A Quiet Kill (6 page)

Tonight's recipe included beef, veal,
and
pork, plus eggs, onions, parsley, paprika, and Worcestershire sauce. Now Mary was rolling perfect little spheres between the palms of her hands and placing them on cookie sheets.

She was, she thought proudly, a perfectionist. Not just in cooking either; she tried very hard to do things right. But that muddle over the invitations that time—she cringed yet again over the incident. She had been over it countless times in her mind, and she still didn't know what had gone wrong. How had she gotten the dates wrong? It was impossible. Surely she had checked and double-checked. Mary tried to push the unwelcome thoughts out of her head as she plunged her hands again into the bowl of wet, sticky meat.

 

The stable yard was of
another era—charming, right down to the cobblestones. Liz estimated that it housed some twenty to twenty-five horses, but she couldn't begin to guess at the vintage of the yard itself. She looked at the sky, realizing it was only a matter of time until the rain resumed. The penetrating damp was unpleasant. But it would be comfortable enough to ride.

Colonel Lahaie was more casually attired now, but there was no question as to his profession. Even in riding breeches and ribbed sweater, he looked every inch both officer and gentleman. He introduced Liz to the resident riding instructor, a grizzled Lancastrian with the unsurprising name of Albert Taylor. Taylor was leading a tall slate gray gelding that was already fully tacked up. He handed the reins to Lahaie.

“I were shocked to 'ear about Natalie,” said Albert Taylor, doffing his peaked cap. “She were a delight to 'ave 'ere. I shall miss 'er, and no doubt so will Reckless. That were 'er 'orse, th'knows,” he explained to Liz. “Well, not 'er own, but she rode it all t' time just t'same. It's not an 'orse we let just anybody ride.”

“Inspector Forsyth here is with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Lahaie broke in. “Perhaps she might exercise Reckless today?”

Liz was about to protest—it seemed indecent somehow—but Albert Taylor acquiesced immediately. “The Mounties, is it?” he said, impressed. “'Ast thou e'er seen that musical ride of theirn?”

“Sure. In fact, I was assigned to it for three years early on. Best detail I ever had.” She meant it.

Now there was no question: Liz should have Reckless. She disappeared to groom and tack up the horse herself, to the surprise of the old instructor. “She's a bit like Natalie in 'er ways, int she?” he asked Lahaie. “Natalie always did that an' all.”

The Anglo-Arab craned her neck around and rolled her eye to get a better look at the person who had just entered her stall. The bay mare was already spanking clean but evidently believed she merited the full treatment anyway. The tack room was in the center of the barn. Liz found the locker with Reckless's name on it and pulled out the grooming kit. She brushed the mare's glossy coat and picked out her already pristine hooves, but at least Reckless seemed mollified.

Liz returned to the locker to fetch the bridle and fine English-made saddle. She slung the saddle over her forearm and grabbed the headpiece of the bridle with her other hand. Suddenly she froze and hurriedly replaced the tack. In the back of the locker was a small pile of riding clothes. “Plain view,” she muttered to herself, inwardly rehearsing the exceptions by which police officers could obtain evidence without a warrant. She carefully riffled through the clothing. There was one unexpected find. A note, computer-generated and printed on good-quality bond, had evidently been wadded tightly into a ball and then smoothed out again to be placed carefully under a pair of tan riding breeches. Liz didn't have a plastic bag on her, although some were in her purse in front of Reckless's stall. She couldn't risk running back and confronting Lahaie or Taylor, so she hastily folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in her jodhpurs. Liz then quickly tacked up the mare, who had become quite indignant with waiting.

DCI Hay was
on his third cup of coffee and his fifth cigarette. The Saturday papers had already been dissected and were scattered across the dining room table. He had another hour or so before he needed to get to the High Commission given his new colleague would still, no doubt, be trampling the flowers in Hyde Park.

