by Janet Brons
They had managed the move over to Scotland Yard quite painlessly. No one from the High Commission had said anything. Unless one counted Annie Mallett, who had managed to pull Hay to one side, stating emphatically, “You don’t look at all like him, you know, which is a shame, but then you’re the type that grows on a girl, aren’t you?” Hay had not known what to say, or even what the housemaid was talking about, so he had smiled faintly down at her, nodded his head, and fled.
Liaison officer Sergeant Roy Carpenter was treating himself to a couple of days off. He’d been filling in for his own boss, on medical leave in Canada, for over two months. He’d contributed more than his fair share to the increased security at the High Commission and had been pulled in several times to take notes for the police. He was exhausted. A few days in the north of England would do him a world of good. He would make it back in time for Friday’s reception, of course. The High Commissioner’s Christmas party was a command performance.
He had forgotten his Nikes at the High Commission and asked his driver to wait as he picked them up. Walking back down the front steps, out of the office and off on vacation, he felt like a free man. Suddenly a heavy hand smashed onto his right shoulder. Whirling around, Carpenter found himself looking straight into the watery eyes of Miroslav Lukjovic.
“You, security man,” Lukjovic growled, “you Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You here to protect my daughter. To keep eyes on her. You not do your job this time, Sergeant.”
Carpenter shook himself free of the old man’s grasp. “I’m very sorry about your daughter. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
Carpenter ran quickly down the walk and sprang into the waiting vehicle. Lukjovic stared balefully at the car until it disappeared from view.
The exacting, detailed, at times mind-numbing work of the murder investigation was now well underway. Background reports were compiled and scrutinized; alibis were checked and double-checked. Speculation as to motive was intense: some believed that an environmental activist as fervent as Cox might easily be driven to homicide; others thought that the brutality of Guévin’s murder, at least, screamed a personal motive. Opinion was equally split over the question of whether they were dealing with one murderer or two. Hay held the mandatory press conferences and hated every minute.
The crimes were re-enacted endlessly, the forensic evidence reviewed, the psychology of possible suspects dissected. The angle of the blows was examined in detail. As was the probable type of knife. The possible suppliers of the wire used to garrote Wilmot and of the ax handle used to club Guévin were painstakingly researched. That the club used on Guévin had been left behind but the knife never found strongly implied a political motive. The killer had not wanted the police to miss the symbolism. Hay and Forsyth certainly hadn’t missed it, and Dr. Julian Cox remained top of the list of suspects. He was under twenty-four-hour surveillance but had lately done nothing unusual, at least not for an activist. Everything pointed to Cox, but there was no hard evidence. His alibi for the first murder seemed to hold up. His associates were prepared to vouch for his whereabouts at the time. He could not be placed at the scene at the time of death: he had vacated the premises by 5:17 PM, according to the Embassy log. One of the security personnel, McFaddon, had signed him out.
A detailed investigation of the physical security—locks, cameras, hardware—of the High Commission and Residence had been conducted, and it was difficult to imagine that anyone could have either broken in or re-entered the premises without having been spotted. While it seemed that the first murder might well have been an inside job, Cox’s alibi for the second murder was altogether suspect. Had his penchant for publicity led him to capitalize on the first crime by committing a second? The MO practically screamed eco-terrorism and anti-Canadianism. Lester Wilmot’s killer appeared to have waited inside the fur store and taken Wilmot unawares. He probably entered the store when there were other customers about, secreted himself behind some of the racks of furs until Wilmot closed up, then slaughtered him. There was a drawer full of prints from the store now as well, but none matched any of those found in the anteroom. The killer had doubtless worn gloves.
The Eco-Action website and its affiliates had been analyzed, and a clear trend toward greater radicalization of the movement over recent months had emerged. Cox had been true to his word on one count: Guévin no longer appeared as an “enemy of the environment.” Cox had been severely beaten by sealers in Quebec in the past, which may have resulted in a serious grudge against Canadians. The message left on the High Commissioner’s voice mail was played and replayed. But there was no definite physical link to either of the crimes—nothing solidly linked Cox to either crime, and nothing clearly linked the two crimes together.
Cox’s apartment had been thoroughly searched at the time of his brief disappearance, but nothing much had been found. The death threat letters to Natalie Guévin had never turned up. How had the press so quickly—within a few hours—linked the murders? Were they just awfully clever (Hay dismissed this thought as soon as it occurred to him), or had they been tipped off by the killer? That would indicate one murderer, and they were back to square one.
There were others with potential motive in the frame, for the Guévin murder at least. These included the High Commissioner himself, possibly wanting to ensure that word of their affair never went any further. Sharon Carruthers was another possibility. She might well have wanted her rival dead.
A team had been dispatched to Edinburgh for a minute-by-minute follow-up on the activities of Wesley and Sharon Carruthers while in Scotland, but the police team was taking longer than anticipated to trace the couple’s movements. This was partly because Hay and Forsyth had agreed that this particular aspect of the investigation should be undertaken discreetly; Hay in particular was concerned that it might be tantamount to the rattling of skeletons. But there were also some curious gaps. That no one at the hotel could recall seeing Mrs. Carruthers between early Wednesday afternoon and early Friday morning was of particular interest to Liz.
