Not A Clue Read online

  He had found it difficult to gauge what the inspector herself had been thinking and where both he and the embassy stood with respect to the investigation. Not that anyone from the embassy could be touched by Canadian authorities—diplomatic immunity protected them from that. It could, however, turn very nasty indeed if anyone from the embassy was implicated in the murder. Moscow would be furious, and the political ramifications could be dire—not just in Canada, but in more important countries as well.

  His ambassador had agreed that a lunch with Forsyth would be a good idea, to give her a bit of perspective about Chechnya and to try to find out where the investigation stood. He had succeeded, he thought, with the former objective but failed on the second.

  At least the murder of Laila Daudova had achieved one desirable outcome: not a single demonstration had taken place outside the embassy since her death. Sadly, as a result, he could no longer watch the beautiful, blue-eyed Madina Grigoryeva from his window. He quite missed that.

  He summoned his secretary, gave her Madina’s full name and address, and told her to provide the information to Inspector Liz Forsyth of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  Liz drove back to Aylmer, through the dark Ottawa streets and across the Champlain Bridge to the Quebec side. It was snowing, and a heavy snowfall was expected overnight. The blowing snow and darkness, broken only by the juddering reflection of oncoming headlights, would have seemed eerie were it not so commonplace. Liz had to collect Rochester from her neighbours, the Greens. She was exhausted.

  She knew that she shouldn’t have a dog, with her heavy work schedule and great reliance upon her neighbours to look after him during her many absences. But nobody had told Rochester that Liz shouldn’t have a dog. He had lolloped into her yard one day and might as well have announced that he was adopting her. She checked with the SPCA and placed ads in the local papers, but no one came forward to claim him.

  Without a collar or tags, his provenance was unknown, as was his breeding. She talked to the Greens before making things official. They urged her to keep the dog and offered their services to look after him any time. Privately, they thought that she could use the company. Nice girl like that, working all hours and living by herself. Poor thing could use a companion, and a dog would be just the thing.

  The Greens had a point, although Liz would have been mortified to hear herself described as a “poor thing.” Rochester was, however, great company. He certainly tried his best to wag away Liz’s stress and ward off the depression that sometimes overtook her when dealing with especially disturbing cases.

  He was big and black and hairy, and she had called him Rochester while going through a Bronté phase. She still preferred reading the classics to more modern literature, and she abhorred crime fiction. Too much like work. Work. Laila Daudova. Another interview tomorrow. As she had suspected, Ivanov had been able to provide her the name and address of the lovely demonstrator who had lost her husband to, the young widow believed, the Russians.

  The forecast had been correct and a good deal of snow had fallen during the night. Liz went out to warm up the engine and brush the snow off the Honda, wishing for the umpteenth time that she had rented a house with a garage. Given the amount of fluffy snow on the car’s roof, some ten inches of the stuff had fallen. She was relieved that the snowplough had already made it through her neighbourhood, although she realized that she could have problems manoeuvring her car over the pile of snow now deposited at the end of the driveway.

  She had come back inside to pick up her purse, briefcase, and dog when the phone rang. It was Hay. The snow on her boots was already melting into dirty puddles on the kitchen floor and her coat felt damp and heavy.

  “This time difference is quite awkward, isn’t it?” Hay remarked after the initial pleasantries.

  “Yes,” she replied, dragging a nearby kitchen chair towards the back doorway and sinking into it. “Five hours is really inconvenient.”

  “Oh,” he said hastily, “if it’s a bad time—”

  “No, no,” she interjected, realizing how she had sounded. Off to another brilliant start, she thought. “Actually, your timing is good. Just getting ready to go to the office.”

  “Oh, alright then. Good. I’m working at home at the moment and thought I’d give you a ring.”

  “Good,” said Liz. Then she plunged on bravely. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “And yours.”

