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Her grief, her suffering, and her parting words stayed with Hay; he grew increasingly frustrated by the lack of progress on the case and the dearth of any useful evidence. The few items found at the crime scene—the cigarette package, condom, and pop bottle—had been sent for further analysis. Hay, however, very much doubted that anyone who left such a pristine crime scene would be likely to leave any identifying markers on a condom or bottle. The murder had been carefully planned, the killer highly organized.

  The amount of Rohypnol, along with the alcohol in the girl’s system, would have rendered her almost unconscious—an easy target for suffocation. But the girl had been found lying on her side; surely it would have been easier to smother her from above, with her lying on her back. Or had she been rolled onto her side post mortem? It must have taken a strong person to do that. The few cameras that were working at the estate that night were focused solely on the entrances to the building. They were being scanned for anything suspicious, but nothing had turned up yet.

  He looked again at the photo of Sophie that her mother had brought in for identification purposes. A young woman laughing at something funny. He fleetingly wondered what she had been laughing about. Sophie was clearly fleshy, but (Hay tried to save himself from the cliché, but it was too late) she had a pretty face.

  Hay knew that, when travelling, people let down their guard. Everything seems new and different to a tourist, so it can be difficult or impossible to tell if something is unusual or even suspicious. Things that would seem odd or out of place at home might be, or at least appear, perfectly normal someplace else. Consequently, travellers could easily become targets. Sophie Bouchard had been far away from family and friends; her idea of what was “normal” might have become a little blurred.

  He thought again of the girl’s mother. Poor woman, he thought for the umpteenth time. He knew that Mme Bouchard was divorced and would have returned to an empty house in Montreal, never to see her beloved daughter again. Damn, he thought, I must be missing something. He swallowed some remnants of cold, black coffee and lit a cigarette—the office was virtually empty anyway—and went back to the beginning of the file.

  It wasn’t just DCI Hay who was frustrated by the lack of progress on the Bouchard case. Detective Sergeant Richard Wilkins was similarly preoccupied. Wilkins found it difficult to imagine that not a single person in the Mallard Council Estate had seen or heard anything unusual on the night of the murder.

  He had spent a considerable amount of time reviewing the interview reports from the estate, and concluded that at least a couple of Mallard’s denizens should be interviewed again. One middle-aged woman had reported that she “might have seen” someone hanging about that evening but could give no particulars; a young mother initially told the police that she had heard what sounded like a struggle but later retracted her story.

  The charming Gemma, however, was becoming annoyed. Across from her sat Richard Wilkins, her beloved, in one of the trendiest new restaurants in the neighbourhood. It was her birthday. And he had given her a very odd and somewhat unpleasant oil painting as a birthday present.

  She might as well have been at home in front of the television for all the attention he was paying her. He had that all-too-familiar look on his face. She studied his face, although she knew this look intimately. Forehead creased, small frown lines between his brows, jaw taut and working. Gemma had the impression that his eyes were somehow staring backwards, gazing at an object in the back of his head rather than anything in actual view. Like, for instance, her. She had taken especial care with her appearance tonight. Not that she didn’t do so every time she went out—she joked to friends that she put on make up to take out the garbage—but she had made a real effort this evening. She looked pretty good, too, she thought. The waiter, at least, seemed to think so, smiling at her roguishly as he poured the Pinot Grigio.

  Gemma’s long, fair hair was secured at the crown, and loopy curls tumbled down her back. She was wearing a fitted dress with a pale blue background and a floral motif in teal and emerald. Her thus-far silent escort was wearing his navy sport coat and grey flannel trousers. If only he weren’t so damned good-looking, thought Gemma, taking a sip of her wine. Balding a bit, perhaps, but very handsome. And very intelligent. And, she sighed, witty. Although she could have done without his dreadful puns.

  “Richard,” she said. And then again, “Richard?”

  The young man roused himself, focused at least one of his eyes, and said, “Yes, darling, what is it?”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what again?”

