City of Ice (8 page)

“For the murder?” Sandra asked.

“They hung him in the closet. But he wasn’t murdered here. The meat hook might have been driven into him here, but the boy was already dead. I think they left the table because it’s so plain, so simple, they know it holds no secrets.”

She was especially intrigued now, folding her arms together. “What do you mean, secrets?”

“Here, look.” He invited her over to a wall and crouched. She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down. “The wall socket. What do you make of it?”

His wife did a quick study. “It’s a wall socket all right.”

“Look closer,” gently, he commanded.

She did so, crouching herself. She examined the
device carefully, smiling, warmed by being in her husband’s company for a change, and enchanted by the possibility that something was to be seen here that she could not see. Her husband often spotted attributes or blemishes in horses that she had missed on first inspection. She liked to tease him that he had a pathology for detail, while she preferred the overview, the big picture. He’d get defensive then, saying that he noticed details because he understood them in the context of the big picture. She didn’t doubt it, but kidded him anyway. In this environment Sandra viewed neither. What she was looking at carried no significance for her. “I see a wall socket, Émile.”

“Ah, but look.” He ran a finger along its edge. “The room was painted some time ago, but it’s fairly fresh, within the year I’d say. The socket was painted at the same time with the same color. Now look. The paint’s been chipped around the plate and scratched off the screwhead. Which means the plate was removed recently.” He straightened a little stiffly to an upright position again. “We know that a moving van was here yesterday, so it’s reasonable to assume that all the furniture was moved out then. Notice how well the apartment’s been cleaned. Swept and vacuumed. But look, check along the quarter-round, a few flecks of paint remain, trapped under the molding. They fell from around the socket. If I had to guess—and I do—I’d say the sockets were opened up and inspected yesterday, after the furniture was removed, before the cleanup began.”

“Why would anyone want to look in the socket?” Sandra asked.

“Here, the light switch? Same thing.”

This time she knew what she was looking for. “The paint’s been cracked.”

“Not excessively. Whoever took the wall plates off and put them back on again took care. The perpetrator
didn’t want us to notice.” Cinq-Mars took out his key chain, which doubled as a pocketknife. He inserted the end into the screw on the light switch. “I won’t find anything. This has already been investigated, by the killer presumably. But there’s no harm looking.” He pulled the plate off and found the cavity to be as he anticipated.

Sandra slipped an arm through the crook of her husband’s elbow. “What do you make of it, Émile?”

Cinq-Mars grimaced to indicate that he hated being limited to mere speculation. “Someone went through this apartment with a fine-tooth comb. The furniture was probably removed so it could be inspected, torn apart, analyzed thoroughly. That’s my best guess. Student’s furniture, where bricks are used for shelves, isn’t worth stealing, certainly not worth killing for. I think someone opened up the sockets and the switches to see if anything was hidden in there. Or to remove what he knew to be hidden there, that he might have hidden himself. A listening device. A key. A code. Something.”

Noting that her husband was speaking slowly, with an unusual quietness, she squeezed him against herself. He breathed deeply, sighed.

“What this tells me is that the perpetrator is extraordinarily meticulous. He’s thorough, he’s organized. He had help with the furniture and the cleaning. We already know he’s ruthless, because of how he butchered the boy. Moving the body here and hanging a sign on him tells me he’s cold-blooded. I hate to say it, but whoever is behind this crime is also professional. Very professional,” Cinq-Mars told her gravely, a further idea dawning upon him. “Almost as though whoever did this was trained.”

She leaned into him, hugging his arm and burying her head in his shoulder. He moved his arm, pulling it gently from her grasp, then drawing her small frame
into his side. He led her to the door, where he turned and stared back one more time.

“Curious,” he said, “that someone would be so meticulous in cleaning up a crime scene, yet leave DNA under the fingernails of the victim.” Émile Cinq-Mars turned off the light.

In the corridor, Sandra Lowndes kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Émile.”

“Thanks for allowing this,” he said.

She managed a smile. “I guess it’s part of being a cop’s wife.”

