The Dead of Winter (21 page)

As they were leaving the bus, two Sun Youth volunteers in parkas climbed in to arrange overnight accommodation for the temporarily homeless and give them a change of clothing and maybe some hope. The fire already seemed less fierce. Leboeuf was talking to two firemen.

“How soon to get the body out?” said Vanier.

“We'll let things die down till the morning. Nothing we can do for him anyway. The Coroner said they'll send someone over first thing.”

“That's it?”

“Yep. We'll leave a truck and crew here for the night, but it will be morning before anyone can go in.”

Vanier turned to walk back to his car. The air was filled with damp smoke that settled on everything, and he was shivering with the cold, feeling like he was walking through a giant wet ashtray. Laurent was standing beside the car looking tired.

“Where to, Chief?”

“Bed. Unless you have a better idea.” And then, as an afterthought. “I suppose I should call the Boss. He'll be happy.”

NINE
DECEMBER 31

8.30 AM

Everywhere Vanier looked in the Squad Room,
there were pictures of John Collins staring back at him. The
Journal de Montréal
headline under the sketch read, Santa Claus? Other papers were lying on desks, and all had the sketch on the front page. Every TV channel had led with the story. For the press, he was still Pious John, the most famous face in Quebec, and nobody had seemed to pick up the connection with the fire yet. That was a good sign.

The leak of the sketch was probably inevitable, given the number of people it had been shown to. But Vanier still wanted to know who it came from. If the leak came from within, from Fletcher or someone else in the squad, he had a serious problem, but it would have to wait. John Collins's files from human resources at Xeon included a passport-sized photograph that was a dead-on match for the sketch. It also had a next of kin and an address. Visiting the next of kin with news of death is one of a cop's worst jobs, but if you know nothing about the corpse, it's a good place to start.

“Let's go,” said Vanier, gesturing to Laurent.

Mme. Collins' apartment was on rue Masson in Rosemont, just south of avenue Jeanne d'Arc. The street was lined with identical two-storey duplexes, each featuring a curved iron staircase leading to the upper apartment. The outdoor staircases feature in Montreal postcards, and tourists think they're quaint, but they were built for cheap, not picturesque. Given Montreal's ferocious winters, it was madness to build curved, metal staircases outside, but they had become ubiquitous features of working-class housing.

The metal steps up to Mme. Collins's apartment were covered in fresh snow that hid two inches of packed ice, and the handrail was encased in ice. Mme. Collins hadn't shoveled the snow from the last storm or the one before, preferring to walk a path through it. The result was treacherous. Laurent, Sherpa-like, led the ascent, with both men clutching the railing as they found footholds.

The door opened a crack on the third ring, and a frail-looking woman peered out from behind a chain.

“Police?” she said.

“Yes, Madame. We would like to talk to you. Can we come in?” said Vanier.

She closed the door to remove the chain and opened it again, turning her back on them, and retreated down the hallway into the mid-morning darkness. They followed, and she was turning on the light as they followed her into the living room. She sat down in the only armchair and gestured with her hand to the sofa, where they sat, their bulk dwarfing the two-seater. Vanier wondered if she had been sitting in the dark before their arrival.

She was all grey and black. Her hair was cut short like a man's and was the kind of grey that says
I don't care
; not a shade you can buy at any hairdresser but a variety of greys that mirrored the gradual decay of age. Her face was colourless, just shadowy lines and folds, and she wore a black woollen skirt with a black cardigan buttoned to her neck.

The furniture was the discount living-room special, popular 30 years ago: a couch, an armchair, two side tables, a floor lamp, and a coffee table, all for one low price. What looked as though it should be made of wood was chipboard and veneer. The walls were bare, and there was no TV or radio. Every flat surface was covered in a film of dust except for the copy of the
Journal de Montréal
on the coffee table with the sketch of John Collins on the cover.

“It's simple. It suits my needs,” she said, answering unasked questions.

“Madame, you are Yvette Collins?”

“Yes.”

“I am Detective Inspector Vanier and this is Detective Sergeant Laurent.”

She peered at them through lifeless eyes.

“We're here about your son, John.”

“News?” she said, without enthusiasm.

“I'm afraid it's not good news.”

She was holding herself in check but couldn't stop a sudden intake of breath.

“He died last night in a fire.” Blunt and to the point. Vanier had done the same thing many times and knew you had to be direct. Get it out up front and don't leave any hope, then deal with whatever happens. There is no typical reaction. Some break down loudly, and others implode silently. Sometimes they argue, as though logic could raise the dead. Mme. Collins blessed herself and looked off in the distance, as though seeking help. Finally she focused on Vanier.

“I always hoped I would see him again.”

“When was the last time you saw John?”

“It's been ten years. But I never gave up hope.”

“Ten years? Did you have a fight?”

“No.”

“So, he disappeared ten years ago and you haven't seen him since then. That's it?” said Vanier.

She said nothing, and both officers let the silence hang in the room until it became palpable, like a fourth person. Finally she spoke, in a whisper that forced them to strain to hear.

“I brought him here as a newborn, and he and I lived together for eighteen years. For ten, he slept with me in the room behind you. Then he slept on the couch you are sitting on. He slept there for eight years. Then he left. That was almost ten years ago, and I haven't seen or heard from him since.”

“But you knew where he was?”

