A Quiet Kill Read online

  Detective Sergeant Richard Wilkins, who had been quietly taking interview notes, was pleased as always to be working with Detective Chief Inspector Hay, but found himself slightly out of his depth in this world of diplomacy. He was somewhat puzzled by the numerous references to the “High Commission.” Finally he asked, “Excuse me, Mr. Rochon, but, for clarification, can you please tell me why this is called a ‘High Commission’? I thought that diplomatic offices were ‘Embassies’?”

  Rochon smiled and nodded. “Yes, a lot of people are confused by that. Diplomatic premises from one Commonwealth country located in another Commonwealth country are called High Commissions; non-Commonwealth countries have Embassies. So while Canada has High Commissions in London and, say, Canberra, it would have an Embassy in, for instance, the US or Germany.”

  “Ah, okay, thanks.”

  Hay continued, “So there was no one, then, who might have known her a bit better than anyone else?”

  “Well, come to think of it . . . she was a bit chummy with the military attaché, Colonel Lahaie. They used to ride together. Horses, that is.” Rochon seemed to find horseback riding a somewhat frivolous pastime. “At Hyde Park, a couple of times a week, I think.”

  Rochon rehearsed his whereabouts that evening. Working at home on the forthcoming ministerial visit. Too many distractions at the office to concentrate, even in the evenings. A few phone calls to the UK desk at Foreign Affairs in Ottawa. A take-away vindaloo around seven. Then the phone call from Carpenter, around nine-thirty.

  “Finally, Mr. Rochon, can you think of anyone who might have a motive to kill Ms. Guévin?”

  Rochon hesitated perhaps a fraction of a second too long and then said decisively, “No. No one at all.”

  Forensics had helped the coroner’s team prepare the body for transport to the morgue, and Dr. Shelly, the forensic pathologist, was waiting patiently for Hay to finish his interviews. If one learned anything in forensics, it was patience—and perhaps an ability to discriminate between the important and the trivial. Soon Hay was listening intently as Shelly—who had been called by the coroner to attend the scene—related his initial findings. The time of death appeared to be between roughly seven and eight in the evening, according to the victim’s core warmth and level of lividity, or pooling of blood in the body. Cause of death was massive blood loss resulting from a deep cut to the throat, apparently following a severe blow to the back of the head. Either the carotid artery or the jugular had been severed, given the large quantity of blood at the scene.

  The attack, according to Shelly, appeared to have been carried out by someone who knew exactly what he, possibly she, was doing. There was no obvious evidence of sexual interference, but this would have to be confirmed at autopsy. No defensive wounds on the woman’s hands. A wooden club of some type had been left on the scene and had been bagged for analysis. There was no knife in sight.

  “So she was clobbered before she had a chance to cry out. That explains why no one seems to have heard anything. No struggle—just taken by surprise.”

  “It looks that way. And even if the bashing she took didn’t silence her, the knife did. Sliced straight through the vocal cords. By the way, the only way to achieve that sort of cut is if the attacker struck from behind. Of course we have further tests to run, but it seems pretty straightforward to me at this point.”

  Hay winced and stood up. He had been parked behind the dining hall table for several hours now, and his knee was starting to ache. “Well, Wilkins,” he said quietly to his detective sergeant, “what do you think we have here?”

  Watching as the woman’s bagged body was wheeled into the corridor, DS Richard Wilkins could only shake his head and mutter, “I don’t have any bloody idea, sir.”

  TWO

  The High Commissioner’s “no press” edict only remained in effect for about half an hour. Someone at Scotland Yard who owed a favor called a contact in a wire service, and soon the story was being reported in both Britain and Canada. The Canadian foreign affairs minister was surprised by the news at a press conference during the high-profile meeting in Vancouver. In front of the foreign press and observed by ministerial colleagues from around the globe, the minister was forced to admit that he had not heard about the murder on the premises of the High Commission in London. Shortly thereafter, a rather bewildered Operations Centre employee whose reaction time had not been quite up to snuff took early retirement.