They had been married a few years now, not so long. She was still learning of such matters.

In Julia’s eyes her mother possessed a unique and prodigious talent for devastation. She was a mood wrecker. Solemnity had to be dispatched with spontaneous raillery, calm deposed by riot. A party animal, her mom could rarely tolerate the notion of solitude and believed that people standing around by themselves were either rude or demented. Conversation had to include everyone in the room, and she had no time for contemplation or pause. She liked to talk, she was also happy to listen, and she expected the same from others. To Julia, her mom was like a child, full of questions and observations, often delirious with news. She preferred quick repartee to the carefully considered reply, and while she was intelligent and could discuss most matters under the sun, she preferred to talk about very little at all, she just loved the babble. Julia was fond of her mom but the woman exhausted her. Even as a child she had wished that her mother would grow up before she did, get serious, give herself and others a little space.

“Knock knock,” her mother said, sticking her head through the doorway.

“Get lost.”

“Oh, honey bunny, I haven’t seen you in months!”

“That’s why, dumb-dumb. I can’t take this. I need my peace and quiet.”

Dinner had been consumed and wine swilled in abundance and presents opened and wrappings strewn everywhere. Constant chatter, yet every meaningful observation was engulfed by trivia. Julia could not cope with the bedlam. “Fiddlesticks,” her mother said. Her name was Grace Olfield.

“Fiddlesticks nothing,” Julia protested. Grace was already in the room, closing the door behind her. “Mummy, I just want time alone, ‘kay?”

“Forget it. We’re chatting.” She was a heavy woman, a half foot shorter than her daughter. Grace Olfield had always carried weight, and had had to assure Julia from time to time that their body types were not similar. “When I was a little girl I was plump,” she’d tell her, truthfully, “when I was your age I was fat, now I’m a mature full-figured gal! You may need to watch your weight, sweetheart, but your thighs will never match mine. Yours are matchsticks by comparison.” The mattress sagged as she sat down beside her daughter.

Julia jumped up. “All right, come in since you’re already in, but you’re on the clock!”

“I just want to catch up.”

“Great.” Julia tidied the books she had unpacked into one safe corner. She stowed the ginch she had just received as a gift in the dresser out of harm’s way. She bounced back down on the bed beside her mom. “What’s up?”

“With you, dear.”

“Come again?” Her mom’s eyes were bright, excited. She’d missed seeing them every day.

“With you. What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“That’s why!” She shook her head with her mouth
open for a few seconds. “There’s nothing. You go away to university for four months, you live on your own for the first time in your life, you’re in a new city, and so far you have told me nothing, nada, diddly-squat.”

Julia collapsed on the bed and hugged a pillow. “Oohhh, Mummy.”

“So tell. Gossip. The blues. Who your friends are. Your best parties. I want to feel like I’m there myself.”

“Hey. It’s my youth. You’re not invited.”

“Vicarious living. It’s my style. Shoot.”

“Mummy!”

“Talk, child, you’re not mute. Talk or I’ll tickle.”

“All right, all right. Take it easy.”

“Good. Now take your time. We’ve got all night.”

“
All night?
I’m tired!”

“Go. Begin.”

“Well,” Julia started off, flopping down beside her mom and enjoying having her temple caressed, “to cut to the chase, there’s no boyfriend yet.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got one back home.”

“I’m quitting him.”

“Really? Have you told Brian this?”

“Yes.”

“I saw him yesterday. He didn’t mention it.”

“The mail is slow at Christmas,” Julia said quietly.

“Oh, honey,” her mother said, snuggling down with her. “You should tell him yourself. Over the phone, at least.”

“Can’t. Won’t. Too chicken. I’ve never dumped anybody before. I have absolutely no experience at the job.”

“Brian’s a nice boy.”

“He’s a geek, Mom.”

“I know, honey, but he’s such a nice geek.”

They laughed, mother and daughter, and Julia was happy to be held, to be cuddled. Their conversation would span the globe, cover politics, fashion, books,
dance, theater, men. Grace Olfield roused herself to leave only when it was clear that her daughter was all but asleep.

