A Quiet Kill (4 page)

“Of course I know what this is about,” began Lahaie in lightly accented English. “A dreadful business. Natalie was a lovely woman.”

“You knew her well?”

“Natalie wasn't one to talk about herself. She was a very private person, quiet, dedicated to her job. Couldn't abide pretense. She was a straight shooter but didn't give much of herself away. So no, I didn't know her
well
, but I liked and admired her very much.”

“I understand,” said Liz Forsyth, “that you were riding companions?”

Lahaie raised his eyebrows slightly. “Yes, we were.”

“And you rode together often?”

“About once a week. But we talked mostly about horses. There was nothing going on, if that's what you're getting at.”

“I didn't mean to suggest, sir . . .”

“No, but someone will suggest it for you. Posts are hotbeds of gossip—much of it without foundation. You might want to remember that.” Lahaie smiled. “My wife always found it quite funny. She likes—liked—Natalie a lot and found the rumors quite entertaining. Anyway, we were, as you say, riding companions. Natalie and I were the only serious riders in the office. She was very good, loved the animals. But when we were together our conversation was almost exclusively about the sport.”

“Do you know if she had any enemies?”

Lahaie looked steadily ahead. “Not personal ones, if that's what you mean. But she had been receiving . . . threats.”

“Threats?”

Lahaie nodded. “From one of those environmentalist organizations. As you know,” he addressed this to Hay, “there are many in this country who choose to become excited about sealing in Canada. Load of hogwash if you ask me. If seals looked like snakes no one would give a damn. Eighty-five percent of them are shot, anyway, not clubbed. But this post has always been an especial target for such activists, and the trade position in particular usually takes the heat.”

“And Natalie Guévin was a target?” asked Hay, his heart sinking fast. He had half-believed, half-hoped this to be an internal High Commission crime, preferably committed by a Canadian. The last thing he needed was some dreadful political fiasco.

“Not at first. The issue has lost importance in recent years. Only lately has it made the newspapers again. And recently there were letters, ugly letters. Three of them aimed at Natalie directly. They were a bit—what's the word?—corny, though.”

“How so?”

“They were of the style popular in crime fiction—you know, letters cut out of magazines and pasted to a page.”

“Where are they now?” asked Liz.

“I don't know. In Natalie's files, I expect. She might have thrown them out. She believed they were sent by some crank, and asked me not to make a fuss. Nevertheless, she did inform all High Commission security personnel and reported the matter back to Ottawa.”

“Where were you last night, Colonel?” asked Hay abruptly.

“I left the office about six o'clock. I had a few errands to run on Oxford Street. Dry cleaning, that sort of thing. I stopped for a drink at a pub around the corner. As my wife is back in Canada for a holiday, I had dinner at a tandoori place.
Not
one of the best, I'm afraid. Anyway, I was reading a book at the time and stayed at the restaurant longer than I'd expected to. I think that I left at about nine and went home on the tube.”

“How long have you been at the High Commission?” asked Liz.

“Three years.”

“And prior to that?”

“I spent eighteen months in Bosnia. Before that, Somalia. This has been a nice change of pace.”

As the interview was winding down, Inspector Forsyth unexpectedly asked the colonel if he would take her riding in Hyde Park the next morning. The colonel graciously acquiesced, and they made the date.

“I suppose women might find him attractive, but I didn't think he was quite
that
attractive,” commented Hay afterward. “Or are all you Mounties simply that horse-mad?”

Liz was chewing her pencil. “Just an idea. Anyway, I've always wanted to ride in Hyde Park.” She looked ruefully at the gnawed pencil end and asked, “Anywhere around here I can have a cigarette?”

