A Quiet Kill (8 page)

Lester Wilmot gazed from behind his counter toward the display window. He could see a few Christmas lights already twinkling in the window of the high-end clothing store across the street. He must get his own decorations up on Monday, he thought with a little thrill of anticipation. Christmastime was the best part of living in London. It was like something out of Dickens, with the excited apple-cheeked children running about and Christmas carols being piped into every shop. Maybe he should have some music in his store this year as well.

He had heard nothing at all behind him. The wire was tightening around his neck in an instant. He hardly felt a thing—well, not much anyway—as his windpipe snapped in two.

 

Mary Kellick didn't really mind
working at home, especially on brainless, repetitious tasks like writing out invitations. There wasn't much else to do so early on a Sunday morning anyway. She sat at the kitchen table, with its French country motif, filling out invitations to the High Commissioner's annual Christmas reception. At least it would be sunny today, she thought, with that beautiful bright light already streaming into the kitchen. Mary was conscious of the faint leftover smell of onions and garlic from last night's goulash. She had, of course, thrown it out once it was cooked. She never ate anything she made—just cooked it. She never ate much of anything at all these days, really.

Sometimes when she was making a stew or putting a chicken in the oven to roast, she would imagine that a handsome, charming stranger would appear at her door. His mission was unclear: Perhaps a mutual acquaintance had suggested he call on her. Or he had seen her on the High Street and been intrigued. Anyway, her apartment would be full of wonderful, welcoming odors—rosemary, of course, and perhaps thyme and garlic—and he would stay to dinner. But this hadn't happened yet.

The last time that Mary had met a charming stranger, some years ago, it had ended badly. He was a Canadian businessman who had been on a trade mission to London, and Mary had allowed herself to be swept off her feet. She doubted that he ever learned about the baby after he went back to Canada. Not that she had been able to carry it to term anyway. Sometimes she missed the baby, though. She didn't know if it had been a boy or a girl, but she fancied that it was a girl. She had always wanted a girl.

The then High Commissioner had been very kind to her and very angry about the businessman. He had promised that she could always depend on keeping her job at the High Commission, no matter what. Mary had taken a period of stress-related leave but had never really felt the same since losing the baby those many years ago. Even now, when she saw a woman with a big baby-filled belly, she felt empty inside. Sometimes she felt angry, but mostly she just felt empty.

She selected a soft-tipped black pen for her purposes. The softer the tip, the less her hand ached from writing. She swallowed some coffee and continued with her task. The heavy, gold-embossed cards read,

The High Commissioner of Canada and Mrs. Carruthers Request the Pleasure of the Company of (here was a blank to be filled in) for (another blank) on (blank) at (blank).

Mary filled in the blanks in her elegant, flowing script.
H.E. Mmutlane Mapandere and Mrs. Mapandere
, she wrote in the first blank.
A Christmas reception.
Mary was a little surprised. She hadn't really supposed there would be a reception this year, not under the circumstances.
Tuesday, December 16, 1997.
She had expected it would be canceled. But Mrs. Carruthers had told Mary yesterday to get on with it. She had spoken quite sharply, too, Mary thought. The Christmas reception, with its traditional tourtière and the colonel's “Moose Milk,” was not, according to Mrs. Carruthers, just the most popular annual event on the diplomatic circuit. It was an obligation on the part of the High Commissioner.
7:00 to 9:00
PM
, wrote Mary.

At the bottom of the card, she drew a neat line through the embossed letters
RSVP
and wrote
To Remind
overtop. All of the guests had already been invited by phone, of course—last Monday and Tuesday, recited Mary—and the cards would be sent by hand tomorrow. Mrs. Carruthers had reminded Mary pointedly that Paul Rochon must personally check all the invitations before they went. As if Mary didn't know that. It had been like that since the time she had messed up. Paul was always nice about it, though.
H.E. Maurice La Framboise and Mme. La Framboise
, wrote Mary,
a Christmas reception
.

Liz had slept
extremely well; the bedcovers had hardly been disturbed and some lines from her pillow were etched into her face. Her head felt clear. She had risen early and sat for a time on the edge of the bed, watching through her window for signs of life to return to the street below. She felt content here, despite the grimness of her assignment. Liz had been born in England, in Lancashire, but hadn't been back for years. She had only been small when her family emigrated—a bit like Natalie Guévin, she realized. England hadn't left her, though; there was something in the air, or the light, or somehow in the very texture of the place that was familiar, that made her feel comfortable, at home.

