The Delicate Storm

20

“BERNARD THEROUX,” Sergeant Ducharme had said. “The second phone number belongs to Bernard Theroux. In 1970 he was nineteen years old. Member of the Chénier cell and, along with Daniel Lemoyne, served twelve years in the penitentiary for the kidnapping of Raoul Duquette. Married to one Françoise Coutrelle, a fringe member of the FLQ, a supporter rather than an actual terrorist. She was never charged with anything. They were occasional associates of one Simone Rouault—but we’ll talk about Simone later.

“As far as we know, Bernard and Françoise Theroux no longer have any connection to terrorist activities, or to criminal activities of any kind. Still, this is definitely their phone number, and you have to wonder why your American is calling them three weeks before he turns up dead.”

You certainly do, Delorme was thinking half an hour later. She was trying to steer her way through the middle of Montreal without getting in a multi-car pileup. The rain was not heavy, but apparently it was enough to sow confusion among the local motorists.

At the next stoplight she dialed Szelagy on her cellphone.

“What did you come up with on Dr. Choquette? Was he where he says he was on Monday night?”

“This guy, I’m telling you, he oughta teach a course at alibi school,” Szelagy said. “Not only does he have three witnesses who were playing bridge with him, all three of them are like gold-plated. One’s the head of the Ontario Hospital, one’s a trustee on the school board and the other one’s local director of the Children’s Aid Society. Put them in a room, you’ve got an instant board of directors.”

“You talked to all three of them independently?”

“All three. They were all so polite, too. I wish my friends had manners like that.”

“Fat chance. Your friends are all cops.”

Delorme’s cellphone rang before she had even put it away. Malcolm Musgrave.

“So, are you finished harassing my detachment now, Sergeant Delorme? Or will you be coming to interview all of us?”

“Don’t give me a hard time about Simmons. You know I had to check him out.”

“And—don’t tell me, let me guess—he turned out to be neither a kidnapper nor a murderer, correct? I mean, I do try to keep kidnappers and murderers off my team if I can help it.”

“Craig Simmons is no longer a suspect in this case,” Delorme said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“And we’re all going to be very circumspect about how we handle an RCMP officer’s private life, aren’t we?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

A man in a black Saab swooped in front of her, making an illegal left turn—and had the gall to curse at her. She had an impulse to pull him over, not that she had any jurisdiction in Montreal.

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” Musgrave said. “There’s not a police officer alive who wants their private life made public—not me, not your partner and not Craig Simmons—or perhaps you’re some kind of saintly exception.”

“You’re telling me you know? I mean, you know about the corporal’s—”

“Stop right there, Delorme. I know everything I need to know about my men—and women, for that matter. I’m just underlining a mutual understanding that I hope we have. Do I need to say anything more?”

“No,” Delorme said. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, as always.”

“Enjoy Montreal,” Musgrave said. “Nice town.”

The Theroux address was on rue St-Hubert in Villeray, almost the exact centre of Montreal. Although the area was predominantly French, Delorme also noted signs in Italian, Portuguese and Arabic. The pedestrians looked to be a mix of students and working class. Dusty old fabric stores alternated with new boutiques and tiny cafés.

Delorme parked the unmarked RCMP car in front of a ribbon shop. Number 7540, the address she was looking for, was half a block south, among a brood of small square houses lined up as if for protection behind a Greek Orthodox church. She rang the doorbell, noting the two brass signs next to it. One said Theroux, the other Beau Soleil. While she was waiting, it started to rain.

The door was answered by a plump middle-aged woman with dark rings of curly hair framing her face. “Oui?”

“Madame Theroux?”

“Oui?”

Delorme told her in French that she was a police officer from northern Ontario in need of help on a case, and that she believed Mr. Theroux could be of assistance. Shouts and chatter of little children rang out in the background. A small crash was followed by the howl of an outraged toddler.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “My husband doesn’t speak to police.”

A small, lithe man with dark eyes and dark hair shot through with grey appeared behind her, putting on his coat. “Get lost,” he snapped at Delorme. “You heard what my wife said.”

“Nobody’s after you,” Delorme said. “I just need some information.”

“Just some information? Is that all?” The man pushed by her and started down the stairs. “Information gets people killed.”

He hopped into his truck and drove away.

“Sorry,” the woman said. “But I did tell you …”

“Yes, you did,” Delorme said. “May I perhaps use your phone to call a cab? My partner took the car.”

The woman opened the door wider. Delorme entered a front hall that contained a piano and a dozen tiny plastic chairs. To the right, beyond a pair of French doors, a young woman in very tight jeans was leading a group of preschoolers in a round of “Bonhomme, Bonhomme.”

