A Quiet Kill (10 page)

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.”

“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.”

 

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 earful 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.