  “Ignoring me. Thinking about work, no doubt.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said guiltily. “And on your birthday, too. I really am sorry. It’s just this case …”

  “It’s always some case or another,” said Gemma peevishly. “Can’t you just let it go for the evening? It’s not like she’s going anywhere.” Of course she immediately regretted having said that. Richard was looking at her with something very much like horror.

  “No, she’s not,” replied Wilkins steadily, “and not likely to either.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “It’s just that sometimes we don’t seem to … connect, I guess, anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, realizing as he said it that, these days, they seemed to do nothing but apologize to each other.

  The beaming waiter sidled up to the table, flourishing a small pad and pen. They placed their orders—everything on the menu seemed to be “Asian-inspired”—and looked around the restaurant. It was lively—clearly the newest place to see and be seen—and the music was too loud. Having had this thought, Wilkins wondered if he wasn’t becoming like his DCI, Hay, who typically preferred more sedate establishments. Shuddering at the thought of suddenly turning into his boss, he said to Gemma, “It’s been a difficult week. I suspect that Hay is still in the office.” Of course he would never have called his superior “Hay” within earshot. It would have been “Sir” or perhaps “Guv” or even “Boss,” but he felt he could indulge in the use of the surname here.

  “I understand,” said Gemma, raising her cool blue eyes from the tablecloth. She probably didn’t understand, but at least she was making an effort. “I know you can’t talk about the case, but from what I’ve seen in the papers it sounds ghastly. It’s just that I sort of, you know, miss you sometimes.”

  Wilkins nodded. He understood perfectly. During training, it was emphasized that police work was hellish on families and loved ones. That the stress of being married to or involved with a police officer could become unbearable. That children could be left damaged, terrified, or severely depressed. And that it took a very special person to withstand that stress and to resist succumbing to the fear that he or she could be widowed at any moment.

  Yes, Wilkins understood that well enough. But his ongoing doubt was whether Gemma was, in fact, that “very special person.” He loved her. Of that he was sure. She was intelligent, funny, stunning, had a great job in advertising and, as a bonus, her family was moneyed. But Gemma was pretty high-maintenance and he knew that she wanted more of him than he could ever really give. They muddled through, though, and both continually attempted to “work” at the relationship. Although, do you really need to work at a relationship if it’s the right one? He didn’t know the answer to that one.

  Wilkins took a long pull on the Pinot and smiled across at Gemma. “So,” he said, “sorry” (there was that word again) “but I have been pretty preoccupied. I’ll give it a rest. How was your day?”

  Gemma, slightly mollified, smiled back and began recounting her day at the office.

  DCI Hay sank into his usual booth at the Bull’s Head. It was late, but it felt a bit like going home, following a long day that had achieved exactly nothing. At least here he could unwind, if only a little.

  Billy Treacher brought Hay his pint of bitter and returned to the bar. Billy wondered what had happened to the petite brunette who had been with Hay once or tw
ice the previous month. She had been quite attractive, and the two of them seemed to get along well. Had some sort of accent, American probably. Oh well, none of his business. He went off to microwave the shepherd’s pie Hay had ordered for dinner.

  Hay sighed heavily. He picked up his pint and tasted it. It always tasted the same, he thought wryly, unless the pipes were clogged. He sighed once more and wondered, again, what on earth had befallen the young woman behind the estate.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the case. Sophie had been drinking—several witnesses had attested to that and it had been confirmed by forensics. No one who had been interviewed at the hostel could say if she was drunk or not, because they had, by all accounts, been bladdered themselves. Then there was the Rohypnol, and the absence of any sort of sexual activity. No signs of violence.

  She had been close to her family. Her parents were divorced but, while she lived with her mother, she apparently spent time with her father as well. Sophie’s older brother had been devastated to hear of her death, although had apparently remarked to an RCMP officer that she had always been her father’s “favourite.”

