“If only life were so easy. If only we could choose to avoid the difficult by ignoring it. Doctor, I need help and I get the impression that you’re not being entirely candid with me. I think you’re holding back.”
“That’s an outrageous suggestion. If I knew something that might help you I would tell you.”
“Doctor, I love my job. And sometimes I get calls from lawyers, from the Chief, from the Mayor’s office, asking,
“Are you suggesting…?” he asked, indignant.
“No suggestions. I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you. These people were killed, and I’m going to find the killer. If you know anything and choose not to tell me, that’s your problem. But when I find out who did this, I’ll figure out if you haven’t been entirely cooperative, and I’ll come back for you. Accessory? Withholding evidence? Who knows? But I’ll be back to haunt you. As for the killer? Pray to St. Jude for him, because his really is a hopeless case. I’ll get him.”
“You don’t even know that they were killed.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence, Doctor.”
Vanier lifted his hands from the desk and stood up.
“One last thing, Doctor. They don’t stop. You know that, don’t you? Once they start, they don’t stop. If you know anything and don’t tell me, the next victim is yours. So why don’t you go through your Top 10 list and try to predict who that will be. Here is my card, Dr. Grenier. Call me. I don’t sleep well, so anytime is good.”
Vanier handed him the card. “I can see myself out.”
He left Grenier motionless at his desk, looking at Vanier’s business card. Grenier hardly noticed him leaving.
9.30 PM
The Cathedral, Marie Reine du Monde, squats on a downtown block next to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, imposing the Catholic Church’s presence on Montreal. It’s a scale model of St. Peter’s in Rome, but along its mantle it’s not 13 statues of Jesus and his apostles but the patron saints of Montreal’s 13 parishes keeping a close watch on the faithful. Behind the Cathedral, two long three-story buildings house the offices and apartments of the soldiers of the Church.
The snow banks had been cleared outside the Cathedral, and Vanier parked in front. He followed a pathway that had been shoveled from the street up to the main doors, and tried each without success. He followed the cleared snow-track back to the street and walked around the building until he found a shoveled path to a door with a light over it, like a stage door behind a theatre, the only way in after the show was over. He rang the bell. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and a frail old priest in a cassock looked at him, his bony, pink hand holding the door, ready to slam it shut it as soon as he could get rid of the visitor.
“Good evening, Father. Merry Christmas.”
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. I’d like to see Father Henri Drouin.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”
“And when might that be?”
“Please, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn’t have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”
Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it’s important that I speak to him.”
“Thank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”
The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.
Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the criminals.
The inside of the Volvo was cold, and Vanier cursed as it took three turns of the ignition for the engine to turn over. His breath was visible and clouding the windscreen as he pulled out of the parking space. He was hungry, and there were only empty cupboards at home; a curry would be just the thing. Pakistanis don’t celebrate Christmas, do they?
He turned left onto Sherbrooke and continued west to Notre Dame de Grace. Lights from the Ganges restaurant reflected on the snow outside. The street was deserted except for two cars parked in front of the restaurant, and he parked behind them. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by a small dark man in a white shirt, hand out and grinning at his arrival. He reached out for the soft hand, as the awesome, comforting smell of an Indian kitchen went to work on his stomach.
“Luc. Wonderful to see you again. Can I wish you a Merry Christmas?” Midhat Mahmud welcomed his first non-Asian guest of the night.
“Midhat, it’s great to see you.” The restaurant was empty except for members of an extended family from the sub-continent who were close to finishing their meal.
“We are a little quiet tonight, so you can sit wherever you like. Can I get you something from the bar?”
“A pint of Bass, Midhat.”
The Bass came with a plate of pappadum, and Vanier drank and began to relax. He munched on the pappadum and inhaled the aromas. Sitar music played in the background, and Christmas was a thousand miles away. The waiter came, and Vanier ordered batata wada to start, followed by lamb dopiaza, mixed vegetable bhaji, rice and nan.
Midhat returned from the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite his friend. They had met years ago when Vanier, still in uniform, had stopped in for a meal after a long shift. As Midhat was presenting the bill, Vanier asked him what he thought of the execution of Prime Minister Bhutto in Pakistan. It had happened years earlier, but Vanier had been fascinated by what amounted to a judicial murder. His question struck a chord, and Midhat, who had recently graduated from Concordia and had been thrown into running a family business serving strange food to an even stranger population, sat down and unloaded. Born in Pakistan and educated in the West, he had a lot to say and was happy to have a Quebecer to say it to. Vanier had tried to explain that he wasn’t a native Quebecer, but it didn’t matter, the restaurateur was happy to have any connection to the society he and his family were living in.
On that first night, Vanier learned about the corruption of Pakistani politics, the revolving doors of civil and military governments, and a people cursed to be ruled by criminals whose main ambition was to suck everything of value from the poor country. Vanier kept coming back to Ganges, and kept learning.
After a few years, they began to call each other by their first names. Then Vanier’s son Alex was born, and Midhat and his new wife Jamilah showed up unannounced at the Vanier house with a hand-made vase from Pakistan for the baby. Vanier reciprocated a few years later, bringing a selection of OshKosh baby clothes to the new parents of Samir in their first floor walk-up in Park Extension.
“So how are the children, my friend?” asked Vanier.
“Wonderful. A real blessing. Samir is working with some of the best doctors in blood diseases. I can’t believe it but in three years he will be a fully qualified doctor and a specialist. And it’s not too soon. He’ll be able to take care of the aches of his poor father. And Aliza, bless her. In her second year in law, and what a mouth on her! She would argue with you over the colour of the sky. She is brilliant, and what a sense of justice she has. Just think Luc, if I am ever run over by a bus, I’ll have my son to look after me and my beautiful daughter to sue the son of a bitch who drove the bus — and the City for letting the son of a bitch drive the bus!”
They both laughed.
“And yours, Luc? How are Alex and the beautiful Elise?”
Midhat was one of the few people Vanier had told about Marianne’s leaving, and he did it only after Midhat
