H&Y20 - Deliver Us from Evil (15 page)

‘Yes, thank you.’ It was, thought Yellich, a diplomatic reply.

‘We put you centrally but you will find that it will be quiet. Barrie is not New York City, as you will see. Tomorrow I will introduce you to Sergeant Auphan, the French-speaking officer I have in mind. Sergeant Auphan has room at the moment to work with you on this case.’

‘Thank you.’ Yellich stood, as did Ventnor. Both men were weary and in need of a shower and a long sleep.

‘So this is it . . . this is where it all ended for little you . . . little you and your little games.’ The man looked at the area beyond the blue and white police tape which fluttered loudly in the strong breeze. ‘ . . . All just to fetch up here . . . and isn’t it just such a lonely place to die? What a dance you led me . . . what a dance, but I got you in the end, didn’t I . . . ? Eh . . . ? Didn’t I get you in the end?’

Sunday, 29th March, nine a.m.

The woman was tall, dark-haired, slender with high cheekbones. She had a gentleness of manner and a soft speaking voice which appealed to both Yellich and Ventnor. Particularly to Ventnor. She smiled warmly as she entered the room in which the two officers had been asked to wait, which overlooked the 400 Highway, the rooftops and thick stand of trees to the high-rise development of central Barrie in the mid distance. She extended her hand and said, ‘Hello, I am Detective Sergeant Auphan, Marianne Auphan’. She slid gracefully behind the desk in the room and laid a manila folder on her highly polished desktop. She immediately invited Yellich and Ventnor to resume their seats with a deft feminine wrist action. ‘So,’ she said, ‘Edith Lecointe.’ She spoke with a slight French accent which suggested that was her dominant language although she was to prove herself word perfect in English. ‘I have her file here. She died three years ago, aged forty-seven years. Is that in keeping with the age of the deceased in question?’

‘Yes,’ Yellich replied, ‘it is.’ He opened the file he carried and handed her photographs of the woman as she was found on the canal bank on the outskirts of York.

‘Strange half sitting position,’ Sergeant Auphan remarked.

‘Yes, we believe she was left for dead but in fact regained consciousness briefly only to succumb to hypothermia. The post-mortem revealed that she had no food in her stomach. We believe she was kept against her will for two days and deprived of food in that period. That of course didn’t help her retain her body heat.’

‘It wouldn’t. A full stomach is like a form of central heating, or so we are constantly being told and in Canada it is vital to keep our young women eating sufficiently . . . anorexia and Canadian winters are not a healthy combination, even if we or they do dress for it.’ She turned and glanced out of her window. ‘It’s mild now but we will have more snow before the spring is finally here, then Ontario will bake. Believe me, gentlemen, in Ontario you are either in the fridge or in the oven with some in-between sort of days in spring and in the fall . . . and they are few and far between.’

‘So we believe,’ Yellich answered.

‘This is a fortunate time for you to come really, over the worst of winter and before the full force of summer. You might even find the weather tolerable. But, to the matter in hand, there is clearly foul play here,’ she looked at the photographs, ‘so our first port of call must be Edith Lecointe’s last known address on Wattie Road in Midhurst. So, shall we go?’

Wattie Road, Midhurst revealed itself to be approximately two miles north of downtown Barrie. It was a narrow, winding road which both Yellich and Ventnor thought was poorly surfaced with cracks and potholes every few feet thus making driving a slow and careful procedure. The area itself was, it seemed, prestigious with large houses, some in the European style of two storeys with pronounced angled roofs, others in a more traditional New World style, a single storey but with a very broad frontage and with either a flat roof or a slightly angled roof, but all with a double garage built into or at the side of the main building, and each occupying its own very generous parcel of land. Each house also seemed to have a porch on which stood one or two plastic chairs, the observation of which triggered a distant memory of Yellich’s of once reading that the favoured pastime of Canadians was sitting on the front porch in the long summer evenings. What few cars were parked in the driveways of the houses were new and large and mainly American, although catching sight of a solitary Jaguar made Ventnor feel at home. Between the houses and behind them were trees, at that time of year without foliage. What both the British officers noticed was how uniformly tall and upright the trees seemed, and how close together they stood, more akin to stalks in a cornfield than trees in a wood. So tightly packed were they that a man would have to weave continually between them if he were to make any progress through the woodland, and Yellich guessed that any man entering the wood and walking away from an observer on the roadside would be lost from sight ere he had walked ten feet. Yellich asked what sort of trees they were.