Not a brilliant day for a ride
, he thought as he looked out the window at the gathering clouds. He wandered into the kitchen to refill his cup and leaned back against the kitchen counter. He still liked this house. It was an attractive two-story in Pimlico, inherited from his father some ten years ago. The house could be a bit cranky—especially the plumbing—but it had been a good home despite its vintage. It was, in fact, the house of a man who lived alone and was comfortable with it. It was decorated to his taste: not overfurnished, but with furniture of good quality. Some of it might have been antique, although Hay just thought of it as old. A few nice oils, a good mantel clock, the occasional piece of pottery, and several hundred books—largely French and English literature.

It was not a house that had seen a woman's influence; there was an absence of dried flowers, ornaments of any kind were infrequent, and the requirement for a complete dinner service had never been foreseen. Since losing Paula those many years ago, Hay had chosen to live alone and had never seen any reason to do otherwise. There had been others since, of course, but he had never again experienced the intensity of passion he'd had for Paula, and anything less was, quite simply, not good enough. This house suited Hay. He supposed he would be there a long time yet.

He remained leaning against the counter, gazing out the window at his small garden. He was still vexed about this Middleton business. He thoroughly disliked the squeaky Canadian security man, although he was not entirely sure why. Lighting another cigarette, Hay wondered whether Middleton's story would stand up under closer scrutiny. And if it would be undiplomatic for him to make a few independent inquiries.

He didn't know if Middleton was lying, but it would be unsurprising. Hay had been lied to many times in his life; he was a policeman after all. When he thought about it, it seemed that most of the people he dealt with on the job lied about something or other. Any piece of information could be denied, distorted, or embellished. Sometimes people lied to cover up a crime, but more often than not lies were simply designed to obscure unworthy actions, indiscretions, or character flaws. Lies were expected.

When they came from colleagues or people he cared about, however, Hay was less philosophical. These were not lies—this was betrayal. And he had been betrayed too many times. As a young constable he had learned that a so-called friend was belittling him behind his back while pretending to be best mates. And then a boss whom he had tried very hard to please had used him as a dumping ground for unfinished work simply because he knew that the conscientious Hay would do it, and do it well. And then Sarah, a lady he once believed he would marry, betrayed him in the way that only a woman can.

Yes, it had made him bitter, not that he would have used that word. He retained enough faith in people—not suspects, of course, but regular people—to give them the benefit of the doubt, for a while at least.
Five minutes anyway
. When faith proved justified, he was as loyal a friend or lover as any. But if it did not, he turned away and never looked back. Hay remembered imperfectly a quotation from
Pride and Prejudice
, from Darcy, to the effect that his good opinion once lost was lost forever. He knew that this had come back to mock Darcy, but it was a damn good motto nonetheless.

Hay knew that he had become increasingly suspicious over the years, and inclined toward waspishness. He was happy enough to carry a grudge and felt no compulsion to apologize for it. He had become angrier, too, in recent years. Less able to suffer fools at all, let alone gladly, and his definition of fools had become wider. He was saddened by this but seemed incapable of reversing it. And perhaps, he thought, he didn't want to; perhaps it was time he grew up.

Dr. Julian Cox,
co-founder of Eco-Action, ushered Ouellette and Wilkins into the sitting room of his cluttered apartment. “I suppose I've been expecting you,” he said, once settled into the depths of his armchair.

The apartment didn't look as though it was expecting anyone. Newspapers, books, and magazines littered every surface, and papers were heaped haphazardly on the floors. One wall was stacked almost to the ceiling with yellowing documents, and there was an unpleasant odor, both sour and sweet, in the room. Amid the disorder, a few struggling houseplants vied for sunlight. A tabby cat leaped from a pile of newsprint onto the arm of Cox's chair and stared balefully at the visitors. Wilkins hoped that his allergies wouldn't flare up. He didn't like cats anyway, found them somewhat sinister and disconcertingly boneless.

Another wall made a convenient bulletin board to which posters, pamphlets, and bulletins were carelessly affixed with great swathes of masking tape. A baby seal, eyes black and suffering, stared silently at the newcomers from an anti-sealing poster.
SAVE THE PLANIT!!
exclaimed a great green-and-black banner strung across one of the longer walls.

