Not A Clue Page 4

  “We are not from the Immigration Department, Mr. Daudov. We just want to find out what happened to your wife.”

  Daudov looked at her steadily, then seemed to relax as he took a short breath.

  “So you left Chechnya with your wife two years ago …”

  Daudov shook his head. “No. Almost three years ago. Took long time to get here. Many countries. We marry here in Canada,” he said—somewhat proudly, thought Liz. “Bula should come with us but disappeared few days before we left.”

  “Bula was her younger brother?” asked Ouellette.

  “Yes. Younger brother.” Daudov swung his gaze towards the young sergeant. “Bula always want to come to West. He liked travel. Went to neighbour countries. Sometimes even South Asia, I think. He wanted to come to West and then he was gone. We waited. Finally we could wait no more. We had to leave or chance would be lost.”

  Ouellette figured there must have been one very interesting story behind the Daudovs’ move to Canada, but, as Forsyth had pointed out, she and Ouellette didn’t work for Immigration. He noticed that a few books on speaking English and a picture book on Canadian history lay on the floor. It appeared to Ouellette that the Daudovs intended to become good Canadians, no matter how they had gained entry. He went back to his note-taking.

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt your wife, Mr. Daudov?”

  “Russians.”

  “How about apart from the Russians? Did she know many people here?”

  “No, not really. We know some Chechens. She know other demonstrators a bit.”

  Liz went over the list of regulars she had been provided by the Russian Embassy, and Daudov told them what little additional information he had. He mentioned that Laila had been particularly fond of a Mrs. Umarova, an elderly woman and fellow demonstrator.

  Ouellette asked what Daudov’s movements had been on the day of the killing. As Ouellette had anticipated, the other man quickly became angry. “Why you want to know about me? I say all this to police yesterday already. Why you not talk to Russians?” demanded Daudov.

  “Please, Mr. Daudov,” interjected Liz, “we need to know.”

  Daudov stared at her for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I was working my job at parking lot. Montreal Road. All day.”

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  “Very quiet day. Not many cars because of storm. But I tell you one thing: If I had not been there, I would be fired. Easy to find parking lot attendants. I need to keep job.”

  Liz and Ouellette learned from ballistics that the bullet that killed Laila Daudova had been fired from some type of assault rifle. The lethal bullet, measuring 7.62 by 39 milli­metres, was used primarily in weapons from Eastern Europe and Russia.

  “Including,” asked Ouellette, “the AK-47?”

  “Yes,” replied the bespectacled ballistics expert, shifting his gaze from Liz to the sergeant. “The Avtomat Kalashnikova fires this type of bullet. The AK-47 is widely used and very reliable—but not very accurate. The shooter must have been highly skilled to shoot from across the street and hit the woman full in the back.”

  “It’s a semi-automatic, yes?” asked Liz.

  The spectacles nodded. “But also capable of firing a single shot.”

  “And no shell casing was found,” Liz said.

  “No. The shooter must have picked it up before he fled. He knew what he was doing. In fact,” he continued, “I’m going out on a bit of a limb here, but I would guess the shooter knew this gun quite well. They’re not the easiest things for targeting and he was very accurate.” He gave a short nod towards the corpse. “It would be a lot easier to pull this off with a weapon that you knew.”

  Liz and her sergeant were silent, deep in thought, as they took a taxi to their appointment at Foreign Affairs on Sussex Drive. They had abandoned the idea of taking the squad car due to the virtual impossibility of parking anywhere near the Pearson Building. They entered the building’s spacious lobby and were greeted by an officious but nervous young woman who escorted them to the office of an assistant deputy minister.

  The ADM was a short man with a puffy face, haggard expression, and ghastly tie. There they were joined by the director general of the Eastern European Bureau. She was a stocky woman dressed all in navy blue: an ill-fitting jacket and skirt, navy hose, and flat shoes. Two younger officers were also in attendance, both wearing colourful bow ties.

