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  “The little park there—is it floodlit?” he asked.

  “It’s s’posed to be,” agreed Mrs. Trotter, “but lamps been burnt out for ages. Some of us ’uv complained, but …” She shrugged.

  “Thank you very much for your cooperation. You’ve been very helpful. And for the tea.” Etheridge nodded his appreciation as well, and they left the quiet flat to climb down the drab, concrete stairwell.

  “So,” said Etheridge, “someone might have planned the attack and was doing a reccy?”

  “It’s possible,” said Wilkins, “although what Sophie Bouchard had to do with this place is anybody’s guess. I’ll talk to Hay, but I think we should get some of the boys back over here to see if anyone matches the description she gave us. It might not be a bad idea to float the description around Sophie’s hostel, either.”

  In Hay’s experience, the Dutch police were extremely efficient, and his latest contact was no exception. Hay learned that Sophie’s father, René Bouchard, left Montreal on Thursday, December 25, direct to Amsterdam on a KLM flight. He returned to Canada on Monday, January 6. Bouchard had stayed in Amsterdam for the duration and taken a room in a mid-range hotel. Hay remembered that he, himself, had stayed with that same hotel chain many years ago during a visit to the Netherlands. Cozy, he recalled, with an enormous buffet breakfast. There was no indication that Bouchard had travelled outside Holland during that period. As to his activities in the country, the KLPD hadn’t had any reason to monitor the movements of a Canadian tourist.

  Why, he wondered, would Bouchard have been travelling on Christmas Day? Granted, it wasn’t necessarily a bad decision if you weren’t too keen on Christmas. The aircraft would have been almost empty. The return date, too, would have avoided much of the post–New Year rush. So perhaps he was just a canny traveller.

  He decided to pass this information on to the RCMP. They could figure out if they wanted to follow up any further with René Bouchard.

  “You’re joking,” Wilkins said in considerable surprise. He had returned from the interviews at the Mallard Council Estate and entered his boss’s office as Hay was hanging up the phone.

  “I most certainly am not,” said Hay, a bit impatiently. “That’s what Ensworth of the RCMP office in Ottawa just reported. Six years ago, Sophie Bouchard’s father, René, was brought in for questioning in Montreal in connection with the abduction and sexual assault of a young girl. Nothing stuck, and no arrest was made. Apparently a twelve-year-old girl was abducted on her way home from school and molested. Not raped, but fondled, and of course the child was frightened out of her wits. She couldn’t provide a very good description, but Bouchard was in the area at the time and drove a similar type of vehicle: a blue van. Why is it always a blue van? Bouchard vaguely resembled the description given by the girl. He had an airtight alibi and was let go.”

  “I think in the States it’s always a white van,” said Wilkins irrelevantly.

  Hay pushed the fingers of both hands into his white hair and leaned back into his chair. This case was becoming increasingly opaque. That it crossed jurisdictions and required the necessary involvement of Interpol made it all the more cumbersome.

  “So what if,” said Wilkins, “Bouchard is some sort of sexual predator who’s never been caught. Do you think he might have gone to Amsterdam for some sort of sexual tourism?”

  “I suppose so,” said Hay. “That’s possible. Although those types usually go to Asia. But what does it have to do with his daughter? Unless, perhaps, he molested her as a girl?”

  “I guess that wouldn’t be unheard of,” agreed Wilkins. Much as he loved his job, getting into this kind of territory made his skin crawl. His boss was becoming increasingly tetchy as well. Wilkins had noticed this was often the case when an investigation dragged on.

  “And he was in Europe during the murder,” continued Wilkins, “although we have no information suggesting that he ever left the Netherlands prior to his return to Canada. Even if we want to go down this road, what possible motive could he have to murder his own daughter?”

  Hay shook his head. “No idea. But we had best continue to look into this. In any event, the RCMP said they would follow up.”

  The mood in the office had become sombre. So Wilkins offered, “Or, Sir, we may just have someone who hates cornflakes.”

  Hay looked up in some confusion. “Hates cornflakes, Wilkins?”

