Murder in Focus (4 page)

The telephone rang before MacMillan could dial or Deschenes could reply. Deschenes paused for a second, then nodded in agreement, picked up the receiver, and listened intently for less than a minute. “I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said, and turned back to MacMillan. “Sorry. My wife, reminding me that we have dinner guests. Life goes on in spite of Sea Gull, doesn't it? Let me know tomorrow what you find out—if anything.”

Inspector John Sanders strode angry and unseeing along the broad sidewalk, daring pedestrians to get in his way. His shoulder brushed against the edge of a large kiosk that should have offered tourist information but didn't, and he looked up. “Bloody hell!” he muttered, realizing that he was still heading along Wellington instead of down Elgin as instructed. He swung quickly to his left. Where he could have sworn there should have been empty space, however, he found himself in direct contact with a sizable solid object. He felt, then heard, a dull thud and stared horror-struck down at the ground.

“For chrissake, don't you ever look where you're going?” said a voice, female, and trembling with anger.

In front of him he saw a young women, dressed in jeans, sprawled awkwardly in a half-squatting position. She had one hand on the pavement and with the other she was holding up an aluminum suitcase-like object. Sanders reached out to help her as she started to pick herself up from the concrete sidewalk. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, grabbing her wrist firmly. “Can I give you a hand?” As he gave her arm a yank to bring her upright, her green knapsack, already hanging by only one strap, slipped off her shoulder and landed on the pavement.

“Don't bother,” she snapped, pulling her arm back. “Just get the hell out of my way before you wreck all my equipment.” By now she was back on her feet and leaning concernedly over the objects on the ground. With a slightly sick feeling, Sanders noticed that one of them was a tripod—a large, heavy-looking, and without a doubt very expensive tripod. Beside it lay the green knapsack.

“Is it damaged?” he asked.

She stared down at it for a considerable length of time. “It shouldn't be,” she said finally in a grudging tone. “But no thanks to you. It's sturdy and well packed, that's all.”

“Look,” he said, “I'm sorry. All right?” He was turning to go when a thought suddenly occurred to him. “My God! Are you hurt? I should have asked that before worrying about the equipment.”

“Why?” she said crisply. “I heal—it's equipment that has to be replaced. Anyway, I'm fine. It takes a lot to damage me.”

At that, a belated surge of conscience prompted him to grab the knapsack and drop it onto a nearby bench, and then come back for the tripod. “Let me at least help you pick up this stuff,” he said.

“For chrissake,” she yelped. “Will you leave it alone? It may be well packed but it's not a collection of old bricks.”

“I'm just trying to get it out of the way before someone steps on it,” he said stiffly, picking up the aluminum suitcase and stacking it beside the tripod.

“It'll be fine,” she said emphatically. “Now if you'll get out of my way I would like to catch the five o'clock sun.” With a grimace, she unzipped the knapsack and peered inside. Sanders bent his tall frame over her anxiously, trying to see what damage he had done.

She leaned back on the wood-and-concrete bench and glared at him. “I can't see a goddamned thing with you standing in my light,” she said at last.

With a guilty jump, he stepped backward and smashed the back of his head against something very hard. “Watch what you're fucking well doing,” yelled an aggrieved pedestrian behind him. “Jesus,” the man said, and planted one large hand between Sanders's shoulder blades. With a “There, you bastard,” he shoved Sanders back before disappearing into the crowd. The unexpectedness of the attack caught Sanders off guard, and he catapulted toward the girl on the bench. He grabbed the back slat, missing her shoulder by inches, and lurched awkwardly over to the side.

She bent over in a spasm of laughter.

Sanders regained his balance, clutched the back of his throbbing head, and glared furiously at the laughing woman; finally a slow grin spread across his face and he sat down quietly beside her.

“Well, then, let's see what's happened to this stuff.” She peered into the knapsack once more, this time without interference. “It seems to be fine,” she said. “But thank you anyway.”

Sanders glanced at his watch. “You've missed the five o'clock sun,” he pointed out. “It's already ten past. Why don't you let me buy you a drink? To make amends for what I did. And because I'm a stranger here.”

“All lost and alone? You should work on other ways of getting to know people, I think. But what the hell.” She looked at her watch and sighed. “Let bygones be bygones,” she said, zipping up her knapsack. “Where would you like to go?”