‘Spruce,’ Marianne Auphan replied confidently as she turned the unmarked car into the driveway of a wide, flat roofed property painted pale blue and halted the car between a bright yellow and highly polished Cherokee Jeep and a speedboat and trailer. ‘They’re green spruce, already.’

Marianne Auphan left the car and, without locking it, led Yellich and Ventnor to the house. She walked up the wooden steps of the porch and knocked on the door with an odd, thought Yellich, yet pleasing and effective mixture of reverence and authority, a knock which was clearly well rehearsed and practised. It was evident to both Yellich and Ventnor that Sergeant Auphan had honed her ‘people skills’ over the years and knew how to win the public over to her side. Her attitude made Yellich and Ventnor feel comfortable and wholly reassured. The door of the house opened and a middle-aged woman in a blue sweater and thick tartan patterned skirt stood in the doorway. She seemed to the officers to be well nourished; her figure may, they thought, be fairly described as ‘curvy’ but the ‘curvy’ nature seemed to have developed from a more slender figure of her youth. Her hair was silver and close cut. Spectacles hung on a silver chain round her neck as did not one, but three, necklaces. Her fingers were adorned with rings and stones. The wristwatch she wore was large and manly. ‘Help you?’ she asked, not seeming to be afraid of the strange woman and two strange men who had called on her without any prior warning.

Sergeant Auphan showed the householder her badge. ‘Police,’ she said softly. ‘These two gentlemen are from the British Police.’

‘The British Police!’ The householder’s voice was of a strange mixture of alarm that the police had called upon her, tinged with excitement and curiosity that two of the three officers were of the old country.

‘Yes. Nothing for you to worry about,’ Auphan spoke with a reassuring tone. ‘I wonder if we can come in?’

‘Sure.’ The woman stepped aside and the officers entered and were met by two inquisitive cats, both grey and white and one noticeably larger than the other. Interlocking rubber matting had been placed over the carpet as a protective covering. The ceiling of the house seemed low to Yellich and Ventnor and the yellow and black pattern of the carpet which evoked a tiger skin was not to either man’s taste. The house seemed unduly dark inside and rooms were separated by hanging fabric rather than doors, again not to the taste of either Yellich or Ventnor. ‘I wasn’t expecting no visitors,’ the woman explained. ‘It’s a bit of a dumpster right about now.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Auphan smiled gently, ‘we are not from
Better Homes and Gardens
.’

‘Well, come through.’ The woman closed the front door behind the officers and led them to the rear of the house and invited them to sit at a circular table which was still covered with the manufacturer’s plastic seal. The chairs were, the officers found, too low for the table and must have made eating from it somewhat difficult. To Yellich’s right was a bookcase within which had been placed, oddly, he thought, a coffee making machine; to his left a window looked out across a rear garden which was still covered in a thick, but clearly thawing, layer of snow, and beyond the garden was yet another seemingly impenetrable stand of dark grey trunks of green spruce.

‘We and the UK police,’ Marianne Auphan began once the officers and the householder were seated round the circular table, ‘are making inquiries into the late Edith Lecointe or Avrillé, once of this address.’

‘Edith!’ The woman gasped, her jaw slackened. ‘Edith . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘She is gone before . . . as you say, she is the late Edith Lecointe.’

‘But this was her last address?’

‘Yes. She and I lived here. She was my sister. I am Blanche Lecointe.’

‘Well,’ Marianne Auphan began, ‘we need to know as much about your late sister as possible. I am sorry if this is difficult for you.’

‘Difficult . . . so sudden . . . but why? Sorry . . . I have to gather my thoughts . . .’

Marianne Auphan glanced at Yellich. ‘Perhaps, Mr Yellich, you could explain?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Yellich sat forward and as he did so his eye was caught by a black squirrel sitting on the fence at the bottom of Blanche Lecointe’s garden. He had not until then realized the subspecies existed but he knew it was not the time or place to comment. ‘Yes . . . you see, I repeat Miss Auphan’s apologies for the suddenness of this . . . the unexpected nature of our call and the purpose of it . . . very sorry.’

‘Sure,’ Blanche Lecointe held fascinated eye contact with Yellich as she rapidly regained her composure.

