The Dead of Winter (5 page)

“Well, I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”

“And when might that be?”

“Please, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn't have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

“I'm afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”

Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it's important that I speak to him.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”

The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.

Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the criminals.

The inside of the Volvo was cold, and Vanier cursed as it took three turns of the ignition for the engine to turn over. His breath was visible and clouding the windscreen as he pulled out of the parking space. He was hungry, and there were only empty cupboards at home; a curry would be just the thing. Pakistanis don't celebrate Christmas, do they?

He turned left onto Sherbrooke and continued west to Notre Dame de Grâce. Lights from the Ganges restaurant reflected on the snow outside. The street was deserted except for two cars parked in front of the restaurant, and he parked behind them. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by a small dark man in a white shirt, hand out and grinning at his arrival. He reached out for the soft hand, as the awesome, comforting smell of an Indian kitchen went to work on his stomach.

“Luc. Wonderful to see you again. Can I wish you a Merry Christmas?” Midhat Mahmud welcomed his first non-Asian guest of the night.

“Midhat, it's great to see you.” The restaurant was empty except for members of an extended family from the sub-continent who were close to finishing their meal.

“We are a little quiet tonight, so you can sit wherever you like. Can I get you something from the bar?”

“A pint of Bass, Midhat.”

The Bass came with a plate of pappadum, and Vanier drank and began to relax. He munched on the pappadum and inhaled the aromas. Sitar music played in the background, and Christmas was a thousand miles away. The waiter came, and Vanier ordered batata wada to start, followed by lamb dopiaza, mixed vegetable bhaji, rice and nan.

Midhat returned from the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite his friend. They had met years ago when Vanier, still in uniform, had stopped in for a meal after a long shift. As Midhat was presenting the bill, Vanier asked him what he thought of the execution of Prime Minister Bhutto in Pakistan. It had happened years earlier, but Vanier had been fascinated by what amounted to a judicial murder. His question struck a chord, and Midhat, who had recently graduated from Concordia and had been thrown into running a family business serving strange food to an even stranger population, sat down and unloaded. Born in Pakistan and educated in the West, he had a lot to say and was happy to have a Quebecer to say it to. Vanier had tried to explain that he wasn't a native Quebecer, but it didn't matter, the restaurateur was happy to have any connection to the society he and his family were living in.

On that first night, Vanier learned about the corruption of Pakistani politics, the revolving doors of civil and military governments, and a people cursed to be ruled by criminals whose main ambition was to suck everything of value from the poor country. Vanier kept coming back to Ganges, and kept learning.

After a few years, they began to call each other by their first names. Then Vanier's son Alex was born, and Midhat and his new wife Jamilah showed up unannounced at the Vanier house with a hand-made vase from Pakistan for the baby. Vanier reciprocated a few years later, bringing a selection of OshKosh baby clothes to the new parents of Samir in their first floor walk-up in Park Extension.

“So how are the children, my friend?” asked Vanier.

“Wonderful. A real blessing. Samir is working with some of the best doctors in blood diseases. I can't believe it but in three years he will be a fully qualified doctor and a specialist. And it's not too soon. He'll be able to take care of the aches of his poor father. And Aliza, bless her. In her second year in law, and what a mouth on her! She would argue with you over the colour of the sky. She is brilliant, and what a sense of justice she has. Just think Luc, if I am ever run over by a bus, I'll have my son to look after me and my beautiful daughter to sue the son of a bitch who drove the bus – and the City for letting the son of a bitch drive the bus!”

They both laughed.

“And yours, Luc? How are Alex and the beautiful Élise?”

Midhat was one of the few people Vanier had told about Marianne's leaving, and he did it only after Midhat asked one time too many why Vanier was eating so often in the restaurant.

“Alex tells me that he is doing important work in your part of the world. He seems to think that he is making a difference,” said Vanier.

“Making a difference? If only you could know, Luc. He is changing the world and making it better. I wish you Canadians knew how important it is. You should be bloody proud, Luc, a son like that.”

“I am, Midhat. But you know how it is with fathers and sons. We can't say what we want to say. We think a nod is a paragraph and a sentence is a book, and, in the end, all that's important is left unspoken.”

“We keep a lot inside, Luc, that's true. Too much, maybe. But you tell Alex when he comes back here to get his skinny Canadian ass down to Ganges, and we will fatten him up, all on the house. I don't think they serve good Indian food in the military.”

