DECEMBER 15

10 PM

Mary Gallagher was cold. She was drifting in and out of sleep on a concrete ledge beside the entrance to a parking garage, the fitful half-sleep that was all she had known for years. She had stuffed newspapers next to her skin under layers of clothing to ward off the cold, and her wool toque was pulled down low over her face. Cocooned in a sleeping bag she got from the Salvation Army three weeks before, and with only her mouth exposed to the damp night, she still shivered.

She sensed the approaching figure before he arrived. The concrete ledge was almost six feet off the ground, and his face was level with hers. He reached up and gently pulled the toque back from her eyes and, so tightly was she wrapped, she couldn’t resist even if she had wanted to. She didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed in black like a priest, and that gave her a sense of comfort.

“Mary,” he said. “Wake up. They asked me to come and get you. We’ve found a safe place for you. But you must come with me now.”

“But, Father, I’m comfortable here. Let me stay. Please. I’m not bothering anyone. I need to sleep.”

“I know, Mary, but it’s dangerous out here. We have somewhere safe for you, safe and warm.”

“Not a shelter. I can’t go to the shelters.”

“Not a shelter, Mary. It’s somewhere where you can be yourself. Come along, Mary. Lower yourself into my arms, and I’ll help you into the van.” He was already unzipping the sleeping bag.

“But, Father, why can’t you let me sleep here?”

“Because we love you, Mary. Come. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then you’ll be able to sleep comfortably. I have a van, you see it?” He turned and pointed to the van parked at the curb, its engine still running. “Just there, it’s not far.”

She raised herself up on an elbow and looked towards the white van, snow already sticking to its roof.

“It’s warm and comfortable, Mary. And it will only take a few minutes. Come.”

She knew it was pointless to argue. She always had to do what people said. It was only on her own that she could decide. She had no fight in her. When the zipper on the sleeping bag was fully open, he flipped the fabric back. She pulled her legs out and swiveled them over the ledge, grimacing with the pain from worn-out joints. He reached for her, and as she leaned forward over his shoulder, he lowered her to the ground. It had been many years since any man had supported her weight.

With one arm around her back to support her, he used the other to lead her by the hand. They walked slowly to the curb, her joints screaming with pain as she shuffled forward, leaning into him for support.

“We’ll get you settled in the van, and I’ll come back for your stuff. You have a choice Mary. You can sit up front with me, or you can lie down in the back on the mattress. Your choice.”

“A mattress sounds good, Father. I haven’t seen one in months. If it’s OK, I wouldn’t mind lying down on the mattress.”

“Perfect,” he said, as he opened the back door of the van. She peered inside and felt the warm air escaping. It looked inviting. The back of the van was filled with a mattress, pillows, and a couple of heavy-looking blankets. She crawled in on all fours and pulled the pillow under her head.

“I’ll just go back and get your stuff.”

In a few minutes he returned, opening the back door to drop two overstuffed garbage bags beside her.

“My things, Father. My things.”

“All here, Mary. Don’t worry. I’m looking after you.”

“God bless you, Father.”

“You just relax, Mary. But before you doze off, I have a soup for you.” He twisted the top off a thermos flask and poured out the soup, handing it to her. She reached out and took the steaming cup. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said.

He settled himself into the driver’s seat and turned to look as she drank the soup, wiping her lips with the back of a filthy hand. A change was coming over her. She was relaxing. She finished the soup and lay back on the pillow. He waited for a while before driving off.

It was still snowing, and it took about half an hour to reach the Old Port. Big leafy flakes of snow were settling everywhere, and the expanse of the port was a white field disturbed only by the tracks of the van, tracks that disappeared in minutes under the snow.

The Old Port had been converted to parkland and open spaces where Montrealers could stroll along the edge of the St. Lawrence River. In the middle of a December night, it was deserted, and he parked the van close to the metal and concrete railing that marked the river’s edge. Then he turned in his seat and leaned back to check her neck for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

He was surprised at how difficult it was to get her out of the van. She seemed heavier than when he had helped her down from her perch, and her bulky clothing made her difficult to handle.

He had imagined this moment many times, carrying a weightless angel in his arms, and he cursed himself when all he could do was drag her out feet first, letting her shoulders and head take the brunt of the fall to the pavement. Air escaped from her lungs with an animal grunt, and for a second he feared that she wasn’t dead. He checked for a pulse again, then dragged her to the railing and stood her up, holding the back of her neck to stop her falling. He wanted the river to take her home. He let go of her neck, and she pitched forward. Then he bent down, took hold of her legs at knee height, raised her feet off the ground, and let her slip over the edge.

He cursed himself again when he heard a thud but no splash and looked down at the dark pile below him. The harbour water was frozen solid, and she lay motionless on the snow-covered ice with a dark trickle of blood spreading out from her head. He knelt down and began mumbling prayers for the dead as she gradually disappeared under the falling snow. In half an hour she was invisible. He went back to the van and drove away.

DECEMBER 24

11.45 PM

Patsy Cline was singing in the dark of loss and despair while Vanier sat half-listening, his thoughts wandering off on long tangents and then returning to the song. The ring-tone shook him, and he had to focus to find out where it was coming from. He saw the blinking green light of the cell phone on the floor, rose from the armchair, and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to disturb you this time of night, sir, but they’re collecting bodies down here.”

Vanier reached for the glass of Jameson and listened to the familiar voice. He didn’t tell Detective Sergeant Laurent that he had been awake, sort of, or that he was glad to have some contact on Christmas Eve.

“Explain.”

“They’ve found five bodies tonight. That beats all the averages. Street people by the look of it, all sleeping rough. Two at Atwater, one at McGill, and they just found the last two at Berri. That’s where I am now. I think you should come down here. If you can get away, that is, sir.”

Crime doesn’t take a holiday. It changes costume for the season, and Christmas is the season for domestic violence. Too much pressure to deliver the perfect gift, and not enough money. Too little to say, and too much alcohol encouraging confessions. Never enough love or imagination to deliver the dream. Christmas murders are usually a simple matter; the victim lying in a pool of blood, stabbed, shot, or bludgeoned with whatever comes to hand, the assailant not far away, sitting under the tree crying and sobering up, or in a bar trying not to. They’re easy cases, and good ones for a new officer to cut his teeth on. Even the non-domestics were supposed to be easy. Street people die all the time in Montreal’s brutal winter, but randomly and alone in the long nights of January and February, and not five a night.

“No, no. It’s not a problem, Laurent. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Berri, you said?”

“Yes, sir. When you get to the entrance, one of the uniforms will tell you where I am.”

Vanier was happy to get out of his apartment. He had been holed up too long pretending the festive season didn’t exist. Patsy Cline, whiskey, and Christmas are a depressing combination.

He drove slowly out of the garage into the Montreal night. Winter had come early, and the second storm of the season had just drifted east after dropping twenty centimetres of snow on the city. A large winter moon hung low in the clear sky. The car was warm, one of the luxuries of parking inside, and the window lowered at the touch of a button, letting in a flood of cold fresh air.

He turned right out of the garage to descend Redpath, a steep street running down to the city from a high ridge on the mountain that dominates the Montreal skyline. The snow-covered pavements were deserted except for the occasional parka-bundled figures leaning forward into the cold as they staggered home from late night reveillons.

At the Berri Metro, the snow had been plowed and piled in high banks on both sides of the street by city crews and contractors earning triple time for working Christmas Eve. They were already beginning the long job of clearing it. Vanier parked opposite the station entrance, but had to walk to the corner to find a spot to cross the snow bank. Uniformed officers who were milling around the station entrance looked up as he approached, their breath making clouds in the frigid air. One went to stop him before another, recognizing Vanier, held him back.

“Bonsoir, Inspecteur, et Joyeux Noel!” said one of the officers, touching the peak of his cap.

“Joyeux Noel, les gars,” said Vanier, without stopping.

He pulled open the heavy door and made for the escalator. It was shut off, so he took the stairs down to the main concourse. At the bottom, a uniformed officer pointed to the motionless escalator that led down to the westbound Green Line platform, and Vanier took the stairs again; the risers on a stopped escalator are higher than on ordinary stairs. He went down slowly, facing the 500-foot wall of white tile opposite. Like much of the metro system, Berri had been dug rather than tunneled. Engineers blasted a cathedral-sized hole in the rock and built the station in the hole, encasing it in walls of concrete when they had finished. Then the hole was filled in, enclosing a complex of massive internal galleries inside an underground concrete box.

Vanier was breathing hard at the bottom of the stairs.

About two-thirds of the way down the westbound platform, three uniformed police officers and a metro security officer were gathered around Laurent, looking up at him. At six foot four, with a shaved head and the build of a defensive linebacker, Laurent towered over the group. The three police officers were dressed for the outdoors, holding their fur hats in their hands; Laurent was talking to the security officer. They all turned as Vanier approached down the platform.

“Thanks for coming, sir. What a night. I thought it would be a quiet shift. Instead we get this shit. She’s behind the grill,” said Laurent, gesturing to a large hole in the wall covered by a steel grill.

Vanier moved over to it. The grill was hinged at the top, and the metro officer pulled from the bottom and lifted it up, exposing a massive ventilation shaft that sucked air from the street into the station. Vanier peered in. The shaft went in flat for eight feet and then rose up like a chimney. On the flat surface, two small feet protruded from a pile of blankets and coats. Cold air from the street wafted down through the shaft carrying the smell of the sleeper, a grimy mix of smoke, damp, greasy food, booze, and human leakage.

Laurent was behind Vanier, looking over his shoulder. “After they found the first body at McGill, word went out to check all the stations, and apparently this is a usual sleeping spot. Easy entry and warm enough to spend the night. This officer found her and tried to wake her,” said Laurent, gesturing to the officer. “He climbed inside when she wouldn’t move. We’re waiting for the Coroner’s people before we pull her out.”

Vanier turned to the metro officer. “How often do you find bodies in the system?”

“Often enough that we have a policy. If there’s no sign of violence, we call in an ambulance, and they get a medic to confirm death. Normally, a thing like this would be natural causes, and the Coroner wouldn’t be involved; we’d just hand her off to the funeral home for her last car trip. Only tonight we found three in the system, two here and one at the McGill Metro. Your guys found another two outside at Atwater.”

“That’s a big number, sir. That’s why I thought I should call you,” said Laurent.

“You were right,” said Vanier, touching the young officer’s elbow. “Make sure the crime scene people take it seriously, have them go over the spot thoroughly.”

Vanier turned back to stare into the shaft, looking beyond the feet, the bundled body, and several bags at her head. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. She looked like she was asleep.

“You’re sure she’s dead?”

“Yes, sir. Checked her myself.”

Vanier nodded to the officer that he could lower the grill. “She wasn’t in a sleeping bag?”

“No, sir, it looks like blankets rolled around her body.”

Vanier looked up at Laurent. “You said there were two here?”

“The other one’s down on the Orange Line, northbound. The trains were running until half an hour ago, and then the whole system shut down because of some electrical fault,” said Laurent.

“Lead on.” The pair walked off in the direction of the Orange Line, another level down.

“Good thing they did have to shut it all down,” said Laurent, “or we’d have the Mayor’s office breathing down our necks for holding up traffic. The other body’s in a utility room at the far end of the platform. Someone gummed up the lock, and since then it only looks like it’s locked. Same situation as here, bedded down for the night and never woke up.”

A small area of the Orange Line platform was yellow-taped off, and a metro officer was standing guard, leaning against the wall. He straightened up as the two detectives ducked under the yellow tape. The door of the utility room was open, and inside, below the sink, another bundle lay up against the wall. This one had been peeled open to reveal an old, bearded man, his head resting on gloved hands. His face was peaceful despite deep wrinkles, and his eyes were closed as though in sleep.

Vanier held the doorjamb and surveyed the small room. Again, there were no obvious signs of violence, no blood, not even bruising, just the normal wear and tear of a life on the street. It was like looking at a moment captured in a photograph. A yellow bucket on wheels supported a mop leaning upside-down on the wall, an extra-wide broom was propped against the opposite wall under a shelf full of jars of industrial cleaning fluids, and two half-filled garbage bags stood next to the broom. Vanier felt that if he were only to yell loud enough, the sleeping man would wake. But he knew there was nothing to do. The crime scene guys would do more. That was their job. His was to look and to remember, to notice anything strange or out of place. But all he saw was a homeless man finding shelter in a utility closet.

He turned back to Laurent. “So what do we know?”

“Not much. We’ve had five similar deaths tonight. All older street people sleeping wherever they could find a spot, all bedded down for the night, only they don’t wake up. Two women, three men. No signs of violence, and none of them froze to death. The first was found at the McGill Metro, just after ten o’clock, and they were all found in the last two hours. You’ve got these two here, two more at Atwater, and the McGill guy. The Atwater bodies weren’t inside the station, one was at the entrance in Cabot Park, and the other was sleeping on a ledge outside a parking garage. The way this is going, there may be more, sir. Maybe we haven’t found them all yet.”

Vanier looked up at Laurent, “Well, for the moment, we treat them all as suspicious. Forget natural causes unless the autopsy results tell us something different. In the meantime, let’s do what we can to place these people, put names on them. Have someone collect their possessions and bring them to headquarters. Get someone to look at the CC footage. There are cameras all over the metro as well as outside. When did they come in tonight? Did they talk to anyone? I want everything. Also, get photos of each of them, and have someone shop them around the hostels and shelters, the Old Brewery Mission, the Sally Ann, Dans La Rue, the drop-in centres, all the places street people go. Someone knows these people. Someone saw them tonight. Let’s find out who they were.”

Laurent was busy taking notes, but hardly needed to. In three years with Vanier he had learned the drill. Vanier’s mantra was connections and history. Know the victim, find the paths he walked, and you will cross paths with the murderer. He had seen Vanier go through the same drill countless times.

“Chief, you think they were killed?”