Sanders followed the woman through the crowds sitting six and seven to a table on the broad sidewalk into the darkened interior of the pub. The rush hour throng of drinkers were all jammed around small metal tables in the bright sunshine and exhaust fumes of the outdoors, leaving the indoor section silent and almost empty. She took her knapsack and camera case from him and settled them on the floor in a corner before slipping into a small, damask-covered chair. “My apologies for the bordello atmosphere,” she said, glancing around at the crimson walls and velvet curtains. “But it was close by and they have English beer on draft.”

“Good idea,” said Sanders, and ordered each of them a pint. “And since I was the one who knocked you down, I guess I should start,” he said. “My name is Sanders, John Sanders. I'm from Toronto, and I'm here for a week.” He stopped—not willing to commit himself any further—and looked inquiringly at her.

“Convention?” she asked casually.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said evasively. “And you must be a photographer. With all that equipment.”

“That's right. Harriet Jeffries.”

“Harriet?”

“Right again—Harriet.” She repeated it with force. “I'm sorry if you don't like the name, but it's the best I can do. I refuse to manufacture an awful nickname just to get rid of it.”

“No, I like it. It suits you.” He looked at her critically for the first time. She was a little older than he had thought and had dark brown hair that hung straight almost to her shoulders. Her face was long and thin and dark, but the eyes that looked directly at him were a bright shade of green. Contact lenses, he thought skeptically, but when she turned away to look at a passing waiter, they changed colour again. Real. “I'm not fond of up-to-the-minute names,” he added.

“Mmm,” she said, “you have a point there. It would be infinitely worse to be called something from a soap opera, wouldn't it? But I
am
a photographer, mainly architectural, and I'm in Ottawa on an assignment. I've been in the city since . . . oh, around February, off and on, and hope to be back in Toronto this summer. And I'm single, thirty-two, don't smoke, and prefer living alone. There, my life history in a single breath.” She moved an elbow to make room for the mugs of beer. “What do you do? Obviously if you were a surgeon or a cabinet minister you would have told me already, assuming that I would be impressed. So you must be—let's see . . .” She cocked her head to one side and looked intently at him. “Maybe a teacher—of something that makes people nervous, like math—or a dentist, and you're tired of people making bad jokes about what you do.”

“You're very perceptive,” he said. “But it's worse than that. I'm a policeman.” He braced himself for the usual coy mock alarm, or, perhaps, chilly disappointment.

“Really?” she said, quite calmly. “You mean there's a police convention in town? How bizarre.”

“Why bizarre?”

“Oh, I don't know. In Ottawa? I would have thought Calgary . . . or maybe Milwaukee.”

“I don't see why,” he said, somewhat nettled. “Anyway, it's not so much a convention as a meeting. There aren't very many of us. I doubt we'll be getting in your way. Anymore, I mean.” As he picked up his beer another thought struck him. “At least I don't think there are very many of us. I haven't actually made it to the meeting yet, and . . .” He looked at his watch. “I'm late enough now that it doesn't look as if I'll get there tonight.”

“You seem to give up very easily.” Harriet's eyes narrowed with amusement, although the rest of her face remained devoid of emotion. “Obviously you're not a Mountie.”

“I'm not,” he said. “And I'm usually pretty persistent. But I've had a total of about six hours' sleep since Saturday, and right now I don't care whether I find my group or not. You wouldn't know some place with food that would taste good to someone half-dead from exhaustion, would you?”

“How about Turkish?” she asked. “It's within walking distance, and I'd say it's good enough to revive the corpse at a wake. You finished your beer? Let's go.”

“Are you coming, too?” he asked, surprised.

“Why not? I like Turkish food.”

Ian MacMillan walked into the hotel bar and looked around for a familiar face. There were several. Most of them were politicians or senior civil servants whom he knew only because at one time or another in his career he had poured over their files or wearily traced their movements. Tonight he didn't particularly care who was sharing their tables and listening to their indiscreet ramblings. Over in a far corner lounged a tall man with dark hair that stood out from his forehead at a rakish angle. He raised one hand in greeting, and MacMillan made his way over to his table.