  During the meeting, Liz and Ouellette learned more about the small Chechen community in Canada and confirmed some historical details about that troubled region. There was no firm information about the size of the Chechen community in Ottawa and area, and the Chechens generally kept a low profile. This was probably because many had entered the country illegally.

  Ouellette noted that the Chechens did not even appear to interact much among themselves. Those who regularly demonstrated outside the Russian Embassy on Charlotte Street didn’t seem to spend much time together apart from the demonstrations. At least that was what the preliminary interviews had suggested. Of course, none of these people were suspects anyway, having been with Laila at the time of the shooting. At the same time, they seemed unable or unwilling to help the police determine who might have wanted her dead.

  Liz and Ouellette also learned more about Independence United, an organization for which the departmental officials expressed some disdain. “A rent-a-crowd,” said the director general. Ouellette nodded at this, as the description coincided with his own assessment of the organization. The Canadian chapter was headquartered in Ottawa and was affiliated with a number of like-minded organizations. Independence United routinely allied itself with any group seeking self-determination, however worthy, or flimsy, the cause. At least, thought Ouellette, that group might be amusing to talk to. Ouellette had never been one to sign up for causes, no matter how worthy they might be; he was not a joiner. His only “cause,” although he would never have thought of it that way, was to make sure the bad guys were put behind bars.

  FIVE

  England

  Once a fortnight, DCI Stephen Hay joined his brother Keith and his domestic goddess of a wife, Helena, for dinner. Helena adored both the Hay brothers and had been trying for years to set up her brother-in-law Stephen with any number of her single, widowed, or divorced girlfriends. In one particularly desperate attempt, she had tried to introduce him to one who was merely unhappily married. None of these efforts had paid off, however, and, in recent years Helena had resigned herself to cooking for just the brothers every couple of weeks.

  Helena was an excellent cook and, in her more honest moments, recognized that her love of entertaining was mostly as an excuse to show off. She was privately irked by the bad reputation English cuisine had elsewhere—especially in Europe—and was doing her bit to prove the continentals wrong. Whatever the motivation, Helena was a gracious hostess, and tonight the three of them were sitting down to a starter of puff pastry with warm brie and raspberries.

  “Delicious, Helena, as always,” said Stephen. While he often dreaded these fortnightly visits, he invariably enjoyed them once he was there. Keith nodded and gave an “mmmph” of assent as he demolished buttery layers of pastry.

  Their conversation began as it usually did, with polite inquiries regarding Helena’s bad hip (which was “much the same”), Keith’s gout (which seemed to be getting worse), and Stephen’s arthritic knee. This evening, as on every previous such evening, Keith opined that this had doubtless been brought on by his brother’s misspent youth playing football.

  When they were seated in the dining room and presented an enormous casserole of boeuf à la bourguignonne, fresh baguette, and roasted vegetables, Helena could contain herself no longer.

  “So Stephen, that body I’ve been reading about behind the council estate—that’s on your patch, isn’t it?” Helena had a curious, hurried manner of speaking and rarely stopped to take a breath, but she was, in fact, correct about this. Battersea was normally his “patch.” He had been
assigned to the investigation at the High Commission only because the Yard had thought him the right man for the job.

  “Yes,” answered Hay simply.

  “But they’re saying in the papers that it was a young woman who was very large and foreign, wasn’t she,” said Helena, more as a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” Hay repeated. “But you know, Helena, that I can’t give you any details of the investigation.”

  Indeed she did know, as she had been told this many, many times.

  Keith Hay, a chemical engineer, believed himself to be the only one in his family not fascinated by violent crime. Their father had been a uniformed officer until retirement, his brother Stephen was a DCI, and his own lovely wife seemed to think she was Miss Marple. Why her well-paid job as a pharmacist wasn’t enough for her, Keith didn’t know. He took a sip of wine and focused on the beef and pearl onions.

  “Yes of course I know that Stephen but it’s been in all the papers and on the news. Will she be doing a televised appeal? I always think that must be so hard to sit up there in front of all those cameras and beg for information about what happened to a loved one. I saw one a couple of weeks ago by the parents of the baby son who went missing somewhere it was very sad I hope they catch that one.” Helena paused for breath, inhaled, then continued. “Have you had many tips?”