  Press activity around the High Commission was intense when Hay and Wilkins made their way back to the crime scene in the morning. They were both exhausted, having only managed a couple of hours’ sleep, which only sharpened their annoyance with the mass of reporters spilling onto Grosvenor Square in front of the High Commission. The Canadians were expected soon; their flight was due at Heathrow at 7:30 AM.

  Elbowing their way through the insistent throng and tersely refusing comment, they were soon inside and re-entering the official dining room. They discovered that during the early morning hours, a proper interview room had been established in a different location. Hay didn’t know to what purpose this room was formally used, but the overstuffed armchairs that had been pushed to one side evoked gentlemen and brandy and cigars. Even the coffee had come up in the world, now served from a large urn in china cups bearing, Hay supposed, the Canadian coat of arms.

  “They should be here soon, Wilkins?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re being met by Rochon and Sergeant Carpenter, the liaison officer.”

  Detective Sergeant Wilkins could honestly say that he loved his job. He had wanted to be a policeman since he was a small boy and had signed up at the earliest opportunity. His long-suffering girlfriend was less enthusiastic about his career choice but should have known what she was in for when she began flirting with him at that fateful dinner party three years ago.

  “Mmm. Never worked with the Mounties before. Do you expect they wear those red tunics all the time?”

  “Would make undercover work a sight difficult, wouldn’t it?” Wilkins grinned.

  “We need a good picture of this Guévin woman, Wilkins,” said Hay, shifting gears. “When we’re finished briefing the team, I want you to nose out whatever you can about her—hobbies, career path, the lot. Check her appointment book and search her apartment and office again. See if you can track down the ex-husband. Always a good place to start.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilkins paused. “But I’m not quite clear on what we’re to do and what the Canadians are to do. I mean, aren’t they the ones who will want to be following up on Guévin? Surely they’re starting with more information on her anyway.”

  “You’re right,” acknowledged Hay. “It’s a bit complicated. In fact, I spoke with the super on that score last night. Problem is, there’s not a lot of precedent in a case like this. I expect we’ll all have to muddle through, try not to make any waves, and let them think they’re in charge. There is a unit of Special Branch equipped to deal with crimes against or threats to diplomats, but they’ve told the chief they only want to be kept fully informed. They’ll keep their noses out for the time being.”

  Or their noses clean, perhaps, he thought. He didn’t much like the smell of this case so far, either. Hay could tell that the super was jumpy about CID involvement on High Commission property. He had suggested that Hay tread lightly and “not rattle any skeletons,” whatever that might mean. Hay was uncomfortable as well but told himself that solid, honest police work should offend no one. Police work had, in fact, been his life for some twenty-eight years now; in many ways it had precluded him from having any other. Being force-fed by his brother’s wife once a fortnight was not the sum total of his social life these days, but he had to admit it was close.

  “Anyway, try to get a clear picture of Guévin. Involve the Canadians. Perhaps Sergeant Carpenter, or one of the lads arriving today.”

  Wilkins nodded, rubbing a hand over his prematurely balding head. He sometimes thought that his boss, while no oil painting, had all the luck in the
hair department.

  Mary Kellick awoke abruptly at 7:23 AM, consumed by horror. Her thighs felt paralyzed, nailed to the bed, and her mouth was bone-dry. The sensation was familiar. It had been a nightmare. She was being chased by three men around and around in a circle. She kept slipping on the blood, and they kept after her. Still overwhelmed by fear, she thought she had overslept and would be late for work. But no, a policeman had told her not to report today because . . . because . . . oh God, there had been so much blood.

  Three newcomers, along with the Deputy High Commissioner and Sergeant Carpenter, were ushered into what Hay already considered the Brandy and Cigars room. Hay was annoyed by his own surprise that the Canadian inspector was female: a fine-featured woman who looked like she had spent the night on a plane. Hay thought abstractedly that she must be at the bottom end of height requirements for the RCMP, whatever they were. Inspector Elizabeth Forsyth was flanked by RCMP Sergeant Gilles Ouellette and a security man from the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs, Gerry Middleton. Hay and Wilkins briefed the team on events to date.