“They probably don't serve any Indian food in the army. I'll bring him down myself.”

“And Élise? Tell me, how is Élise?”

“I spoke to her this morning. It seems like a long time ago. She called to wish me Merry Christmas. She's with her mother in Toronto. Still studying. She goes to university next year. Journalism. Maybe one day we'll be looking at her on television. I can just see it now. Alex fighting in some foreign war, and Élise reporting on it, and me down on my knees in front of the television praying for both of them.”

They laughed again.

“Already, they are adults.”

“It happened too quickly, Midhat. Twenty years in a heartbeat. One moment, you're building sandcastles in Kennebunk, and the next you're waiting for a phone call from Kandahar.”

The food arrived, bubbling in stainless steel bowls on a hot plate with two candles. Vanier had ordered for one, but Midhat gestured for an extra plate, sitting with his friend through the meal, and helping himself to the comforting food of a homeland he hardly knew.

When they had both eaten their fill, they sat in silence listening to a plaintive sitar solo. A waiter took away the plates and came back with a brown bag with the leftovers. Vanier left a fat tip, because he knew that when he got home he would be amazed at how much food he had been given to take home. Enough for two meals during the week, even things he couldn't remember ordering.

A honking noise broke through the sitar music and brought them back to Montreal. Tow trucks were cruising up and down the street, blaring their horns as a warning that any cars on the street were about to be towed to allow the plows to remove the snow. Vanier rose slowly, lifted the bag from the table, and reached for Midhat's outstretched hand.

“You take care of yourself, Luc.”

“You too, Midhat, you too. Give my love to Jamilah and the children.”

“To be sure.”

Vanier walked out into the night, accelerating with each step, as he pondered the possibility of his car being towed. It was still safe. He opened the back door of the car and put the brown bag carefully on the floor, snug between the seats. Settling into the driver's seat, he turned on the radio. Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” He turned off the radio and drove home in silence.

FOUR
DECEMBER 26

5 AM

Vanier was nervous,
preparing himself to talk to a boy who was a man. Not a man, a soldier – a different kind of man. Vanier knew soldiers. On his mother's side they were all farmers, tied to the same patch of land for generations. But his father and his father's father had been soldiers. His father had dragged the family to every military base in Canada. Often to leave them waiting while he served overseas. More often to leave them waiting while he drank with his soldier buddies. Then one day he left them for good with an inconvenient bullet that entered his brain through the roof of his mouth and left a red splash pattern on the living room wall for Vanier's mother to clean off. Vanier had watched while she did it.

All Alex knew of his grandfather were the photos and medals, a hero his father never talked about or explained.

The phone rang at 5 minutes after 5 a.m.

“Alex?”

“Hey. Merry Christmas, Dad. How're you doing?” Vanier tried to picture his smile.

“It's me should be asking that. I'm fine. Stuck in the snow and the cold as usual. Hey, Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“It's got to be better than here. Fucking desert gets to you pretty quick. So what's new with you?”

“You know how it is Alex, crime's a growth business. Close one file, open another. There's always something going on. For everyone we put away, there are two more getting out. And there are always the kids following in the father's footsteps. I guess we're fighting our own war over here.”

“Yeah? They got IEDs in Montreal?”

“Well no, it's not a war, Alex. Not like what you're doing. Sorry. I just meant…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I suppose we're both fighting evil, eh?”

“I suppose. But I got bigger guns!”

“They won't be issuing C7A2s here for a while. But I bet it would get me respect in Hochelaga.”

“We ain't getting respect here. They're laughing at us. Fucking government is corrupt, and we're getting shot at to keep them in business. The Afghan soldiers would sell you out in a second if they could make a deal. The place stinks.”

“Alex, I saw your guys on TV the other night. It looks pretty rough over there. I worry.”

“Ah come on, Dad, don't start that again. I'm here. I'm serving in this shithole, but it doesn't do me any good to know you're worrying about me. I'm not a kid.”

“OK, Alex, but I'm your father. That's what fathers do, they worry.”

“Yeah, but that puts pressure on me, you know.”

“Look, I'm sorry. It's just that what we see here is the worst. On TV, it's always the bad stuff.”

