The Dead of Winter

“One of the neighbours, I expect. The call came in close to nine. The caller didn’t leave a name, but we’ll have his number. It was already too late when we got here. Only thing we can do is try to contain it.”

“I’m going to talk to the people on the bus, see if they know anything else. I’ll let you know.” Instinctively, Vanier reached out to shake Leboeuf’s hand, but saw the massive gloves. Leboeuf pulled off his right hand glove and grasped Vanier’s hand; like two sides of beef meeting, one hard and frozen, the other hard and warm. Vanier felt as though his hand had been plunged into icy water. Leboeuf smiled but said nothing and moved off towards the house. Vanier walked to the bus.

The driver pushed a button to open the door, and Vanier climbed in and immediately opened his coat hoping to let some of the warmth get to his body. A few people were in dressing gowns over pajamas and wrapped in donated blankets. Two girls were dressed up for an evening out and wearing overcoats; they were getting over the shock by discussing how they might get to meet some of the firemen. An older woman in a fur coat tried to reassure a cat through the wire mesh of a cat carrier. Laurent had already shown the sketch to everyone on the bus.

“Collins isn’t here, Chief.”

“Seems he’s in the van in the garage,” said Vanier. “The fire was deliberate, and there’s a corpse sitting in the driver’s seat. It’s probably Collins. What did you get from these people?”

“Almost everyone recognized him, but nobody was able to put a name to the face. They all agree that it’s the guy who lived in the upstairs apartment. You know the sort of thing: Very quiet, kept himself to himself. Nod to him in the street but that’s all. The usual stuff, sir. I’ll write it up.”

Vanier wasn’t surprised. It was easy to live alone in a tight neighbourhood. If you hadn’t grown up in St- Henri; if people didn’t know your parents, and their parents; if you hadn’t gone to school with them, they didn’t know you, and you were welcome to your isolation. They could live next door to someone for years and know no more about them than they did about life on Mars.

As they were leaving the bus, two Sun Youth volunteers in parkas climbed in to arrange overnight accommodation for the temporarily homeless and give them a change of clothing and maybe some hope. The fire already seemed less fierce. Leboeuf was talking to two firemen.

“How soon to get the body out?” said Vanier.

“We’ll let things die down till the morning. Nothing we can do for him anyway. The Coroner said they’ll send someone over first thing.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. We’ll leave a truck and crew here for the night, but it will be morning before anyone can go in.”

Vanier turned to walk back to his car. The air was filled with damp smoke that settled on everything, and he was shivering with the cold, feeling like he was walking through a giant wet ashtray. Laurent was standing beside the car looking tired.

“Where to, Chief?”

“Bed. Unless you have a better idea.” And then, as an afterthought. “I suppose I should call the Boss. He’ll be happy.”

NINE

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?”