“My daughter,” explained Cox, following Ouellette's gaze. “She was only five when she did that. Lives with her mother now, of course.”

“Why were you expecting us, sir?” asked Wilkins.

“It's in all the papers, isn't it? And I saw Natalie Guévin Thursday afternoon. Stands to reason. Care for a coffee?”

Wilkins shook his head, stifling a grimace. “What did you want to see Miss Guévin about, Dr. Cox?”

Cox tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot. “I didn't.”

“You didn't?”

“Nope, she asked to see me. She was quite angry, actually. It was about an Internet site, one affiliated with us. There's an ‘Enemies of the Environment' page, and someone had added Natalie's mug shot to it. I didn't have anything to do with that, although I didn't necessarily disagree with the choice. It's this bloody sealing business in Canada, you see,” said Cox, the pitch of his voice changing a bit. “A disgraceful, inhumane slaughter. The Canucks seem to want to ignore the carnage, babbling on about traditional rights and depletion of the cod stocks—hypocritical nonsense, of course. Anyway, Natalie had stumbled across the Internet site, or at least someone had told her about it, and she was livid.”

“So you had an argument.”

“No, actually, we didn't. I agreed to try to have her deleted from the page, even though it wasn't on our own website. She was fine with that. Then we had something of a discussion of the issues. Climate change, emissions, that sort of thing. I'd always found her quite well informed—even liked her in a way.”

“You had known her for long?” asked Ouellette.

“Since she came to London. I make a point of getting to know the relevant Embassy officials.”

“And your relationship had always been good?”

“Of course not.” Cox smiled. “We often came to blows over the sealing. And leghold traps. It could hardly have been otherwise. Things became quite . . . heated during our anti-sealing demonstration at the Canada Trade Fair last month, in fact.” He smiled at the memory. That had been a good day. “But then she always took a harder line than Wesley.”

“You are referring to the High Commissioner?” asked Ouellette. “You know him too?”

A telephone rang from somewhere amid the papers, but Cox waved it off vaguely. “Oh yes. We first met awhile back, at the Environment Conference in Rio. All the bigwigs were there, yakking up a storm. Talk about gas emissions.” He smiled at his joke. “Anyway, Wesley was Canada's environment minister at the time.”

“At what time did you leave the High Commission Thursday afternoon?” asked Wilkins.

“Do me a favor, Sergeant. You know very well it was about 5:15. The High Commission log must have told you that.” The phone rang again. “Answering service'll get it,” grumbled Cox, who seemed to be enjoying the interview.

“What did you do afterward?”

“I came home and went on to a six o'clock meeting with colleagues. We're organizing the press so that we can get some actual footage of the sealing early next year. That should get the ball rolling.” He showed some yellowing teeth through his beard. “Then we went to dinner at a Vietnamese place, The Saigon.”

Ouellette had been staring hard at Dr. Julian Cox throughout the interview, trying to place that intelligent face with its abundance of facial hair. Then he got it. Dr. Cox had been one of the ringleaders of a group of anti-sealing activists who had been severely clubbed and beaten by Canadian sealers somewhere in Quebec last year. He knew he had seen that face before.

Cox closed the
door slowly as the young sergeants departed. He returned thoughtfully to the sitting room and sank again into his armchair. Reflecting on the conversation with the police, he realized he should probably have expressed more sympathy for the victim, but that wasn't really his way. People were all very well, but when it came right down to it, they did much more harm than good. Look what they were doing to the environment, the wildlife, even the atmosphere.

His gaze fell upon his unfinished article, which detailed the atrocities committed by the sealers in the Canadian north. He was lucky, really, to have so much time to devote to his worthy causes. It was not as though he actually had to work, having been sole heir to a considerable fortune upon his father's unexpected passing, just as Julian was completing his latest degree at Cambridge. It must be a sign, he thought, that he was meant to devote his talents and energies to saving the planet from mankind. Or in this case, perhaps, womankind.

“And just what,”
Sharon Carruthers asked her husband, “am I supposed to do about that carpet?” She was carefully outlining her lips with a medium-brown pencil.