  Sophie had never been married. No kids. No known boyfriends. Very few close friends, but the ones she had were devoted to her. Anyway, they had all been in Canada at the time of the murder. Hay found it interesting that she had told her mother she wanted to take a criminology course at a community college in Montreal when she’d finished her travels. What had she been planning to do with that? he wondered.

  Billy Treacher presented Hay the shepherd’s pie. Hay stared at the unnatural, angry steam rising from it, thinking he could have made the same thing at home. He did, in fact, have some of the same product in his freezer. But the beer was a lot better here.

  EIGHT

  Canada

  Liz was to meet the cultural attaché of the Russian Embassy, Stanislav Ivanov, for lunch at a popular, if a bit kitschy, Italian restaurant on Somerset. The venue had been suggested by Ivanov, and Liz briefly wondered if he knew that her favourite type of cuisine was Italian. She had spoken to her Super about Ivanov’s unexpected invitation immediately after the phone call, uncertain if such a meeting would be useful or dangerous, professional or undiplomatic. Her Super then spent some time making phone calls. Liz didn’t know with whom he was checking and didn’t much care to know, but later in the day she had been advised that she could accept Ivanov’s invitation, provided she made a full report of the encounter immediately afterward. And she was to make sure that she paid for her own lunch.

  She arrived early and was escorted to a small table in a corner, with a narrow window on one side, a red-and-white checked tablecloth, and a small vase of variegated carnations in the middle. Liz couldn’t help but feel like she was in a Le Carré thriller, even though the Cold War was, ostensibly, over.

  She looked suspiciously at the carnations, half expecting to see a microphone wire trailing from the blooms, then swept her eyes across the room to get a look at her fellow patrons. The feeling of intrigue was heightened as she immediately laid eyes on a balding man scratching his nose. It was none other than Lawrence Fletcher, the CSIS agent she had met some days ago in the Super’s office. Fletcher was with a bulky companion in a black suit, whose back was to Liz. The CSIS agent glanced at Liz with a mild expression and no flicker of recognition.

  Liz was relieved when the waiter brought her the menu, which afforded her something else to look at. She checked her watch, which registered exactly 12:27. Two minutes later and right on time, the Russian cultural attaché strode into the restaurant. He smiled broadly at Liz and made his way to the table. Liz imagined that he shot a knowing smirk towards Fletcher’s table, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said, his even, yellowing teeth glinting behind a smile. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied a bit stiffly, trying not to catch Fletcher’s eye over Ivanov’s right shoulder. “How are you?” He, too, was well. Liz noticed for the first time what a large, evidently fit man Ivanov was. Perhaps during their first meeting he had been dwarfed by the ambassador’s personal assistant. Ivanov was wearing a well-cut grey suit with a striped tie. His grey-blonde hair was brushed straight back from his face, accentuating high cheekbones and an angular chin. In sum, he was a good-looking man, and he knew it. Early forties, reckoned Liz.

  He ordered a bottle of Chianti in flawless Italian—at least so far as Liz could tell it was flawless. The waiter, who smiled at him in recognition and replied in the same language, hustled off to obtain the required beverage.

  “So, you’re quite the polyglot,” said Liz conversationally.

  “No,” replied Ivanaov. “I never have successfully mastered Hungarian.”

  Liz was about to smile at the joke, but Ivanov looked quite serious, then told her that the veal here was very good. He was, in fact, a charming lunch companion, and Liz quickly forgot about Fletcher. Ivanov said he was originally from St. Petersburg but had studied in Moscow and joined the diplomatic corps shortly after graduation. And yes, in response to a question from Liz, he had been tutored privately in English by an Englishwoman. That explained the touch of a London accent to his speech.

  Liz decided on the chicken piccata, while Ivanov (now insisting incongruously on “Stan”) ordered veal saltimbocca. Before lunch arrived, however, Stan asked Liz how the investigation into Laila Daudova’s murder was proceeding. She had rehearsed the answer to this question and told him, essentially, as much as she would have told a journalist. Following leads, speaking to friends and family, trying to get to know more about her, usual police procedure. Did Ivanov—er, Stan—remember seeing anything else from the window on the day she was shot?