  Liz Forsyth was attempting to concentrate but she was damnably tired. She had put in a demanding week back in Ottawa and then been summarily instructed to get to London ASAP. Looked like an interesting case, though. She knew little of Embassies and the like, and even less of the workings of Scotland Yard. It was small comfort, but the Brits looked as exhausted as her own team was jet-lagged.

  She massaged her temples through a mass of untidy brown hair and tried to concentrate on the debriefing. Liz didn’t much care for international travel anymore. Suddenly she started. “This Kellick woman—you say she claimed she couldn’t identify the body. Yet Sergeant Carpenter and that other fellow, the security guard—did you say McFaddon?—were both able to provide a positive ID? She’s the engagements secretary, isn’t she? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Hay raised his eyebrows. “You’re right. She should be interviewed again.” He refrained from suggesting who should conduct the interview, learning quickly about the world of diplomacy. “This is the layout,” continued Hay, producing a diagram that had been provided by one of the High Commission security guards. “High Commission and Official Residence are adjoining, with internal access. Seems the High Commission offices are called the ‘chancery.’ Some household staff live on the premises, and there are two apartments for diplomatic staff on the top level, currently vacant due to renovations. Mary Kellick has an adjoining flat. On to forensics?”

  Liz nodded. Clubbed from behind and throat slashed. So you suspect foul play, then, she thought irreverently but kept her mouth shut. She had learned long ago that not everyone shared her sense of humor. God, she was tired.

  They worked out a plan of action whereby Hay and Forsyth would interview the program heads, as well as the High Commissioner and his wife upon their arrival. Detective Sergeant Wilkins and Sergeant Ouellette, along with security man Middleton (who immediately struck Hay as an arrogant snob), would organize the more junior members of what the Canadians were calling the “task force” into interview and investigative units to deal, initially, with the rest of the High Commission staff. Then they would turn their attention to finding out more about Guévin. Sergeant Carpenter from the High Commission would be drafted to take notes during the first interviews.

  The program head interviews would begin immediately. Hay stifled a yawn. Perhaps, thought Liz Forsyth, the throbbing of the aircraft still in her ears, when this series of interviews is over we can all get some sleep.

  High Commissioner Wesley Carruthers and his wife, Sharon, had gotten on the first morning flight out of Edinburgh. Carruthers had spoken several times by phone with Paul Rochon and was more or less abreast of the situation unfolding in London. Carruthers’s handsome face was ashen; he was shaken and worried. His stint as “Your Excellency” had been going quite well up to this point.

  Sharon Carruthers, however, was enjoying herself immensely, despite having had her little vacation cut short. She took another bite of a well-buttered croissant and chewed on it thoughtfully. She crossed her elegant legs, albeit with some difficulty as they were traveling in economy. Then Sharon turned her black-fringed cat eyes on her husband. “Isn’t this interesting?” she wondered aloud. “Will you tell them, do you think?”

  Carruthers’s voice was full of misery. “I really don’t know.” He paused. “Will you?”

  Sharon leaned her head back on her headrest and gazed at the Fasten Seatbelt light. “I’m not sure. I guess that depends on a lot of things,” she mused. “Like how much they already know.”

  The head of the High Commission’s political section resembled some sort of rodent, although no one would have mentioned it aloud. He was a spare, hungry-looking man with protruding teeth and a retreating hairline. Having grown up near the Rocky Mountains, Liz had once found rodents cute. Not this one, though. He had small, close-set, gray eyes that shifted rapidly between her and Hay.

  She began, “So, Mr. . . . er”—she consulted her notes—“Jarvis.”

  “Harry, please,” he interjected smoothly. He would doubtless have flourished his cap had he been wearing one.

  “You are the head of the political section, yes?”

  “The program manager, that’s right. I also supervise the public affairs program.”

  “Tell us about your whereabouts last night, Mr. Jarvis.”