  Okay, now what? she thought. There was an uncomfortable silence, then suddenly they both began talking at once, asking each other about the headway, or lack thereof, they were making on their respective cases. Once they sorted out who would speak first, they settled into a reasonable sort of dialogue and eventually relaxed into conversation.

  Liz was interested to learn that Hay had spent a couple of evenings at cultural events hosted for visiting Canadian artists by the High Commission. He seemed to enjoy the company of Paul Rochon, the Acting High Commissioner, through whom he had met a painter, a poet, and an eclectic assortment of “wannabe” artists. Hay and Wilkins would be attending a performance of a Canadian jazz dance company later in the week.

  No, Liz had not heard of Louise Chapman, the painter from Saskatchewan, nor did she know of a poet from Burlington. As to the latter, Hay told Liz that she wasn’t missing much, but he had been very impressed by Chapman’s work. Liz was starting to feel she was lacking in some degree of culture—Canadian culture, no less—but was somewhat cheered that she recognized the name of the jazz dance company.

  “I wouldn’t normally go to these things,” said Hay. “But they make a break from trying to figure out who killed that poor young girl. As I’ve told you, we have very little to go on. It’s good of Rochon to include us in the invitations. And,” he continued, “since you Canadians seem bent on getting into trouble over here, it’s probably just as well that I keep up my diplomatic connections.”

  Liz smiled, then briefly wondered to whom “us” referred.

  Hay expressed concern about the aftermath of the ice storm, as he was still hearing news reports of storm damage and power outages, but Liz reassured him that, in Aylmer and Ottawa at least, things were pretty much back to normal. Large parts of the province of Quebec, however, were still suffering badly.

  Hay then asked after Rochester’s health, which unaccountably pleased Liz. “Well, I’d better get going,” she said, having assured Hay that Rochester was well. “I have to drop him off at the neighbours and then meet Ouellette for another witness interview. Thanks so much for calling.”

  “Very nice to talk to you, too,” he said. And then, since he didn’t know what else to say, he said goodbye.

  NINE

  England

  Acting Canadian High Commissioner Paul Rochon said goodbye and hung up the phone. The Prime Minister’s Office—PMO. Again. Did they actually think the High Commission, in general, and Paul, in particular, were in any way equipped, or even authorized, to solve the Bouchard murder? Paul slumped back into his chair. He found himself craving a cigarette, even though he’d quit almost ten years ago. He wished, yet again, that a replacement for High Commissioner Carruthers would be found quickly.

  One of Paul’s numerous problems was that the Bouchard case had been widely, and sensationally, reported back in Canada. Television and print correspondents were on the ground in London at the moment, breathlessly reporting to their Canadian audiences the latest information—or speculation—about the case. Some of the Canadian correspondents had apparently befriended members of the British tabloid press. Each vied with the other to produce the most sensational headlines.

  What was, in essence, the tragic end to the life of a young Canadian traveller had somehow become a political football back in Ottawa. Of course, Paul reflected, Canadians died abroad. Happened all the time. But rarely were they murdered and left naked behind council estates. The demanding and frankly irritating PMO official seemed to be calling the High Commission hourly. The PMO was trying hard to keep ahead
of the press, but there was little new that Paul could offer.

  As for the Canadian foreign minister, he was a harried-looking man at the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times. Clearly the minister’s political staff were doing their best to keep their cerebral but somewhat fragile minister in the loop.

  Somehow the Bouchard murder had morphed into a controversy in Canada about government funding for its missions abroad. Rochon found this a puzzling leap. No amount of government funding would have kept Sophie Bouchard alive. The Official Opposition, however, had pounced on the case to demonstrate that Foreign Affairs had been gutted and left virtually without resources, while the second opposition party was claiming that Canadian embassies and High Commissions spent far too much time on official entertaining and hobnobbing with dignitaries, while doing little to protect the interests of Canadians abroad.