“Laurent, I haven’t got a clue. But until we know differently, let’s assume they didn’t just slip away peacefully. Let’s get them identified and as much history as possible. These people have families that need to know what happened, even if their families don’t give a shit. I want everything we can find on them.”

“Oh, and this one,” Vanier said, pointing into the cleaning closet at the bearded corpse. “I gave him five dollars last week outside the Sherbrooke Metro. He grinned at me and said, Merci monsieur, merci. I want to know who he was. Now, I’m going home. Call me anytime after six tomorrow morning.”

He turned to leave and caught a fleeting look in Laurent’s eyes and realized his mistake.

“Oh yeah, you’re off tomorrow. Find out who’s on duty in the morning and leave your notes with him. Enjoy Christmas, and we can talk later. And give my best wishes to your wife and those beautiful children. This is a time for family, Laurent. Enjoy it.”

Laurent was taken aback, “Merci, patron, and a Merry Christmas to you too, and to your family.”

Vanier turned and walked away, thinking of the flights of stairs that he would have to climb to get out of the station and of Laurent’s Christmas wishes. He had told few people that there was no longer any family. Marianne had left two weeks before Christmas last year, and Elise had followed her mother. Alex hadn’t lived at home for three years.

Leaving the station, he could see the top of his car over a wall of snow but had to walk to the corner and double back along the road to reach it. The crime scene people might still be at Atwater or McGill, he thought, no harm in trying. He decided to drive by and take a look.

1.30 AM

The drive was slow because he had to manoeuvre around the massed armies of snow removal crews along de Maisonneuve. While snowstorms envelop the city, crews fight to keep the roads open by plowing the snow to the sides of the streets. It is only when the snow stops falling that the focus shifts to getting rid of it with tractors, plows, snow-blowers and front-end loaders working day and night to fill eight-wheeler dump trucks. First they clear the main thoroughfares, one side of the street, then the other, then the smaller streets, then the side streets and alleys. The snow is pushed back into the middle of the street to feed giant snow-blowers that are shadowed by long lines of dump trucks fitted with towering wood panels to accommodate extra snow. When a truck is full, it pulls away and is replaced by the next in line. Within days, thousands of tons of snow are lifted off the streets and deposited in dumps all over the island. In the past, the snow was dumped into the St. Lawrence, but snow scraped from the street is toxic with salt, gasoline, chemicals, and garbage, and someone noticed the dead fish in the spring. Now they have to dump the snow in lost corners of the city where it sits in vast landscapes of dirty grey hillocks until early summer when it’s all finally melted.

A cruiser was parked at the University Street entrance to the McGill Metro with its motor running for heat; the snow under the exhaust was black with the crap spewing out. Vanier parked in front of the cruiser and got out. Police officers get very nervous when you approach them from behind. He pulled out his badge and held it in front of him as he walked towards the cruiser. Two officers were dozing in the front seat, and he was disturbing them. They both looked at the badge, and the driver got out of the car. The passenger went back to snoozing. Vanier smelled pizza and wondered if the constable could smell whiskey.

“Yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“Have they finished with the body here, Constable Desjardins?” said Vanier, reading the officer’s name badge.

“Yeah. Everyone cleared out about half an hour ago,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth to get rid of the food stains. “They brought the stiff to the morgue about an hour ago, but the crime scene people were dragging their asses inside. Christ, you’d think the fucking Premier had died. If you ask me, I think it’s the double time they get for the holidays. Anyway, they just left.”

“I guess they have their jobs to do.”

“Maybe that’s it, Inspector. But if we put in this effort for every homeless asshole that turns up stiff, we’d blow the budget in six months. Know what I mean?” He was grinning, inviting Vanier to share his insight. “Nobody cares if we treat them like the shit they are when they’re alive, but Christ, all of a sudden they’re dead and they’ve got status. We’re all falling over ourselves to find out how they died. But who the fuck cares? You know what I’m saying?”

“So there’s no use for me here,” said Vanier.

“It’s all over, Inspector. And a waste of time if you ask me.”

Vanier turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, Constable Desjardins, and the same to your colleague when he wakes up.”

“Thank you, Inspector. And the same to yourself.”

Vanier walked back to his car. As he drove off, he looked in the mirror and saw the Constable standing in the street looking after him. Vanier wondered what kind of horror it would be to be arrested by Constable Desjardins.

The Atwater Metro station was 12 blocks west, and Vanier circled the Alexis Nihon high-rise that stood over the station complex until he spotted a cruiser and a crime scene van parked by the entrance to the garage. Two officers were stamping their feet next to the cruiser, their breath billowing white in the cold. Vanier got out of the car and walked towards them, badge in hand. They seemed relieved to have some activity.

“Vanier, Major Crimes,” he said, shaking cold hands.

He turned to look up at the ledge overlooking the garage entrance where a crime scene technician was on his hands and knees.

The technician looked down and smiled.

“Inspector Vanier, good to see you again. I’m almost finished here. The body was just taken away, and there’s not much else. She must have stashed her bags somewhere before settling down for the night. Your people will probably find her stuff in the morning.”

“Mr. Neilson, isn’t it? Good to see you again. So you found nothing?” asked Vanier.

“Except this.” He held up a Second Cup coffee thermos. “Don’t even know if it’s hers. We’ll do the prints, but she was wearing gloves. Maybe she took off her gloves to drink her eggnog; you know, some people never lose their manners.”

“Eggnog?”

“Yes, sir, eggnog, with a healthy dose of rum by the smell of it. I was tempted to try it myself.” Neilson lowered himself to the ground and walked over to Vanier.

“You’d be amazed how warm it is up there. Every few minutes, the garage vents hot air that seems to just hang there. If I had to sleep outside in the middle of winter, this would be the spot. You don’t even have to climb up. You can go up the steps by the building doors and walk along the ledge.”

“How did they find her?” asked Vanier.

“One of the tenants was returning home at 8:30 p.m. and noticed her settling in for the night. She called security to have them move her on. Nice, eh? Like Merry Christmas now fuck off. The security guard didn’t go for it at first, says he was alone and couldn’t leave the desk. Anyway, the tenant called back at about 10 p.m. and had a fit when she was told that nothing had been done. She called the building manager at home and the security guard finally went out a little after 11 p.m. He couldn’t wake her, so he called 911. So we have a time of death between 8:30 p.m. and 11 p.m.”

“Any signs of violence?”

“Nothing. She died in her sleep looking real peaceful.”

“There’s another body?”

“Yes, Inspector. Just down the street in Cabot Park. I’m going there now. Why don’t you follow me? It’s in the south entrance to the Metro.”

“Let’s go.”

Vanier turned to the uniforms who were still clapping their hands together and stamping their feet in the cold. “You can close this up. We’ve finished here.”

“That’s good news, sir. I hear my bed calling me.”

“Enjoy your Christmas, officers,” said Vanier.

He got into his car and waited for the crime scene van to pull out. Cabot Park took up a city block in front of the Children’s Hospital but, despite its location, it was a lost space, a watering hole for the city’s destitute. Every time he passed it, Vanier wondered why some places are shunned by the majority of the citizens and become a gathering point for the outcasts. Were transients simply claiming an unwanted patch of land, or was their presence scaring off everyone else? It was one of the ugliest parks in Montreal. In summer, too many trees choked off light, so that, instead of grass, the ground was hard- packed clay. In fall, mud made it impassable. In winter, the gloom of the bare, black trees darkened even the freshest snowfall. And every day, buses lined up in a circle around the park waiting to start their routes, running their engines, and filling the air with the stink of exhaust fumes.

A squat, ugly building of glass and prison-grey concrete that housed an entrance to the Metro and a control room for bus traffic sat on the northwest corner, an architectural marriage of bunker and telephone booth with less charm than either. When it was freezing, people sheltered inside the bunker waiting for their bus to arrive and uneasily shared space with clutches of drinking and arguing street people.

Neilson parked close to a snow bank on St. Catherine Street, and Vanier pulled in behind him, leaving room for access to the back doors. Flashes of light from the police photographer lit up the bunker as they approached. Neilson was first to the building and pulled open the heavy door for Vanier. It was cold inside. The waiting area was unheated and, even though it was sheltered, the concrete floor and walls radiated damp cold as the wind howled through the doors. But, despite the constant circulation of cold air, the place still stank of alcohol and urine.

The body was tucked under a concrete bench with an empty bottle of wine at its head. Another cocoon wrapped against the elements, hoping to preserve some warmth at the centre. Vanier nodded at the two officers protecting the scene. The photographer was repacking his equipment, getting ready to leave.

“We’ll have head shots of all of the victims ready first thing in the morning,” he said to Vanier, lifting the strap of his shoulder bag.

“That’s great. Much appreciated,” said Vanier.

Neilson knelt down to begin his work, peeling the blankets away. Another weather-beaten face lined by deep wrinkles. A man, perhaps in his forties, perhaps younger, the street ages people quickly. Vanier looked at the body and wondered how you could retain heat on the concrete floor in the freezing Montreal night. Even with all the layers, the newspapers closest to the skin, covered by a shirt and pants, a sweater and an overcoat, all wrapped in dirty blankets, eventually the cold would seep into the core of the body. How long could you sleep like that, without the cold waking you? Alcohol might buy you some time, but after a few hours the cold would take over, forcing you to wake up or die.

Neilson talked into a hand-held recorder. Vanier looked around but could see nothing unusual, just another victim who went to sleep and never woke up. He turned away. There was nothing he could do.

“Unless you need me, Mr. Neilson, I’ll be off. When you’ve finished, tell these men they can close up the scene.”

As he turned to leave, Vanier had a thought. “Mr. Neilson, did you see the body at the McGill Metro?”

“Yes, Inspector. That was my first stop tonight.”

“And?”

“There’s not much to say. Much the same as this situation, Inspector. A man sleeping rough. No signs of violence, looks like a peaceful end to a hard life. Nothing suspicious, except for the number of them. Could be a bad coincidence. Maybe they all realized it was Christmas Eve and couldn’t take it anymore, but that’s unlikely. I don’t suppose you survive on the streets by being sentimental. Hopefully, the autopsies will tell us something.”

“Maybe,” said Vanier, almost to himself as he turned to leave.

“Have a good Christmas, Inspector.”

“You too, Mr. Neilson. Merry Christmas.”

Vanier walked out of the death-cold building into the colder night, got into his car and headed home.

Twenty minutes later he stood at the window in his living room looking down over the city with a fresh glass of Jameson in his hand. Hot air from heating systems rose straight up from rooftop vents to condense into white vapour in the cold, like the smoke from so many campfires. He took in the city below him down to the river and beyond, to the endless blanket of white and grey stretching to the horizon. It would be cold again tomorrow. Yesterday’s snow had given way to clear skies that were expected to last for several days and the temperature would fall to a punishing deep freeze. There would be sunlight without heat. Montreal winters are unforgiving, a relentless cold tempered by snowstorms that allow the temperature to rise by a few degrees, then clear skies, and cold again.

He wondered how many people slept outside in weather like this, and what madness drove them to it? And if someone was killing them, why stop at five?

DECEMBER 25

8.25 AM

The jangling phone woke Vanier from a fitful sleep on the couch. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

“Hello?”

“C’est moi, Papa. Joyeux Noel.”

“Elise, ma belle. How are you? Merry Christmas. God it’s great to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“Chez Maman, in beautiful downtown Toronto, as they say.” She was whispering in a perfect English accent. He knew that she was talking softly so as not to let her mother know.

“You sound like you’re still in bed.”

“I am, Papa. I wanted to call you to say Merry Christmas before the day gets started. It’s the first thing I did, Papa. I haven’t even checked to see if there is a sock from Santa at the end of my bed. Probably not, though. That was your job wasn’t it?”

“What? Elise, how can you suggest such a thing?” he said, continuing the fable. “I had absolutely nothing to do with any socks — except for lending you one of mine, because they were the biggest!”

She giggled like the child she no longer was. And then there was silence. He could hear her breathing. He listened, wanting the moment to last, enjoying the unconscious communication of love. Words would break it so he said nothing. Eventually, she stirred.

“I got your present. I love getting parcels in the mail.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will, Papa. I haven’t opened it yet.” He knew it was probably in her room, out of the way, not to disturb Marianne with a sign of his presence. Elise would open it when she had time to herself.

“Will you let me know what you think? It’s only a small thing.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

There was a silence. Then, “So, Papa, have you heard from Alex?”

The moment was broken, and the tension flooded in.

“Not yet, Elise. I’ve booked a call for tomorrow. It’s hard to get to speak to him, but he told me that you guys email each other.”

“Yeah. He emails me all the time, and we talk on Skype. You should get yourself set up on Skype. It’s easy, I’ll show you how next time I’m in Montreal. Alex would like that, I know he would.”

He knew it would be a while before she was next in Montreal. Maybe in the summer, but he couldn’t ask. She would take that question as pressure.

“That would be great, Elise. How does he sound to you?”

“It’s tough in Kandahar. But he seems to be holding up. It’s like he’s found his place in the Van Doos. He’s assigned to protect the Provincial Reconstruction Team, that’s what he calls it. Says he’s doing good work too. But it’s dangerous. I think of him all the time.”

“So do I, Elise, so do I.”

“So, when you speak to him tomorrow, wish him Merry Christmas from me. And be easy on him, Papa. I know that you guys fight sometimes but he loves you, Papa, just like me.”

“I know, Elise, I know. I am a lucky man.”

“So, Papa. Merry Christmas. Je t’aime.”

“And I love you too, ma belle. Come back to Montreal soon. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. I love you too, Papa. Joyeux Noel.”

“Joyeux Noel, ma belle.”

With a click the phone went dead, and Vanier stared at the floor. The single thing that he wanted to do on Christmas Day, and it was done. He looked at the clock. 8.40.

He rose stiffly from the couch and walked to the bathroom, replaying the conversation in his head.