  “Yes, Sir. You know. A cereal killer.”

  “Out, Wilkins,” said Hay, pointing towards the door.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Wilkins as he rose to leave, but they both felt a little less oppressed than they had before.

  TEN

  Canada

  Liz and Ouellette met six members of Independence United at an ill-maintained bungalow in Ottawa’s east end. Ouellette privately found the name of the organization to be rather an amusing oxymoron but kept his thoughts to himself. Although the group members had been interviewed previously, Liz was interested to see them for herself.

  They were ushered into a small, dingy living room in the basement. It was carpeted throughout with knobbly indoor/outdoor carpeting and furnished with a haphazard assortment of chairs. The room felt chilly; the detectives weren’t sure to what extent, if at all, the heat was functioning, so they kept their coats on. Following introductions, Liz and Ouellette were seated on wooden chairs, incongruously covered with frilly, floral seat cushions tied to the slats in the chair-backs. This downstairs apartment, they learned, was rented by one of the young men—Tony Blackwell, an earnest young man sporting a long blonde ponytail and beard.

  Liz determined that the six young persons, four men and two women, comprised the entire membership of the Ottawa chapter of Independence United. Tony Blackwell, who had introduced himself as spokesman, launched without preamble into a description of the organization’s mandate.

  “We believe,” he said, regarding Liz sanctimoniously, “that peoples who want to be freed from the government of any artificially formed state should have the right to self-determination. We support these efforts everywhere we can.”

  One of the young women, a stunning red head dressed completely in black and wearing high-heeled black leather boots, added, “Most, if not all, states are artificial. Imposed from outside by elites with their own agendas and no consideration for the people, or the histories and cultures of those they oppress. Just harnessing the people for their own selfish ends, be they political or economic.”

  Ouellette looked quickly at the faces of the others in the group. They were enraptured. Their faces glowed with the faith of true believers, and all nodded as their Boudicca spoke. While the ponytailed young man was nominally the spokesman, it was clear where the power in this group resided.

  “It is down to the individual to decide when and if he, or she, decides to become a part of a larger whole,” she continued. “We are all born to be free, to make our own choices, and to decide who we live with. Governments are unnatural and harmful. And of course,” she added, “we support many other international causes as well. We stand with any group dedicated to freedom and the resistance of oppression.” She raised her chin even higher and fixed her cool blue eyes on Sergeant Gilles Ouellette, as though daring him to disagree with her unimpeachable beliefs.

  For his part, Ouellette was itching to enter into a political debate with these imbeciles and demolish their puerile arguments, but held his tongue and continued his note-taking. He couldn’t quite fathom whether this group thought they were some sort of anarchists or believed themselves to have invented a novel strain of political theory. No wonder, he thought, they have only six members. It was surprising they had that many, although it was clear what, or who, the draw was.

  Liz, too, was bemused by the political views being spouted with such certitude. The group members were very young. Liz thought they were in their late teens or very early twenties. Perhaps their ages accounted for the simplicity and intensity of their beliefs. In a way, she envied them their conviction but f
ound it difficult to believe this organization was “international.” She asked where they were headquartered.

  “Cincinnati,” came the unexpected reply. The answer was provided by the red-haired vixen, who had introduced herself as Mila Krasniyeva. It might have been interesting to pursue further the origins of the “movement,” but Liz could tell that her sergeant was having some trouble smothering a grin, so she asked quickly, “How many of you were at the demonstration outside the Russian Embassy the day that Laila Daudova was killed?”

  “Just three of us,” the ponytail answered quickly, studying the carpet. “Me, Pierre, and Andrea.” Pierre was Pierre Thibault, and Andrea Cumming was the woman who was, well, not red-haired and beautiful.

  “Did you go together?”

  “No,” said Andrea. “We met up at the embassy. It was difficult to get around due to the ice storm, so we all made our own way there.”

  “Did you know Laila Daudova well?”

