Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘Canadian?’

  ‘Yes. Certainly not English anyway.’

  Bognor went to the window and gazed out. It was a grey day but clear. The reef of islands were clearly visible with the opaque waters of the lake stretching away towards a horizon which was indistinct, so nearly did the colour of the water match the colour of the sky. To his left he saw Ward’s Island with a ferry chugging busily towards its landing stage, a precisely etched V of wake fanning out behind it. He was reminded of Louise, felt a sharp guilty pang of loss. She had not been in touch since the hospital visit.

  ‘It was a man?’ he said, not turning round.

  ‘Of course.’ Monica sounded impatient.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wondered. Through the handkerchief. You know. One could be mistaken.’

  ‘It was a man.’

  They were about a quarter of a mile, maybe more, from the lake shore. Between them and the water was the main railway line. Montreal to the left, Vancouver to the right. It was from down there, from the bowels of that slablike piece of colonial Gothic that the ‘Spirit of Saskatoon’ had set out on its last fatal voyage to Winnipeg and beyond. Bognor pressed his nose to the glass and let his thoughts wander along the track. A double-decker ‘Go’ train in green and white livery came sliding in from the direction of Missisauga, past a parked caterpillar of dome cars, waiting to make the long journey west.

  ‘I’ll bet this glass is bulletproof,’ he said, breathing on it and watching it mist over. Behind him Monica said nothing. He looked down at the streets. He could see people walking about, unhurried in that purposeful yet unfrantic way that Canadians affected, but he could not even sex them let alone describe their clothing or their dress. He could barely distinguish the colours of the cars, yet his eyesight was A1. If the anonymous caller was phoning from ground level there was no way he could possibly have made out what Monica was wearing. He looked around him. There were about half a dozen buildings as high as their hotel. Most of them were office buildings. A man with binoculars or a telescope would probably be able to see into the hotel rooms from any of them. That would, presumably, mean that he worked in one of them. It would be possible to get a list through Smith of the Mounties, but laborious and time-consuming. Scarcely worth it. The only building open to the public was the CN Tower. It was primarily a communications building but there was a restaurant at the top, and two viewing platforms. Bognor had not been up yet. Nor was he sure he wanted to. He was inclined to vertigo, and as he watched the tiny lifts crawl up the outside of the futuristic concrete folly he felt his stomach turn. The view must be fantastic …

  ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘The CN Tower. The viewing platform. They must have telescopes or something up there. That’s where he was. Look!’

  She came to the window and peered across at ‘the world’s tallest freestanding building’. ‘You could be right,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go and check.’ He felt exhilarated. ‘We ought to have a look before we leave. And if we’re leaving in forty-eight hours we may not have another chance.’

  Monica hesitated. ‘Suppose he’s there,’ she said. ‘Suppose he does something.’

  ‘Well then, dear, we’ll have to play it by ear. But he’s given us forty-eight hours. Besides which he’s hardly likely to do anything very conspicuous in the city’s most popular tourist attraction. It is rather public.’

  ‘So was the zoo.’ She said it acidly. He could not remember when she was so agitated. It must be marriage.

  ‘You think it’s Baker again, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ From the tone of her voice she didn’t care much either. But she agreed to come at last, despite her misgivings. Just as they had drunk the dregs of the brandy and Monica had finished some perfunctory titivating, the phone rang. She refused to answer so Bognor, creaking and swearing under his breath, lowered himself on to the bed and took the call.

  ‘Hi, Si.’ Bognor sighed inwardly. How he disliked stupidity in others. It was bad enough in oneself, but he had almost come to terms with that. Confronted with a similar affliction in someone else he was relentlessly unforgiving.

  ‘It’s Pete Smith,’ said Pete Smith.

  ‘Hello,’ said Bognor, coolly.

  ‘How ya doin?’

  Bognor thought he could hear gum being flicked backwards and forwards from the right to left molars. ‘Quite well, thanks.’

  ‘Bones healing?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Bones healing very well.’

  ‘Say, Si. Guess I should warn you we just had a call about you from some French bastard.’

