The Dead of Winter

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 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.