  “I attended a reception at the Russian Embassy from six until eight. The High Commissioner is away, and Paul—Rochon that is, the Deputy HiCom—told me he didn’t feel up to another function this week. I ended up with the invitation. That kind of thing happens a lot at missions, you know,” he added helpfully.

  “And what time did you leave for the reception?”

  “About 5:45. The Russians expect you to be on time. Not like the Euros,” he mused, then realized he was being irrelevant. “I left direct from the High Commission. My wife didn’t want to go. She had a headache.”

  I’ll bet, thought Liz. She continued, “And you left . . . ?”

  “Not before eight. I was having a very interesting chat with my opposite number at the Spanish Embassy. I can give you his name if you like.” He gave Liz a toothy smile.

  “Later, perhaps. How well did you know the victim?”

  “Poor Natalie. I couldn’t believe it this morning when Paul called. He was telling everyone not to come in to work until informed otherwise.”

  “And how well did you know her, Mr. Jarvis?”

  Jarvis shifted around on his chair. “Not well. A bit. I mean, I’ve known her a long time in various assignments.”

  “And you liked her?” interjected Hay.

  “Well, no, not really,” answered Jarvis slowly. “It was no secret,” he added defensively.

  “Why did you not like Ms. Guévin?”

  “Oh, just bureaucratic crap mostly.”

  “Meaning . . .” pursued Liz.

  “She screwed me around a few years back. She was the trade participant on a promotion board when I was up for promotion. I really needed the money—our salaries have been frozen for years—and God knows I’d waited my turn. I didn’t get the promotion. I learned later that she had put the knife in”—at this his eyes narrowed—“and that one of her personal fan club had been given the nod instead. After that, to make matters worse, I landed the worst posting of my life, a place I would never have been assigned had I been promoted. It was a nightmare, professionally and personally, and it’s taken me a long time to recover.”

  Sergeant Carpenter was writing as fast as he could, but Jarvis was now speaking very rapidly. This note-taking wasn’t as easy as it looked. Some days he wished he were back in the field, working for narcotics branch. Now that had been interesting . . . He was jolted back to his notes as Jarvis continued, “And then I land this place—I’ve always wanted a posting in London—and who turns up but good old Natalie Guévin. Can’t tell you how pleased I was. But,” he added, “I never, ever would have hurt her—or anyon
e else for that matter. But I figured I’d better tell you the whole story up front. As I said, it’s no secret I didn’t like her.”

  Jarvis told a convincing story, but clearly he knew how to carry a grudge. The alibi was good—one of those almost too good to be true. The timing of the reception coincided perfectly with the time of death, which was not yet public knowledge. Liz Forsyth and Stephen Hay swapped impressions following the interview. They agreed that Jarvis bore watching, and that the alibi would have to be followed up. In one important respect Hay had reached almost the same conclusion as Liz had: he thought Jarvis resembled a rabbit.

  Anthony Thistlethwaite waited impatiently in the arrivals hall. The High Commissioner had called early, asking for a driver to meet their flight, and Anthony had decided to do the run himself. He had been waiting for twenty minutes already and decided to buy a paper. TRADE ENVOY BUTCHERED! roared the headline, above a picture of Natalie Guévin during last month’s Canada Trade Fair. Anthony was amazed at the speed with which the story had made the papers. A highly speculative account followed, and Anthony turned his attention back to the photo. It certainly didn’t do Natalie justice: women needed makeup to turn out well in black and white, and Natalie never wore any. But she had been a pretty woman, even if she was “past the first bloom of youth,” as his mother would have said.

  “There you are, Anthony.” The quiet tones of the High Commissioner startled him, and for some reason he felt obliged to shove the paper under his jacket. “Thank you for coming out so early. Especially under the circumstances.”

  “It’s due to t’ circumstances I’m here, sir. Where is Madame?”

  Madame appeared suddenly, silky black hair swinging about her shoulders. A powerful odor of expensive French perfume accompanied her. “What’s the holdup?” she asked impatiently. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”