A Three Day Event (25 page)

Where Liam had been situated was out of sight from the road, indeed at the farthest remove possible, deep into the woods. It was common knowledge that he was spending most afternoons working on the course. Nobody’s schedule was so tight that they couldn’t slip away for fifteen minutes. Trainers, competitors, students, vets, managers: in a stable timetables are so highly individualized, nobody pays much attention to what anyone else is doing.

Michel, for example, riding down to the warm–up ring to school a horse as he claimed, could just as easily have hacked around the cross–country course and met up with Liam, on purpose or by chance. Hacking out wasn’t unusual if the horse was fussy or ring–stale, or had been schooled hard for several days running.

Hy could have ridden out on the cross–country course instead of through the trails above his own barn as he normally did. And he could have left for Montreal later than he said. There’d be no traffic going
into
Montreal in the late afternoon. And he hadn’t arrived at his mother’s house before seven.

Roch could have gone into town for supplies and whipped onto the course in his truck instead on any pretext whatever. A rough service track, wide enough for a car or truck, necessarily wound through the course, sometimes paralleling the jump course, sometimes wandering off through more hospitable terrain, but always within easy walking distance of the next jump. No one would have noticed a vehicle out on the course because it was such an ordinary sight.

The same held true for Gilles or Benoit, Guy or even Fran. They all drove around the site for one reason or another at various times of the day. In fact, however, Guy said that at four o’clock he was in his car coming back from St. Hyacinthe where he was checking data at the vet school for a monograph he was writing. He went directly to the house and worked on his reef tank from then until dinner. He had been oblivious to all else.

Fran claimed to have finished his last lesson at three and left the barn for home. His wife confirmed his arrival home shortly after, although her voice shook noticeably in the telling. But this seemed natural because she was known to be shy and rather timid. Her English was weak and her French not much better. She and Fran spoke German together.

Thea said she had been working at her computer all afternoon, but when Bridget claimed to have telephoned her from Roch’s office (confirmed by Roch), she remembered she had taken a break and gone for a walk. Nobody challenged her. Nobody had seen her. Which meant that she was lying–or that she had gone for a walk and forgotten, that is to say it meant nothing at all.

Jocelyne’s time was her own once the horses were looked after, as long as Michel didn’t need her to set up jumps for a schooling. As it happened, his last horse of the day was being schooled on the flat, so he didn’t need her. She might have been in the stable yard, cleaning out the horse van, as she claimed, or she might not.

It would be impossible to question every person who walked in and out of the barn about their movements at any given minute or hour. In a barn the routines are either completely invariable–feeding, mucking–out–or completely individual. Time is an elastic notion in a stable. And even feeding time, rigorously observed–was just a fifteen minute operation. Before or after…

Really the meeting had only served to give notice that the body had been found, that the police were not being called in yet, and that everyone present could expect to be interviewed at length in the course of the day. Polo emphasized that nobody in particular was under suspicion, that they were only trying to accumulate as much information as possible to keep publicity to a minimum in the long term. This explanation was accepted at face value. Everyone pledged their cooperation with varying degrees of enthusiasm and confidence.

The whole tone of the meeting had been curiously dry and detached. It was, Polo realized, because the victim in the case was so peripheral to the lives of the people here. He was–
déraciné–
disconnected, not just from his cultural roots as the French word usually implied, but alienated from everyone here who knew him. Nobody had
cared
about him, to put it kindly. They had thought him gone from their lives forever, so the fact that he was dead made little additional impact.

That Liam had been tolerated by all with feelings ranging from neutrality to dislike to hatred made the meeting seem like a year–end inventory at
Tissus Clar–Mor,
as Hy had put it. And even without his encouragement, Polo noticed, everyone was impatient and more than ready to go on with their routines. As though nothing of any importance had occurred. A sad requiem, he thought, even for a loser like Liam.