She needed coffee and ordered a large pot with her breakfast. “One cup or two?” asked the room service voice. Liz smiled to herself, supposing it mustn't be all that unusual for hotel guests to invite visitors to their room and have them stay for breakfast. “Just one,” she answered, then, feeling a need to explain, “I need a lot of caffeine this morning.”

Liz had been alone for some time now. The trust had left her a long time ago, during the brief marriage, and she couldn't honestly say that she had given anyone a serious chance since. No time, anyway. She splashed about in the bathroom for a while, and by the time she was ready, the room service waiter was at her door with a tastefully arranged tray, single carnation in a white bubble glass vase, folded newspaper, and enormous thermos of coffee.

At 6:34
AM
exactly, at least according to the hotel's digital alarm clock, three things happened simultaneously. Liz took the first bite of her breakfast, she spotted the headline on the front page of the
Times
, and the phone rang. It was Hay.

“Yes, good morning, Hay. Yes, I've just seen it,” she said. “Does it relate?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Hay. “But he's a Canadian, and the fur thing struck me at once of course. The
MO
is different, though. Even more gruesome, this one.” Liz had been rapidly scanning the page, but Hay saved her the trouble. “Garroted, you see, with the ends of the wire suspending the poor bugger from two of his own coat display racks. The Yard obviously didn't see any immediate connection, or they'd have called last night.”

“Can you get over here at once, Hay? Get Wilkins, and I'll muster Ouellette.”

“Right away.”

The thermos had only just been opened. The hollandaise sauce, so artistically drizzled over the poached eggs, had begun to congeal into tiny yellow blobs. The English muffins were rapidly becoming sodden. But Liz wasn't really all that hungry anymore.

“You see what
they're doing, of course,” said Sergeant Ouellette to
DS
Wilkins as they sped to Dr. Julian Cox's flat. “Guévin was killed in the fashion of a baby seal, right down to the ice floe.”

Wilkins was driving. He'd let Ouellette drive his Escort once before and they had kept landing on the wrong side of the road. “Ice floe? What are you talking about?”

“The carpet. White. Same effect, isn't it? Blood against a white background.” They entered a roundabout with surprising speed, and Ouellette pushed his foot down harder on his personal pretend brake. Why couldn't the Brits drive on the right side of the road like everyone else?

“And this one?” asked Wilkins. “Is this supposed to symbolize anything?”

“It's the way some trappers kill small animals—foxes, muskrats, that sort of thing. It's called a
collet
in French. They string up a small wire noose, usually between two trees, low to the ground. When the animal walks or runs into it, it pulls tight around the neck, garroting the animal or breaking its neck. So you see? Sound familiar? That's got to be the connection. These eco-warrior types have become eco-terrorists.”

Wilkins grimaced. If trapping was that grisly maybe these environmentalists had a point. But he wasn't so sure about the connection. It was possible, of course, or Hay and Forsyth wouldn't have dispatched them to pick up Cox for further questioning. Wilkins screeched around the corner of Dr. Cox's street on two wheels. And Ouellette had thought they drove badly in Montreal.

Having sent “the
lads” to bring in the Eco-Action chief, Hay and Forsyth were now standing uncomfortably on the stoop of a neat little bungalow in Wimbledon. It was a beautiful day for this time of year—sunny, crisp, and invigorating. This was a pretty home, with its fresh teal-blue paint on the window frames. A great wreath, full of dried boughs, grasses, and flowers, hung cheerily on the door. The garden flowers were gone of course, but the trees and shrubs had managed to hold on to their rich green hues. The street was very quiet, peaceful save the occasional musical intervention of a songbird.

“I'll bet you'd rather be riding,” commented Hay softly and rang the bell.

“You're not kidding,” whispered Liz, wishing herself anywhere except on the stoop of the lovingly maintained home of the freshly widowed Mrs. Wilmot. A middle-aged woman, dishrag in hand, slowly opened the door.

