“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?
THREE
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.”