  ‘Oh, who?’

  ‘Can’t be one hundred per cent certain, Si, but I have my ideas. This guy is dangerous, Si. We think maybe you should have some protection.’

  ‘Protection?’

  ‘Sure. No problem. I can send a guy right over.’

  ‘Surely that won’t be necessary?’

  ‘I’d sure as hell feel a lot happier, Si. This French bastard sounded kinda, you know, like mean.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’

  ‘I don’t recall precisely what his words were Si, but his message was that if you aren’t out of the country in two days then he’s gonna have another go at you. Only this time he ain’t gonna be so gentle. French bastard!’

  ‘Are you sure he was French?’

  ‘Sure he was French.’

  ‘Funny thing is, my wife had a call from someone who sounds like the same person. She said it was impossible to work out what sort of accent he had because, a, he was talking through a scarf or handkerchief and, b, he was disguising his voice.’

  ‘Listen, Si. You been here as long as I have and you learn to tell the difference between a French bastard’s voice and a Canadian bastard’s voice. And I’m telling you this sonofabitch was a French bastard.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Bognor caught Monica’s eyes, raised his own heavenwards and made circular movements with his spare hand, thus indicating his extreme irritation with Smith of the RCMP.

  ‘OK, Si, so take care, and I’m sending one of our best men right over.’

  ‘Well, actually, we’re on our way out at the moment.’

  ‘Can’t you just wait a moment or two? How far ya goin?’

  ‘I’m only taking my wife over to the CN Tower to see the view. We’ll come straight back.’

  ‘Right on, Si. Our man’ll be there when you get back. Mind how you go now. Don’t fall off, eh?’ And the Mountie chortled happily at his joke. Bognor humoured him by saying, in his most amused and agreeable manner, ‘I’ll try not to,’ then replaced the receiver with a protracted groan.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. And they went.

  He shut his eyes after the first few feet, terrified by the speed at which they shot away from the ground. The lift rattled and swayed as it climbed the concrete side of the tower and the operator regaled them with a parroted spiel of meaningless statistics. They were travelling at God knows how many feet per second to a height of God knows what. God knew why. Bognor’s palms were sweating. His stomach was heaving vacuum and his throat was dry. He tried swallowing. No good. He tried puffing his cheeks out and blowing. Still no good. He would have held his nose and blown but that would have meant letting go of a crutch. Not a good idea.

  ‘Do look, darling,’ said Monica. ‘It really is a fantastic view.’

  ‘Thank you, Monica.’ He blew out his cheeks forlornly. ‘You know views upset me unless my feet are on the ground.’

  ‘You look like a hamster,’ she said.

  After what seemed like the longest hour of his life but was probably nearer a minute, they arrived at their destination. He swung out on to the observation deck.

  ‘There is another deck, higher up,’ said Monica. ‘Shall we try that?’

  ‘We’re high enough,’ said Bognor with feeling, ‘and we’re here for a purpose. Remember?’ He felt better now, for the deck seemed solid. It did not sway, and there was a reassuring carpet on the floor. Also telescopes
.

  ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, pleased with his deductive processes. ‘I was right.’

  Together they moved round the circular platform until they reached a point from which they could see their hotel.

  ‘Looks awfully small,’ mused Bognor, gazing down at the neat symmetrical grid sprawling away to the north. Monica slipped a quarter into the slot in the side of the grey metal telescope as requested by the instructions. Bognor bent down and put his eye to the hole. ‘Can’t see a blind thing,’ he complained after a few seconds of peering.

  ‘It’s pointing straight at the hotel.’ Monica adjusted the machine a little to the left. ‘In fact I should say we’re aiming almost directly at our room. Twenty-fifth floor, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t see anything. Ridiculous machine. It must be out of order.’ He pressed his eye even more tightly against the aperture. ‘No,’ he protested after another abortive peer. ‘Nix. Nothing. Niente. Just doesn’t work.’

  The viewing platform was a turntable and it was revolving slowly. Monica re-adjusted the telescope to take account of the movement. ‘Let me try,’ she said, shoving at him none too gently.

