by Janet Brons
“When did you last see him?”
“Last month, at the Canada Trade Fair. Cox and his band of merry men were there to protest against our fur industry. It got a bit rowdy, actually, and Natalie got shoved about a bit before the police intervened. All of our security personnel were of course busy hustling our minister out of harm’s way, and Natalie was stranded for a few minutes.”
“She must have been upset.”
“At first, of course. But her reaction to Cox has always been much the same as mine. He’s a major pain in the butt, and you can never, ever trust him, especially if the cameras are rolling. But you have to respect the guy. Anyway, as I recall she was a bit preoccupied around that time and didn’t want to make a fuss about it.”
“Preoccupied? How so?”
“She was going through a period of wanting to get a better handle on her personal roots. She’d immigrated to Canada as a baby, you know. She had just managed to re-establish contact with some relations in the former Yugoslavia—around Pale, I think she said. Seemed they were pretty well connected too. One of them—a cousin, I believe—came through London about that time as I recall. They got together for an afternoon. Anyway, all this was on her mind quite a bit. So, yes, she was somewhat preoccupied, distracted.”
“And this incident at the Canada Trade Fair, that was the last time you saw Cox?”
“Saw him, yes,” replied Carruthers. “But he left a message on my voice mail the day of the—murder. God, but that word is hard to say now. Used to be just another word. Now it has some kind of hold over me. Sorry. Anyway, I wasn’t really sure what the message was all about. I’d intended to ask Natalie about it later. He said something about being sorry, the Internet page hadn’t been his idea, some of his guys were going a bit over the top lately. Apologized. As I say, it didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time. I think I saved it, though, if you want to hear it.”
Hay nodded. “Mr. Carruthers,” he said, “your wife would have us believe that Natalie was—rather promiscuous.”
Carruthers gave a little laugh. “Nothing could be further from the truth. That was Sharon’s idea of having fun at Natalie’s expense, and mine. And then she convinced herself that if you believed Natalie was involved with lots of men, you wouldn’t focus on just one, let alone the High Commissioner.”
“She was trying to protect you?” asked Liz.
“She was trying to protect herself. She didn’t especially want to be a focus of a public scandal involving her husband and his murdered mistress.”
“But you didn’t try to clear it up,” said Hay. “You didn’t try to set us straight. Why was that?”
“You’re right,” acknowledged Carruthers. “I thought perhaps Sharon’s reasoning might be sound. Middleton thought so too.”
“One last thing,” said Hay. “Did you know that Natalie Guévin was pregnant?”
The news hit Carruthers like a blow to the chest. He blanched and remained silent for a long time. He looked like a condemned man. “Pregnant?” he finally whispered. “Was she?” Hay nodded. “I had no idea.” The High Commissioner paused again. “So it was a—a double murder. A double homicide.”
“You believe that you were the father?” asked Liz.
“Oh yes. No question.” He thought for a minute. “How far along was she?”
“About twelve weeks.”
Carruthers nodded to himself. “I wonder if she even knew.”
“We’ve asked you this before, High Commissioner, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Natalie Guévin?”
The High Commissioner shook his head. Then he added bluntly, “Normally, I should have said my wife. But she was in Scotland with me at the time, wasn’t she?” Carruthers, now quite pale, confirmed that he would remain available for further questioning and departed.
“What a very weak man,” muttered Hay when the High Commissioner had left.
“Weak? For waiting so long to tell his wife about the affair?” asked Liz.
“For allowing the reputation of the woman he supposedly loved to be destroyed, just to save his own political skin.”
Annie Mallett was in the dining room, dusting and snooping, snooping and dusting. It was the first time she had been allowed back inside since it happened. The door to that big anteroom, the one where all the coppers met, was shut again. The High Commissioner had closed it behind him when he left, looking sad and thoughtful. He hadn’t even said hello to her, even when she greeted him with a polite, “Good morning, Your Honor.”