  Of course, none of this had anything to do with Sophie Bouchard and whoever had taken her life. But it meant that part of Paul’s long days now included drafting talking points, responses for Question Period in the House of Commons, and briefing notes for the press. The murder had become a political lightning rod for the ongoing and contentious debate over government funding.

  This was taking a toll on Paul Rochon. A nervous man at the best of times, he had virtually lost his appetite and found himself dreading going to the office in the mornings. Worse yet was having to field phone calls from Ottawa in the middle of the night.

  Another complication, closer to home, was that no replacement for the murdered Head of the Trade Section, Natalie Guévin, had yet been named. Natalie had been a fine, dedicated officer and Paul missed her calm and professional demeanour. So now the Acting Head of Trade at the High Commission was the arrogant, ambitious Maxwell Shaunessy, the number two in the section.

  Paul had had little to do with Shaunessy prior to Natalie’s shocking murder. He remembered that Natalie had not been impressed with young Maxwell and hadn’t trusted him. With reason, too, reflected Paul. He had concluded that Shaunessy was one of those people whose ambition outstripped his talent, so the handsome young officer made up for that deficiency by stealing the contacts of his colleagues and, to coin a phrase, kissing up and kicking down. These tactics, cleverly executed, had resulted in his rapid rise through the ranks.

  The rest of the trade section, conscientious and devoted Canadian and local officials, resented and disliked their Acting Head. But there was nothing that Paul could do until Natalie was replaced. He added “call Personnel again re: trade replacement” to his already lengthy to-do list. He didn’t know how he would make it through another official dinner that very night, at the residence of the eccentric Swedish ambassador.

  The details of inter-jurisdictional cooperation with Canada on the Bouchard case had been ironed out early in the investigation, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were in regular contact with their British counterparts. The RCMP had followed up with Sophie’s family and friends in Montreal, but little of interest had turned up.

  Late on the afternoon of January 22, DCI Hay took a phone call at his home from Inspector Allan Ensworth of the Mounties. Today, Ensworth had some surprising information. During routine investigation into the whereabouts of those close to Sophie, it had come to light that her father, René Bouchard, had in fact been in Amsterdam at the time of the murder. M. Bouchard had not offered this information to the police when first questioned.

  It was through routine police work that this had come to light. Bouchard had told his employer and landlord of his planned trip to Amsterdam, and the police subsequently took a good look at the relevant airline manifests. What this might have to do with the murder was unclear, and perhaps disturbing, and Hay hung up the phone, thinking hard. He remembered that Sophie’s mother, Marie, was divorced but that Sophie retained a good relationship with her father. What had he been doing in Amsterdam? Did he even know that his daughter was a short plane ride away?

  Next morning, prior to the daily meeting of the murder squad, Hay began the process of obtaining clearance to work with the KLPD, or the Dutch National Police Services Agency. He wanted to get a picture of the movements of Sophie’s father while he was in Amsterdam. During the murder squad meeting, Wilkins suggested that he wanted to re-interview at least two of the residents of the Mallard Council Estate. Hay agreed readily, assigning him a uniformed officer to go along. At least, he thought, they had a few leads left to follow. The last thing he wanted was for the morale of the team to start flagging due to lack of progress.

  DS Wilkins and Police Constable Etheridge contacted the young mother who had initially reported hearing sounds of a struggle and then retracted her statement. This bit of information was of particular interest to Wilkins, because, according to Forensics, there had been no struggle at all during the murder of Sophie Bouchard.

  Wilkins rang the bell and a baby began crying immediately. So immediately, in fact, that he briefly wondered if it was something like one of those doorbells that sounded like dogs barking. But no, there was a real baby alright, slung over his mother’s hip and bellowing loudly. The child’s mother did not appear impressed by her visitors. In fact, she looked as though she hadn’t slept for several days. Greasy brown hair hung about her shoulders and there was a purplish hue underneath her eyes.

  She waved them in vaguely with her free hand and made no attempt to quiet the child. Perhaps she had deemed it a lost cause. She placed him in a cot and asked the two young men what they wanted.

