A Quiet Kill (15 page)

She reached into a legal-sized brown envelope and withdrew three sheets of paper. “These were hidden away at the back of his file drawer,” she said. “I never went into Mr. Wilmot's files before, you see, and I've never seen these letters. He didn't show them to me. I expect he didn't want to worry me. He was . . . like that.” She handed the sheets to Hay, who read them with considerable interest. They were of the type described by Colonel Lahaie—threats made up of words and letters cut from magazines. The first one read:

STOP TORTURING AND KILLING ANIMALS FOR FASHION AND PROFIT. NEVER UNDERESTIMATE US. CLOSE YOUR DOORS OR YOU WILL REGRET IT. WE INSIST ON ACTION NOW.

Liz looked over the other notes, which were largely the same. She agreed with Lahaie: they were a bit corny, but they were chilling as well, especially in light of Lester Wilmot's fate.

Hay looked over at Mrs. Wilmot, who was sitting silently, deep in her chair. He said unexpectedly, “Mrs. Wilmot, I am going to say something that perhaps I have no right to say. But may I ask you to reconsider, just for a while, your decision to sell up and go home?” Both Mrs. Wilmot and Liz looked at him in surprise. He continued gently, “It's always a great temptation after such a terrible loss to make a big change in your life. Please believe me when I tell you that such decisions are very often the wrong ones. You may well decide to return to Canada, but this may not be the right time to make that choice. I apologize for being so personal, but I would hate to see you make a mistake. And I wonder if Mr. Wilmot might not agree with me.”

Mrs. Wilmot gazed at Hay for a long moment, then gave him a grateful smile. “I don't know if you're right or not, Chief Inspector. But I will think it over, I promise you that. Thank you for caring to mention it.”

Liz sipped her tea, experiencing an almost physical pang of guilt. She had fancied herself a little frightened of this man just a few days ago. Her instincts were all wrong these days.

“Well,” said Hay,
ducking the rain on the way back to the car, “we may have something to go on here.” He slammed the driver's side door shut. “We'll have the lab boys go over these. I doubt there are any prints, but perhaps they can trace the typefaces to some particular magazine or magazines. Cox's publication
Ecology Now
would be a good start.”

“At least it seems to tie the two crimes definitively together, even though we don't have the Guévin letters.”

Hay nodded and almost knocked down a sodden cyclist. He hated this climate.

Mary Kellick was
having trouble concentrating on her work. She was too excited about the reception tonight. Of course she would be on duty, like everybody else at the High Commission—ensuring everyone was fed and had someone to talk to—but it was awfully exciting just the same. All those important people, gathered together in one place, dressed up to the nines. This was the best night of the year, thought Mary.

She had been to the Christmas reception every year since she had started working here. The Residence, she knew, would be festooned with garlands and twinkling with lights. And candles, lots of candles. Carols would be playing. One year there had even been a quartet of strolling carolers, all dressed up in Elizabethan clothes. But she doubted that would happen this year. She doubted that Sharon Carruthers liked strolling carolers.

Mary had only a tiny office, but it was comfortable and she liked it. There was even a view, of sorts, consisting largely of buildings, but then she knew she was lucky to have a window at all. Not even the diplomatic staff had windows. Her office was tucked away at the end of a long corridor, hidden from view. She had brought in some prints of flowers in vases, a calendar with photos of young animals in it, and several pretty houseplants, too, which seemed to like the office as much as she did.

She was compiling the proposed guest lists sent in by the heads of section for “A Reception in Honor of the Visit of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,” which was supposedly taking place on the eighteenth and nineteenth of this month. She knew the visit might be canceled again, but the work had to be done just the same. Mary was really thinking about what she would wear to the Christmas reception tonight. It was the biggest event of the year, and she had selected her floor-length black skirt with the buttons all the way up the front and her sparkly black-and-gold top with the high, stiff collar. She would wear her real gold hoop earrings and her new black pumps. That should be perfect. This was to be, after all, the best night of the year.

“I swear that
woman will drive me mad!” cried Sharon Carruthers in the general direction of her husband. The High Commissioner was seated at his desk in the study, trying to read his morning traffic.