She was dusting the big sideboard now—the mahogany one close to the anteroom door. Shifting some ornaments and a large Inuit carving to one side, she began slowly polishing the rich wooden surface. She edged a bit closer to the door, trying to hear what was going on inside the room and dusting all the while. Annie didn’t know how it happened. Truly she didn’t. When that carving hit the floor, she told Ethel and Sybil the following Saturday, you’d have thought a bomb had gone off.
Hay flung the door open with a startled “What the bloody . . . !” but stopped himself when he saw Annie recoiling from the carving (itself unharmed in the incident) in horror. Mercifully, just then the phone rang inside the anteroom and the detective chief inspector slammed the door shut.
Hay was still shaking his head as he picked up the phone.
Liz listened to his side of the conversation. “Yes, Wilkins. You’ve what? Good show! He’s where? Serious? I don’t bloody believe this. Yes, yes, go on then. See you later.” Hay turned around slowly to face Liz, his mouth twitching a little. “You’ll not believe this. They’ve found Cox. He’s in prison in Hampstead. For setting off a stink bomb during the drinks and pâté at the annual Winter Hunt Banquet.”
SEVEN
They were being painfully polite with each other now.
“Of course, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“If that’s how you wish to proceed, Inspector Forsyth.”
“As you wish, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Something had been lost during the confrontation. A degree of ease, a fragment of confidence, perhaps.
Wilkins and Ouellette, finishing their debriefing on Cox’s activities in Hampstead, shared a look. The mood in the anteroom, Wilkins thought, was better suited to a French farce than a police investigation.
“Couple of kids,” muttered Ouellette, as he and his partner headed out for a late lunch. As they left the High Commission they were almost bowled over by an angry-looking heavyset man charging into the building.
“Who the heck is that?” asked Ouellette, regaining his balance and staring at the back of the big man.
“No idea. Maybe the murderer, come to turn himself in,” suggested Wilkins. “He’d better improve his manners, though, if he wants to get anywhere with the genteel Hay and Forsyth today. Anyway, probably just a Canadian who’s lost his passport.”
With a quick backward glance to ensure the man had been stopped by the security guards, Ouellette nodded. “You’re probably right. Let’s get lunch.”
Hay and Forsyth were reviewing background checks on Dr. Julian Cox and some of his closest associates in preparation for their interviews later in the day. Their strained silence was broken by a deep, heavily accented voice.
“My name is Miroslav Lukjovic,” he said. “And I want to take body of my daughter back to Canada.”
“What’s so special about bleedin’ tourtière anyway?” fumed Luciano Alfredo Carillo. “Looks like meat pie you can buy in any corner shop.” The High Commission chef glared at the recipe book. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind making canapés for over two hundred for the Christmas reception. Now he had to build a stockpile of Canadian meat pies as well. Probably eaten with maple syrup on the side, he sneered to himself. No wonder his predecessor had left. Whatever happened to old Gunther anyway?
Of course, he brooded, he could use some help, assistance—an experienced saucier perhaps. But no-o-o-o. All Carillo heard when he broached the subject was an ea
rful of blather about cutbacks, downsizing, reduced budgets. What did all that have to do with haute cuisine, that’s what he wanted to know. He slammed the pastry onto a well-floured board. This Christmas party was in very poor taste anyway, he thought. So soon after a murder right here on the premises. He began rolling out his dough with a mighty display of passion.
“These invitations look fine, just fine, Mary,” said Paul Rochon, handing back a randomly picked selection of twenty or so. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to look at all of them, but they look very good. Absolutely correct. And you have such lovely handwriting.”
Paul looked more tired and anxious than usual, thought Mary Kellick. She believed the Deputy High Commissioner to be working much too hard. Mary flushed and bobbed her head, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Rochon. Shall I send them out with the drivers, then?”
“Yes, please, Mary. Good job.” Paul watched her disappear out of his office. She had lost all confidence since that balls-up a few months back, and it hadn’t helped that Sharon Carruthers now insisted that Paul double-check all of Mary’s work. It was a shame she had to be humiliated like that.