They had split up their functions. Roch said he would follow up on Benoit and Gilles. Polo said he would talk to Michel, Jocelyne, Guy, and Bridget in the course of the day. He added (without saying why) that he had made a date with Thea later on in any case. Sue Parker had not been assigned any particular role and maybe, Polo now mused, that was a mistake. Left to her own devices, she might stir things up in the wrong places.

Ruthie had insisted on taking part. Polo suggested talking to Fran, and Eva too if she wanted. Hadn’t Jocelyne said something about her being afraid of Liam? ‘You can show off your fancy French with him or your German. Either way he’ll appreciate it instead of thinking you’re a snob.’ What Polo didn’t add was that he thought Fran was ‘safe’ for Ruthie to talk to. He was a long shot as the killer in Polo’s mind. Too old, not strong enough.

Caroline had cleared and cleaned the tables and shoved them back into their normal alignment. Boarders were arriving in singles and groups for pre–or post–ride breakfasts. Polo and Ruthie moved to a table at the back and Ruthie started to walk him through the notes she had made during the phone call with Jacques Lallouz.

“The report isn’t going to be published until August,” she said, “but the proofs are ready now. It’s going to be called “Violence and Racism in Quebec.” The committee’s made up of a whole group of interested organizations: Congress, of course, and the
Commission des droits de la personne du Québec,
and the
Centre maghr
é
bin de recherche et d’information,
amongst others
.
It’s sponsored by the Department of Multiculturalism and Citizenship. Jacques says the research is first–rate.

“Let’s see,” she said, flipping the pages of her steno pad back and forth, ”so where should I start…? Well, there’s a lot of stuff in the report that’s either plain old common sense or stuff most educated people know. Like that poverty and unemployment and political uncertainty and the lack of action by political leaders all contribute to making people feel marginalized, and that’s why they blame minorities and immigrants for their problems. No big surprise there.

“Then there’s all kinds of stuff about racism in schools and how it can be prevented, blah, blah, initiatives the police can take, which by the way they’re doing a lot of, only you’d never know it from the bad press the police here get, and stuff on media responsibility, blah, blah.

“Okay, but here’s where it really gets interesting–or at least I think it does for this situation. See, they pose the question of whether Quebec is actually a racist society. Not whether there are racist incidents, ‘cause there are all kinds of them. So what else is new? There are racist activities going on all over Canada, but somehow people seem to have this idea that Quebec is more–you know–
inherently
racist than other parts of Canada?”

Polo sighed. “I always wondered if that was really true. I always thought we–French–Canadians, I mean–were just more up front and open about our feelings and prejudices.”

“Oh, Polo,” Ruthie sighed, her equilibrium restored, “calling yourself French–Canadian is
so–o
old hat
.”

“Old hat?”

“
Vieux jeu
.”

“What am I then?”

“You’re q
uébécois.
You’ve been
québécois
for ages now.”

“Oh yeah? Who says?”

“Oh, come on, Polo, I don’t believe you’re that out of touch with what’s politically correct here. Don’t you even read the news?”

“Ruthie, you have no idea how out of touch with
everything
most horse people are. I mean, I spend half my time travelling in the States and the rest of Canada and Europe, and even when I’m not, my contacts are almost all horse–related. Trust me, these people never, but
never,
think about provincial politics. Unless it’s a question of whether you can get better grants for shows from the province or from the feds.

“And every competition rider I know who’s serious thinks internationally. You think Michel considers himself
québ
é
cois
? No way. Maybe when he’s buttering up his syndicate or for stories in
La
Voix de L’Est
. But you listen to him in English language interviews. It’s Mr. Canada then. Because the big show sponsors are all national or global–banks, insurance companies, brokerage firms, car companies…”

“It just has such a quaint,
folklorique
ring these days, ‘French–Canadian’…”

“Don’t care. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.” He gestured to her notes. “Okay, go on. What’s the scoop?
Are
we more racist?”

“Well,
that’s
what I find so interesting. This report makes a distinction between
racism
and
xenophobia
. And it looks like
les québécois–
are more
xenophobic
than racist.”

“Meaning…?”

