Woman Chased by Crows (9 page)

Besides, Orwell also believed in his heart that had his first wife been at the wheel of something bigger and stronger than the little Datsun she'd been driving that rainy night, she might still be alive. Case closed.

He dropped Leda off outside the Globe Theatre, saw her run for the side entrance as the rain began to fall in earnest. There was a young man with odd-looking hair and a black leather jacket waiting for her. Oh dear. At least he was holding the door for her. Perhaps he wasn't an axe murderer, a drug dealer or a serial rapist. Maybe he was just an actor.

Her studio was undisturbed, empty. They will search it soon enough, she thought, they know where it is by now. She locked the door, both locks, checked the fire escape, the window latches, scanned the street below. When she turned from the window she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall, a doll-sized shadow in a corner, pale face, fists clenched, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.

All that running, and look where it got you. Nowhere, absolutely nowhere. You changed your name so many times, it is a wonder you know who you are. Can you remember? Can you remember Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya? Can you remember how she was? How perfect? Immaculate technique, weightless as a moonbeam, tensile, like coiled steel, secure on point like a dagger. The Kirov's next prima ballerina. Remember Anya Zubrovskaya. Do not forget her. There are no pictures of her. Not one photograph of her
Giselle
. She is erased. Wiped from history. Disappeared. You will not find her name on a list of Vaganova graduates, or the company rolls of the Mariinsky. She has been expunged. Forgotten.

Damn Viktor! Damn him and his sticky fingers, his decadent love of silk shirts and 4711 Kölnisch Wasser and Colgate toothpaste. Damn Grégor for being a clumsy fool. Damn them all. Anya Zubrovskaya might have taken her place alongside Pavlova, Karsavina, she might have been one of the great ones. Instead she became a non-person. When she defected, they didn't even raise a protest, they didn't demand her return. Who cares, they said. Who will notice? She won't be missed. She gave everything for her art, for the system that honed her art, for the history and the legacy of the Mariinsky, and in the end she was discarded without comment. Forgotten.

But not by everyone. Certain people might not remember how she danced, but they know why she ran.

The night is clear in her mind.
La Sylphide
. That nice theatre in Buffalo. The orchestra had paid attention, the stage had the right spring. Her partner, Sergei, was stiff and stolid as usual, the man had the charisma of a mailbox, but it didn't matter, he was there to show her off, it was fine that he was invisible. At least he could count. And he was a strong as a tree. He didn't drop her. She deserved the standing ovation. There were curtain calls and bouquets thrown onto the stage and she was in a daze, euphoric, exhausted and starving hungry. It was a magical night; perhaps her best performance. The entire troupe was taken out for a meal. She ate wonderful roast beef and drank champagne and cognac. She wasn't drunk; she was radiant with triumph and release. She almost allowed a handsome young ballet lover into her hotel room but at the last moment decided that she wanted to savour the rest of the night in private and let him kiss her, once, before pushing him gently but firmly on his way.

She was sitting on the edge of the tub, soaking her feet when the pounding on her door started. She thought it was the young man come back to beg her to change her mind, but it was Viktor, sweating, drunk, laughing like a lunatic and terrified at the same time. Nanya, he said, look at this, you won't believe this! He had a suitcase with a false bottom and it opened very cleverly by removing the little brass feet, and inside was some cash, American dollars, and some gold coins, and, wrapped in a cloth, was a chain with links like gold coins and hanging from the chain, a crucifix, heavy, like the hilt of a Roman sword, covered with gems. Do you know what this is? he asked her. This is not real, she said. Please tell me this is a fake. But she had known right away that was not true. Look again. Look at the marks on the back, he said, look at the little diamonds around the clasp.
Little
diamonds. There was not one under two carats. Look at the sapphires. Oh my God. Look at what is in the centre. It is real? Of course it is real, he says. It is the Ember, for God's sake. Where did you steal it? I didn't steal it, he says, I just bought some shirts.

“Viktor, this is bad,” she said. “This is very bad.”

“Look at it, Nanya, hold it in your hands, never in your life will you hold anything as perfect as this is in your hands.”

“I do not want to hold it in my hands,” she said. “This is death. Take it away and do not bring it near me again.”

“It's too late.”

He had been right about that. It was too late. For all of them.

By the time he reached the station it was raining heavily. There was still a puddle where he parked his car (although he didn't
have
to park
exactly
in that spot) and some late night dog-walker had failed to pick up after their beast befouled the struggling grass near the flagpole. Although, Orwell noted, Alastair Argyle's bronze relief was polished to a fare-thee-well, thus encapsulating, to Orwell's thinking, the priorities of the Department.

There was an unmistakable hush as he clomped through the outer office. Heads turned away. He put it down to people recognizing that he wasn't to be trifled with this morning. “We may be exceeding the shamrock quotient, Staff Sergeant,” he said loudly.