“The phone’s in the kitchen. This way.”

Delorme disconnected the moment she dialed. Then, speaking directly into the dial tone, she ordered a cab. “How long? That’s the best you can do? Yes, I realize it’s raining. All right. Thank you.”

Mrs. Theroux was setting out a tray of apple juice and arrowroot biscuits, which she carried into an adjoining dining room. Everywhere the walls were decorated with children’s drawings. Several carried declarations of preschool devotion—”Je t’aime, Françoise!” “Ma deuxième mère,” and the like—with appropriate misspellings. The entire house smelled of soup and baking. It was hard to imagine a terrorist living here, even a former terrorist.

“The cab is going to be half an hour, I’m afraid,” Delorme said.

“It’s always that way in the rain. Would you like some coffee?”

“Oh, no, that’s all right. Please. Just ignore me.”

“I can’t ignore you, you’re in my house. Have a coffee.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. “

Pouring the coffee, adding the milk, Françoise Theroux was the picture of domesticity—plump, almost matronly, the sort of woman that reporters interview when they want a mother’s opinion on the local school board. The coffee was a dark, aromatic roast without a trace of bitterness. Delorme could feel the caffeine illuminating strings of lights along her nerves.

“What time would be a good time to come back?” she said. “I’m afraid it’s very important that I speak to your husband.”

“Please don’t come back.” A shadow crossed the woman’s face. “Bernard hasn’t been involved with anything criminal for thirty years.”

“I know. It’s thirty years ago we need to talk about. The FLQ, the October Crisis.”

“You mustn’t come back. Bernard goes crazy whenever the police are around. It brings back that time and he just wants to forget. Maybe I can help you. You probably know I was part of the FLQ too.”

“But you were never charged with anything.”

“No. Bernard kept me at arm’s length from the more dangerous activities.”

“I wonder if you can identify the people in these pictures for me.” Delorme showed her the picture of Miles Shackley from his fake driver’s licence, and the file picture Musgrave had provided. “Can you tell me who this man is?”

“No. He doesn’t look familiar. Who is he?”

“I’ll come back to him. What about these people?”

Mrs. Theroux took the group picture from Delorme. “Oh, they look so young! They were young! That’s Bernard in front—he would have been nineteen years old back then. My goodness, he’s so skinny. That’s Daniel Lemoyne on the left. The girl I don’t know. The one on the end, my God, that’s Yves Grenelle.”

“Yves Grenelle?”

Mrs. Theroux’s hand had risen to her mouth.

“Who is Yves Grenelle?”

“It’s not him. I must have been mistaken.”

“But you were certain it’s Yves Grenelle. Why can’t you tell me about him?”

“I just can’t. Please. I can’t help you any more.”

“No, I have to ask you about this man.” Delorme held up the 1970 picture of Shackley. “Does the name Miles Shackley mean anything to you?”

“No. And I don’t recognize that person.”

“There are two things you should know before you answer, Mrs. Theroux. The first is that this man called your house less than one month ago. The second is that he has been murdered.”

Mrs. Theroux looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, breathing deeply. She got up and went into the other room, collecting cups and cookie plates. Childish voices called her name, begging her to come and draw with them. She came back into the kitchen and set the tray down on the counter, hard.

“Bernard never killed anyone,” she said. “He had nothing to do with any murder.”

“Excuse me, but your husband was convicted in the death of Raoul Duquette. He confessed to it.”

“He was convicted for kidnapping, not for murder. And his confession was thrown out.”

“Mrs. Theroux. A man who was known to be involved in the October Crisis called your house last month. That man is now dead. Your husband has been involved in a killing before; it’s possible he is involved again.”

“Listen to me: my husband never killed anyone. I repeat it for you. Please, take it down. Write it in your notebook, type it in your computer, carve it someplace—anyplace—where you will remember it, because this is God’s truth: my husband never killed anyone.”

“You’re referring now to Raoul Duquette?”

Mrs. Theroux let out a long sigh and lowered herself into a chair. “Yes. I am referring to Raoul Duquette.”

“The forensic evidence showed that he was strangled. Your husband said he held Duquette down while Daniel Lemoyne strangled him.”

“You have a picture of Bernard. He was nineteen. He weighed 120 pounds. Do you know how big Duquette was? He was six foot two, 190 pounds, a former football player. My husband did not hold him down.”

“Mrs. Theroux, the minister’s hands were tied. He’d been held prisoner for a week.”