“What woman?” he asked absently, leafing through the pile of papers before him.

“That Mallett woman, of course.” She flopped into a wing chair next to the desk. “Will you listen to me, Wesley? I want her fired, that's what. First thing tomorrow. At the rate she's going she'll still be dusting while the guests are arriving. Wesley?” Wesley Carruthers nodded and continued reading. “Wesley.” Sharon Carruthers stood up again and leaned over her husband's desk. With one swift motion she swiped viciously at the stack of papers. They fluttered about for a while, then landed gently on the floor. “
Now
will you listen to me, Wesley?”

Hay and Forsyth
were back at Scotland Yard, examining the letters given to them by Mrs. Wilmot.

“You know, Forsyth, I don't think we should hand these over to the lab boys just yet.”

“No? Why not?”

“I think we should use them to bring in our favorite eco-warrior one more time.”

“That's a good idea,” she said thoughtfully. “We haven't really grilled the guy yet. Maybe we can get something more out of him this time.”

“Shake him down, do you mean, Inspector?” asked Hay in mock astonishment. “You do surprise me. I always took you for such a civilized woman.”

“I have my moments. But I promise to behave with total respectability at the reception tonight,” she said gravely.

“Even in the company of Sharon Carruthers?”

“Especially in the company of Sharon Carruthers. You won't recognize me.”

“This I've got to see,” muttered Hay as he dialed Wilkins's extension.

Dr. Julian Cox
was not altogether surprised to be called back to Scotland Yard, but he was somewhat inconvenienced. His small daughter, Samantha, was visiting, and now the little girl had to be dropped back at her mother's house en route. Samantha's delight at riding in a police car was matched only by her mother's shock at seeing her arrive in one. What she'd ever seen in that Julian, she thought, she'd never know.

Liz had never seen anyone quite so comfortable in an interview room. Even she was affected by its starkness and apparent isolation. It was even worse than those back home, but Cox might as well have been sitting in his own living room. “So, officers”—he had insisted on calling them “officers” the last time, too, Liz remembered—“what can I do for you today?”

Their pre-arranged game plan had no effect. Liz tried to empathize with Cox, to understand and to reason with him, while Hay tried to needle him, mock him, provoke some anger. No reaction. He seemed impervious. After some forty minutes of this, Hay, in frustration, shoved the three letters under Cox's nose. “What do you know about these?”

Cox glanced at the papers and replied, “They're mine. They look like the ones I sent to that furrier.”

“Christ!” growled Hay under his breath. “And have you sent others? To Natalie Guévin, for instance?”

“Sure. And to a number of those other bastards as well. My daughter likes to make them,” he smiled indulgently. “She likes gluing things to bits of paper.”

It wasn't the most satisfying interview either of them had ever had, but at least Cox would remain in custody for uttering threats. “I wish I'd bloody asked him up front,” said Hay. “What a bleeding waste of time. Come to think of it, maybe I should have just asked him straight out if he murdered Guévin and Wilmot. He might have admitted it.” Their eyes locked in sudden surprise.
Maybe that wasn't such a dumb idea after all.

Colonel Lahaie had
picked up his dress uniform from his favorite cleaners. Spot Less was close to the Embassy and was run by an enterprising couple from Malaysia. Ali and his wife, Fawziah, were an attractive young pair who took great pride in their work. Everything came back clean, on time, and at a reasonable price. Theirs was the only shop in reasonable proximity that did uniforms. Lahaie realized with a small jolt that they also cleaned furs.

He was heading home early to help his wife, just back from her trip, with the Moose Milk. Just a particularly potent form of eggnog, but it had become an established tradition for Canadian military attachés to supply it for their Embassies' Christmas parties. Enough to intoxicate a battalion, thought Lahaie with a grin.

And transporting it to the Residence was always a major logistical challenge. His wife had bought enough ingredients to ensure a nasty hangover for the entire diplomatic community. He smiled to himself, thinking of Ruth. He had missed her when she was in Canada. He was glad she was back. Especially now.