  ‘There’s no point,’ he said. ‘It’s out of order. Waste of twenty-five cents. You won’t be able to see a thing.’

  ‘Good grief!’ she said. ‘You must be blind as a bat. You certainly missed something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bognor protested. ‘It’s out of order. You’re having me on. What can you see?’

  ‘Love in the afternoon,’ said Monica, not removing her eye, ‘in glorious technicolor. You can see her appendix scar … Good heavens! They must be fit. I shouldn’t like to try that.’

  Bognor was outraged. ‘Here!’ he said. ‘Let me have a look.’ He grabbed at the machine, and jammed his eye to it again in the prescribed manner. ‘I still can’t …’ he began, and then, ‘Oh, wait. I see. Got it. Now wait a minute. There’s a chap writing letters in here. It’s a very clear picture. No wonder our heavy breathing Froggo could describe what you were wearing. Now where’s this orgy?’ He moved the telescope to left and right in an effort to locate the ‘XX’ bedroom scene. ‘Ah!’ he said after a few moments. ‘Got it! Gosh, that looks fun. Oh, hell!’ The whirring sound which had begun as soon as the money was put in had come to a stop. The screen went blank.

  ‘Got another twenty-five?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not.’ She simulated outrage. ‘And even if I had I wouldn’t let you have it. Filthy beast. You’ve made your point. You can see into the hotel rooms from here, now leave them alone.’

  Bognor grinned. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Where do you imagine he phoned from?’ He gazed round, then located a rank of call boxes only about twenty yards away. ‘That’s solved that, then!’ he exclaimed, satisfied.

  ‘For what it’s worth.’ She had gone broody again. ‘It’s like the murder itself. You know how it was done. You have about half a dozen alternative “whys” and absolutely no idea about who. Same with this. Man comes up here, spies on me in our room, phones through a warning, putting the fear of God into me by seeming to be omniscient. Clever idea and it had the desired effect. But who and why?’

  ‘He’s presumably alarmed because he thinks I’m on to him.’ Bognor felt self-important. ‘He’s got the wind up.’

  ‘Not half as much as I have.’ Monica spoke with feeling. ‘The only consoling thought is how wrong he is. You’re not on to anybody. Whatever makes him think you are? How did he know where to look?’

  ‘Must have had our room number,’ said Bognor thoughtfully.

  ‘He’s obviously more perceptive than we realize.’

  ‘By further than we think.’

  ‘Quite.’

  They both laughed at this. There were several other tourists milling around the deck, also a school party inadequately controlled by a very young, very stout schoolmistress. The children were running around the place, clambering over the telescopes, thumping each other from time to time, shouting, fooling, having a good time. It was difficult to feel threatened among such a group.

  ‘Coming down?’ asked Bognor. ‘Or are you venturing onward and upward?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough’ she said. ‘More than enough.’ She giggled. ‘How mortifying to be spied on like those two. I wonder how many other people saw them?’

  ‘They should have drawn the curtains,’ replied Bognor.

  There was no queue when they arrived at the entrance to the down elevator, and the door was already open.

  ‘After you,’ said Bognor, mock graciously. She grinned back. They both felt relieved. Euphoric even.

  ‘What, no operator?’ asked Bognor as the door closed behind them. They were the only two on board.

  ‘They probably only have them on the ascent.’ Monica took a couple of paces and pressed up against the outer glass wall. ‘It really is rather incredible,’ she said, as they began to fall. ‘We’re over a mile high. Or are we? Can that be right?’

  ‘I wish you’d come away from that door. It’s fantastically flimsy.’ Bognor leaned back against the solid wall behind him, the wall which pressed against the tower’s reassuringly dense core. ‘I hate it,’ he said, shutting his eyes. ‘Do come away.’

  She moved back towards him, telling him not to be an old woman. As she did the little cubicle slowed, then came to a halt and hung there high above the railroad tracks and the lake, swinging gently. Below them an aeroplane took off from the island airport and passed, straining for height, some hundreds of feet below them. ‘Are we almost there?’ pleaded Bognor, not looking out from eyes screwed tight from fear.