  Detective Chief Inspector Hay sighed, mutely appealing for help from his brother, but Keith appeared fascinated by the plate in front of him.

  “I really can’t tell you that, Helena. Yes, there have been tips. No, we still don’t know who did it.”

  Oh, there have been tips alright, he thought. So far, many were from the same people who always phoned in tips, about any murder, any robbery, any crime. People who apparently had a great deal of time on their hands and very little to do but try to involve themselves in police investigations. Many had theories they would be happy to share with the police. None had actual information. These people were, of course, wasting police time, but they were rarely charged because, well, that really would be a waste of police time.

  “She was Canadian, they say,” continued Helena. “You worked with the Canadians on that last case; they seem to get into an awful lot of trouble over here, don’t they? A Liz something, wasn’t it?” She threw a quick look at Hay. He had, thought Helena, mentioned this Liz person’s name frequently during their last dinner—well, frequently for Stephen. Twice, anyway.

  “That’s right,” said Stephen. “This is lovely, Helena. What herb is it that I’m tasting in the sauce?” Having engaged the charming Helena on one of her favourite subjects, he managed to dodge other police-related matters for the rest of the evening, and even Keith managed to rejoin the conversation before dessert (cherries jubilee) was served.

  Having reluctantly turned down the offer of more excellent burgundy, Hay drove back to his home. His father’s will had given Keith the money, Stephen the property. Both of them had found this a good arrangement. Hay parked in his small garage, then let himself into his empty house.

  It was a small gallery, in the heart of Marylebone. Hay and Wilkins arrived shortly after six and were greeted warmly by Acting High Commissioner Paul Rochon. In attendance was the young Canadian artist whose work was being celebrated, and a waiter offering sparkling wine. Several dozen guests had already arrived at the opening reception and were chatting in groups or intently studying the paintings. The artist, Louise Chapman, didn’t remotely resemble what Hay expected of an internationally renowned artist. There was nothing at all flamboyant about her: she wasn’t swathed in shawls, nor was she sporting a mass of unkempt hair and enormous earrings. Hay wondered briefly how and why he had come up with such a stereotype in the first place. Louise Chapman was, in fact, a small and plain-looking young woman who appeared somewhat alarmed by her own success.

  Wilkins engaged her in conversation while Hay wandered off to examine the paintings. They were, as Rochon had commented, very jarring and brutal winter landscapes. Not Constables, at any rate, thought Hay, referencing the romantic painter of a bucolic, historic England. He wondered if this was how many Canadians saw their land: unforgiving, frozen, life-threatening. The paintings were somehow full of hatred. Occasional tiny figures appeared in the paintings; small and virtually insignificant, the figures somehow reminded Hay of the one in Munch’s famous “Scream.” The paintings were definitely of good quality—the brushstrokes were fine and nuanced and the use of colour superb—but after studying the collection he found himself a bit depressed. He understood why Rochon didn’t want one in his living room. He wondered if these paintings were how Forsyth might be feeling in her unheated home in Quebec at that moment, and he felt a tightening in his gut.

  Wilkins had moved on to chat to a clutch of attractive women in the room. Has he even looked at the paintings? wondered Hay. He noticed that Rochon was speaking to three young men on their way out of the gallery. They were rather loud and smiling: one, noticed Hay, was somewhat pear-shaped while another had a pockmarked face. The third was dressed completely in black, including what looked like a modified fedora, and had affected an artistic pose. Having said their farewells, Rochon and Hay caught up with each other again.

  “Good turnout, I think,” said Hay.

  “Not bad,” agreed Rochon.

  “I didn’t realize that Embassies, er, sorry, High Commissions did this sort of thing as well.”