11.15 AM

The Metro Security Headquarters consists of a small series of windowless offices deep under the street in the Berri Metro station. Vanier pulled the door open and walked in, already impatient with the diplomatic burden of not stepping on toes. Most people, even policemen, bristle at the sight of metro officers. They don’t carry guns, and they make up for that inadequacy with intimidating swat-team uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and the swagger of schoolyard bullies. But when below ground in their system, even cops have to show them respect.

An officer approached Vanier and introduced himself with an outstretched hand. He was dressed like he was going to lead a Special Forces team to take out a bunch of terrorists.

“Inspector Vanier, it’s wonderful to see you again. Inspector Morneau, Metro Security.”

Morneau flashed a white-toothed smile that was more formal than friendly, and Vanier racked his brain to remember where the hell he had seen him before.

“Inspector Morneau, good of you to come out on Christmas morning.”

“Thank you, Inspector. We’re taking this very seriously. We must get it cleaned up as soon as possible.”

“It not easy to clean up five bodies, Inspector. It’s not like litter.”

Morneau didn’t notice the rebuke. “Your Detective Sergeant St. Jacques has already been here for some time,” he said, gesturing to the back of the office. Vanier followed the gesture and saw Sylvie St. Jacques looking over the shoulder of a computer operator at a bank of TV screens. She was wearing black pants and a thick sweater and had the aura of someone tightly coiled but in control. She smiled up at Vanier as he approached, beckoning with her hand as if to get him to move more quickly.

“Take a look at this, sir,” she said. “Victim number four in the station at 8.30 last night.”

Vanier looked at the screen she was pointing to. There was a bag lady in a heavy dark coat shuffling down the platform with two large bags in each hand and two smaller ones tied to her belt. She kept her head down as she moved forward to a bench and sat down, arranging the bags around her feet. Then she leaned back against the wall and was still.

“She sits there for half an hour without moving, and nobody so much as looks at her. People wait for trains, get on them and leave or get off and leave. And it’s like she isn’t there. They all walk around her. Now, fast forward to 9.05.”

Vanier watched as the image jumped and then stilled, with 21:05 printed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

“Just here, sir. Look.”

On the screen, the unmistakable figure of Santa Claus appeared from the platform entrance, complete with a white beard and a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up and down the platform and then walked directly up to the bag lady, put his bag down beside her, and leaned forward, seeming to whisper to her.

They watched as she raised her head and then her arms as if to welcome Santa. He reached into his sack and pulled out something in the shape of a fire log and handed it to her. She took it and held it for a moment before smiling up at him again. Vanier wondered if she recognized him, or was simply happy to see Santa Claus.

“Now watch this, sir.”

In the grainy black and white image, Santa leaned in even closer to the woman, held her chin and kissed the top of her head.

St. Jacques counted, “One, two, three, four, five. Five seconds, sir. He held the kiss for five seconds!”

Breaking the kiss, Santa stroked the old lady’s hair and, again, seemed to whisper something to her. Then he picked up his sack and started back along the platform. Before he turned into the platform exit, he stopped and lifted his arm in a farewell wave to the bag lady. Then he was gone.

“We have him going up the escalator and out the door onto St. Catherine Street. Then we have nothing more until 10 p.m.,” said St. Jacques.

The operator skipped the tape forward to 22:00, and the image showed the bag lady slowly rise to her feet and put Santa’s gift in one of her bags. Then she pulled them all up and began shuffling along the platform, away from the entrance.

“What did he give her?” asked Vanier, trying to understand what he had just seen.

“They found a brand new woolen throw with her, the sort you can find anywhere. Probably useful to keep you warm if you’re sleeping rough. Rolled up tight, it could be the gift.”

“Anything else from the CC cameras?”

“That’s all we have for the moment, but we’ve lots to review. M. Savard here has been a lot of help.” She put her hand on the operator’s shoulder and he swiveled around in his chair to face the pair, a huge grin on his face. He was enjoying working with St. Jacques.

“I’ll let you get on with it, then. I want every image of Santa that we can get. See if we can get a face shot. And get Santa’s timing down; time in, time out.”

“What about the Santa suit, sir? Maybe it’s a rental.”

“Right. Have someone contact the owners of every rental shop in town; there can’t be that many. Let’s get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a Santa suit. I don’t care if it is Christmas morning.”

St. Jacques was writing things down. “I’ll get onto it but there aren’t many people about today. Everyone is off.”

“See what you can do. And find out if anyone keeps records of homeless deaths. Take a look at the numbers over the last few months and see if there’s anything suspicious. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and this, sir.” She picked up a brown envelope from the table and handed it to Vanier. “These are the photos of the victims.”

Vanier reached into the envelope and pulled out five colour photographs. Each was a front-on headshot, like mug shots except the eyes were all closed.

Inspector Morneau had been watching from a discreet distance, listening to the exchange.

“Inspector Morneau. If I go to the McGill Metro, could you have one of your people meet me and show me where the victim was found last night?”

“Certainly, Inspector. I’ll send someone. When you arrive, he will be waiting at the ticket booth inside the University Street entrance. He’ll be in uniform. Just introduce yourself.”

12.30 PM

Montreal is rooted in hard, volcanic rock by a giant system of tunneled spaces, an underground city that grew like an ant colony. It started with the metro system, opened just before Expo 67, and hasn’t stopped spreading. Tunnels are main streets connecting underground neighbourhoods where food courts in shopping centres replace village greens. A 35 square kilometre, neon-lit, climate controlled, private metropolis, a Disney-like masquerade of public space controlled so tightly that real city mayors are jealous. Metro Security and private guards swarm through the spaces keeping order, while security cameras manned in real-time see everything so that reaction is always swift. Doors that open early in the morning to welcome consumers are locked at night like the gates of ancient walled cities. By unwritten and ever-changing rules, access is granted and denied at the whim of high school dropouts with uniforms and failed candidates for the police force. It’s a modern world where piped music replaces birdsong and artificial scents replace flowers.

In this world, the homeless must adjust to a constantly changing level of scrutiny. They may be grudgingly tolerated in one area, providing they keep moving through, and forbidden in others. When they walk from a semi-public metro tunnel into a commercial space they are picked up on security cameras, and guards appear to make sure that they either don’t come in or that they leave quickly.

The McGill Metro station is the heart of the underground city, occupying a four-acre rectangle at the basement level of surrounding buildings. There are only three street entrances to the station, but there are six others through the adjoining shopping centres. The middle of the station concourse is cut open like a trench, and you can watch the trains on the lower level. Two sets of turnstiles guard access to the platforms, one at each end of the concourse.

Vanier tried an office building on University Street but the door was locked, with access only for those with electronic keys. He crossed the street to use one of the street entrances.

It was warm inside, and he undid his coat as he walked towards the ticket booth. A metro security officer was waiting for him. A kid, Haitian by the look of him, with everything hanging from his belt but a gun.

“Inspector Vanier, I presume,” he said, reaching out his hand with an ear-to-ear grin that lit up his face.

Vanier took his hand and smiled broadly, reading the name badge, “Constable Duvalier.”

“Yes, sir. And before you ask, no relation.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” said Vanier, “Papa and Baby Doc were not the best of people. So, Constable Duvalier, can you show me where the body was found?”

“Of course, Inspector. It was on the eastbound platform, last night. Follow me.”

Constable Duvalier waved him through the turnstiles with a sign to the sullen ticket seller locked in his booth.

“He’s not happy to be working on Christmas,” said Duvalier apologetically, leading Vanier down the stairs. “Time and a half, and an extra day’s vacation and he’s not happy. What does it take?”

He led Vanier down one flight of stairs to the eastbound platform.

“The body was found down there in the corner,” said Duvalier, pointing to the end of the platform. “He was asleep on the floor.”

“And nobody told him to leave?”

“That’s the thing, Inspector. The rules are clear, no sleeping in the metro. Believe me, it’s on the exams to become a metro officer. We all know it. But just because you put on a uniform doesn’t mean you hang up your humanity.”

Vanier thought about that.

“And all the others, they’re in the union. It’s not part of their job description.”

“And we’re all human.”

“Christmas Eve, it’s minus twenty degrees outside, all the shelters are full, or closed, or they won’t take them because they’ve been drinking. So what do you do? You throw someone out in the street? No. People look the other way. The cleaners push the machines up and down the platform and notice nothing. The train drivers come and go and see nothing. And my colleagues don’t happen to look in that direction. The guys on the screens, for some reason, they can’t pick it up. What’s that? A conspiracy? So he lay there. And he was dead. Who knows how long? Who’s to blame?”

“Constable Duvalier, if I was blamed every time I looked the other way I’d be selling newspapers.”

“It’s not easy. Do it too much and the rules become arbitrary.”

Vanier thought about that too.

They walked down the platform to where the body was found. Duvalier stood in a corner at the end of a metro platform and pointed at the floor. The sleeper would have been clearly visible to a driver going in the opposite direction, and to the cameras trained on the platform.

“That’s it?” said Vanier, almost to himself.

“That’s it,” said Duvalier.

They went back upstairs.

“You’ll have to exit to the street. All the building entrances are closed.”

“Thank you, Constable Duvalier,” said Vanier as he turned to climb a shut-down escalator to the street.

1.35 PM

On Christmas afternoon, the building housing the Montreal Police Headquarters was almost deserted. Interview Room 6 had been set aside for the personal possessions of the victims, and Vanier was in there because he had nothing better to do. Four separate piles of garbage bags were propped against the wall; the possessions of the fifth victim had still not been found. On a sheet of white paper, someone had given each pile a number. He grabbed two garbage bags that sat under the sheet marked Number 1 and brought them to the edge of the table, next to where he had dropped a yellow note-pad and a pen. He tipped the contents of the first bag onto the table and started taking inventory, listing each piece before putting it back into the bag. Before he had refilled the first bag, he changed his mind and decided to walk to the exhibit room to get cardboard boxes and labels. He grabbed as many of the flat, unfolded boxes as he could manage, putting sheets of sticky labels and a felt pen in his pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and returned to the room. He pulled on the gloves and got to work, ignoring the fetid smell filling the room.

Sorting through the first pile again, he began listing bulkier items: a sleeping bag and two blankets; a couple of T-shirts, one from St. Petersburg, Florida, the other from the last world tour of the Police; three pairs of formerly white Y-front underwear, three pairs of socks, and three oversized acrylic sweaters. He wrote it all down. Next was a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the Journal de Montreal — the insulation of choice for the homeless. The second bag was less bulky. It held a hairbrush and a toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, an empty plastic drinking cup from Starbucks, a zip-lock bag full of cigarette butts, and a half-eaten hamburger from McDonald’s. He wondered what kind of homeless person would buy his coffee at Starbucks, and remembered the container found by Neilson last night. He pulled the top off and sniffed. It smelled of rancid milk and alcohol. He set it aside for testing and returned to his inventory. There was a thick plastic bag from the Societe des Alcools filled with coins. Vanier counted the coins and wrote down $37.88. There remained two bottles of pills, both Celebrex 200 mg, one empty, the other half-full. Prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier to George Morissette. The labels on the pill containers also said they were dispensed by the pharmacy at the Old Brewery Mission.

Taking a felt pen from the desk, he wrote on a sticky label: George Morissette. Putting a name on the possessions was progress. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. He emptied the envelope, laid the papers on the table, and sat down.

There was a disintegrating certificate issued by the Ordre de Notaires du Quebec certifying that Maitre George Edouard Morissette was admitted as a Notary of the Province of Quebec in 1970. Next, there was an old photograph of a pretty woman holding a child of about two on her lap, sitting in a garden, and smiling at the camera. There was a social insurance card, a driver’s license that expired in 1980 and gave Maitre Morissette’s date of birth as March 25, 1949 and a booklet entitled: Alcoholics Anonymous Montreal Meetings. Vanier flipped through it, surprised at how many meetings there were, you could go to a different one, three times a day every day and never go to the same place twice in a month. Each listing showed the language: French, English, Italian, Spanish, and there were even bilingual meetings. Finally, Vanier picked up a small book worn with use: Twenty Four Hours A Day. Flipping to December 25, he read:

I pray that I may be truly thankful on this Christmas Day.

DECEMBER 26

5 AM

Vanier was nervous, preparing himself to talk to a boy who was a man. Not a man, a soldier — a different kind of man. Vanier knew soldiers. On his mother’s side they were all farmers, tied to the same patch of land for generations. But his father and his father’s father had been soldiers. His father had dragged the family to every military base in Canada. Often to leave them waiting while he served overseas. More often to leave them waiting while he drank with his soldier buddies. Then one day he left them for good with an inconvenient bullet that entered his brain through the roof of his mouth and left a red splash pattern on the living room wall for Vanier’s mother to clean off. Vanier had watched while she did it.

All Alex knew of his grandfather were the photos and medals, a hero his father never talked about or explained.

The phone rang at 5 minutes after 5 a.m.

“Alex?”

“Hey. Merry Christmas, Dad. How’re you doing?” Vanier tried to picture his smile.

“It’s me should be asking that. I’m fine. Stuck in the snow and the cold as usual. Hey, Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“It’s got to be better than here. Fucking desert gets to you pretty quick. So what’s new with you?”

“You know how it is Alex, crime’s a growth business. Close one file, open another. There’s always something going on. For everyone we put away, there are two more getting out. And there are always the kids following in the father’s footsteps. I guess we’re fighting our own war over here.”

“Yeah? They got IEDs in Montreal?”

“Well no, it’s not a war, Alex. Not like what you’re doing. Sorry. I just meant…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I suppose we’re both fighting evil, eh?”

“I suppose. But I got bigger guns!”

“They won’t be issuing C7A2s here for a while. But I bet it would get me respect in Hochelaga.”

“We ain’t getting respect here. They’re laughing at us. Fucking government is corrupt, and we’re getting shot at to keep them in business. The Afghan soldiers would sell you out in a second if they could make a deal. The place stinks.”