  “I’ve already spoken t’your lot,” she said, showing bad teeth as she began to speak. “I’ve nowt else to say.”

  “Might I ask you, then, what you heard on the night of January 4?” he asked.

  “Nowt.”

  “But initially you thought you did?” He found himself having to speak quite loudly due to the constant wailing of the child.

  “I were mistaken.”

  “About what?”

  The young woman looked suspiciously at Wilkins from beneath unkempt brows.

  “I thought I ’eard summat, right? I wanted to be ’elpful. I thought as I ’eard some sort o’ fight. But there’s always fights goin’ on ’round ’ere. Any road, t’baby were cryin’.” Wilkins glanced over at the cot. The baby’s furious little face was florid, his tiny fists clenched in outrage. He kept up a continuous howl, occasionally stopping for breath.

  Wilkins soon realized that he wasn’t about to learn much here. If the young woman had heard anything, she wasn’t about to tell them. And if, in fact, the baby boy had been crying that night, it was even doubtful that any of the neighbours could have heard much. The young PC had reached much the same conclusion and closed his notepad. He felt a migraine coming on.

  They said their goodbyes, and, as they were leaving, she said, “You might want try Mrs. Trotter in 345. She told me she’d seen someone ’anging about that night. She’s a good ’un, Mrs. Trotter. You could try ’er.”

  Mrs. Trotter was, in fact, the other person they had on their follow-up list for the Mallard Council Estate. They trudged up to apartment 345, having found the elevator broken. Eileen Trotter was a middle-aged woman living alone. She invited Wilkins and Etheridge into her small, neat flat and, insisting that the kettle had just boiled, quickly produced tea and digestive biscuits.

  She’s a nice-looking woman, thought Wilkins. Comfortable, a bit motherly. A quick look around the flat showed no evidence of children. No photographs, anyway.

  “So,” she said, “I suppose you’re ’ere about the man I saw ’anging about.”

  “Yes,” assented Wilkins. “Can you remember what you saw on January 4th that interested you?”

  “Well, it was about four o’clock—”

  “Four o’clock,” interrupted Wilkins. “As early as that?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, it was about four because I was starting to make my dinner. I’d only finished chopping the veg for the spaghetti sauce and the whole works has to simmer for about an hour and a half. I g
lanced out window.”

  “Your kitchen window faces …”

  “North. Towards what some of ’em call a park.” Wilkins made a mental note to have a look out the window before they left.

  “And what did you see then?”

  “A man. Young. By ’is movement, anyways. Bit stringy. Black baseball cap on. Couldn’t see ’is face. Jeans and a black overcoat with some markings on back.” No, she didn’t know what the markings were—maybe a logo or some writing, but nothing she could recognize. “I think ’e ’ad one of them ’oodie things on because it seemed to have come out the back of his coat at the neck.”

  Not the best description Wilkins had ever heard, but it was all they had so far.

  “What interested you?”

  “Well, just as I ’adn’t seen ’im before. And ’e was moving strange. Going back and forth across path. Almost like ’e was measuring something. Zig-zagging, like.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t that interested at the time. I put metal screen over t’sauce. To stop it bubbling over,” she said, in reply to a curious look from the PC, “and went to watch telly. I s’pose I looked at ’im for a moment. I didn’t know it would be important.”

  Of course she didn’t, thought Etheridge, scribbling his notes. She was making dinner and saw someone outside—hardly reason to call 999.

  “And you didn’t recognize him?”

  “Nah.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “Nah.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain about the time?”

  “Yeah. Oh,” she said, cocking her head, “I understand. The murder were meant to be committed during the night, weren’t it? But no, I saw that man about four o’clock.”

  Mrs. Trotter was very happy to show off her gleaming kitchen. It was evident to Wilkins that Sophie Bouchard’s murder would have been in clear view from the window.