So it had
come to this. One of the finest chefs in England reduced to making sandwiches for policemen. Luciano Alfredo Carillo cleaved a large lobster open in high dudgeon. And the high-handed fashion in which Mrs. Bloody High Commissioner had spoken to him! He was treated like a flaming short-order cook in this place.
He
was alright, the High Commissioner, but then he rarely dealt with the kitchen. But
her
—a hard-faced cow if he'd ever met one. She was a lot younger than the boss, that was for sure. And very beautiful—seductive even. The chef, himself a handsome man with jet-black hair, an aquiline nose, and an admirable waistline given his profession, had even initially been somewhat attracted to Mrs. Carruthers when she first arrived at the High Commission, and had flattered himself that the attraction was mutual. But that was before the first dinner party that the Carrutherses had hosted. The chef thought it had gone perfectly well, and was most satisfied with the dinner that his kitchen had produced. Except that when it was over, Madame had barged into the kitchen and begun banging on about tough squid (it wasn't), underdone steak (it was done to a perfect medium rare), and undercooked chocolate tart (it was a lava cake for God's sake). This harangue was carried out in front of the kitchen staff and the hired waiters and without any regard for the chef's status, much less his feelings. From that day forward, a fierce hatred had burned in Carillo for the Bitch from Toronto, as he privately thought of her. Even now, at the recollection of that dreadful evening, his face began to resemble the color of the shellfish he was ruthlessly tearing to pieces.

And now she had asked—no,
told
—him to make sandwiches for the whole bleeding police force. Had he been reduced to cooking in a police canteen? Well these would be sandwiches unlike any they had ever tasted before. He had his pride and a reputation to uphold. He would start with the fresh lobster and house mayonnaise. The small cadre of kitchen staff kept their heads down and got on with their work. They were much more frightened of Carillo than of any unknown murderer.

Sharon Carruthers, wife
of the Canadian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, settled into her seat across from Hay and Forsyth. She leaned back comfortably into the chair, her elbows on the armrests, tilted her head, and lightly stroked the right side of her face. She smiled faintly at the investigators, smoothing her fitted skirt. She had no reason to be nervous. This was, after all, her house.

What a beautiful woman
, thought Stephen Hay.

What a piece of kit
, thought Liz Forsyth.

“Well, gentlemen,” began Sharon Carruthers with a nod to Hay and Carpenter, “and lady.” Liz managed a thin smile. The jet lag was rendering this expensively attired woman all the more irksome. “It appears that my husband and I were away during a
most
exciting time. We were in Edinburgh, you see, supposedly for a week's vacation. It was well deserved, I can tell
you
. You wouldn't
believe
the pace that Wesley and I maintain to get through all the work here at the post. And then there's the social side—positively
killing
. But we enjoy it, of course. Would you care for a coffee?”

“Er, no, thank you,” said Hay, mildly confused. It was usually his side of the table that asked that question. “How well did you know the deceased?”

“Well enough.”

Hay raised a quizzical brow.

Mrs. Carruthers continued, “Well, Natalie came here shortly after Wesley and I arrived. She was, I suppose, a good enough officer. The commercial delegations seemed to like her.”

“Mrs. Carruthers,” said Liz, “can you tell us a bit about Natalie's social life? Friends, hobbies, that sort of thing?”

Sharon Carruthers smiled gently to herself. “Oh, that,” she said. “Well, it seems she liked horses. Then again, they say so did Catherine the Great.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Liz watched Mrs. Carruthers carefully. “And what else?”

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Carruthers, “you will find out sooner or later, won't you? She was something of a—well, there's no polite way of putting this—a, well, something of a—slut.” Mrs. Carruthers looked downward as she said the last. Hay and Forsyth exchanged a look. They hadn't heard this before.

“Oh yes,” continued Sharon Carruthers, leaning forward, elbows on the table. Her large green eyes were fixed on Hay, although Liz had put the question. “Yes, indeed. The number of stories I've heard about
her
. Would make your
hair
curl, my dear. Thoroughly unreliable.”

Then what
, thought Liz Forsyth,
was she doing in a highly sensitive job in the High Commission? This makes no sense.

The interview continued for a time, and at last Hay said, “We would like to see the High Commissioner first thing this afternoon, please, if you would be so kind as to relay the message.”

“Certainly. But I don't know what he can tell you that he hasn't already told Mr. Middleton.”