“There's a lot of bad shit to film. It's fucking dangerous, but I'm surrounded by great guys, and we all look out for each other. So the journalists want blood and guts and blown-up troop carriers. Maybe that's a good thing, let people know what the fuck is going on, you know?”

“I suppose. But you don't see much good news.”

“Good news? There isn't any. And if you read crap in the papers about how we're changing lives, don't believe it. It's a gang of fucking thieves running the country, and another gang of murdering bastards trying to take over – and neither side gives a fuck about the average Afghan.”

“So you think we should leave?”

“No. Just let us do the job. We're fighting people who don't give a fuck about the Geneva Convention, and we have to do it like Boy Scouts. It burns me up.”

“Don't worry, Alex. Your tour is up in four months and you can come home.”

“Yeah. I guess. Anyway. Change the subject.”

Vanier changed the subject. “I spoke to Élise yesterday, she sends her love.”

“I know. She sent me an email. She said that you might be thinking of joining the human race and getting Skype.”

“Ha. Well, no promises, but you never know. I'll give it serious thought. Élise said she'd help me.”

“Do it. You'll be amazed how easy it is once you get started.”

“So, tell me, what do you do for relaxation?”

“Well, last night we had a concert with Blue Rodeo and a bunch of comedians. And we had a Christmas supper, turkey, roast potatoes. The food was good. We even had the Minister of Defence spooning out the gravy.”

“And how was he in the kitchen?”

“He was shit in the kitchen. Just over here to get his photo taken.”

“That's what the politicians are for, Alex, spooning out the shit!”

“Yeah, that's funny. It's true. But my time's up. I gotta go. There are guys lined up behind me, Merry Christmas, Dad. Take care.”

“Love you, Alex. Take care.”

The phone clicked dead. Vanier picked up the cold coffee and focused on the conversation, trying to recognize what was really said; the statements, the inflections, the pauses. It was a police technique to squeeze meaning from everything. Often what was unsaid was the most important. He knew that he couldn't understand what it meant to serve in Afghanistan. But he knew enough to be scared. He was scared for Alex. And scared of what he recognized in his son. When Vanier was honest with himself, and it didn't happen often, he saw in Alex the same attitude that he saw in the violent scumbags that he spent his life trying to shut down. And when he tried to dismiss those thoughts, he'd think of his father, and know his fears were justified.

It was still dark outside. The sun wouldn't rise until after seven. Vanier looked down on the white and grey city. He turned back from the window and put the half cup of coffee into the microwave and pushed one minute. It was steaming when he took it out. He thought about cooling it with a shot of whiskey and decided against it.

8.30 AM

Vanier pulled into the parking lot of Police Headquarters and saw Chief Inspector Bédard's car parked in its reserved spot nearest the door. It was a bad sign. There was nothing going on except the homeless deaths, and Vanier hated to think that the Chief Inspector was taking a special interest in the case.

Even in the quick walk to the door Vanier felt the cold. It was at least minus twenty Celsius, and he didn't think it was going to get any warmer. The last storm was long gone, and the temperature had tumbled under the cloudless sky. The only consolation was the sunlight.

In the first floor Squad Room, Sylvie St. Jacques was pinning photos and coloured arrows to a map of downtown Montreal mounted on corkboard, putting together the visual layout of what had happened. Sergeants Janvier and Roberge were staring at computer screens, and D.S. Laurent was reading a newspaper. When he saw Vanier, he held up the
Journal de Montréal
, his bald head disappearing behind it. The headline read: “Santa Slays the Homeless.”

“And a good morning to you too,” said Vanier.

“The Chief asked to see you as soon as you got in,” Laurent said.

“Shit.”

It was the last thing Vanier needed after a few hours sleep on the couch. He took the newspaper from Laurent and opened it to the main story, scanning it quickly. It was accurate, with too many details, even down to Santa as a suspect.

“They got everything pretty much right, didn't they?” said Vanier. “But they don't know anything we don't know. I suppose that's a good thing. How do they know about Santa?”

“My guess is someone in the Métro Security told them,” said Laurent. “The only ones that knew about the Santa character are us and the Métro guys. It had to be one of them.”

“And where did they get the murder angle? Suspicious, yes, but murder?”

“Suspicious doesn't sell papers, sir. Mass murderer on the loose gets people out of their beds to buy the rags.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Vanier, imagining what the Chief would make of it. The Chief had probably already taken calls from the Mayor.