“Alex, I saw your guys on TV the other night. It looks pretty rough over there. I worry.”

“Ah come on, Dad, don’t start that again. I’m here. I’m serving in this shithole, but it doesn’t do me any good to know you’re worrying about me. I’m not a kid.”

“OK, Alex, but I’m your father. That’s what fathers do, they worry.”

“Yeah, but that puts pressure on me, you know.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that what we see here is the worst. On TV, it’s always the bad stuff.”

“There’s a lot of bad shit to film. It’s fucking dangerous, but I’m surrounded by great guys, and we all look out for each other. So the journalists want blood and guts and blown-up troop carriers. Maybe that’s a good thing, let people know what the fuck is going on, you know?”

“I suppose. But you don’t see much good news.”

“Good news? There isn’t any. And if you read crap in the papers about how we’re changing lives, don’t believe it. It’s a gang of fucking thieves running the country, and another gang of murdering bastards trying to take over — and neither side gives a fuck about the average Afghan.”

“So you think we should leave?”

“No. Just let us do the job. We’re fighting people who don’t give a fuck about the Geneva Convention, and we have to do it like Boy Scouts. It burns me up.”

“Don’t worry, Alex. Your tour is up in four months and you can come home.”

“Yeah. I guess. Anyway. Change the subject.”

Vanier changed the subject. “I spoke to Elise yesterday, she sends her love.”

“I know. She sent me an email. She said that you might be thinking of joining the human race and getting Skype.”

“Ha. Well, no promises, but you never know. I’ll give it serious thought. Elise said she’d help me.”

“Do it. You’ll be amazed how easy it is once you get started.”

“So, tell me, what do you do for relaxation?”

“Well, last night we had a concert with Blue Rodeo and a bunch of comedians. And we had a Christmas supper, turkey, roast potatoes. The food was good. We even had the Minister of Defence spooning out the gravy.”

“And how was he in the kitchen?”

“He was shit in the kitchen. Just over here to get his photo taken.”

“That’s what the politicians are for, Alex, spooning out the shit!”

“Yeah, that’s funny. It’s true. But my time’s up. I gotta go. There are guys lined up behind me, Merry Christmas, Dad. Take care.”

“Love you, Alex. Take care.”

The phone clicked dead. Vanier picked up the cold coffee and focused on the conversation, trying to recognize what was really said; the statements, the inflections, the pauses. It was a police technique to squeeze meaning from everything. Often what was unsaid was the most important. He knew that he couldn’t understand what it meant to serve in Afghanistan. But he knew enough to be scared. He was scared for Alex. And scared of what he recognized in his son. When Vanier was honest with himself, and it didn’t happen often, he saw in Alex the same attitude that he saw in the violent scumbags that he spent his life trying to shut down. And when he tried to dismiss those thoughts, he’d think of his father, and know his fears were justified.

It was still dark outside. The sun wouldn’t rise until after seven. Vanier looked down on the white and grey city. He turned back from the window and put the half cup of coffee into the microwave and pushed one minute. It was steaming when he took it out. He thought about cooling it with a shot of whiskey and decided against it.

DECEMBER 27

7 AM

The early morning sun reflected red and gold off downtown buildings, promising a cold day under a cloudless sky. Sunlight was flooding into Vanier’s apartment, and he was feeling good. After watching the sunrise over the river, he had taken a long shower and dressed in a clean suit and ironed shirt. He sat on the couch, his face bathed in the light of the rising sun, and closed his eyes. There was no alcohol fuzziness and no fatigue from sleeping on the couch. Christmas was over.

He focused on his breathing, belly out for the inward breath, in for the outward breath, and relaxed. Thoughts bubbled up from the depths, and he acknowledged them as he had been taught, and let them continue their upward journey out of consciousness. After five minutes, there were no more thoughts, just steady breathing, awareness and a sense of wellbeing. He let twenty minutes roll into thirty, like a child refusing to come out of the pool in summer, and finally surfaced with an unconscious smile on his face.

He got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen, cut chunks from a block of extra-old cheddar, and put an English muffin in the toaster. The kettle boiled, and he made a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the table eating and looking at downtown through the picture window. The phone rang.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Luc,” said Dr. Anjili Segal.

“Anjili. How are you?” said Vanier, happy that he didn’t sound like he had been drinking all night.

“I’m well Luc. So, you survived Christmas?

“It was wonderful,” he lied. “And you?”

“The same, Luc. But I’ll be glad to get back to work. I’m booked for the fourth and fifth autopsies of your Christmas Eve victims. If you want to be there, I am starting at 11.30 on the first. Probably three o’clock on the other one.”

“I’ll be there, Anjili. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“You don’t have to be facetious, Luc. I just thought you would be interested in attending.”

“Anjili, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be there. I may even bring a guest.”

“I’ll see you then, Luc,” she said and hung up.

DECEMBER 28

8 AM

Only five officers were at their desks when Vanier arrived: Laurent, St. Jacques, Roberge, Fletcher, and Janvier. Vanier stood in the middle of the room and had their attention.

“Listen up. It’s officially a murder investigation. All the victims were killed with potassium cyanide.” He spelled it out and they scribbled it down. “It’s a common industrial chemical and a lethal poison. Santa mixed it in rum and eggnog and sent them on their way.”

Laurent raised his big head. “Isn’t that what Goering used?”

“Goering?”

“In the Nuremberg trial. I saw the film. Somebody smuggled him a cyanide pill, and he killed himself.”

“Christ, you learn something every day. So we can take Goering off the list of suspects. We’re making progress. And I don’t think that we’re looking for pills. Our guy is serving it up in liquid, so we can start by assuming that he has a stock of powder. So here’s what I want. Start with the manufacturers and importers, anyone who makes the stuff, and anyone who has imported it in the last three years. Have them check to see if any is missing; any recent thefts; disgruntled employees; employees who’ve quit recently — you know the sort of thing, anything unusual. You find anything, let me know immediately. Once you’ve got the sources of this stuff, start working on the customers, all the way down to the last buyer. We have to check them all, and as quickly as possible. Any questions?”

“Any suggestions on customs, for the importers?” This from Fletcher.

“Good question.” In the last few years they’d had problems getting information quickly from customs. They weren’t keen on sharing unless there was some joint task force, and even then, they liked to hold back. Something about the privacy rights of importers. Vanier flipped open his phone and scrolled through his address book. “Call Danielle Sabbatini, she’s an investigator in Laval, and she owes me. 450-363-2082. If she gives you grief, tell her you’re cashing in a marker from me. If she still won’t help, call me.”

“Sir, what about the government agencies?” This from St. Jacques. “Maybe you need a licence to keep potassium cyanide. So maybe there’s a list somewhere.”

“I was told that it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a try. See what you can get. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. “We checked the parking tickets. They weren’t giving tickets Christmas Eve, they were towing cars away to make way for the snow clearing. Anything that was parked illegally, or that was in the way of the clearing, was towed. Thirty-six cars in all, and I’m working through the list. Nothing so far, but it could take another two days, sir.”

“Well, keep it up.”

“Are we getting extra help, sir?” asked St. Jacques.

“The Chief is considering my request for additional resources and will get back to me when he has time to think. So don’t hold your breath. In the meantime you’ll be glad to hear that you can all work as much overtime as you like. The Chief has generously agreed to open the purse on that one.”

That news was greeted with groans.

“Right. If you’ve all got work to do, let’s get to it. Laurent, you come with me, we’re going to church again, separate cars.”

As they were pulling on their overcoats, St. Jacques passed an envelope to Vanier. Laurent was watching but said nothing.

“My lottery winnings,” said Vanier.

“So where’s mine? I’m in the pool too,” said Laurent.

“You didn’t win.”

“Fuck.”

DECEMBER 29

8.30 PM

Vanier and St. Jacques were sitting in a pew close to the back, waiting for Drouin to finish his eight o’clock Mass. When it ended, they followed him and two altar boys through the side door and into the sacristy. The boys bowed with the priest towards the crucifix on the wall and then went off-duty, dashing on either side of the two officers as though they were avoiding furniture, trying their best not to break into a sprint in their rush to get out of the room and back into their street clothes. Drouin stood in his mass regalia and tried a wan smile.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I’ve looked through your cards, Father.”

“My cards? They’re not my cards. I don’t own them. They are simply the prayers of the faithful.”

“Did you know that all five of the victims are named in your prayer cards?”

Drouin’s face lost what little colour it had, and he stared at Vanier, as though willing him to say more. Vanier looked back. Drouin turned to St. Jacques and saw he wouldn’t get anything better from her.

“I’d thought about that. I don’t remember all of the cards, there are so many. But I recalled praying for some of the victims.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“It didn’t seem important.” Drouin removed the stole, absentmindedly kissed its cross and hung it on a wooden valet.

“The prayers call for their release from suffering. Could that have been a message? Could someone have acted on it?” said Vanier.

“You think that someone in our group took it upon themselves to ensure that our prayers were answered? That can’t be true. It must be a coincidence, Inspector.”

The priest reached down and grabbed the hem of his white and gold chasuble, pulling it up over his head and draping it carefully over the valet. He turned back to them standing in his white alb, a symbol of purity.

“This is the Church. Human life, all human life, is sacred. You must know that, Inspector. It is inconceivable that any Catholic would do such a thing. Inconceivable.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence that your group has prayed for five people in the last few weeks and now they’re all dead? That’s some coincidence, Father.”

“Inspector, I don’t know what it is. All I know is that I cannot think of any connection between our prayer group and the kind of person who is capable of such an atrocity.”

“And if I told you that some prayers haven’t been answered yet? That we’re trying to track down five other people who’ve been singled out for divine intervention in your prayer sessions?”

Drouin was in the process of pulling the alb up over his head, revealing his civilian clothes beneath, but he stopped and stared at Vanier. His hands were shaking.

“Dear God. What’s going on? Tell me I can help.”

“You can help, Father. There’s nothing wrong with voicing your suspicions, no matter how far-fetched. In my job I see the far-fetched and ridiculous every day. How many newspaper stories have you read that start with, “The neighbours were surprised. He seemed such a nice family man”?

“What are you asking me to do? If there were anyone in our group I thought was capable of such acts, you would be the first to know. But there isn’t, Inspector. You’re asking me to imagine, to speculate, who might be capable of this. Well, I have no idea. But I will think hard about it, and I will pray for guidance.”

“While you’re doing that, why don’t you pray for the next victims?”

Drouin clutched the edge of the wooden countertop.

“Mary Gallagher. Know her? What about Denis Latulippe? Or Gaetan Paquin? Antonio Di Pasquale? Duane Thatcher? Know them? I have men looking for them right now. But I’ll bet someone else is trying to track them down as well. Pray that we get there first.”

The two officers couldn’t help but hear the intake of breath. Drouin sat down.

“Mr. Thatcher died in late November. He died of exposure one night in the entrance to the Simons department store on St. Catherine. And Antonio hasn’t been seen in months. People have been asking after him.”

“When in November?”

Drouin looked at the calendar on the wall. He got up and flipped it back a page. “November 20. I remember it was a horrible night. It was cold, not cold enough to freeze, but too cold to sleep outside. It had been raining, and the poor man was soaked, trying to sleep in a doorway. Everyone assumed he simply died of exposure. It’s more common than you think.”

“He may have been helped on the way. Father, anything you can think of that might be useful.”

“Inspector, I will go through all of the people that have attended the prayer services. If I can think of anything that might be helpful, I will call you.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“Fifty, perhaps sixty.”

Vanier was surprised. “Do you have names, addresses?”

“No. This isn’t an organized group, nobody has to give their name. Some people show up every few weeks. Others are more regular. Please, Inspector, let me sit quietly and think about it. I’ll write a list of everyone I can think of and bring it to your office this afternoon.”

“That would be helpful.” Vanier reached into his pocket and pulled out two sheets. One was a photocopy of the prayer cards from the five victims on Christmas Eve. The other had the cards for the five remaining people. “Who wrote these?”

Drouin sat down with a sheet in each hand and scanned the cards. “Alain.”

Vanier could barely hear. ”Who?”

“Dr. Alain Grenier. They’re all signed by the initial A. I’ve noticed he does that. But he couldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps all he’s doing is giving directions. But you have no doubt that these, these prayers, were all written by Dr. Grenier?”

“He wrote these,” he said, handing the sheets back to Vanier.

“And you’ll bring the list over this morning?”

“I said this afternoon, but as soon as it’s done. I promise.”

Vanier handed him his card. “Just in case you lost the last one.”

He turned to leave, followed by St. Jacques.

Drouin sat down heavily on the wooden chair. Fifteen minutes later he was still there. He pulled up the hem of the alb, and reached into his pants pocket for his phone. Typing the first three letters of Grenier, the screen gave him a choice and he selected Call Home. It picked up immediately.

“Alain?”

“Father Henri, how good to hear from you. My best wishes to you for the season.”

“I’ve just had a visit from Inspector Vanier.”

“Yes. He came to see me on Christmas Day. A terrible business.”

“Alain, he says that the names of the victims were all on the Circle’s prayer cards.” There was silence on the other end of the line.

“He says that they were all on cards written by you, Alain. How can that be?”

“They were my patients, Father Henri, and they were all desperately ill. I don’t remember, but I could have asked for prayers for them. There was nothing else I could do for them but pray.”

“So there might be a connection. It’s not simply the Inspector’s imagination.”

“Father Henri, I’m not sure I would go that far. There’s nothing wrong in praying for those in desperate need. But that’s a long way from making a connection to murder. These people led very dangerous lives. If you ask me, it’s just coincidence.”

“The Inspector doesn’t seem to believe in coincidence, Alain. And, quite frankly, I find it hard as well. What if someone in our group took it upon themselves to kill them just to ease their suffering? Isn’t that our responsibility?” Drouin said, as though he were practising walking through the thoughts that were clouding his mind.