“I'll start cutting back forthwith,” said Roy Rawluck. There were three shamrocks dangling on the bulletin board. Roy chided himself. One of them was supposed to be a harp. He'd missed it. Leprechauns were, of course, verboten.

Dorrie (who wasn't the least afraid of her boss no matter what his mood) handed him the morning's
Register
with more solicitude than was customary.

“No bank robberies overnight? No riots?”

“Not yet anyway,” she said. “I'll wait until you've read the paper.”

“Anything in particular I should be reading?

“You'll find it, Chief. It's on the front page.”

Orwell located his reading glasses in the third pocket he checked. He spread the paper on his desk blotter and hung up his wet coat and hat before catching the headline: “Lyman Calls for a ‘New Order,'” under a photograph of candidate Gregg Lyman, caught in dramatic mid-gesture. “Where was this?” Orwell shouted through the open door.

Dorrie appeared with her boss's morning coffee and a sheaf of the usual paperwork and messages. “A ‘Lyman for Mayor' rally,” she said. “The Granite Club.”

“Of course. He'd be preaching to the choir up there.” He accepted the coffee with a curt nod of thanks and dribbled a few spots onto Lyman's image.

“Mr. Abrams wonders if you'd care to issue a statement.”

“Statement about what?”

“Second paragraph.”

Orwell concentrated on the paper. His fist hit the desk. “What the
hell
?!” he bellowed.

“I'll leave you to it,” she said.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, when was this?”

“Last night.”

Dorrie backed out of the room. The Chief bent over the paper, deliberately setting his cup down on Lyman's mug. He read aloud, his voice level increasing with each sentence: “. . . growing atmosphere of
lawlessness
??
 
. . . general
laxity
in police performance?? . . . a new sense of
order
is demanded??” Lyman's face was disappearing in a spreading puddle of coffee. “Who the hell does he think . . . ?”

“Chief?” Dorrie's voice on the intercom was soothing. “Sam Abrams on one, Mayor Bricknell on two.”

“I'll talk to the Mayor first. Tell Sam I'll get back to him.”

“Yes sir.”

“And I spilled my coffee.”

“Yes sir.”

“Mayor Bricknell. And what can I do for you on this fine sunny morning?”

“I take it you haven't seen the paper yet.”

“Why of course I have. In fact I'm using it to wipe off my desk blotter as we speak.” Orwell stood aside as Dorrie bustled in and attended to the ruined newspaper and the spilled coffee. “Takes a good picture, doesn't he?”

“I trust you'll have a statement for tomorrow's edition.”

“I'm not at all sure a statement from me is in order.”

“You can't be serious, Chief Brennan. The man as much as accused you of incompetence.”

“Really? I'll have to read it more carefully.” He bent over and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. “It sounded to me like more of a comment on the state of society as a whole. Damn!” There were only three shortbread cookies in the carefully folded bag. Orwell was certain there had been five when he left work the previous day. “I'm going to put a mousetrap in here,” he muttered.

“I'm sure a statement will be much more effective,” said Donna Lee.

“Will the Mayor's office be issuing one?”

“I'll be making my own campaign speeches over the next month. I'll deal with it then.”

“So you agree it's a campaign issue?” Orwell sat back down. His desk blotter was clear, a fresh coffee was waiting. “Dorrie, would you care for a shortbread?”

“No thanks, Chief. Want another newspaper?”

“I've seen it,” he said. “Thank you. My apologies, Mayor. You caught me in the middle of my morning's clutter.”

“I think you should seriously consider issuing a statement,” Donna Lee said. “Something to the effect that Dockerty is one of the safest, most well-ordered communities of its size in the province.”

“Now
that
would be a splendid fact to mention in
your
speeches, Your Honour.”

Orwell bid the Mayor a polite good morning and took a deep breath. He arranged two of the three remaining shortbread beside the coffee cup and put away the bag, not as neatly folded, in a different drawer.

“Chief?”

“Dorrie?”

“Mr. Abrams?”

“Did I get a call from Detective Moen?”

“Were you expecting one, Chief?”

“I've been expecting one for a week.”

“She only left town yesterday, Chief.”

“Seems longer. See if you can track her down for me, would you?”

“Forthwith, Chief.”

“Definitely. Forthwith. And Dorrie?”

“Still here, Chief.”

“I need to talk to Detective Lackawana's . . .”

“Lacsamana.”

“Lord! Why can't I remember his name?”

“You didn't like him.”

“No I didn't, you're right, that's probably it. Nonetheless and even so, I need his boss, whoever he is. And find Adele Moen.
And
Lacka-whatever.”

“Lacsamana,” she said gently.

“Fine. Good. Find me someone to talk to.”

“Right Chief.”

Orwell dipped a shortbread into his coffee. A mousetrap, he thought. Must remember to bring one. “First get Sam for me would you please?”