  “Oh yes,” said Rochon. “We have quite an active cultural programme at the High Commission—well, all our posts abroad do. We try to assist Canadian artists in their overseas ventures, and it’s a good way to raise Canada’s profile. In fact, one of those guys,” he indicated the young men just leaving, “is hoping to inveigle us into supporting his work at some point. They’re all art students at some college in southern Ontario. But he won’t have much of a chance—he doesn’t have an impresario or anyone who’s willing to represent him or finance his stuff. We don’t go that far to show the flag,” he added with a grin.

  Hay smiled back. He always found it interesting to learn the range of things with which embassies occupied themselves.

  Rochon continued. “Ah, there’s our Programme Head for Cultural Affairs, Sarah Farell.” Paul raised his eyebrows in that subtle manner that conveys not only acknowledgement, but a request from across a room, without the involvement of any spoken language. The woman, understanding Rochon’s meaning perfectly, quickly joined them.

  “Sarah, this is Detective Chief Inspector Hay of the Yard,” said Rochon. “I was just explaining our cultural programme to him.”

  “Yes,” said Hay, lowering his voice a little. “I’m not sure that I like these paintings much, but I recognize that they are very good.”

  Sarah laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that this evening. But serious collectors seem to like them very much—and Louise is such a sweetheart, so it’s nice to give her a bit of a boost.”

  Presently, Wilkins joined Hay and they made their way to Wilkins’s Escort. “What did you think of the paintings?” inquired Hay a bit sarcastically, and to his surprise learned that Wilkins had inspected them in some detail. He actually liked them quite a bit, or so he said, and was thinking of buying one for his girlfriend, Gemma, for her forthcoming birthday. Whether this spoke to Wilkins’s sophisticated taste in art or to the state of his relationship with Gemma was unclear.

  During the review next morning, DCI Hay and his team attempted to posit scenarios about the homicide. The problem was that in order to create a decent hypothesis, they needed some decent information. There was very little so far. It seemed that the victim, Sophie Bouchard, had been killed at the scene, not dumped there after her murder. One young constable helpfully pointed out that had she been dumped there after death, the offender must have been a very large person indeed.

  No one from the Mallard Council Estate could confirm that they had seen or heard anything unusual on the night of the murder. Sophie had been found about a half-mile from her hoste
l. The Council Estate was on a regular bus line and, while one of the drivers normally on the afternoon shift remembered seeing Sophie, he could not remember exactly when, or if anyone had been with her. It was, it seemed, her size that made her stand out.

  Some of the young people were still staying at the hostel, but some, including Bill White, had moved on, having left their contact information with the police. Others had neglected to do so.

  Mme Bouchard had agreed readily to a televised appeal. Her daughter, Sophie, had been dead for some days and it seemed that little, if any, progress had been made. The mother appeared in front of the cameras, tearful but determined, pleading with viewers in her French Canadian accent to help find the man—she said “man,” convinced it could not be a woman—who had killed her only daughter. A tips line had been set up, and several hundred calls were made to police within the first couple of hours, keeping many officers employed but yielding little useful information.

  At least that was Hay’s opinion, as he sifted through the reports sent to him for review. The evident pranksters and publicity seekers had been weeded out, but what remained wasn’t enough to solve a murder. Someone had seen a very large girl with long, dark hair early on the afternoon of January 4 at a café not far from the Mallard Council Estate. The tipster said it was the girl’s size that had struck her, as she’d earlier been reading a newspaper account about the problem of obesity in the United States. At the time, she’d wondered if the girl was American. A young woman who’d been staying at Sophie’s hostel at about the time of the murder called from Edinburgh, confirming that Sophie had been very pleasant but kept to herself. There were a few other reports of sightings; all would be followed up, but no solid leads had surfaced.

  The one thing that particularly stood out was the preliminary toxicology report, which stated that Sophie had ingested Rohypnol, a substance known as a “date-rape” drug. Ironically, no rape or any other type of sexual assault had taken place. No evidence of sexual activity at all had turned up. So, wondered Hay, she was drugged and murdered … but why? Clearly it was not a sex crime—at least not like anything he had seen before. Forensics also found two fine grey fibres under the girl’s jaw. Was it from whatever had been used to smother her?