“To what do I owe the honor of this particular summons?” asked the man at the table. “And by the way, since you made definite remarks about buying me a drink, I have been waiting here for you to turn up for a good five minutes as dry as your boss's undershirt.”

“How's it going, Andy?” asked MacMillan as he pulled out a chair and settled himself into it.

“Not bad. Overworked, underpaid, nothing new—except that this had better be short. I have something interesting turning up at my place hoping for dinner later on tonight.”

“Jesus, Cassidy, on a Monday? You never stop, do you?” said MacMillan.

“I should hope to hell not,” said Cassidy. “Use it or lose it,” he leered. “How about you? It's too bad about you and Susan—or is it? Jesus, it's been a long time since we talked, hasn't it?” He leaned over in the direction of the waiter and ordered two beers and then turned back to MacMillan. “Two, three years? How're you making out?”

“Not bad,” said MacMillan. “I've got a reasonable sort of apartment—no goddamn snow to shovel, nobody whining when I've been working late, lots of broads. The only problem is, they all have that little house, yard, and snow-shoveling look in their eyes. You gotta move pretty damn fast to avoid getting caught again.”

“You still got the chalet for dirty weekends?” asked Cassidy idly.

“Who has time to ski?” MacMillan poured his beer and took a large gulp. “Besides, all that expensive stuff belonged to Susan—her old man left her a bundle as well as the property.”

“You seem to be doing all right,” said Cassidy, reaching out and flicking the lapel of MacMillan's suit.

“Susan's got plenty to live on,” MacMillan said. “And when you're not paying off a fucking house and all that crap, you can afford a new suit every once in a while. For a change. Look, Andy, there's a problem.”

“Yeah? Yours? Or the division's?”

“It sure as hell isn't
my
problem. But Deschenes has been going through all the stuff you bastards have been sending over since he got sick, and he says it doesn't add up. Is that possible?”

Cassidy shrugged. “Of course it's possible. We screw up all the time. How doesn't it add up?”

“There's a blank. We aren't getting anything in connection with the conference. That true? Nobody cares about this thing but us?”

“How should I know? I don't see the reports. I just collect data and send it on. Jesus, Ian, you know how it is. Somebody up there decides how much you deserve to know and that's what you get. Nothing's changed since we were all working in the same building.”

“What have you collected, then?” MacMillan asked. “Maybe if we knew that we could figure out what's happening.”

Cassidy leaned back and frowned unhappily. “You know I can't pass any of that on. Besides, it doesn't mean a goddamn thing in the state I get it in.” He looked at his watch. “Christ, I gotta go. Samantha'll be turning up all hot and hungry and I won't even be there if I don't hurry. Nice seeing you, Ian. Thanks for the drink.”

In a pretty woodland area some twenty-odd miles from the Turkish restaurant, Superintendent Henri Deschenes was walking slowly along the broken asphalt at the edge of the narrow paved road. The ground beside the road was carpeted with trilliums in full blossom and birds were bursting their lungs in song. Deschenes seemed oblivious of the beauties of nature, however. He kept his eyes on the grassy verge until he stopped beside a group of three men and a large German shepherd. All five of them stared fixedly at an object lying in a slight hollow in the earth beside the path, the men silent, the dog whining softly.

“When did you find him?” Deschenes asked finally.

“At five-thirty-five, sir,” said the man nearest to him, a corporal, tall, lanky, and redheaded, with freckles and a worried expression. “We called in as soon as we could get to a phone. We've been instructed to avoid radio communication—”

“Yes, yes, McInnis,” Deschenes muttered impatiently. He turned to the man in command of the small group. “Do you know if anyone's been in contact with the local police, Sergeant?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

Deschenes grunted. “We'd better look after that pretty soon,” he said finally.

“Couldn't we, uh, just move him a little farther away?” Deschenes shook his head.

“Stop and think a minute, Carpenter. Even they might notice the body's been moved.” He squatted down to get a closer look. It was lying awkwardly on its right side, facedown, with both arms projecting slightly backward. Its dull black hair was matted with darkened blood that had attracted a swarm of flying insects. It was dressed in a blue work shirt and heavy jeans out of which a pair of bluish-white bony feet protruded stiffly. Deschenes reached out and touched the shoulder. Nothing happened. “Dammit,” he muttered and stood up again.