“I suppose it’s possible, anything’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Anyway, let the police do their work, and they’ll get to the bottom of this. Do what you can to help, but this is for the police. Let them do their work.”

“I suppose you’re right, Alain. But they said that there were five other names. One’s dead, one’s disappeared and the three others, who knows? What about them?”

“Do you know them?”

“I know one fairly well, Mary Gallagher, poor soul. The others I know vaguely. The Inspector gave me the names, but they’re not people that I’ve worked with. But it wouldn’t take me long to track them down. I didn’t tell him that. That’s strange, Alain. I should have told him I could help him to find them. But I didn’t.” Drouin fingered Vanier’s card.

“So why don’t you call the Inspector and tell him that you can help. If they’re in danger and you can help to locate them, let him know.”

“Yes, Alain. I’ll call the Inspector.”

Drouin clicked disconnect on his phone and started punching another name into his address book. Just one number showed up. He pushed the Call Mobile button.

It picked up on the fifth ring.

“John?”

DECEMBER 30

11 AM

Vladimir Markov was sitting alone in a booth in a nondescript cafe on Notre Dame staring at the door and talking on his cell phone. Romanenko was sitting at the counter behind him nursing a coffee. The waitress and cook, the only staff in the place, were taking advantage of the holiday quiet and the absence of the owner by drinking surreptitious shots of cognac in the kitchen.

“Yeah, OK. You did great to get the shit out on bail. What do you want me to say? I’m paying you enough that I don’t have to say thanks. And, frankly, Audet can rot in prison for all I care. But I want this whole thing closed down, you hear me?” said Markov. Then he listened, keeping his eye on the door.

“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about excuses. I just want this problem to go away as fast as possible. Do whatever you have to do. If Audet has to plead guilty, that’s his problem. If that’s what it takes, he’ll plead guilty. Gotta go. Just get it done.” Markov clicked the phone off and watched the door as Marcel Audet walked in, all attitude, like he owned the place. He walked over to Markov’s booth and eased himself in.

Audet was smiling. “Hey, thanks for the lawyer, Mr. M. He got me out this morning on a promise to keep the peace.”

Markov didn’t respond. The waitress walked over and opened a notepad, pen in hand.

“Get you something?”

“You have a menu?” asked Audet

“He’ll have a coffee. He’s not staying,” said Markov.

The waitress left and came back with a pot of coffee, a cup and a saucer. She poured the coffee, pulled two creamers out of the pocket of her nylon one-piece, and dropped them on the table.

Markov waited for her to leave and said, “I told you. I wanted things kept quiet.”

“Listen, Mr. M. I haven’t done anything to mess things up.”

“Loan sharking? Money laundering? The way I hear it, you’ve been running a fucking bank down there.”

“So, I helped some people out, that’s all. Nothing criminal. I didn’t even make much money out of it.”

“People connected to me gave you the job. And that means I’m connected to you and your fucking schemes. I got a visit from some fucking cop yesterday afternoon who already made the connection.”

“Look, like I said, it’s not a big deal. I helped people out, that’s all.”

“You’re in trouble, asshole. And that means I have to waste my time thinking about problems you’ve created.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. It’s just that the police are all over the place with these murders. They’re jumping on everyone.”

“That’s what I mean. You think our deal can go through when everyone and their mother are worrying about the fucking homeless? And now the police connect you and me.”

“Well, I can see that it creates problems. But what can I do? I’m here to help you, Mr. Markov. You know that.”

“First, your private banking scheme is over. Whatever money you took, you give back. And get receipts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Markov.” Audet was beginning to sweat.

“Second, who the fuck is the sick bastard killing these people? I want you to find out, and get to him before the police do. If the police find him, this story stays in the papers for the next two years while he goes to trial, and every bloody politician and friend of the poor will be wringing their hands over the plight of the homeless. I don’t want the homeless in the newspapers for the next two years. We need to shut him down.”

“Well, I suppose I can ask around.”

“Listen asshole. You’re the one slumming around with these scumbags. Someone must know him. Get rid of this guy, and the press will move on in two weeks. Soon as you deal with him, things will settle down. Not before. You need to do your civic duty with this maniac. Do you understand?”

Audet looked into Markov’s eyes and understood perfectly.

“Yes.”

Markov looked over his shoulder. Romanenko appeared at the table and dropped his hand heavily on Audet’s shoulders.

“So, the chat’s over, Mr. Markov?” said Romanenko.

“Yeah, it’s over,” said Markov.

“And Mr. Audet is leaving?” he said, pulling Audet to a standing position in the booth.

“Yeah, he’s leaving.”

Audet struggled out of the booth with Romanenko’s hand still gripping his shoulder.

“I understand, Mr. Markov. I understand.”

“Good, now, get the fuck out of here. And listen. I can’t take any more fuck-ups. You’re on very thin ice, my friend.”

DECEMBER 31

8.30 AM

Everywhere Vanier looked in the Squad Room, there were pictures of John Collins staring back at him. The Journal de Montreal headline under the sketch read, Santa Claus? Other papers were lying on desks, and all had the sketch on the front page. Every TV channel had led with the story. For the press, he was still Pious John, the most famous face in Quebec, and nobody had seemed to pick up the connection with the fire yet. That was a good sign.

The leak of the sketch was probably inevitable, given the number of people it had been shown to. But Vanier still wanted to know who it came from. If the leak came from within, from Fletcher or someone else in the squad, he had a serious problem, but it would have to wait. John Collins’s files from human resources at Xeon included a passport-sized photograph that was a dead-on match for the sketch. It also had a next of kin and an address. Visiting the next of kin with news of death is one of a cop’s worst jobs, but if you know nothing about the corpse, it’s a good place to start.

“Let’s go,” said Vanier, gesturing to Laurent.

Mme. Collins’ apartment was on rue Masson in Rosemont, just south of avenue Jeanne d’Arc. The street was lined with identical two-storey duplexes, each featuring a curved iron staircase leading to the upper apartment. The outdoor staircases feature in Montreal postcards, and tourists think they’re quaint, but they were built for cheap, not picturesque. Given Montreal’s ferocious winters, it was madness to build curved, metal staircases outside, but they had become ubiquitous features of working-class housing.

The metal steps up to Mme. Collins’s apartment were covered in fresh snow that hid two inches of packed ice, and the handrail was encased in ice. Mme. Collins hadn’t shoveled the snow from the last storm or the one before, preferring to walk a path through it. The result was treacherous. Laurent, Sherpa-like, led the ascent, with both men clutching the railing as they found footholds.

The door opened a crack on the third ring, and a frail-looking woman peered out from behind a chain.

“Police?” she said.

“Yes, Madame. We would like to talk to you. Can we come in?” said Vanier.

She closed the door to remove the chain and opened it again, turning her back on them, and retreated down the hallway into the mid-morning darkness. They followed, and she was turning on the light as they followed her into the living room. She sat down in the only armchair and gestured with her hand to the sofa, where they sat, their bulk dwarfing the two-seater. Vanier wondered if she had been sitting in the dark before their arrival.

She was all grey and black. Her hair was cut short like a man’s and was the kind of grey that says I don’t care; not a shade you can buy at any hairdresser but a variety of greys that mirrored the gradual decay of age. Her face was colourless, just shadowy lines and folds, and she wore a black woollen skirt with a black cardigan buttoned to her neck.

The furniture was the discount living-room special, popular 30 years ago: a couch, an armchair, two side tables, a floor lamp, and a coffee table, all for one low price. What looked as though it should be made of wood was chipboard and veneer. The walls were bare, and there was no TV or radio. Every flat surface was covered in a film of dust except for the copy of the Journal de Montreal on the coffee table with the sketch of John Collins on the cover.

“It’s simple. It suits my needs,” she said, answering unasked questions.

“Madame, you are Yvette Collins?”

“Yes.”

“I am Detective Inspector Vanier and this is Detective Sergeant Laurent.”

She peered at them through lifeless eyes.

“We’re here about your son, John.”

“News?” she said, without enthusiasm.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

She was holding herself in check but couldn’t stop a sudden intake of breath.

“He died last night in a fire.” Blunt and to the point. Vanier had done the same thing many times and knew you had to be direct. Get it out up front and don’t leave any hope, then deal with whatever happens. There is no typical reaction. Some break down loudly, and others implode silently. Sometimes they argue, as though logic could raise the dead. Mme. Collins blessed herself and looked off in the distance, as though seeking help. Finally she focused on Vanier.

“I always hoped I would see him again.”

“When was the last time you saw John?”

“It’s been ten years. But I never gave up hope.”

“Ten years? Did you have a fight?”

“No.”

“So, he disappeared ten years ago and you haven’t seen him since then. That’s it?” said Vanier.

She said nothing, and both officers let the silence hang in the room until it became palpable, like a fourth person. Finally she spoke, in a whisper that forced them to strain to hear.

“I brought him here as a newborn, and he and I lived together for eighteen years. For ten, he slept with me in the room behind you. Then he slept on the couch you are sitting on. He slept there for eight years. Then he left. That was almost ten years ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“But you knew where he was?”

“I knew nothing,” she continued. “After he left, I searched for him. I had no idea where he might have gone, so I wandered the streets looking for him, hoping I might bump into him. I looked at every face I passed. I never stopped looking, in buses, in passing cars, in stores, on the metro, everywhere. I had a rule, always let the first bus or metro pass by and look at who was on it. If he wasn’t on that one, maybe he would be on the second, or would arrive to take it. Once, I was on a bus on Rachel, and I thought I saw him from the window. I got off and ran back to the spot, but he was gone. I went back to the same spot three, four times a week at the same time for months, but I never saw him again. For ten years, Inspector, I’ve prayed for just one glimpse, one sign that he was even alive. There was nothing. He vanished into thin air. Nothing, until I saw his picture in the newspaper this morning. I never buy a newspaper. If the picture had been inside, I would never have seen it, but it was on the front page. After searching for him for ten years, he was looking at me from a hundred different places, but I still didn’t know where he was. And now you tell me he’s dead.”

“I’m afraid so, Madame.”

“You are looking for him because you think he kills people.”

Vanier didn’t like that she was still using the present tense. She had to realize he was dead. “We want, I’m sorry, we wanted…” He waited for that to sink in. It didn’t seem to. “We wanted to talk to him about the deaths of these homeless people.”

“And now you can’t.”

“And now we can’t.”

“Well, at least I can see his body.”

Vanier thought of the pain of looking at the charcoal remains of her son.

“After he left, did you report him missing?”

“The police said there was nothing they could do. He was an adult. He chose to leave. I did what I could.”

“I’m sorry, Madame Collins. That was a terrible burden to carry.” Vanier meant it.

“How would you know, Inspector?”

Vanier didn’t answer. “Did he have any friends?”

She stared at him for a few moments. Laurent shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you think I might have overlooked something in the last ten years?”

“I have to ask, Madame Collins.”

“I racked my brains, trying to think of where he might be. Places he might be working, people he might have contacted. I went through every single possibility. Friends? There were none. He didn’t have friends. He wasn’t an ordinary child. He had an internal life. He was always thinking. We’d sit here at nights in silence, and he’d read his books and wouldn’t say a word for hours on end. We never argued. I used to think it was because he was spiritual, holy somehow.”

“Perhaps his father? Where is his father?” Vanier was pushing, and he knew it.

“I don’t know,” she said, her hands grasping into fists.

“Who is his father?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

“So, Madame Collins, just for the record, your son has not been in contact with you recently?”

“Inspector, one day the only person who mattered to me left without saying goodbye and never came back. I’ve spent ten years searching for him, and in all that time, not one call, no letter, not even a card at Christmas, or Mother’s Day, or even my birthday. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I can only imagine.”

“Imagine all you like. You can never know.”

They rose awkwardly to leave.

“Can I see him?”

“The body is badly burned.”

“I want to see him.”

“I’ll have someone contact you.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

She walked past them and opened the door to let them out. No goodbyes.

JANUARY 1

7 AM

Vanier was surfacing into wakefulness in the half-light before dawn, and he felt the sleeping presence next to him. He didn’t move, replaying the previous night. There were no flashes of regret or shame. He took an exaggerated deep breath and rolled over, pulling himself to her sleeping body. She stirred without opening her eyes, and relaxed again, and he wondered if she was also rewinding the night before committing to the day. They both lay still, and he fell back into sleep. When the sun finally blazed its way into the room, he felt her stir again.

“Well?” he said, the non-committal opener that says you go first.

“Well, Inspector. This is not what I expected,” she said, rolling into him and making eye contact.

He reached and brushed the hair back from her face. “Me neither. But I feel good, Anjili.”

“Careful, Inspector.”

“I was just thinking…”

“Don’t.”

He looked at her and saw that it was her mind that was racing. She was the one doing the thinking.

“I’m starving. How about breakfast in bed?” he asked. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” He kissed her on the lips and got out of the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers that were lying on the floor. She smiled at him, closed her eyes and lay bathed in the sunlight that was streaming through the window.

Standing up, he knew it would be a tough day. His stomach was churning, his head hurt and his mouth felt furry.

JANUARY 2

7 AM

The kidnapping had changed things. What had been a minor nuisance, in which Vanier could play at influencing the outcome — but wouldn’t lose sleep if he didn’t — had now become a street fight. He decided to draw on his deposits of favours owed for past services. His first call was to an old friend in the RCMP. Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson was a drug investigator with the Mounties who had worked undercover for years before slowly moving up the ranks. Years ago Vanier had learned that Peterson was being set up for a frame by Rolf Cracken, a mid-sized dealer with ambition and an oversized grudge against Peterson. It came out in a conversation with an informant who was trying to impress Vanier with his connections and knowledge, and it didn’t amount to much at first, only that Cracken was getting ready to stitch up a cop. Vanier could have ignored it as someone else’s problem, but he didn’t. He spent four days putting it all together and convincing himself Peterson was clean. When he was sure, it was simple enough to deal with. Craken’s plan was to dump a brick of cocaine and a couple of thousand dollars in Peterson’s apartment, start a small sofa fire to get some smoke going, and call the firemen to put out the fire. They wouldn’t be able to ignore the pile of cocaine and cash, and Peterson would be finished in the force.