Harry Jarvis was another possibility. Jarvis seemed to have detested the victim for career reasons and, it seemed, for others. Jarvis’s loathing of Guévin had been corroborated by a member of his own staff, who went so far as to suggest that Jarvis had been behind a whispering campaign aimed at Guévin some years back. “A quiet kill,” he had called it, although he noted that, in the long run, Natalie had not been irreparably harmed. Hay and Forsyth were open to the possibility that Jarvis might have done it, but his alibi stood up. At least, his Russian host maintained that Jarvis had been at his reception all evening. It would, however, be checked out yet again.
The interviews that other members of the investigative team had conducted with the rest of the High Commission staff had yielded little of interest, but many would need to be interviewed again, probably by Hay and Forsyth this time. According to the first series of interviews, in addition to the security staff, there had been twenty Canadian staff members as well as fourteen locally-engaged staff on the premises at the time of the murder. All claimed to have been working late, and all would have had unimpeded access to the Residence dining area during that time. Staff working late at the High Commission would not necessarily leave by the front door; there was more than one exit from the office, and the others were locked from the outside but not guarded.
All security personnel present on the night had been interviewed at length, and they all claimed that nothing had appeared out of the ordinary. They confirmed a tacit understanding that Mary Kellick was permitted to perform her “rounds” every night. The Carrutherses rarely if ever used the dining room and kitchen areas in the evening unless they were hosting an official dinner. The household staff, the only ones who had been close to the scene at the time, were never under serious consideration.
One of the weaker alibis was that of Colonel Lahaie, although he was vaguely remembered by a waiter at the tandoori restaurant. “He might have been here” were the waiter’s exac
t words. But Lahaie had no discernible motive. He had been right in one respect, though: several of the High Commission staff hinted at a supposed love affair between Lahaie and Guévin. Paul Rochon’s suggestion of an intruder, a nutcase, was looking better all the time, Hay thought, although it would have taken an awfully clever intruder—a magician, even—to get past the High Commission’s security systems.
They began to think again about Mary Kellick. The girl was intelligent, highly sensitive, and extremely nervous. But could this possibly have led her to commit so grotesque an act? What would have been her motive? Would she even have been strong enough? They brought in a police psychologist. Kellick was interviewed and pronounced probably incapable of such violence. “Probably?” muttered Liz. “And this guy cost how much?”
If the picture at Scotland Yard was murky, a snapshot of the High Commission would have depicted virtual chaos. The staff were frightened. What they had initially assumed to be some kind of personal vendetta against Natalie had rapidly taken on political, anti-Canadian proportions. Canadian and British staff were fearful now, less inclined to work late despite the heavy load, more preoccupied with their own safety.
The Canadian community in London and throughout the rest of the country was similarly alarmed. Some residing in London, especially those with any connection to the fur trade, decided to return to Canada for a while. Others moved up the dates of their vacations and left the country. The High Commission was inundated with calls from Canadians resident in London and elsewhere, asking for advice and updates, asking what the High Commission was doing about this, and demanding new passports in record time. Staff members were told not to count on Christmas leave.
The forthcoming visit of the foreign minister was on, then off, then on again. There was much wringing of hands in Ottawa as to whether the minister might be in danger in London, or whether it would be deemed cowardly for him to stay at home. Paul Rochon duly scheduled meetings and events, canceled them, then scheduled them once more. The visit of the Canadian finance minister later in the month was similarly in flux. The Canadian Film Exhibition in early January was definitely off, but the team of auditors who were to descend on the mission on January 15 was, unfortunately, still on the cards. There was no question about the High Commission Christmas reception, however. It would take place as scheduled on December 16; Sharon Carruthers said so.
Worst of all, the Privy Council Office and the Prime Minister’s Office were following events closely, demanding constant briefings and updates, to the consternation of Foreign Affairs. The British Foreign and Commonwealth Office was similarly discombobulated. They had hoped, much as had DCI Hay, for this to be an internal High Commission matter with nothing to affect the state of bilateral affairs. The eco connection had them deeply worried. There had been complaints from several Embassies during the past year about Eco-Action, but the Foreign Office had initiated no action against the organization, largely for fear of domestic repercussions. Publicly, they hoped for a quick resolution. Privately, they prayed that the murderer carried a Canadian passport.
The task force itself was working like a well-oiled machine. Liz was impressed by the professionalism and dedication of the officers of the CID, and she came to realize that part of their enthusiasm was born of their abundant respect for the detective chief inspector. It was considered a bonus to work with him. Hay and Forsyth had managed to surmount the earlier unpleasantness and were working well together now, with an ease and humor that infected the more junior officers assigned to the case. But this didn’t alter the fact that they were getting nowhere.