‘Well . . . this is not easy to explain . . . so I’ll just say it, but in the first instance can I ask you how you know your sister is deceased?’ He paused. ‘What I mean to say is that even though your sister’s death was registered, what identification was made of the deceased? Can you confirm the deceased in question was your sister?’

‘Yes,’ the woman replied softly, ‘yes, I can.’ She remained composed, impressively so, so thought all three of the officers. Given the unexpected nature of the call, the revealed purpose of it, Blanche Lecointe’s speedy recovery of her composure was impressive. ‘I identified the body in the Chapel of Rest. She lay in an open casket. I kissed her forehead. That is how I know it was Edith.’

The three officers exchanged eye contact and nodded slightly.

‘That’s good enough,’ Yellich said. ‘In fact it’s more than good enough.’ He then addressed Blanche Lecointe. ‘It seems that a woman has been using your late sister’s identity in the UK.’

Blanche Lecointe gasped.

‘We are extremely anxious to find out the identity of the woman who stole your sister’s identity. This lady had a North American accent, she knew this part of Canada and she had a Canadian passport in your sister’s name . . . your late sister’s name . . . and she herself was murdered a few days ago.’

‘My . . .’ Blanche Lecointe put up a hand to her mouth, ‘oh, my.’ She sank back against her chair. ‘My . . .’

‘We have good reason to believe the person who murdered her to be a Canadian, a Canadian male, and that he is now back here in Canada.’

Blanche Lecointe forced a smile. ‘In Canada? It’s still a lot of territory, largest country in the Commonwealth.’

‘Appreciate that, it’s an awful lot of pink on the map, twice the land area of the USA . . . more . . . in fact.’

‘The big empty, but yes, it’s a large country.’

‘Again, all I can say is that I appreciate that but this is our only lead,’ Yellich replied calmly.

‘We have to start somewhere,’ Marianne Auphan smiled, ‘and this is the one address, the only address we have. There must be some connection between your sister and the woman who was murdered in England a few days ago.’

Yellich deftly plunged his hand into the large manila envelope he carried and extracted the passport found in Edith Lecointe’s bedroom in her home in Dringhouses, York. He handed it to Blanche Lecointe, opened at the photograph page.

‘That is not my sister, definitely not Edith. Not her . . . no way, not even the slightest similarity, and before you ask, no I do not recognize the woman in the photograph . . . what an evil-looking woman . . . those eyes, heavens just look at those eyes. Edith had such warm eyes but this woman . . . Who is she? Who is she?’

‘If we find that out . . .’ Yellich allowed his voice to fade.

‘What can you tell us about your sister?’ Ventnor asked.

‘I’d rather you asked questions, it would be easier,’ Blanche Lecointe smiled. ‘I mean I could tell you a whole lot about Edith but none of it would be any help . . . like how she took her coffee and all . . . ask me of the details you need to know.’

‘Point taken,’ Ventnor smiled. ‘You’re right, of course.’

‘I can tell you that we were not full sisters in actuality, we were half-sisters. Same father, different mothers.’ Blanche Lecointe leafed through the passport. ‘She didn’t go far, did she? The mystery woman I mean, just one stamp . . . Heathrow. Where is that? London? Oh yes, it says so . . . oh . . .’

‘What is it?’ Marianne Auphan sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Have you noticed something, ma’am?’

‘The date, the date the passport was issued.’

‘What about it . . . is it significant?’

‘It is dated a year, a full year before my sister died.’

A silence descended on the room.

‘Are you certain?’ Marianne Auphan asked.

‘Sure. Sure I am sure.’ The woman’s voice rose with impatience. ‘It’s easily verified, but yeah, I am sure.’ She handed the passport back to Yellich. ‘Go check. Go check. But I tell you that passport was issued one year, one full year before my sister Edith died.’

Yellich took the passport and checked the date of issue against the death certificate in respect of the passing of Edith Lecointe. He felt acutely embarrassed. ‘Something we should have noticed,’ he said. ‘Elementary, but yes, the passport was issued twelve months prior to the death of Mrs Lecointe.’

‘Miss Lecointe,’ Blanche Lecointe corrected Yellich with clear indignation.

‘Sorry,’ Yellich smiled apologetically, ‘Miss Lecointe. And it was issued fraudulently. The person who obtained the passport was not Edith Lecointe. Can you tell us about Miss Lecointe’s death?’ Yellich addressed Blanche Lecointe. ‘I’m . . . we are sorry if this is difficult for you.’