It wasn’t fair to him either; he was swamped as it was. He’d already lost a couple of so-called “person-years” this year. Why couldn’t the government just call them what they were, anyway? They were staff positions, people doing important work and usually doing it very well. There were more cutbacks to come. This was all starting to hurt very badly. And what about Sharon Carruthers? Why couldn’t she check the damned invitations herself? What did she do with all her time anyway?
He opened a thick file folder entitled “Visit of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Dec 18–20, ’97.” The High Commission, as he knew better than anyone, was already falling behind in its work due to the murder inquiry. There were two high-level visits scheduled in December, each with its usual briefing requirements, program of calls, hospitality, press, and logistical arrangements. Then there were the other visitors: the businessmen, the cultural figures, the occasional elite athlete. With reductions in staff it was hardly surprising that the real work of the High Commission wasn’t being done. Who had time to advance foreign policy, to deal effectively with bilateral issues, to maintain multilateral efforts, or to thoughtfully analyze the issues when working as a glorified travel agent? That headquarters was in the middle of yet another departmental reorganization made matters even worse: most of the high-priced help at Foreign Affairs were using their brains studying new reporting arrangements and organization charts, not working on foreign policy.
As always, the fact that Jarvis wasn’t pulling his weight didn’t help. Jarvis, thought Paul, seemed to spend all his time either red-penning the work of his officers or gossiping around the office. Well, the self-important political section head wasn’t going to get much of a rating report this year. That was clear. Paul always tried to be fair, but so far Jarvis’s aptitude for management merited a big C minus. How many times had Jarvis’s officers come to see Paul, complaining of everything from benign neglect to abuse of power? No, this guy was a rotten apple, no question.
Paul was himself an old-school diplomat, a great admirer of the golden age of Canadian diplomacy, and was, in his own quiet way, doing his best to recreate it. Not that anyone seemed to care anymore. The professional work ethic with which he had been imbued as a young officer was giving way to the demands of unions and the personal grievances of individual officers. Nobody wanted to work overtime anymore simply to get the job done. Everyone wanted compensation for each little bit of extra effort. A functioning meritocracy was being turned into a swamp of mediocrity. Affirmative action for every conceivable minority group seemed on the horizon. Every minority group save his, that is. He still had to keep certain things in his own life very quiet indeed.
He sighed and started digging through his thick working file. He found the relevant piece of paper and began typing into his computer: The High Commission of Canada presents its compliments to the Government of Great Britain and has the honor to inform . . .
Miroslav Lukjovic sat at the table across from Hay and Forsyth. He was calmer now, less aggressive. The security guard who had accompanied Lukjovic withdrew after a curt nod from Hay. Here was simply an old man who had just lost his only child. Liz had promised to look into getting the body released as soon as possible, and her apparent empathy had gone a long way toward soothing the big man.
“I know I am making nuisance,” he said, “but it seems unfair. I am far away. In Montreal. I just want her back. I believe High Commission is responsible for—what word—repatriating body to Canada. This is why I come here.”
“Of course,” said Hay smoothly, “and we are doing our best to get to the bottom of this terrible crime.” Lukjovic nodded, staring into the cup of coffee that sat before him. “Do you think,” Hay continued, “that you are up to answering a few questions for us? The more we understand your daughter, the greater our chances of finding the killer.”
“Certainly.” The heavy man nodded again. He was probably in his early seventies but was unexpectedly vigorous, carrying himself with the masculine grace of an over-the-hill boxer. His skin was taut across high cheekbones. His English was ponderous and broken in places, but he was somehow articulate.
“What you want to know?” he demanded, then immediately answered his own question. “Natalia is our only child. Olga, my wife, almost die with her, so no more. Back in old country, this. We love her. She is smart, pretty, always in the mischief.” He smiled at some half-forgotten recollection. “When we—leave—what was Yugoslavia, we come to Montreal. She learn French. She sound French. Of course she forget old country. They do, the young. They forget.” Lukjovic’s eyes were sorrowful. He was continuously clenching and unclenching his thick fingers.
