A Quiet Kill (11 page)

“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 bomb 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.

“Anyway,” he said, “all we have for the moment is circumstantial. I want around-the-clock surveillance.” Hay was driving his aging Rover back into town. “Look, Forsyth,” he began, “let me say my piece here and now. I was well out of order this morning. I was utterly in the wrong, and I want to apologize. I'd send flowers, but you'd probably feed them to your horse.” Liz couldn't help smiling at the image. Hay continued, “I do ask you to consider how you'd have felt in my size twelves. I felt I'd been double-crossed. But I was out of line and I apologize.”

“That's alright. Received and understood. Let's forget about it.” But no, she didn't think she'd take him up on his offer of a drink. A cozy pub on a rotten night like this was exactly what she needed, but she was still stung by what she had taken to be the very personal nature of Hay's attack.

Mary Kellick felt
better than she had for several days, better than she had since the murder. She was making chicken cacciatore tonight, so she was finely chopping a large green pepper, just like the recipe said. Hadn't Paul Rochon been kind to her? He had only checked a few of her invitations, so she would know he trusted her. He was nice, Paul. He had seemed intimidating at first, but that was because he was Deputy High Commissioner and the rank was quite awe-inspiring. Paul was nice, a bit like Natalie. He talked to Mary, said hello. It made her feel like she fit.

Mary smiled to herself. She wasn't feeling quite so tired, quite so muddled up these days. It was a good thing she had stopped taking those tablets Dr. Barnes had prescribed last summer. They only made her groggy and a bit nauseous. She hadn't taken anything for about three weeks now, and look at her: she wasn't depressed at all. Feeling quite cheerful, really. She measured a teaspoon of oregano, a quarter teaspoon of pepper, and a quarter teaspoon of thyme into a little dish, then stirred the spices carefully into a bowl of tomato sauce. Mary Kellick felt just fine.

Liz sat alone
at a small table in the dimly lit dining room of the Roxborough Hotel, toying with a glass of Merlot. Only one other table was occupied, by an elderly couple seemingly on a first date. What an idiot she was, she thought, lighting a cigarette. Her wounded pride and some undefined hurt had led her to turn down the offer of a friendly drink, and now here she was, alone on her
birthday
for Christ's sake.

She couldn't believe that she had completely forgotten her own birthday. The case, the Middleton affair, the interviews with Cox and Natalie's father. And the incident with Hay. They had been getting along so well, too. She could cheerfully strangle Middleton for landing her in this mess, but he had prudently checked out of the hotel earlier and disappeared, doubtless back to Ottawa, without a word.
Hasta la vista, baby
, she thought, vowing to have his hide when she herself returned. So here she sat, turning forty-four, alone in London. “Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face,” she muttered to herself.

Her waiter—was that French accent real or not?—presented her with a basket of assorted breads, setting it on the starched linen with a flourish. She had never understood why some women complained they were ill-treated when dining alone in restaurants. Liz had never found that to be a problem. Maybe it was because she routinely over-tipped. That was another myth: women were lousy tippers. So Liz had launched a one-woman crusade against the stereotype.

She had been crusading around for a while now, she reflected. Not that many women study criminology.
I'll do that.
Not many women in the Mounties.
I'll do that.
Not many women make inspector.
I'll do that.
(The last, of course, was not all that simple, but Liz was making a point here.) She wondered if Natalie Guévin might have been a bit the same. There weren't a lot of senior women in the foreign service either. And look where it had gotten Natalie.