theory on the nature of women and adultery, thought Hay, although he had to acknowledge that the reactions of a Sharon Carruthers might well be atypical.
“Because it gave her a certain degree of power over me, you see,” Carruthers continued. Liz regarded him quizzically. “You know how these things work. The person who’s in the wrong becomes somehow enslaved by the person who’s been wronged. Partly out of guilt, partly out of shame, partly out of fear that his misdeeds will be made public. When Sharon found out, it put her in the
driver’s seat.”
“And then you went to Scotland with your wife after all this?”
“Oddly enough, Sharon insisted,” said the High Commissioner. “Her stipulation on the entire affair was that, publicly at least, everything should remain the same. We would continue to live together, to go on holiday, to attend functions. We would still be a couple. Nothing would change until we returned to Canada. Then she would divorce me. At considerable cost, of course. I agreed to those conditions. I didn’t have much choice.”
“Tell me about Gerry Middleton,” said Liz suddenly. “Is it true that you worked together in the past?”
“Heavens no. The first time I saw him was the day you arrived. That Parliament Hill business was just for your benefit. He came here to talk to me, to see if there was any possibility I might be involved in this thing. He knew about the affair—his people in Ottawa knew—but it only became an issue because of the—because of Natalie.”
“And what did you tell Mr. Middleton?”
“I told him that I had been deeply in love with Natalie. That we planned to marry. And that I could never, ever have hurt her.”
“And are you telling us the same thing now?” asked Hay.
“I am.”
“And you were to say nothing to us about the affair?” asked Liz Forsyth.
“That’s right,” he answered. “Foreign Affairs thought it would be best kept quiet, so long as I had nothing to do with the murder.”
And they, thought Liz, believed that only they were in a position to decide that.
“Do you know a Dr. Julian Cox, High Commissioner?” asked Hay suddenly.
“Of course. I’ve known him for some years. His specialty is cultivating government officials and then doing what he can to humiliate them publicly. Quite a charming fellow, really, and genuinely committed, but he’ll do anything, step on anyone, for publicity.”