Hay and Forsyth looked at each other in surprise. “Middleton?” asked Hay. “Gerry Middleton? He has seen the High Commissioner?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Sharon Carruthers, straightening her tailored pinstriped jacket as she prepared to go. “They were together before I came across. I assumed that since he was with Foreign Affairs security he'd been detailed to question Wesley. Oh well, it will all come out in the wash no doubt. It's been a pleasure.” With that and a toss of gleaming black hair she was gone.

Hay dismissed Carpenter. He sat quietly for a moment, staring down at the table and forgetting all about diplomacy and the rattling of skeletons. Then he turned slowly to Liz and asked through clenched teeth, “What the hell is this? Are you people playing a double game here? I'm not about to be cut out of my own investigation.”

“Oh, it's your investigation now, is it?” asked Liz, a bit shrilly. “Ottawa will find that very interesting. And I have no idea what Middleton is up to,” she said, although she sorely wished she did. “I thought he was with your boy.” She looked exhausted and genuinely confused.

“So did I,” said Hay, rather more gently. “I'm sorry. There must be a reasonable explanation for this. We're both bloody tired and getting snappy. Why don't we see if there's any lunch?”

“Good plan,” said Liz with a nod. “Lead on.”

They were only
partway through an exceptional lunch of watercress soup and a delectable assortment of sandwiches when Mary Kellick pushed her way past Constable Brent, who was manning the main dining room entrance, and burst into the Brandy and Cigars room.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she cried, “but I must talk to you. Must talk to you now. I'm so sorry—lunch too, sorry—but I have to see you. You see, I know. Well, not before, I didn't. I wasn't lying,” she said nervously, looking from Hay to Forsyth and back again, “I just couldn't . . . tell.” At this, she burst into tears, noisily sucking in gulps of air when she did come up for breath. Liz sat the hysterical woman down gently at the table and pushed a glass of ice water in front of her.

Liz had not seen Mary Kellick before. Kellick was probably only in her mid-thirties, but she looked a good deal older, especially with her face crumpled in grief. She had spoken with difficulty and was hyperventilating badly. Liz wondered if they might need to call a doctor.

Kellick was tall and almost skeletally thin. Her hair was pulled back from her face, the premature gray of the roots changing to pale blond a couple of inches from the hairline. She was dressed in a pair of plain black pants and a black sweater. Hay wondered vaguely if she was in mourning for Natalie Guévin.

“Have some water, Miss Kellick,” said Hay softly. “Now, what is it that you want to tell us?”

With great difficulty, Mary steadied her voice. “Yesterday”—she turned glazed eyes to Hay—“I told you that I couldn't identify the body. I couldn't. Honestly I couldn't. But later I realized it had to be Natalie. Her hair. No one else has hair like that. But with all the . . . blood.” She whispered the last word. “I'm so sorry. So very sorry.”

Liz watched the distraught woman closely. “You must have liked her very much,” she said.

“Oh, I did,” cried Mary, looking at Liz with wide eyes. “I didn't know her well, but I did know her. She was a clever, friendly woman, you know. She was very nice to me. Not all of them are. I don't fit, you understand. They are Canadian diplomats. Then there are the local British staff. I'm a Canadian, but I've lived in England for the last twenty years, so I'm local staff too. So you see, I don't really fit.”

Liz didn't see, not really, but she nodded understandingly and said, “Go on.”

“Well anyway, Natalie was always nice to me. And like I said, I liked her. And when I saw that . . . that . . . thing in the anteroom, to me it
wasn't
Natalie. Not Natalie. It was something else. I didn't know what, but it wasn't her. Can you understand?”

Hay felt an unexpected jolt of very old pain. He knew exactly what she meant. Almost twenty years ago, following the accident, he had been asked to identify the body of his wife. But it hadn't been Paula. It hadn't really been the smart, funny woman he had loved beyond reason. It had been something else—something pale and waxen and expressionless. He understood Mary Kellick perfectly.

“Don't worry, Miss Kellick,” said Hay gently. “We were able to identify the body. That's all that matters.”

Liz shot him a sideways look. “There's one other thing, Miss Kellick,” she began.