When Sergeant Ouellette began his researches in Ottawa, he was quite surprised to find himself greeted as something of a minor celebrity. Events in London had been receiving such wide coverage, and had become such a preoccupation in government circles, that Ouellette was given unbridled access to files held by all the relevant agencies as well as to all personnel. Desk officers to senior managers were more than willing to talk to him; everyone seemed to hope that they held the one piece of information that would crack the case.
Ouellette had run into Middleton briefly at Foreign Affairs one afternoon after lunch at a nearby pub. Not up to English standards, he thought, but it didn’t do a bad job. Middleton hadn’t looked particularly pleased to see the sergeant, had muttered a brief greeting and fled. Ouellette didn’t know why Middleton should feel so uncomfortable: no mention had been made in the papers of Guévin’s involvement with the High Commissioner. CID could be discreet as well. Ouellette spent most of his time reading through files, making notes, and trying to piece together as much information as he could. He was starting to think that perhaps his boss might be on to something after all.
DS Richard Wilkins was having difficulty finding the Bull’s Head pub in the dark. It was raining, as usual, and the DCI’s directions seemed somehow incomplete. He was supposed to meet the boss and Forsyth for a drink, although why Hay had picked this out-of-the-way place was beyond the youthful detective sergeant. He shifted back into second gear, peering at the numbers on the nearby row houses.
Even in his wildest fantasies, Wilkins could never imagine being anything but a police officer. From the time he first learned to play cops and robbers, he insisted on being the cop, and he had never found any reason to learn a new game. Wilkins was a good officer, maintaining a remarkable psychological balance for someone in law enforcement. Wilkins didn’t understand the seemingly complex psychology of his boss, not by a long chalk, but he was delighted to be working with the moody but insightful detective chief inspector.
Wilkins was single, but not for long if Gemma, his girlfriend, had anything to say about it. His beloved had been dropping hints for so long that it was only a matter of time now. She may have had a point—even Wilkins was prepared to accept that. They had been more or less engaged for two years, but something always came up to prevent him from making any serious plans. The words how convenient were often enough on Gemma’s lips, especially when Wilkins’s work snatched him away at a particularly sensitive moment.
She hadn’t been very happy about being left alone tonight, either, he reflected. But he had very much wanted to join the others for a review of the case. If he could just find the bloody pub.
The Bull’s Head was an old-style establishment, more to be expected in the countryside than situated in the heart of London. Oak-beamed and dimly lit, with wooden benches and a long, comfortable bar, it had quickly been adopted by Hay some ten years ago. The locals, being largely working folk, had originally greeted the arrival of a CID copper with some suspicion. That was some time ago. Hay was now part of the landscape.
The landlord, Billy Treacher, had bought the Bull’s Head out of love. He had been a regular for years and had jumped at the chance to purchase the pub when the previous owner decided to sell. Billy had steadfastly refused the encroachment of anything resembling music, television—especially the large-screen variety—or, worst of all, video games. Video games were somewhere along the road to damnation. The ale was good, the food was mediocre, and the pub was everything it should be; moreover, that was how the punters liked it. The Bull’s Head would retain its integrity as long as Billy Treacher survived.
Hay’s arrival at the pub with a slim brunette caused several heads to turn, but by and large the regulars were a discreet lot. Settling into a booth late Thursday evening, they continued their discussion of the case.
“It’s quite sad, you know,” said Liz, “but my impression is that Natalie Guévin never really did anything especially wrong in her life. Falling in love with a married man, maybe, but that’s not unheard of. Yet we can sit here blithely imagining all sorts of reasons for people to want to kill her.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, either,” said Hay, before tasting his pint. “When you spend a lot of your life conducting murder inquiries you find there are a lot of motives out there. Luckily, not everyone acts on them.”
“How long have you been in, Hay? Yo
u’re starting to sound like Moses.”
“Twenty-eight years,” he said. “I joined up when I was twenty-four, having just finished a second degree. And before you ask, French literature. And before you ask again, no, I don’t know why.”
“Regrets?”
“Is this where I do the Frank Sinatra shtick?” he asked. “‘I’ve had a few.’”
“No, I’d like to hear you do Piaf. I can just see you belting out ‘Non, je ne regrette rien.’”
Hay smiled and lit a cigarette. “You?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “More than a few regrets in my case.”
Hay wanted very much to ask her what she meant. It was difficult to accurately read her expression through the gloom. Hay usually came here by himself and had never really realized how dark it was. But before he could speak, Wilkins found them.
“There you are.” He said with a broad smile. “I had a helluva time finding this place, but at least I could tell it was you two from the clouds of smoke over the table. You right for another drink?” They nodded and he disappeared again.
His moment missed, Hay said, “He looks like a lost puppy since he lost his mate. Those two were becoming good chums. Anyway, your lad should be back soon.”
Liz nodded. “We spoke briefly today. He’s going to call me tomorrow on a secure line when we’re at the Residence for the reception. Damn! ” she said suddenly.
“What is it?” he asked, startled.
“Oh, nothing,” she mumbled, but Hay thought her face might be flushing a bit in the dark. “It’s just that I have to go out and buy a—dress, that’s all. For the reception. I didn’t bring a dress uniform; why would I? So I’ll have to go as a girl.”