“I knew nothing,” she continued. “After he left, I searched for him. I had no idea where he might have gone, so I wandered the streets looking for him, hoping I might bump into him. I looked at every face I passed. I never stopped looking, in buses, in passing cars, in stores, on the métro, everywhere. I had a rule, always let the first bus or métro pass by and look at who was on it. If he wasn't on that one, maybe he would be on the second, or would arrive to take it. Once, I was on a bus on Rachel, and I thought I saw him from the window. I got off and ran back to the spot, but he was gone. I went back to the same spot three, four times a week at the same time for months, but I never saw him again. For ten years, Inspector, I've prayed for just one glimpse, one sign that he was even alive. There was nothing. He vanished into thin air. Nothing, until I saw his picture in the newspaper this morning. I never buy a newspaper. If the picture had been inside, I would never have seen it, but it was on the front page. After searching for him for ten years, he was looking at me from a hundred different places, but I still didn't know where he was. And now you tell me he's dead.”

“I'm afraid so, Madame.”

“You are looking for him because you think he kills people.”

Vanier didn't like that she was still using the present tense. She had to realize he was dead. “We want, I'm sorry, we wanted...” He waited for that to sink in. It didn't seem to. “We wanted to talk to him about the deaths of these homeless people.”

“And now you can't.”

“And now we can't.”

“Well, at least I can see his body.”

Vanier thought of the pain of looking at the charcoal remains of her son.

“After he left, did you report him missing?”

“The police said there was nothing they could do. He was an adult. He chose to leave. I did what I could.”

“I'm sorry, Madame Collins. That was a terrible burden to carry.” Vanier meant it.

“How would you know, Inspector?”

Vanier didn't answer. “Did he have any friends?”

She stared at him for a few moments. Laurent shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you think I might have overlooked something in the last ten years?”

“I have to ask, Madame Collins.”

“I racked my brains, trying to think of where he might be. Places he might be working, people he might have contacted. I went through every single possibility. Friends? There were none. He didn't have friends. He wasn't an ordinary child. He had an internal life. He was always thinking. We'd sit here at nights in silence, and he'd read his books and wouldn't say a word for hours on end. We never argued. I used to think it was because he was spiritual, holy somehow.”

“Perhaps his father? Where is his father?” Vanier was pushing, and he knew it.

“I don't know,” she said, her hands grasping into fists.

“Who is his father?”

“I don't know,” she repeated.

“So, Madame Collins, just for the record, your son has not been in contact with you recently?”

“Inspector, one day the only person who mattered to me left without saying goodbye and never came back. I've spent ten years searching for him, and in all that time, not one call, no letter, not even a card at Christmas, or Mother's Day, or even my birthday. Do you know what that's like?”

“I can only imagine.”

“Imagine all you like. You can never know.”

They rose awkwardly to leave.

“Can I see him?”

“The body is badly burned.”

“I want to see him.”

“I'll have someone contact you.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

She walked past them and opened the door to let them out. No goodbyes.

11.30 AM

The Squad Room was quiet as Laurent walked in followed by Vanier. Faces looked up, then turned back to the desultory paperwork of closing the investigation: finishing reports and closing circles. There was none of the elation that follows a successful investigation. When you don't have the suspect to deliver to the crowd, there is always the feeling of a job half done. All they had was an explanation and a charred corpse. There was still the question of why, but it was New Year's Eve, and unanswered questions were losing ground to the prospect of forgetting all about it in a New Year's celebration. Those who had been brought in to help were dumping piles of file folders on the desks of anyone who would still be there in January. People were tired and there wasn't anything that wouldn't keep until another day.

Vanier sat down heavily and began tapping out a summary of the meeting with Mme. Collins. Eventually, only he and Laurent remained. Vanier put his hand on Laurent's shoulder.

“Why don't you go home? You can finish that next year.”

Laurent leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply.

“It's never the same when they kill themselves, is it?”

“No. We're supposed to catch them and bring them in. If we don't bring them in, we've failed.”

Laurent was standing, putting on his coat. “We didn't fail. We got the right guy. It's just that he was so used to killing that it seemed like a convenient way out. He had maybe an hour left before we got to him.”

“And that's all he needed. Happy New Year, Laurent.”

“And the same to you, Chief,” said Laurent, putting on his coat.

Vanier sat down and started typing again. He was in no hurry to go anywhere. He hardly noticed as it gradually got dark. He was thinking about where he was going to eat supper when the call came in. Another homeless death. He grabbed his coat and headed down to the car.

Even with the siren going and his red dome light flashing, he made slow progress along boulevard René-Lévesque. He pushed forward, trying to intimidate cars out of their lane, but Montreal drivers don't intimidate easily. Eventually, he arrived outside the Forum, the former home of the Montreal Canadiens, once hockey's greatest shrine and now a forlorn multiplex in a lost corner of the city. St Catherine Street was blocked and lit up like a movie set, with the lights from squad cars and snow removal trucks reflecting off the snow banks lining the street.

A uniform removed the barrier, and Vanier drove slowly into the cordoned-off area. He got out of the Volvo and walked towards a group of men who were staring up into the back of an eight-wheel snow removal truck. He followed their gazes to the edge of the dump box where an arm dangled over the side, as though its owner was sleeping peacefully on the snow in the back. A snow blower was parked beside the truck with its motor running, but without the driver. There was a dark fan-shaped stain in front of the blower, and Vanier wondered what it must be like to go through a snow blower and be spat into the back of a truck.

He walked up to the first uniform he saw and pulled out his badge.

“Who's in charge here?”

The officer pointed to another uniform standing beside the blower with two city workers, “Sergeant Gamache.”

Gamache saw Vanier approach and eyed him suspiciously.

“D.I. Vanier, Major Crimes.”

“I wondered if you guys would even show up. We got orders to call you guys with every death on the street, even the accidents and natural causes. So that's what we did.”

Vanier looked up at the dangling arm. “Doesn't look like natural causes.”

“No, but I don't think anyone threw him in front of the blower either. He probably collapsed in the snow bank during the storm and got covered up. With any luck he was dead before the plow came along; I wouldn't like to think of anyone going through one of those things alive.”