“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?”
THIRTEEN
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