Vanier glanced at the other newspapers lying on the desk. They each had the story on the front page.
The Gazette
: “Christmas Spirit Dies With Five Homeless Deaths;”
The Globe and Mail
: “Mass Murderer in Montreal?;”
La Presse
: “Homeless Deaths Ruled Suspicious;” and the
National Post
: “Métro Deaths: Montreal's Homeless at Risk.” Only
Le Devoir
, Montreal's intellectual daily, reputed to have a paid circulation in the high three figures, was understated: “System Failing the Homeless.” Only the
Journal de Montréal
had the Santa angle.

Vanier turned to leave, “I'm off to see the Chief.”

As he passed St. Jacques, she turned to him. “I'll be finished with this in a few minutes.”

“You're doing a great job,” Vanier said, glancing at the map as he walked out.

9 AM

Chief Inspector Bédard's door was open, the secretary who usually guarded his lair off for the holidays. The Chief was sitting behind his desk in full dress uniform reading the papers. When you started as a cop, you got a uniform, and if you climbed the ladder high enough, you finished with a better uniform, but there were two differences between recruits and the polished brass. The obvious one was the amount of equipment you carried on your belt; recruits had more stuff hanging from their belts than New Guinea headhunters. Vanier sometimes thought that when he retired he could make a fortune designing stuff that could be attached to the belts of recruits. The Chief had nothing, not even a gun. The other difference was the amount of bullshit you could generate and consume before you felt sick. Recruits had a low tolerance for bullshit, but if you wanted to rise up the ladder, you had to develop a taste for it.

Vanier walked in and stood in front of the Chief's desk, waiting for him to look up, examining the fat that bulged under his uniform. He was like a giant, over-ripe pear with his neck bulging three chins out of a white shirt collar. Bédard looked up warily.

“Good morning, Luc, sit down.”

Vanier dropped into the wooden chair in front of the desk, and the two men stared at each other in a test of who would speak first. There was no contest. Vanier was still a working cop, and Bédard broke.

“The press, Luc. How does
Journal de Montréal
know more about this investigation than I do? Am I supposed to read the damn newspapers to know what is going on in my own squad? Does that make sense?”

Again the stare, eye to eye, Bédard trying to remember the old days interrogating suspects. Vanier stared back.

“No, sir. But they have more staff than we do. We've been working with close to zero.”

“It's Christmas, Luc. I know how you feel. But all you have are five suspicious deaths. I can't cancel leave on the basis of a suspicion. It's going to take time to find out how they died. Even so, I need to show some progress. Results, Luc, I need some results. And I need to know what's going on.

“Does that mean that I get more officers?”

“No. Not unless you tell me that you have something real to go on. Are these five deaths a coincidence, or do we have a maniac on the loose?”

“We don't know yet. It could be nothing, sir.”

“I know that. But the papers don't think it's nothing. Have you seen the TV? It's the first story on every newscast. Before long, the entire city will be yelling for answers. The Mayor called me at home last night. Did you ever try to bullshit the Mayor?”

“No, sir. I've never spoken to the Mayor. But I suspect that he recognizes bullshit.”

“He's an expert. He can recognize it a mile away. And I don't want to be giving him too much.”

“Sir, we're doing what we can. Any available officers you can throw our way would be appreciated. That way, you can tell the Mayor that you're dedicating resources to the case.”

“I know what I can tell the goddamn Mayor, Luc. And I
am
dedicating resources to the case, Luc. You have a bloody team. What leads are you following?”

“Sir, we've got a good start on the identities, and we're following up with the families and people who knew them. We're canvassing the shelters and other spots to see what we can find out. We're also following up on Santa suit rentals. Even without a cause of death, that's a lot of work, sir. The more people we have, the quicker we can get through all the details. With more manpower we can cover leads faster.”

“Look, I'll see what I can do about extra officers. In the meantime do what you can. And Luc, you have my numbers, call me. When the Mayor calls I have to answer the phone even if I'm taking a shit. I want to be able to give him something more than he can read in this rag,” he said, gesturing at the
Journal de Montréal
. “I can't have him knowing more than I do just because his staff spoke to the bloody journalists. Treat this as a mass murder until we know it's not. Pull out all stops, Luc. I need results. Do you understand?”