  He leaned towards her and regarded her with an air of considerable confidentiality. Liz felt quite deflated when he simply told her that he could remember nothing else. He had seen the woman drop to the ground and the blood seeping through her outer clothing. He hadn’t heard the shot and, while he had looked quickly across the street, saw nothing and no one on the other side.

  She had to ask if any embassy cameras might have picked up the shooter. Ivanov raised his eyebrows.

  “No,” he replied. “Our cameras are solely for the security of the premises.”

  Liz quickly dropped the issue. If the embassy didn’t want to discuss its security arrangements, or any other type of surveillance, it would do no good to pursue the matter.

  “But,” he continued, “it is important for you to know something about the Chechens.” At that moment, the waiter appeared, bearing two very large white dinner plates, and presented lunch with some ceremony. Perfectly seasoned pasta accompanied both the chicken and the veal, and the aroma of garlic, butter, and thyme rose with the steam. Both meals paired well with the fruity Chianti that Liz had accepted (to be polite, she told herself).

  Ivanov raised his glass and said with a broad smile, “Na zdorovie.”

  Liz raised her glass said something similar back to him, and they began to eat. Glancing up, Liz noticed that Fletcher was having his coffee refilled, although she didn’t know how many times he might already have done so.

  After a few bites, Ivanov returned to his subject. The Chechens were, according to him, a fractious people who had never appreciated how much they had benefitted from being a part of Russia. They were a mountain-dwelling, lawless people, prone to radicalism and terrorist acts. They blamed Russia for all the troubles in their province, and the accusation that the Russians were responsible for the disappearances of their loved ones was just the latest in a long line of grievances.

  Following a brief history of the region (which, Liz privately acknowledged, largely tallied with the one provided earlier by the indefatigable Sergeant Ouellette), Ivanov said that despite the bad blood between ethnic Russians and Chechens, the Russian Embassy in Canada would have no reason whatsoever to be involved in the assassination of a Chechen Canadian. Liz wasn’t certain that she believed this. He had gone on at
some length, and Liz was left wondering if he wasn’t, perhaps, protesting too much.

  The waiter reappeared, smiling, and inclined his head quizzically towards Ivanov. Ivanov nodded, although Liz didn’t know to what he was assenting. Presently they were ushered into a small, private smoking room on the second floor. If she wondered whether the Russian would take advantage of their privacy and pass her a brown paper envelope or some sort of bribe, she was mistaken. He merely poured her some espresso and offered a Russian cigarette, which she declined in favour of her own less-noxious brand. Fletcher, thought Liz, must be having kittens.

  Liz asked him casually over coffee if he had any information about the blue-eyed Chechen widow who regularly attended the demonstrations. Stan looked a bit taken aback by the question.

  “Why would I know about her?” he asked, then took a long pull on his cigarette.

  “I just wondered,” answered Liz, watching him closely.

  “I think her name is Madina something or other,” he said, smoke issuing from his nose.

  “Do you think you might have any information about her at the embassy? We haven’t been able to track her down.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied.

  “It would be very useful,” said Liz. “We really want to speak with anyone who knew her.”

  Ivanov studied her with steady blue eyes. “I will see what I can find.”

  “And you’ll phone me?”

  “Yes.”

  Later that afternoon, when Liz debriefed her Super on the meeting, he burst into laughter upon hearing that Fletcher from CSIS had been at the restaurant. Ouellette, also in attendance, grinned as well, in part because the Super was so overcome that the front buttons of his uniform looked perilously close to popping off.

  Stanislav Ivanov brushed some fine, powdery snow off the shoulders of his overcoat and hung it on the wooden coat rack in the corner of his office. He sat down slowly, feeling a bit uneasy. Ivanov had managed to maintain his professional demeanour and exercise his considerable personal charm during his lunch with Inspector Forsyth. He had worked hard to keep his curiosity about the status of the investigation under control.