Julia stretched, catlike, as her mother opened the door to leave.

“Julia? Have you had yourself checked out yet?”

“Not yet—”

“Honey—”

“I have an appointment.”

A phone was ringing down the hall.

“That’s good. An appointment is good. It’s progress.”

“It’s not as though I’ve had to use it.”

“Use it or lose it,” her mother said.

“What kind of a mother are you anyway? Use or lose it—
my ass!
That’s disgusting!”

“Good night, sweetie.”

“Sweetie schmeetie. Use or lose it. You can’t say that to me. I’m your daughter. It’s indecent.
Be an adult!
”

A shout arose from downstairs that the phone was for Julia. She scrambled up and took it in the hall. Her mother waited by her side, retreating only when Julia gave her a stern get-away-from-me look.

“Okay. I’m history,” Grace Olfield conceded, scrunching up her nose. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mummy.”

She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hi,” the voice said.

Strange, Julia was thinking even while it was happening, that they both seemed to be waiting for the same signal. She did not speak until the click of the other phone indicated that whomever had answered downstairs had hung up. Strange how she instinctively knew to do that when talking to Selwyn Norris.

“Hi,” Julia replied.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he said.

“Even if it is monosyllabic.”

“Listen, Julia. I need to speak to you.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to call me back. Call collect.”

“When?”

“After everyone there has gone to bed. Do you have a phone you can use that’s private?”

“Sure. At least, it’ll be private when everyone’s in bed. That might not be for hours, Selwyn. My father and stepdad-in-training are into the Calvados. Who knows when they’ll retire.”

“Doesn’t matter when, Snoop. As long as you call. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye now.”

“Bye.”

Now what’s this about?
Julia wondered as she returned to her bedroom. Lying down, she crushed her pillow against her chest and questioned why she hadn’t mentioned him to her mother. She had revealed just about everything else. Of course her mother would disapprove, but that was no big deal. The tingling excitement, the
anticipation
that she felt, this was what she could not convey, could scarcely acknowledge to herself. She did not know if she was in love—she assumed that she was not. But what, then? Attraction, yes. And the man was a mystery. He intrigued her. He beguiled her. He set her on edge. But what was it? What kept her coming back for more, wanting to know more, to comprehend the spheres of his knowledge, the limits of his influence on her? What was it about Selwyn Norris? And why was she dating an older man? Could she really call it
dating
? Could she? What would
he
call it? He hadn’t so much as tried to kiss her. What would he have to say when she called him back? Why did he have that urgency, that irritation in his voice? What was wrong?
Oh, damn him!
He made the
most routine matter seem fraught with interest, mystery, deviation, terror.
What’s up with this guy?

Julia hoped that she would sleep, that she would wake up when it was time to call. She was bone-weary. But after brushing her teeth and crawling into bed, she could not close her eyes for long. She lay there, awake, waiting for the hour when she could telephone her mystery man.

Julia dozed off and awakened startled, disoriented. For a moment she wondered where she could be. The darkness of the country night frightened her, she had no notion of time. Too sleepy to locate the bedside lamp, she wrapped her short kimono around herself and felt in the dark for the doorknob, switching on the light only after she opened the door.

That dim glow led her down to the second-floor landing as she moved sleepily toward the bathroom. There the overhead blinded her and, after getting her bearings, she turned it off and peed and soaked water into her eyes in the dark. Her eyes had adjusted when she emerged and she was awake now. The light from her bedroom guided her across the landing toward the stairs. With both hands on the walls, Julia worked her way down.

In the living room she stepped over the Christmas debris and empty wine bottles to the sofa, where she sat with the telephone in her lap. She turned on the floor lamp to dial. She was thinking of hanging up the phone on its fifth ring when Norris responded.

“Hi,” he said.

“It’s me.”

“You sound sleepy.”

“Well,
duh.
What time is it?”

“Quarter of.” She had noticed that he always used the American way of defining time. Did that mean he was American? Had to be.

“Quarter
to
what?”

“Two.”

“Guess I fell asleep. Did I wake you?”