One morning in July, Peterson let Vanier into the apartment and left for work as usual. Just in case anyone missed him leaving, he stopped as he drove out of the parking garage and got out of the car to check his tires before driving off. Fifteen minutes later, he walked back into the apartment building in a baseball cap and a different coat. Vanier and Peterson waited 40 minutes until the lock in the apartment door was picked and the planter walked in with the drugs and money. Vanier still laughs at the pitiful I’m fucked expression on the planter’s face when he saw the two cops waiting for him.

In Vanier’s world, inter-agency cooperation was officially practiced by bureaucrats on committees who carefully channelled the flow of information backed up by strict rules to prevent any unofficial exchanges. All requests to other forces were supposed to flow through the committees and, because information is currency, the committees became farmers’ markets of swaps and promises where none of the farmers trusted each other. Vanier preferred the direct approach, granting and receiving favours with officers he knew, or who were recommended, and always keeping the ledger balanced.

Peterson picked up the phone on the third ring.

“I hope I didn’t wake you from your beauty sleep. You, of all people, need it.”

“Vanier, you bastard. What the fuck do you want?”

“You recognize me? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. Wait a minute, I’ve got it. You’re calling me to wish me a Happy New Year.”

“You guessed. That and something else.”

“I might have known, you don’t do Happy anything. So what can I do for you?”

“Got a pen?”

“Course I do, I sleep with a fucking pen in my hand. Wait a second.”

Vanier heard the phone drop onto a hard surface, some shuffling and cursing, a woman’s voice, and then Peterson picked it up again.

“OK, so what is it?”

“Blackrock Investments, a property developer on Chabanel. Vladimir Markov, the President, or something like that, and Ivan Romanenko, the in-house lawyer.”

“And?”

“As much background as you can give me. I think they’re putting a little too much muscle into the development business, and I want to know if you guys have anything on them. They seem like slime.”

“That’s it? I thought slimy was a prerequisite for being a property developer. You have anything else?”

“It’s just that I had them down as simple businessmen, sleazy as all hell but no more than that. But I may have underestimated them.”

“It’s urgent, I suppose?”

“You read my mind.”

“OK, Luc, I’ll see what I can do and get back to you. Now, can I put on my pants?”

“Thanks, Ian.”

JANUARY 3

12.30 PM

John Collins had disappeared or, more accurately, he had never reappeared. Everyone at Xeon knew him, or thought they did, but each said that he had been closer to someone else. Truth was he was close to no one. He worked among them but was alone. Nobody knew where he lived or what he did outside work. Just about everyone said he was a little strange, but no more than that, not strange enough to be unusual.

It was the same thing with his neighbours. They all recognized him and would nod to him in the street, but that was all. The police had questioned and re-questioned everyone who had attended the Circle of Christ sessions and, again, the face was familiar, but that’s where it stopped. They remembered him, but didn’t know him and never remembered seeing him with somebody. He was a loner, living within the hive as though he belonged, but passing his life in a universe of one.

Vanier was frustrated. It was like Collins had never existed. And Vanier didn’t know how to find someone who was so disconnected.

His phone rang.

“Anjili, any news?”

“News indeed, Luc. How did you know?”

“About what?”

“About Audet.”

“He’s the corpse?”

“There’s no doubt. The dental records, blood, measurements, height, everything matches. The corpse is Marcel Audet.”

“You’re certain.”

“Luc, we could do a DNA but it seems pointless. In my opinion, there is no doubt it’s Audet.”

Vanier took a long breath.

“So what does it mean, Luc?”

“I don’t have a clue. I need to think.”

“Any word on Collins?”

“He’s disappeared down a deep hole. That’s not so hard if you hardly existed anyway. His own mother couldn’t find him and he wasn’t even hiding. What chance do we have when he really decides to hide? And how does Audet show up dead in his van?”

“There must be a connection.”

“What was Audet up to that he ended up as cinders in the front seat?”

“That’s police work, it’s what you’re good at, Luc.”

“People get murdered for a reason. Like the priest.”

“Father Drouin?”

“Yes. He probably knew Collins, or knew where to find him. So Collins decided he had to go.”

“So perhaps Audet figured it out, too.”

“Perhaps. But if Collins killed Audet, he must have had a reason, and Audet must have had a reason for being with Collins. Listen, I have to go. Thanks for this, Anjili.”

“Any time.”

3:00 PM

This time, Vanier had steeled himself against the allure of Ayida and her wonderful coffee. He burst into the offices of Blackrock and walked straight by Ayida, turning right, in the direction that Markov and Romanenko had come from in the earlier meeting. Laurent followed, and then the receptionist, protesting with waving hands and Non, messieurs, non! Markov’s office was in the northwest corner, with a spectacular view of the mountain. He was on the phone and stopped talking as the two officers walked in.

“Got to go,” he said, putting down the phone.

“Officers, we have a receptionist for a reason.”

“Won’t take long, sir,” said Vanier, “Just a few additional questions.”

Romanenko entered the room, trying unsuccessfully to get in front of them to protect his client.

“Marcel Audet. Is he an employee of Blackrock?”

“I believe he may be on the payroll; I’d have to check. What’s it to you?”

“Let me ask the questions, sir. Is he or is he not an employee?”

“Like I said, I’ll check and get back to you,” said Markov, regaining his composure.

Laurent made a show of writing down the answers.

“Have you spoken to M. Audet recently?”

Before he could answer, Romanenko broke in, “Officers, this is completely unacceptable. You have no right to barge in here and subject Mr. Markov to questioning. Mr. Markov will cooperate entirely with you, but we will not accept these kinds of tactics.”

“So, let’s talk,” said Vanier.

Markov looked concerned and left it to Romanenko to answer.

“You need to make an appointment and, I should add, indicate what it is that you wish to talk about. Is that clear?” said Romanenko.

“Fine. So can we have an appointment?”

“Certainly”, said Markov, breathing easier as he opened a large diary. “How about Tuesday next, at 2.30 p.m?”

“I don’t think it will wait until then, sir,” said Vanier. “Tell you what, why don’t you call me tomorrow morning, after you’ve read the papers, and we can talk about why Marcel Audet, an employee of Blackrock Investments, was found dead in a car belonging to a certain Mr. Collins, a suspect in the homeless slaying.”

Vanier walked out and Laurent followed. Romanenko ran after them, pushed by Laurent, and caught up with Vanier.

“Wait! Let’s talk.”

“You’ve had your chance. Here’s my card, M. Romanenko, why don’t you call and make an appointment?”

JANUARY 12

6 PM

Vanier was nursing his third beer in the Blue Angel, wondering where he should go for supper, when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Vanier.”

“Inspector Vanier, it’s Yvette Collins.” He could barely hear her. “The last time we talked, in your office, you asked if the Monsignor had a place he could go to.”

“I remember. You said you didn’t know.”

“There is a place, or at least his mother had a place. It’s so long ago, I don’t know if he still has it. It was in the Laurentians, in Morin Heights. I’ll show you where.”

“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

It was six o’clock and had been dark for two hours. He called Laurent and arranged to pick him up on the way. Yvette Collins was waiting on the street when they arrived, and she climbed into the back. She caught Vanier’s eye in the mirror and said, “Stop in the centre of Morin Heights. I think I’ll be able to remember the way from there.”

All the traffic was in the opposite direction, skiers heading home after a day on the slopes. Vanier was driving fast, keeping to the outside lane, coming up close behind any cars in the lane and flashing them to move over.

Mme. Collins sat in the back, her silence imposing itself on the rest of the car. Laurent had tried a few phrases at Vanier, but they died away unanswered, and the three of them settled into their thoughts. It took 40 minutes on the highway before the turnoff to Morin Heights, another ten to get through St. Sauveur, and finally they were on a two-lane road through the forest and then on the main street in Morin Heights.

It’s still a quiet village, stuck in the 1950s. The main street is dominated by a church with an ancient graveyard that had filled up years before. The Town Hall was next to it, then the Fire Station. A few stores, restaurants and pubs filled the remaining space.

The main street was deserted, and thick, flaky snow fell on the street in a hushed silence. Vanier stopped the car, lowered the windows, and let Mme. Collins look around.

“It’s been almost 30 years, Inspector, but things are the same.” Her voice trailed off in a whisper. The dome light clicked on as she opened the door and stepped out and started walking slowly away from the car. Laurent was about to follow her out, but Vanier put a hand on his arm. They watched her walk up the main street, huddled against the cold, her black woollen coat pulled tight around her, making her clearly visible in the snow.

She stopped at the crossroads, staring across the street to Marche Vaillancourt. Vanier knew the store from skiing trips with Marianne and the kids, but that was a long time ago. Vaillancourt’s was one of those country stores that sold everything from raccoon traps to frozen dinners, and the lights from its windows cast an inviting glow on the snow outside. She stood on the corner for a long time, her head and shoulders gradually turning white under the flakes before she finally looked back and gestured them forward.

They pulled up, and she got in.

“We go down this road,” she said, pointing, “for about two miles. Then we turn right.”

Vanier watched the odometer and calculated miles to kilometres. At the two-mile mark he slowed almost to a crawl, looking for a turning. There wasn’t any. They drove on, and she lowered the window to get a better look. It took three tries from the centre of town before she finally recognized rue du Sommet.

“Follow this street, almost to the top of the mountain,” she said.

They followed the meandering road up the mountain while Mme. Collins stared out the open window. Finally she yelped and had them reverse and then turn into an almost invisible entrance. The mailbox had a number, 1365, but no name. The headlights of the Volvo picked up the single, snow-covered track through the trees with the faintest of tire tracks still visible under the falling snow. After two minutes of slow driving, the track opened onto a clearing in front of a dark, two-storey chalet. As they entered the clearing, motion detectors triggered, and they were bathed in light.

“This is the house,” she said in a tiny voice. Vanier and Janvier got out, and she made no effort to leave.

Vanier pointed to faint tire tracks that led out of a rectangle formed by snow that had been brushed off a car. Inside the rectangle there was less snow. Whatever footprints had led from the front door to the car had disappeared under the snow.

“Looks like whoever was here has left.”

Vanier walked up to the door, pushed the buzzer, and listened to the doorbell ring inside. He rang again and peered through the frosted glass square in the door. Laurent was bending over a cast iron firewood stand at the side of the door. He ran his hand around it and came up with a long string tied to the stand. There was a key at the other end.

“There isn’t a cottage in the north that doesn’t have an emergency key hidden within six feet of the entrance,” he said, grinning, holding up the key for Vanier to see. “I’ll go see if Mme. Collins wants to join us.”

She didn’t, preferring to huddle in the back corner of the rapidly cooling car.

It was comfortably warm inside the chalet. Vanier checked the thermostat, it was set to 58 degrees, the maintenance temperature to stop any freezing, but it would take time before it dropped to that inside. The dishwasher had finished a cycle and was still warm. Two wine glasses stood in the sink. The fire in the wood stove was down to glowing embers, but the stove was still hot to the touch. Whoever had been in the chalet wasn’t planning on coming back tonight.

The place was immaculate, sparsely furnished, and clean without any of the personal junk that gives a sense of who lived there; it could have been a suite at the Holiday Inn. Vanier remembered the cottages he had rented years ago in Cape Cod when the kids were young. They all looked like this one, with the bare minimum on display for renters to wreck. But every one of them had a padlocked cupboard where the owners stashed their personal stuff. Maybe there was one here, where Monsignor Forlini locked away his secrets from prying eyes.

Vanier picked up the phone and pressed *69, the last number redial service, and was connected to the Montreal Airport Authority’s automated arrivals and departure line.

“The last call was to the airport. Let’s go,” he said to Laurent while he dropped the phone into its cradle and turned abruptly for the door.

“Get someone at Dorval and ask them about the international flights tonight; what left and what’s still to go? Then get on the phone and organize a search warrant for this place tomorrow morning. I want to know who was staying here.”

Back in the car, Mme. Collins seemed to have shrunk even further back into her corner. Her arms were crossed tightly around her chest, and she was shivering. Vanier didn’t think it was just the cold. He swiveled to look at her and for the first time he saw life in her eyes. He’d seen the look before; beyond fear, it was closer to dread. Laurent was on the phone trying to organize things, as Vanier did a three-point turn in the driveway.

She caught Vanier’s eyes in the mirror. “We used to come here,” she said. “This is where it happened.”

Vanier returned her gaze and understood. It was a confession. This is where her life ended 30 years ago.

“Don’t worry, Mme. Collins, we’ll find John. He’ll get help.”

“I’ll never see him again,” she said, turning to look out the window. Vanier watched her in the mirror, her face reflecting off the glass of the window. She was weeping. He aimed the car back into the opening in the trees and headed down the track to the road.

“They’ve started the paperwork for the warrant, sir. We should be good to go, with a full team on site by 11 o’clock tomorrow,” said Laurent, and he dialed again.

By the time they got to the highway they had answers on the flights. There had been five international flights since six o’clock: Los Angeles, New York, Frankfurt, London and Paris. Still to go were flights to Rome and Madrid and a late flight to Paris. Laurent had arranged for the RCMP to meet them at the departures level. It was a jurisdictional issue. The RCMP were in charge at the airport, and they needed an RCMP escort. He had also arranged for someone to drive Mme. Collins home.

RCMP Staff Sergeant Carchetti was waiting with a constable by the reserved police parking at the departures level. The constable saluted as the officers got out of the car, and Laurent did his best to return the salute. Vanier reached out his hand. The Constable took charge of Mme. Collins, and Sergeant Carchetti led the two officers into the building. It was 10 p.m., but the terminal was still crowded with holiday traffic with family milling around every passenger.