Of course they shouldn't be here at all, thought Hay. This was clearly off his patch, and he'd had a difficult time explaining to his boss why he should be conducting another interview with the grieving Mrs. Wilmot. The super had not seemed very impressed with Hay's ruminations about a connection between the High Commission murder and that of the furrier. But in the end he had been guided by Hay's hunch and had reluctantly granted permission.

“Mrs. Wilmot?” began Hay.

“Nay,” the woman answered quietly, “Jenkins. Mrs. Jenkins. I'm her neighbor, poor lass.”

Hay made the introductions. “May we have a word with her, please?”

“Nay,” responded Mrs. Jenkins as evenly as before. “She's exhausted, poor thing. Up cryin' the whole night, wasn't she. She needs her rest now. Best thing for her.”

Hay pressed on. “We really must speak with her, just for a few minutes.”

Mrs. Jenkins shook her head decidedly. “That wouldn't be possible. Anyhow,” she continued, “some of your lot were here last night already. Asking her a lot of questions and upsettin' her. That's enough for now, officers.”

“We know, Mrs. Jenkins,” tried Liz, “but it is really most important that we—”

A hoarse voice strained from somewhere inside the house. “It's alright, Millie. Tell them they can come in.” Millie Jenkins twitched her head but stood back so they might enter.

Gerry Middleton, the
Foreign Affairs security man, was out sightseeing on a glorious December Sunday. His work at the High Commission had wrapped up early and to his complete satisfaction. Then again, Gerry Middleton was usually satisfied with himself. He had left the police to their tedious inquiries, and surely he might profit from this unexpected visit to this “green and pleasant land.” Blake. Middleton smiled. Sometimes he even impressed himself.

A product of Queen's University and holding a doctorate in political philosophy, Middleton had landed a non-rotational security position at Foreign Affairs some fifteen years ago. He was enjoying his time in the shadowy world of intelligence and was generally pleased to let anyone—colleagues, acquaintances, or his infrequent lovers—believe that he actually knew rather more than he did. He felt it gave him a certain cachet to pretend that he had just a little bit more information than did his interlocutors about any given subject. Of course, he couldn't reveal just what that information might be. Gerry Middleton would have been most surprised to know that anyone found him a pompous, insufferable bore.

The top level of the bright red double-decker tourist bus, stopped now, was a tremendous vantage point from which to view the delights of the city. Middleton, wearing a Tilley hat to keep the sun away from his balding scalp, suddenly craned his neck a bit to get a better look. Wasn't that Colonel Lahaie, the High Commission's military attaché? And surely that was Sergeant Carpenter, the High Commission's
RCMP
liaison officer. What on earth were they arguing about?

“Sit down, dear.”
Margaret Wilmot gestured for Liz to make herself comfortable. Mrs. Wilmot was probably in her mid-sixties, petite, with white hair tied up in back. She seemed a pretty woman, but the swelling of her eyelids and the puffiness in her face were a testament to the freshness of her grief. She attempted to smile at her visitors and asked Mrs. Jenkins if she would be a dear and make tea. With Mrs. Jenkins thus occupied, Mrs. Wilmot began, “I apologize on Millie's behalf. She's a love, really. I don't know how I should have made it this far without her.” Liz thought she detected a trace of a Maritime accent.

“We're terribly sorry, Mrs. Wilmot, about what's happened,” said Liz. And she was, genuinely sorry, looking into Margaret Wilmot's glazed, grieving eyes. “We know the police have already been to see you, but we have a few additional questions.”

Mrs. Wilmot nodded, saying only, “Yes.”

“Mrs. Wilmot, prior to—the event, did you have any reason to believe that your husband's life was in danger?” asked Liz.

As though oblivious to the question, Mrs. Wilmot began to speak, her eyes unfocused. “He was late, you see. Not so very late, but it was late for him.” She smiled faintly as she mouthed the words. “And he was supposed to be coming home early, for one of his favorite dinners. Chicken pot pie.” Her brow creased momentarily in some private confusion at this, then she continued, “He called to tell me he'd be a bit early. He's thoughtful like that.” Her face clouded over. “Then,” she said, “I called the store when he didn't turn up. It's not like him. Not like him at all.” The tears began to make their way down now-familiar tracks. “Of course I tried to call several more times, and when he still didn't come home, I called the police. They went to the store, you see. Then they called me.” Her voice was growing yet more hoarse.