  “No,” answered Andrea. “Didn’t even know her name until we saw the news. We, uh, didn’t stick around after she was shot. We thought it might be some kind of nut … well, it was some kind of nut, right? And we didn’t want to stay to get shot at. We all took off.”

  Ouellette interjected innocently, “So you didn’t stay to try to help Mrs. Daudova?”

  Now, now, thought Liz, grinning inwardly, don’t try to score points, Sergeant.

  “Well,” said Pierre, speaking for the first time, “I really did think she was dead. She looked dead. There was lots of blood. We were scared.”

  “Of course,” said Liz, nodding. “Do any of you remember anything, anything at all that happened before the shooting? Anything you saw, or heard, maybe?”

  The three shook their heads.

  “Something right afterwards, perhaps?”

  No, none of them had seen anything. It had been very cold and they were just trying to keep warm, while supporting the Chechens who had lost their loved ones. Then they had fled.

  Liz asked them if they knew any of the Chechen demonstrators well. No, the Chechens seemed to be quite inward, according to Pierre. Andrea added that they didn’t seem to understand why the demonstrators from Independence United joined in their demonstrations. A brief discussion ensued, during which the young people agreed that any confusion about their role must have been due to the language barrier.

  Later, in the car, Ouellette could bite his tongue no longer. “Tabernac! What a bunch of crap is that? These people don’t have anything better to do? They know nothing! So every person should somehow be his very own state if he wants? Where do people get these crackpot ideas?”

  “Cincinnati,” Liz replied gravely, and they both burst into laughter.

  “I’m not sure if that group is just naïve, or if they’re hiding something,” continued Liz. “The ponytail was looking a bit edgy, but then we often have that effect on people.” As Ouellette drove the squad car carefully down the gloomy, frozen streets, she added, “Even their name’s a bit of an oxymoron, don’t you think?”

  Rochester growled deeply, shaking his head furiously. His neck and shoulders were low to the ground, paws outstretched, and hindquarters high in the air. He would never relinquish his fearsome grip on his prey, which, in this case, happened to be a somewhat battered bathroom towel that had seen better days. At the other end of the towel was his mistress, Liz, who was on her knees, laughing as she attempted to pull the towel away from the dog. This was Rochester’s favourite game. When he won, as he was routinely allowed to, he would take a victory lap around the living room, then present the towel to Liz so they could enjoy another round.

  “Good boy,” said Liz. “Well done, buddy, but I need a break.”

  Rochester stopped in mid-lap and, realizing that the game was over, briefly shook the towel in order to break its neck before tossing it aside and taking a nap.

  Liz got up from the floor and collapsed into her couch. She lit a cigarette and gazed fondly at her dog. He was certainly a welcome distraction from her case, which was going nowhere fast. As if that wasn’t frustrating enough, the brass in the RCMP, the government, and the press were all over the case. She knew that shouldn’t bother her, but it did, and it affected her focus.

  Forensics had given her everything they had, which was minimal. While Ballistics had determined the type of weapon used, no record of any recent transactions involving such a weapon had turned up. Laila seemed to have had few friends, if any, and the people she did know had been demonstrating alongside her. The Chechens were united in blaming the Russians. But why would the Russian Embassy need to kill a young woman involved in tiny, if perhaps annoying, demonstrations?

  She leaned back and took a long drag. What had happened to the people who had disappeared in Chechnya? she wondered. Where was Laila’s brother? Dead, or mouldering in a prison somewhere? People disappeared all the time, in every country and for countless reasons. Some had accidents, were murdered, kidnapped, lost their memories, wandered off, left their spouses, assumed new identities. There were numerous reasons why people disappeared. According to the demonstrators, these particular disappearances were political. According to the Russians, it was the Chechen authorities themselves who were responsible.

  Rochester opened an eye and, satisfied that Liz was still there, went back to sleep. Liz looked at him through red-rimmed eyes and wished she could do the same.