“We’ve been trying to find the Collins guy since we got your call but no luck. He’s not on any passenger list, and we circulated the artist’s sketch to all the security staff. It doesn’t look like he’s here.”

“We’re not certain, but we had a pretty good indication that he was on his way here.”

“The best we can do now is to go to the gates and see if he shows up,” said Sergeant Carchetti. “The Rome flight is leaving right now, we have to hurry.”

Vanier and Laurent had to go through security like everyone else, but they jumped the line, causing a stir when they pulled out their guns and left them with the security supervisor. Once through security, Sergeant Carchetti took off running, like he was enjoying the excitement. Vanier surprised himself by keeping up, and then darting ahead once he picked out the gate. It was closed, and he watched the Air Transat plane through the window as it slowly backed away from the terminal building.

Standing behind the gate, a tired looking woman in an Air Transat uniform looked up from her paperwork. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s too late to board. The flight is closed. Can I see your ticket?” She looked disappointed to have to deal with any more passengers and wasn’t hiding it.

Vanier looked for a nametag. There wasn’t one. “I’m Detective Inspector Vanier, of the Major Crime Squad. I think that you have a suspect on board, and we need to speak to him.”

“You think?”

She had a point, thought Vanier.

“Look, is there any way I can speak to the Captain? This is very important.”

She looked at the two other officers and realized that she would at least have to make a pretense of being cooperative.

“Well, this is very unusual, but let me see what I can do.” She lifted the walkie-talkie and began speaking Italian. She smiled a meaningless customer-service smile at Vanier and handed him the walkie-talkie. “The Chief Steward will talk to you. Press this button to speak, and this one to listen. It helps to say ‘Over’ when you have finished talking.”

After a few static-filled sentences, the Chief Steward passed him to the co-pilot, who passed him on to the Captain. The plane was still moving away.

“Captain, I am Detective Inspector Vanier of the Major Crime Squad in Montreal. We believe you may have a murder suspect on board, a suspect in several murders. We would like to come on board to check.”

“Inspector, permit me, but you don’t sound very sure? Are you saying that there is a threat to the safety of this aircraft?”

“No, sir. I don’t believe there is a threat to the aircraft.”

“Do you have a name for this suspect?”

“We’ve already checked your passenger list and he is not listed. But he may be traveling under an assumed name.”

“Inspector. Please. We have 348 people on board, and if we go back to the gate, we miss this time slot, and we may be here all night. Do you have any idea how much that will cost? And even if we just stop to let you come on board, my passengers will be very upset to see police officers walking all over the plane. Inspector, let’s clarify this. Once again, is there any threat to the security of this flight? If this suspect of yours is on this flight, are we in any danger?”

“No, sir, you are not.”

“In that case, Inspector, I suggest that you contact the officials at immigration at Rome. You have seven hours to alert them to the arrival of your suspect. I promise I will deliver him to Rome. So why don’t you fax the details of this person to immigration at Fiumicino Airport, along with your arrest warrant. The authorities can simply refuse him entry, and he will be returned to Montreal.”

It sounded reasonable, even to Vanier. “Very well, Captain. Have a good flight.”

The walkie-talkie clicked dead and he handed it back to the woman, who rewarded him with a smug grin.

“Inspector,” said Carchetti, “we can fax details of the guy to Fiumicino. If he’s on the flight they should be able to pick him up. Who knows, maybe you two can get a trip to Rome to pick him up?” Vanier thought about that. There were worse things in life.

They spent the next two hours watching passengers leave for Paris and London. No luck. As they were leaving the secure area, Sergeant Carchetti told him that Mme. Collins was still at the airport. She was waiting for them in the RCMP offices and looked up as soon as they entered. She was resigned, not a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“We didn’t find him, Madame Collins. We’ll question Monsignor Forlini in the morning and let you know what we learn.”

She said nothing and waited while Sergeant Carchetti helped them put the paperwork together for the Italian immigration people. He faxed it off and promised to have someone call Vanier as soon as they heard back. Mme. Collins followed them to the car and climbed into the back seat without saying a word. Thirty minutes later, they dropped her two blocks from her apartment, just as she had asked. She closed the car door and leaned into the open front window.

“Thank you. Both of you. I know that you’re trying to do the right thing and I hope you succeed. He was never a bad boy. But he’s had a difficult life.”

Then she was gone, climbing the metal staircase.

JANUARY 13

6 AM

Vanier had been dreaming of chasing someone past fountains and sculptures through crowded Italian backstreets. No matter how fast he ran, he could never catch up with them. He kept slowing down, distracted by stone warriors and enormous horses pulling chariots. The ringing of his cell phone shook him awake.

“Vanier.”

“Inspector, this is Ouellette of the RCMP at Dorval. Sergeant Carchetti asked that someone call you as soon as we had news from Italy.”

Vanier swung his legs out of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. “And?”

“We’ve just heard back from Italian immigration. The passengers from the Montreal flight were given special attention, but there was nobody even remotely matching our guy.”

“Shit. Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. Hope you find the bastard.”

“Don’t worry, we will.”

Vanier’s day didn’t get any better. At ten o’clock, the Justice lawyer called to tell him that the request for a warrant to search Monsignor Forlini’s chalet had been refused. The judge had decided that the affidavit didn’t disclose sufficient grounds to justify the invasion of the privacy of a senior member of the Catholic Church. They had nothing, and he wasn’t surprised. Normally, getting a search warrant was as easy as buying a lottery ticket, but getting a warrant to search the house of a priest was a different matter. The judge knew what he was doing; the Church still had clout in Quebec, especially in the legal system. Every September, the new court season was inaugurated by the Red Mass at the Cathedral, and the senior judges and the Church’s hierarchy got to wear their best red costumes. You would think the place would be as empty as a Prime Minister’s promise, but it was always packed with the top judges and lawyers and those who had helped them move up through the system. After the Mass, there was a lunch with the Archbishop and the Chief Justice as joint guests of honour. If you wanted to go against a member of the Church, you had to choose your battles carefully and get solid support in advance; Vanier had done neither and hit a wall. Now he was sitting across from Chief Inspector Bedard.

“So, you’re back to square one. Any suggestions?”

“We don’t know for sure that he left the country, sir,” said Vanier, “so we keep looking.”

“If he decided to lose himself, he could be anywhere on the planet by now.”

“I know, sir. But we can’t give up.”

“I’m not talking about giving up, Luc. I’m talking about using our resources efficiently. If he left the country, he’s someone else’s problem. I can go through the channels to get a warrant and picture to Interpol. We have a picture, at least?”

“Yes, sir. From a summer picnic at Xeon Pesticides. It’s five years old, but it’s the best we have.”

“Good, I’ll have it sent to Interpol, and you can get it circulated in Quebec, to the rest of Canada too. Then we wait, he can’t hide forever, can he?”

“No, sir, but he can go on killing people until we find him.”

“Luc, unless you can tell me that you have some active leads to follow, I’m going to have to close this down. We can tell the press that we have a suspect and that suspect has left town. Who knows, the papers might pick up on an international manhunt and track him down for us. And even if they don’t, as long as the deaths stop, people will move on. Believe me, Luc.”

“We do have a good lead, sir. Monseignor Forlini. He’s Collins’s father.”

“That’s not a lead. It’s the ranting of a deranged woman. We can’t go on that.”

“What if it’s true?”

“I’m not ordering you to drop that line of inquiry. I’m saying that what you have given me so far is nothing. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But if anything comes of it, you let me know.”

That was why Bedard had become Chief Inspector and Vanier was still a Detective Inspector. It made sense. Evidence that was good enough to arrest the average Joe wasn’t nearly enough for anyone who would fight back. At some point, you had to admit defeat and move on. Vanier had trouble giving up, but he also knew you didn’t find people by tracking them down the way they did in The Fugitive. You waited for them to make a mistake and get themselves caught. The best you could do was to make sure that their names, aliases, credit card, photos, and anything else you could think of were on as many databases as you could load them into. The average criminal is a criminal wherever he is, and eventually the red light glows on someone’s monitor, and they’ll place a call to Montreal.

“How long do I have? How long can I keep up the active investigation?”

“Luc, this morning I had a call from the Mayor. He wants this thing shut down as quickly as possible. If we have a good suspect and he’s disappeared, he doesn’t want the force wasting valuable manpower looking for someone who isn’t there.”

“Since when did the Mayor run investigations?” He was pushing Bedard, who was walking a fine political line.

If Bedard was angry, he didn’t show it. “He doesn’t, Luc. But he made his point forcefully, and I have to give it some weight. He also told me he’d had a call from the Archbishop about your visit to Monsignor Forlini. He tells me Monsignor Forlini is very well respected in the Church. Not just in Quebec, in Rome too. Apparently, great things are expected of him. He has friends.”

“That’s why they want to shut down the investigation, to protect the Monsignor from embarrassment?”

“Luc, the Church has nothing to do with this investigation, apart from their normal interest in making sure you don’t bully its priests.”

“Fuck the Church. You think I’m bullying Forlini? I’m flattered. No, the church wants this shut down because it’s worried about looking bad, not about me bullying one of their holy men. Jesus, one of its own is dead, and the suspect is the bastard son of a nun and a priest. A nun who was hung out to dry when she got pregnant. Maybe that’s what caused young John to flip, a regular churchgoer who answers the prayers of the faithful by relieving some innocent poor bastard of his suffering. God’s holy messenger, a son of the clergy, operating his killing venture out of the church’s head office. And you wonder what interest the church has in closing down this investigation?”

“Luc, give me something solid, and I can help you.”

“I have nothing solid, give me a few days to wrap up.”

“Take a few days to wrap up. But I want it wrapped up, hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vanier rose to leave, and Chief Inspector Bedard reached for his phone.

JANUARY 19

7 PM

Pascal Beaudoin could feel the sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, and he hoped it wouldn’t show through his suit jacket. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a personal stand. The formal jousting over contracts for a client was a different story. As a hired gun, he could do anything. But this was different. He was working for himself, not taking orders, but deciding what he wanted to do, and that made him nervous. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face dry again.

The night had not been easy. The Governors of the Foundation of the Holy Land Shelter had eaten an early supper at the St. Denis Club, paid for with the Henderson amp; Associates’ credit card, and Pascal had given them the entire story, a full confession of his sins. He didn’t expect it to be easy, but he also didn’t expect the grilling he received. The Governors were all well into retirement and had left the business world years ago. But they all had histories. In their day, they had all been smart and hard men. Beaudoin’s confession had awakened something dormant in each, something close to an instinctive nose for weakness and a dislike of it. Beaudoin felt the heat. The first thing they wanted to know was why the swap was a bad idea. A pile of cash and the promise of a new Shelter were not necessarily bad things. That the people involved might be unsavoury, that was to be expected: they were property developers after all. The Governors were not going to be told how to vote and, anyway, Beaudoin was starting off way behind. He was the one who had taken their proxies with promises he hadn’t kept. Why should they believe him now? Beaudoin was grilled on everything he knew and then asked to leave the room, forced to pace the hallway while they came to a decision. He used the time to wonder if he had done the right thing. Unemployment was inevitable, and there was a distinct possibility that the deal would be approved. Then he would be unemployed and a pariah. After 45 minutes he was called back in.

They were sitting solemnly around the large round table nursing brandies. Senator Breslin, the most senior of them, motioned him to take the empty seat.

“Pascal,” said the Senator, “my friends have asked that I speak on behalf of all of us. We are all” — he gestured to the group — “troubled by your betrayals. We trusted you, and you let us down. We gave you proxies because we trusted you. There isn’t a good way to say this, Pascal, but you lied to us. And that raises the question, why should we trust you now? It’s a difficult question, but we concluded that it wasn’t the principal question to be answered. We looked at the facts of the proposed transaction. You say it’s a setup. You say the Blackrock group can’t be trusted. Well, we decided to ignore your advice on that. We looked at the transaction from the position of the Foundation. And we have decided, after considering all of the facts, that the Foundation should reject the deal until sufficient guarantees are forthcoming.”

“You’re making the right decision, Senator.”

“I haven’t finished.”

“Excuse me.”

“After that, Pascal, we considered what to do about you. We have decided, again, after considering all of the facts, that we should consider your role in all of this as an education. You were tested and, at the end of the day, and, seemingly not without some considerable effort on your part, you have emerged as a man of honour. So, we have decided to forgive your betrayals as mistakes and stand beside you.”

Beaudoin breathed a sigh of relief and tried to look humble and contrite, knowing at the same time that he had to get these guys moving quickly. Senator Breslin looked around the table. “I believe that accurately reflects our thoughts.” His fellow Governors nodded approval.

“Well then, gentlemen,” said Breslin, “let’s get going. I believe the meeting starts in half an hour. And I believe that Mr. Beaudoin has put on some transportation for us.”

The octogenarians started to get to their feet, slowly and with obvious discomfort for some. It was ten minutes before they were outside the hotel, being assisted into the limousines. When they were loaded, and the limousines started to move off, Beaudoin looked at his watch, fifteen minutes to go.

“Don’t worry, Pascal.”

Beaudoin turned around to face Breslin. “Thank you, Senator.”

The Senator was flanked by two other Governors, who were drifting in and out of sleep. Four other followed in a second limousine, all courtesy of the Henderson amp; Associates credit card, and they were cruising towards the Intercontinental Hotel in Old Montreal carrying a majority.

8.25 PM

In the Champlain Room of the Intercontinental Hotel, Gordon Henderson and four members of the Foundation were sitting around the table, getting down to business. Vladimir Markov and Ivan Romanenko were watching the proceedings as invited guests. Henderson had brought along a law student as a bag carrier, and she was shuffling papers on her knees. Henderson had been calling Beaudoin’s cell phone all day, only to flow straight through to voice mail. Beaudoin was toast, and Henderson felt in control. Two hours earlier, the Board had voted in favour of the deal, and he held seven proxies for the Foundation’s 11-vote decision. There was nothing left to do but go through the motions. They would work their way through the agenda, and it would be official, and a healthy part of his retirement would be funded.

