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.
FOURTEEN
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.”