They were reviewing
the most recent press articles the case had inspired. “No,” said Hay, shaking his head. “It sounded like a good idea for a minute, but even if Cox confessed would
you
believe him? Would
I
? I really think he's just attached himself to these cases for the publicity.”

Liz nodded, chewing on a stale cheese sandwich. She missed the food at the High Commission. “I suppose you're right. I doubt even he could explain how he might have gotten back into the High Commission once he'd signed out. Maybe we should ask him, though. Might give us a few ideas. God knows we could use some.” She paused. “Why aren't you eating anything? A pot of coffee isn't much of a lunch.”

“Not hungry, I guess. Anyway, I guess we'll be fed tonight at the reception.”

“Don't remind me. I don't really want to go to this thing. Do you?”

“Not really. But I guess we're committed.” He paused. “Perhaps after we've put in an appearance we might move on to the Bull's Head, if you like. You did say you liked it.”

Liz stopped chewing briefly. “Yes, yes, I think I'd like that very much.”
Did something just change here
, she wondered.
Or am I just imagining it?
They both quickly went back to their press clippings.

 

The dress seemed even shorter
than Liz remembered. Sighing, she piled her hair on top of her head and loosely secured it with a gold-colored clip she had found at Boots. She lit another cigarette and administered some makeup, on the grounds that any dress that expensive deserved a face adorned with a few cosmetics. As always, she was ready much too early. She had once seen a bumper sticker that read,
PUNCTUALITY IS A VIRTUE, IF YOU DON'T MIND WAITING
, and it popped back into her head now. She helped herself to an exorbitantly expensive Ballantine's from the mini-bar and waited for Hay and Wilkins to pick her up. Again, as always before going out, she wished she could get into her sweatpants and have a quiet night in front of the television. There was a good old movie on tonight, too: a Bette Davis at 8:00
PM
. At least she had a quiet drink at the Bull's Head with Hay to look forward to, she thought, if she could just make it through the reception.

She liked this room very much and found herself wondering how much longer she would be staying there. Whether the case was solved or not, she couldn't stay on indefinitely. At the moment, it didn't look good. Hay was right: Cox made a doubtful suspect at best. More suited to throwing stink bombs than committing murder.

The phone rang loudly. Wilkins from the lobby. She grabbed her
RCMP
jacket, the only one she had with her, and shut the door behind her.

The Residence was
glorious, decorated for the Christmas season and scented with pine. The Vienna Boys' Choir caroled from the stereo, and the twinkling lights gracing an enormous tree seemed to dance in time. All the wooden surfaces were gleaming, the silver was glistening in reflected candlelight, and couches and chairs had been tastefully rearranged against the walls to create more space.

Three fully loaded bars had been set up, and gallons of Moose Milk would be dispensed from a large tub, which sat atop a low wooden table adorned with pine boughs and ivy. The food and beverage waiters were in place; Anthony Thistlethwaite had seen to that. The High Commission staff, on duty early as if by unwritten law, were already clustered about in small groups, drinks in hand, speaking in hushed tones. They waited for their work to begin.

Luciano Alfredo Carillo had had a dreadful day, but he had pulled it off. The Valium that Thistlethwaite had slipped him had helped a little. Trays of delicate cold canapés were waiting to be served: tiny Swiss meatballs with a variety of dipping sauces, miniature sausage rolls, cherry tomatoes with fresh mozzarella. Other delicacies waited for a last minute warming in the oven: spanakopita, miniature samosas, mini crab melts. And tortière. Lots and lots of tortière. Luciano sat at his little table in the kitchen, surrounded by trays full of beautifully prepared hors d'oeuvres. For one golden moment, Luciano Alfredo Carillo was a happy man.

Mary Kellick sat
at her kitchen table, tears flooding her eyes and dissolving her carefully applied mascara. She was wearing, as planned, her long black skirt with the buttons up the front, her sparkly black-and-gold top with the high collar, her gold hoop earrings, and her new black pumps.

But now she would not go to the Christmas reception at all. She was instead sobbing and gasping uncontrollably, and the room was spinning at lightning speed.