As he was getting the papers in order, the double-doors to the Champlain Room burst open, and a mob of about twenty people flooded the room. It was the usual rent-a-crowd radicals who can be counted on to protest any initiative that doesn’t come from some cooperative, commune, or other voice of the disenfranchised. They were followed by a cameraman from CBC and a reporter with a microphone. The circus was Beaudoin’s insurance policy.

Henderson leaned over to the law student and whispered, “Go get security to come down here immediately. I want these people out of here now.” The student ran for the door.

The mob spread out around the room, unfurling banners with various permutations of the same message: “Save the Holy Land Shelter,” “Protect the Homeless,” “No Profiteering on the Backs of the Poor.”

The light attached to the camera went on, and the camera scanned the room, capturing everyone for the TV news. Henderson watched with horror as the reporter approached, pointing a microphone at his face.

“Mr. Henderson, Marianne Desautels, CBC News. Do you have any comments on the protests against the sale of the Holy Land Shelter?”

“No I don’t. This is a private meeting. You have no right. Would you please leave the room?” he said, waving his arms as though he was engaged in crowd control. Henderson wasn’t used to working in public, and it was taking time to adjust to the new environment. “I said get the fuck out of here. You hear me?” he screamed at the camera.

The only ones leaving were Markov and Romanenko, who got to their feet as soon as the group arrived. They didn’t go far, just out of sight of the cameras. Markov called Henderson on his cell phone.

“Look, I can’t talk right now,” Henderson told him. “Security is on the way. Once the room is cleared, we can get started. Take a few minutes in the bar. I’ll call you when we’re ready to start.”

The cameraman was having a field day, and Henderson knew he looked like an asshole.

“Marianne, Marianne,” he said, trying to be heard over the noise, finding his best smile. “I am sorry about that. I thought we were being attacked. Look, if you want some sound bites, I can give you some. Let’s start again. OK?”

“Let’s go,” she said, taking a moment to let the cameraman set up in from of them.

“Mr. Henderson, there has been some objections to the sale of the Holy Land Shelter’s land to developers. What do you say to the critics?”

Fuck them, he thought. “The Holy Land Shelter is one of Montreal’s finest institutions, and its Board of Directors and its Foundation members are committed to Montreal’s homeless. Believe me, none of us would do anything that would be against the interests of those that do not have a voice. Tonight, what we are considering is a proposal that will allow the Shelter to continue for decades to come. It’s a transaction that will allow the Shelter to build a brand new, state-of-the-art complex. Earlier this evening the Board of Directors recommended approval of Blackrock’s offer, and I am sure that the members of the Foundation will do the same thing, because that offer addresses the long-term funding needs of the Shelter and guarantees its future for years to come. I expect the Governors of the Foundation have been rigorous in their examination of the proposal.”

“Are you saying it’s not a done deal, it needs to be studied?”

“We’re saying that if any proposal is approved, it will be because it’s in the long term interest of the most vulnerable members of our society. We have a duty to protect those people, and the Foundation takes that duty very seriously.”

Two uniformed security guards arrived, and began moving people out of the hall. They went peacefully but not quietly, yelling slogans as they left. Henderson called Markov to tell him he could come back. As he clicked the disconnect button, the doors opened again, and the seven absent Foundation Governors entered, followed by Beaudoin.

Henderson stared in disbelief as they hobbled and limped their way into the room. One of them looked at Henderson, “Is this the place for the meeting of the Holy Land Foundation?”

”Yes,” he said, realizing that his proxies had just become worthless scraps of paper.

Beaudoin was beaming. “Hi, boss.”

“Don’t even bother coming in to get your stuff. We’ll send it to you.”

The seven members of the Foundation joined the other four around the table.

“If there are no objections, I will act as Chairman,” said Senator Breslin.

He looked up and saw Markov and Romanenko enter the room.

Breslin looked up at them, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe that this is a private meeting.”

They looked at Henderson, who was seated in a chair, his head hanging down and his chin resting on his chest.

“Mr. Henderson. That applies to you also,” said Breslin.

Henderson raised his head and looked at the Governors seated around the table like they owned the place, assuming authority they hadn’t exercised in years. He rose slowly in disbelief. Markov and Romanenko had already left. There was nothing to do. Casting one last look at Beaudoin, he pulled the door open and left.

MARCH 25

Winter doesn’t end suddenly in Montreal; it withdraws slowly, in sullen resentment, like Napoleon’s army from Moscow. Day after day the temperature struggles to climb above freezing for a few hours around noon and quickly falls back in the late afternoon, leaving tiny rivulets of water to become icy traps for the unwary. The snow that fell weightlessly during innumerable snowstorms is packed tight in stubborn boulders of dirty ice grudgingly giving up their bulk to springtime, revealing the filthy detritus that has accumulated in the cold months: dog shit, torn plastic bags, newspapers, Styrofoam cups, meal trays, pizza boxes, and thousands of cigarette butts. Impatient citizens torment the withdrawing army with picks and shovels, breaking up the rock-hard ice and spreading it to accelerate its disappearance. The cycle of thaw and refreeze continues for weeks until finally the city is liberated, and Montrealers spill out of their winter caverns, and occupy every open space. Terraces and park benches fill up and the streets teem with the survivors of a long siege.

In the Turcot Yard, where the city’s snow is piled into dirty grey mountains, the melt is glacier slow and the land only returns to flat in late June. Such is the power of winter that the Stanley Cup is only awarded as the last evidence of winter disappears.

Vanier had watched the slow progression to spring. He had been present when they chipped Mary Gallagher from the river-ice that had held her for months and he had watched as Dr. Segal cut into the long-dead corpse to establish the cause of death. It didn’t take long to establish that she died just as the others had.

MARCH 20

2 PM

Vanier was lying in a bed in the emergency room of the hospital in St. Jerome, in stable condition. He was still in the emergency ward because there wasn’t a bed available anywhere else. Laurent and St. Jacques were standing by his bed. There were no seats for visitors, the result of a hospital policy designed to discourage concerned relatives from getting too comfortable and cluttering up the emergency room. It didn’t work, people still milled around sick relatives and friends, but it did make for a lot of disgruntled visitors.

“So, how are you feeling, Boss?” said St. Jacques.

“There’s a lot to be said for drugs.” Vanier turned to Laurent, “I owe you, my friend. How did you know?”

“Mme. Collins called me. She had been wandering around outside the Cathedral and saw you leave. The Monsignor left right after you. Apparently he excused himself after the Mass started and took off for Morin Heights. She thought you might need help.”

“How right she was. That was a little too close. And how is the Monsignor.”

“Cooperative. In his own way.”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” said St. Jacques, pulling her laptop from her bag. “We have him on tape.” She plugged in the computer and waited for it to start.

“Have you spoken to Mme. Collins?”

“I called her this morning with the news,” said Laurent. “She didn’t seem surprised that John was dead. I knew, was all she said.”

St. Jacques put the computer on the bed with the screen facing Vanier and pushed some buttons. A video began to play, and Vanier recognized the inside of Interview Room 6 and the view from the camera mounted high up on the wall. The image was of the Monsignor and Laurent sitting at the table.

“This is all my fault,” said the Monsignor.

“That’s a good start,” said Vanier.

On the screen, Laurent asked, “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I did what I had to do to defend the Church. But I failed. It’s such a sordid story.”

“I have all the time in the world, Monsignor.”

“Don’t call me that. I have no right to the title. I have disgraced myself and the Church.”

“Well let’s start somewhere. How long have you known John?”

“I have always known him. He was my son. I refused to acknowledge it. When he first showed up, I didn’t know how to react. He was my son, and I had spent my life denying it. I couldn’t jeopardize my position. I refused to see him in the Cathedral, but I met him from time to time in various places. He’s my son, you can understand that. He persisted, and I found him a job at Xeon and tried to help him along. I forced Henri Drouin to act as a go-between. Henri and I were at seminary together, he trusted me.

“When he needed money, I would give it to Drouin to deliver. The arrangement was satisfactory. I could avoid direct contact with John, but I could help him from time to time. Father Drouin got John involved with the homeless, and he seemed to take to it. He was good with those people and seemed to find some fulfillment. I thought the boy was trying to be a good Catholic, but over the years he became more disturbed. He started wearing a cassock, never to the Church, he didn’t go that far. It’s as though he knew there were limits. But Drouin would report back to me that he was wandering around the city in a black cassock like a priest. I should have seen then that he was just mocking me.

“Things really started to fall apart in October. He was behaving very erratically, and then that awful man Audet showed up. Apparently he had noticed John’s relationship with Father Drouin. He was a predator looking for opportunity. He broke into John’s apartment and found letters between the Archbishop and that woman, John’s mother. He took them and came to see me. Imagine, that man in my office in the Cathedral. He wanted money, and I gave him some, but he refused to give me the papers. He showed up twice in November and again just before Christmas.

“When people started dying — and I have to tell you I don’t believe that Christmas Eve was the start of it — I didn’t know for certain that John was involved, but I was suspicious. During one of our meetings, John started talking about the power of prayer. Now, I believe in the power of prayer, but he sounded like one of those American evangelical preachers, ask and you will receive, literally and immediately. He was attending Drouin’s Circle of Christ and was excited about prayers and having them answered. Father Drouin told him about a family that was facing eviction because they fell behind on their rent. The wife had filled in a card asking for a thousand dollars, and John slipped a thousand dollars under the door of the family’s apartment. It could have been his own money, or perhaps he stole it, I don’t know. But it worked. They weren’t evicted and the father found work. John was elated. It was pitiful. He acted as though he had found his mission, his mission to be God’s little helper on earth. He started attending the Circle more frequently, always consulting the cards. And I think he started making prayers come true.

“Everything changed when his picture was published. That’s when he killed Audet. He went home and found Audet in his apartment. It was the day the sketch was shown on the evening news. John said that Audet attacked him, but he killed Audet instead. He called me, asking for help, and I drove him to the chalet. I couldn’t understand the Audet thing, because Audet had never been interested in John. I’m the one he was blackmailing. But I have to admit that I was relieved that Audet was gone.

“John stayed at the chalet for a while, and I arranged for new documents. I got him a passport, a driver’s licence, and a new credit card. I had arranged for him to be cared for in one of the Church’s establishments in Rome; very private, very secure, and he would be looked after until he got better, or forever. I had the flight booked, and everything looked like it was going as planned. We decided to finish the bottle of wine before we left, barely a glass each.

“But it wasn’t over. While he was bringing the suitcases out to the car, I switched our glasses. I don’t know why. Some other time I might have seen God’s hand in that, God working a miracle to serve his loyal servant. We sat at the table, saying nothing, and we clinked the glasses in a toast and drank the wine.

“He realized almost immediately that he had the wrong glass. He ran to the sink, trying to make himself vomit with a spoon, a little came out but it was too late. He sank down to the floor and was having trouble breathing. It didn’t take long, two, maybe three minutes, and then it was over. I didn’t move for a very long time. I just stared at his body lying on the floor. I had to do something, and I just thought, that was it, the end. His death and Audet’s death were the end of it. Life would be normal again. Eventually, I dragged his body outside and down into the woods. I covered it with a tarpaulin and left him there. It was supposed to be temporary until I could think of a more permanent solution. It was snowing hard, and I knew the tarpaulin would be quickly covered in snow. I walked back to the chalet and watched the snow cover the tracks into the wood, and then I drove back to the Cathedral. I still have his suitcase in my apartment there, I haven’t touched it.

“Three days later, I went back. I planned to put him in the trunk and drive him somewhere far away. I couldn’t bury him, because the ground was frozen, and I was in a panic because I knew that you had tried to get a warrant to search the chalet. But I couldn’t move him. He was frozen solid and stuck to the ground, locked in the ice that had melted under him and then frozen again. I tried to chip away the ice, but it was too much, he wouldn’t budge. I had no choice. I replaced the tarpaulin and covered it with snow. Can you imagine what I was going through? Every day, every minute, it’s all I thought about, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

“I began to imagine that someone had been to the chalet. I saw small signs, probably nothing, but in my state I built it up. Then, as I was saying Mass last night, I saw your Inspector Vanier in the congregation as I walked in, and a moment later he was gone. He was the one. I knew it. He was the one who had been to the chalet. Who else? I excused myself from Mass and drove up as fast as I could. And I was right. There were tire marks in the driveway, so I parked the car further up and walked to the chalet. From a distance, I saw a light in the woodshed and then it went out. I didn’t know where he was until I saw him hurrying back from the woods. By that time, I had the axe. It was obvious he had found John, and so I acted.”

“You tried to kill Inspector Vanier?” said Laurent.

“I tried to stop him reporting what he had found. I wasn’t thinking about how to stop him. But yes, I was going to kill him.”

“Let’s stop it there, shall we,” said Vanier. “I’ve had enough.”

St. Jacques stopped the video. “There isn’t much else, anyway. Laurent takes him through the story again, and it pretty much matches the first time.”

The curtain surrounding the bed parted, and Dr. Segal came in with a huge bunch of red and yellow tulips. They looked almost magical in an emergency room in St. Jerome, a sign that winter was ending.

“Dr. Segal, what a treat. My friends here were just leaving. They have work to do.”

St. Jacques smiled at Segal and grabbed Laurent by the arm. “We’ll see about getting you transferred to Montreal, sir.” The two officers left the patient with his visitor.

“They’re beautiful,” he said, nodding at the tulips. “They’re lying when they say that food is the fastest way to a man’s heart.”

“I know. I have a saw that’s much quicker.”

He laughed, but it hurt.

She leaned over and kissed him, a kiss of relief, and of hope.