  Maybe, thought Liz, the answer is closer to home. Laila’s husband had a pretty flimsy alibi. She would get Ouellette to call on Pickwick’s Parking, the company that owned several lots in Ottawa, including the one in which Daudov worked. Pickwick’s had told police that Daudov signed in at 8:53 on the morning of the day his wife was murdered, and closed the lot more than an hour early—at 5:20—upon learning of his wife’s death from one of her fellow demonstrators. They still had no idea of Daudov’s movements between those times. Perhaps the company could furnish some additional information.

  In fact, Daudov had been told that his wife was dead by the blue-eyed young woman who regularly demonstrated outside the embassy, protesting the disappearance of her husband. The young woman’s whereabouts had been unknown until Stanislav Ivanov of the Russian Embassy—or at least his secretary—had provided Liz with her address. Liz and Ouellette were meeting the young woman, Madina Grigoryeva, later in the morning. And Liz thought that another call on Mr. Daudov would also be in order.

  Rasul Daudov sat at the small wooden table and was trying to finish a piece of stale toast. Before him were a mug of instant coffee and a picture of his wife, Laila. He hadn’t even noticed that large tears were leaking from his eyes onto the plate.

  He still couldn’t believe that she was gone. This lovely, generous woman who had joyfully fled Chechnya with him, who had consented to be his wife when he had nothing to offer her but vague hopes. Laila, he thought. No, not this. Not my Laila. He picked up the photo and ran a finger across her face, her lips, somehow hoping it would bring her back.

  He hoped and prayed that the Canadian authorities would find the killer. He placed the photo back on the table. Rasul didn’t even care that the police evidently suspected him. He hoped they were just being thorough and would soon capture his wife’s murderer. But in his heart he knew who the killers were. He knew that the Russians were behind this. In a flash of anger, he glared at her photo, asking himself again why she insisted on going to the demonstrations. Like a red flag to a bull, he thought.

  Rasul’s anger extended itself to Bula, Laila’s missing brother, whose disappearance had fuelled Laila’s repeated attendance at the demonstrations. He picked up the stained yellow mug and took a last swig of very sweet coffee. Laila used to tease him about how much sugar he took, he thought sadly. Bad for his health.

  Today he would go to the parking lot on Montreal Road. That was his job, and anyway, he had nothing else to do. A couple of days earlier he had been building a new life for himself and Laila. Now the future looked black, frightening, and lonely. Rasul heaved a sig
h and pushed himself back from the table. Slowly he put on his heavy boots and thrift store parka, and walked mechanically down the stairs to the entrance of the apartment building.

  The bus stop was a few moments’ walk from the building, but the sidewalk was icy and a stiff wind was blowing from the north. He paused to pull the hood of his parka over his head.

  Suddenly he felt himself carried upward and back by an unseen force. As he hit the concrete, the blast of excruciating pain kicked in and he could no longer breathe. The pain didn’t last for long, though. He gave one mighty twitch. And, in an instant, Rasul Daudov lay dead on the Ottawa sidewalk, his dark eyes still wide with shock, his blood soaking through his thrift store parka.

  The telephone rang as Andrea Cumming was attempting to pull a comb through her wet, tangled hair. Andrea, the other female member of the Ottawa chapter of Independence United, was not a great beauty like her associate Mila Krasniyeva and, no matter how short she cut it or how long she wore it, her fine, frizzy hair engaged her in daily confrontation. Andrea was getting ready to go to her part-time cashier job at Zellers. She was surprised to hear the phone ringing so early.

  “Hello?” she said, her wet feet sticking to the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

  “Andrea. It’s Tony.” It was Tony Blackwell, her pony-tailed confederate from Independence.

  “Tony, hi. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to make sure that you—well, I’m sure you wouldn’t—but just wanted to make sure that you won’t say anything about, well, the demonstration the day that woman was killed.”

  “I told you,” said Andrea, frowning. “You know you can count on me.”

  “I do, I do know,” said Tony hurriedly. “It’s just that, you know, this is, well, different.” Blackwell’s palms were sweating and the handset of his phone was becoming sticky.

  “Yes, Tony. And I know you don’t want to let Mila down,” she said, with just a trace of bitterness in her voice.