  ‘Not really.’ Monica’s voice was tense, self-consciously assured. ‘We’ve obviously stopped to admire the view.’

  Bognor opened an eye gingerly. ‘Good heavens,’ he exclaimed, we’re miles high. Is there an alarm? For God’s sake let’s press it.’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right.’ Monica was back to her normal self. Bognor gave her courage, not by being courageous but by demanding reassurance and strength. He had always brought out the universal aunt in her and the charm was working as usual. They were well suited.

  ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ he asked. ‘We can’t just sit here.’

  They were too high to be able to see people. Even the cars on Lakeshore Boulevard and the Gardiner were no more than dots.

  Suddenly the car jerked and fell downwards for perhaps five seconds, stopping as suddenly as it had begun, hanging once more in space, swinging gently.

  Somewhere someone laughed.

  The laughter came from above and for a second Bognor had a manic thought that there was a man clinging to the elevator’s roof, lying there giggling softly at their plight.

  ‘Tannoy,’ said Monica. ‘There’s a loudspeaker set in the ceiling.’

  ‘We should never have come out,’ moaned Bognor. ‘It was a trap.’

  Through the loudspeaker system came words, muffled, and peculiarly enunciated as if the speaker was disguising his natural manner of speech.

  ‘No machinery is foolproof,’ said the voice. ‘One minor malfunction would send you to an unpleasant end. And it’s so easy to throw a switch.’

  There was a creak. A sudden lurch. Their little cell plummeted again, falling for an eternity. Monica screamed.

  Once more they stopped and hung in space.

  ‘There is a telephone. Next to the emergency call. You could pick up the receiver and talk to me if you wished. I can’t, however, promise to answer your questions. But feel free. Feel perfectly free.’ The voice clicked out.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ said Bognor, who seemed to have tapped some reserves of courage, though he still kept his eyes tightly closed. He was not a natural coward, particularly when confronted with a human adversary, even one who was speaking to him disembodied on the other end of a telephone line. It was the vertigo which upset him and he could very nearly come to terms with that if he remained blind.

  ‘Very well,’ the voice
resumed. It was flat, monotone, without any clue to personality. Monica was crying softly. ‘I am not going to kill you,’ the voice continued. ‘Not yet. I’m showing you how simple it would be. At any time. A high-velocity rifle with telescopic sights while you relax in your very own hotel room. An unexplained mishap while you make a routine tourist’s visit to the sights of the city. So easy. So terribly, terribly easy. And so very avoidable. All you have to do is leave Canada by midnight tomorrow. Then you can live on untroubled. If not …

  There was another creaking, a horrid pause and then a descent which sent the pit of Bognor’s stomach to his mouth and made him gasp for breath. Monica clung on to him, her fingernails biting into the thick cloth of his jacket, as she fought to bring her terror under control.

  ‘Please, god, make him stop!’ she screamed.

  There was another crash. They stopped again and hung, swinging and suspended once again. There was another soft chuckle on the Tannoy and then, mercifully, they started to descend again, more slowly this time, until seconds later they reached terra firma and walked out to freedom and the illusion, at least, of safety.

  A few steps from the exit they found an upholstered bench seat on to which they subsided. For some five minutes they sat there, silent. Bognor found that sweat was dripping saltily into his eyes. Monica was shaking and unable to control it. He grasped her hand and she returned the pressure gratefully. At length he said: ‘Shall we go?’

  She nodded. ‘Back to the hotel now. And back to England tomorrow. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’

  ‘No.’ Bognor was angry now that the danger had, if only temporarily, evaporated. ‘It is perfectly bloody to involve you too. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  She smiled. ‘You are my husband. Aren’t we supposed to share everything in these emancipated times? Surely that includes risks. Women’s lib wouldn’t want you to hog all the danger.’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘God knows.’ She grimaced. ‘It could have been the same voice I heard on the phone but honestly I couldn’t be sure. That Tannoy thing has such a dehumanizing effect. It could have been anyone. What do you think? Would you recognize it?’