“She went to university in Montreal, I think?” asked Liz.
“Montreal, and Quebec City too. Like I say, very smart girl. I want her to be lawyer. But she decide to be bureaucrat. What to do?” he added with a shrug of his shoulders.
“And you were close to her during those years?”
“Sure. Sure. We have many disagreements, of course. You know young.”
“What type of disagreements, Mr. Lukjovic?” asked Hay.
“Type of disagreements young and old have always. Love. Politics. Is normal.”
“Love, Mr. Lukjovic?”
“Yes.” He waved his hand. “She want marry young man. I say, ‘He is not right one, Natalia.’ But she marry anyway. Then she divorce couple of years later, yes? Thanks God no children.”
“You are speaking of her ex-husband, Philippe Guévin?” asked Hay.
“Yes, of course,” replied Lukjovic. “Young think only they know love. Not true. Only old understand, really. I know. You know one day, Chief Inspector.”
Hay wondered for an instant whether that were true, then asked, “And politics? What did the two of you disagree about politically?”
“Ah,” said Lukjovic, “politics. She don’t care about old country, see? She say, ‘Papa, we are Canadian now. This not our battle.’ She don’t understand, see?” A tear rolled down the old man’s face. He continued, “My family still there. Friends. Is terrible war, much suffering. I know what happens there. People tell me. I want to help. But Natalia, no, she is Canadian. She don’t care. We have—words over this. Many times. Upset my Olga. But, it is young again, see? They see world different way. It is same, all time. What to do.” The old man’s head dropped. He suddenly seemed very tired, very old.
“You don’t need to continue, Mr. Lukjovic. I understand this must be very difficult,” said Liz.
“I thank you.” He nodded. “Is long airplane from Montreal. I must rest. But before, I have other friend of Natalia to see. They ride horses together in park. I go find this Colonel Lahaie. Do you know where is his office?”
Dr. Julian Cox, co-founder of the Eco-Action group, publisher of Ecology Now magazine, and mastermind behind the already infamous Hunt Banquet stink bo
mb incident, had been transferred to Scotland Yard about an hour ago. He lounged comfortably, smoking his pipe and waiting to be questioned about the murders of Natalie Guévin and Lester Wilmot. Hay and Forsyth were running late, but Cox wasn’t in a hurry. This was all quite entertaining, really. Moreover, recent events had proved a downright blessing for the cause. The press had connected the environmentalists with the murders almost before the police had, and now the papers were full of items on ecology, the issues and the movement. No such thing as bad publicity, he mused as he waited patiently in the small interrogation room. Very clever murders, too, he smirked. The second one, with the collet motif, had been particularly inspired.
The interview lasted an hour and a half and left Hay and Forsyth seriously frustrated. “Cool as a cucumber, that one,” commented Liz, as they walked out into the damp. “No alibi, no defense. He didn’t even seem to care if he got charged with a double murder.”
The rain had been steady earlier in the day but had tapered to a light drizzle as evening approached. Now it was gloomy and oppressive, and not a ray of sunlight was capable of penetrating through the heavy cloud. Hay opened an umbrella as they made their way to his car.
“My great-aunt’s canary could have come up with a better alibi,” Hay agreed. “Went out ‘for a walk’ for a few hours after Ouellette and Wilkins left? Just around the time of the Wilmot murder?” Hay shook his head. “Doesn’t look good.”
“Surely he could have come up with something better than that. Or is he being too clever by half ? Anyway, I’m not paid to be a lawyer. Can you charge him?”
“I wish I could. I can’t stand that guy, with his hairy little grin and his holier-than-thou attitude,” grumbled Hay.
“If a holier-than-thou attitude were a felony offense, half the Canadian Parliament would be in jail,” Forsyth said.
He looked down at her, but it was too dark to see if she might be smiling. It had been a painful day, with all its unpleasantness and forced politeness. His part in it made it all the worse.