“Sorry. Well, it means a fear of strangers. And you see,
fear
is the operative word here.
Afraid
of others is not a great thing to be, but it’s a more benign form of
true
racism–the neo–nazis and all–which is based on a feeling of
superiority
over other races. For example, the Ku Klux Klan and Heritage Front, the worst of the racist groups, have never really taken hold in Quebec. Probably partly because of the language barrier. But also because racism in Quebec, I mean racism as a
philosophy,
has only been really active amongst the intellectuals–I mean,
Le Devoir
up until the sixties was sometimes viciously anti–semitic–but it never took serious hold in the popular imagination, the really bad stuff, the stuff that leads to violence.

“Now look at these two columns I drew up, and you can see how the one is different from the other.”

Polo took her pad and perused the two scribbled lists. Under the column headed ‘Racist’, she had cryptically jotted: ‘imported!’ (this was double–underlined), ‘feeling of superiority’, ‘segregation of groups (white supremacy)’, ‘recruitment of youths
en mal d’identité
’, ‘promotion of racial conflict’.
Examples: Longitude 74 (Mtl section of KKK), Aryan Resistance Movement,
Le Mouvement des Jeunesses Aryennes de Ste Foy.

Under ‘Xenophobic’ she had scrawled: ‘indigenous!’, ‘defensive rather than aggressive’, ‘insecurity’, ‘focus on
l’Autre
as intruder rather than inferior’, ‘fear of cultural and economic takeover by strangers (immigrants,
l’Autre
)’, ‘fear of disappearance’.
Examples:
Mouvement Pour La Survie de la Nation, S.O.S. Genocide
(tied to
Carrefour de la Resistance Indépendentiste), Le Mouvement pour une Immigration Restreinte et Francophone.

“Well?” she asked eagerly.

Polo shook his head. “It’s interesting, and it makes sense, but what does it prove for this affair?”

Ruthie was disappointed. “Don’t you see? It looks very much like we have two distinct things going on here. We have the radical separatists–they’re the xenophobes and did the office stuff–and then we have the racists who sent the hate literature!”

“But if the cartoon was faxed from the office, it would be an impossible coincidence if it were two different groups.”

“I’m not saying it was two different
groups
,” Ruthie explained as patiently as she could, “I’m saying there were two different
sensibilities
at work.”

Polo understood with a slight kick–in of adrenaline. “You mean the hate literature is
imported–
Liam–and the office stuff is local.”

“Yes, yes, yes. And Liam sent the fax
before
he was bumped off”–

“Whoa!”

“What?”

For answer he turned and took out the rolled paper from his coat. Smoothing it flat, he pointed to the line of computerese on the top. He was sorry to see disappointment shroud the rosy animation he had been admiring in her face.

“The time,” she said dully.

“Yeah, it doesn’t work. Not by a long shot. And that’s what had me wondering so long before. I mean, Liam had to be dead by early evening latest. So this thing was sent by the vandal. And it was sent at 4:17 a.m. Why did the vandal choose that time? Why so close to dawn and take the chance of some early bird coming in?”

“
Merde
.”

“Hey, don’t be discouraged. I mean, I like your theory. Just because Liam didn’t send the fax, it doesn’t mean it didn’t come from him in spirit. He could have had a collaborator.” And he thought again of Jocelyne’s discomfort around Liam’s relationship with Benoit and Gilles.
Like some kind of weird club, she had said…merde, it always came back to Gilles….

“So we’re back to Square One.”

“Maybe not.” He rolled the fax paper up again and returned it to his pocket. He stood up. “Lots to do, Ruthie. We better get started.”

Ruthie nodded, but made no move to leave. Her chin propped in her hand, she watched Polo shrug into his raingear, sighed and looked gloomily into the dreary courtyard. Jocelyne was leading the pony and the goat back into the stable. In a few seconds she returned leading a big horse in a waterproof cooler. She was unhooking the lead shank from his halter when Ruthie suddenly bolted upright, knocking over her chair, and clapped a hand on Polo’s sleeve as he was heading for the door.