A small boy wandered into the kitchen, holding a piece of sketch paper before him like an offering. “Françoise, I made a picture for you.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Michel,” Mrs. Theroux said, bending low to examine the blue blur of watercolour. “Who is that in the picture?”

“It’s my father. He’s a policeman.”

“You should show it to Officer Delorme, here—she’s with the police too.”

The boy looked up at Delorme, eyes two pools of wonder. “You are a police?”

“Yes. I’m a police too.”

“He probably hasn’t seen a policewoman before. Michel, are you going to show the detective your lovely picture?”

The boy swivelled toward Delorme, holding the picture uncertainly. It was two swirls of blue and a slash of black.

“It’s very good,” Delorme said. “He looks like an excellent officer.”

The boy turned back to Mrs. Theroux, picture forgotten. “Françoise, will you read to us now?”

“In a little while, Michel.” Mrs. Theroux closed the door after him. She offered Delorme more coffee, which was declined, poured herself another cup and sat once more at the table, stirring it slowly. “I don’t want you to come back here,” she said finally. “Our peace here is too fragile, too hard-won. Certain memories can be like earthquakes. So, I will tell you everything I know, because I don’t want you harassing my husband. And then I don’t want you to come back.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to tell me. I can’t make any promises.”

“I wouldn’t believe them if you did. But I will tell you what really happened all those years ago, and then you won’t ever have to come back. If you do, I will say nothing more. Nobody knows the real story. It was as if they’d already decided what the story was before they arrested anybody. But listen to me, and I will tell you the truth.

“The first thing you have to understand is the absolute loyalty we all had for one another. Everyone in the FLQ felt it—absolute and unshakeable—but Bernard and Daniel Lemoyne in particular. They met at a demonstration. We were always going to demonstrations in those days. At one of these—perhaps it was the one in support of the Seven Up workers, I don’t know, or perhaps the taxi drivers—in any case, Bernard was injured, bleeding from the head where some bastard cop had hit him with a billy club. Sorry, but—”

“It’s all right. I don’t have any love for violent cops.”

“Anyway, there he is, bleeding in the back of the paddy wagon. Daniel Lemoyne tore up his own shirt to make a bandage.”

“Comrades-in-arms,” Delorme said.

“Comrades-in-arms. Exactly. They became like that.” She held up two fingers, crossed. “Inseparable. But there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t wish they hadn’t met. I don’t know about Lemoyne—I think he would have been the same no matter who he was with—but I’m sure that Bernard would never have kidnapped anyone if he hadn’t met Lemoyne. Bernard was always for group action, mobilizing the people. He wasn’t one for individual plots. But somehow it became a shared madness, this kidnapping.”

“A madness they shared with Yves Grenelle, no? Why has his name never come up before?”

“Yves Grenelle was never caught, never charged with anything.” The woman’s manner suddenly changed. She looked down at her hands as if she held between them a fragile screen on which the events of her youth played out. “That was part of the agreement, you understand.”

“Agreement?”

“Among the members of the cell. It was like blood brothers. The agreement was that if the cops found them, anyone who got away was never to be mentioned—not to the cops, not to the press, not to anyone. It was to be as if he or she never existed.

“That’s what happened with Yves Grenelle. He was not captured with the others. He disappeared off the face of the earth the day Raoul Duquette was killed. Nobody has heard from him since that day. Probably he went to France—a lot of people did when things got hot. Mostly they came back. But Grenelle was never seen again.”

“How was he recruited, this Grenelle? Was he a friend of your husband? A friend of Lemoyne?”

“He must have been a friend of Lemoyne’s. Bernard didn’t know him. I think he was introduced to Lemoyne a year or two previously by Simone Rouault. That’s who you should talk to if you want to know about recruitment. She was so beautiful, they could have made posters of her and the membership would have tripled overnight. She brought a lot of the young men in. She gave the revolution a pretty face, a beautiful mouth. And of course, she fucked everybody in sight.”

“I’ve heard the name. Were you close?”

“We were friendly. We didn’t see much of her, because of the need to stay separate, but she was something. A real character.” Mrs. Theroux shook her head, remembering. “She drank nothing but champagne. French champagne—Veuve Clicquot, that was it. And she was always smoking Gitanes. I hate those things. They stink like cigars. I’m telling you, if you talk to Simone, take her a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and she’ll tell you her life story.”

“But Simone Rouault was with the Liberation cell, the cell that kidnapped Hawthorne, no? So she and Grenelle couldn’t have met.”

“Oh, but they could, you see. Grenelle was the contact between the cells. He moved back and forth. A big talker, Grenelle, always full of ideas, always wanting action, always wanting to move ahead. Bernard and even Lemoyne were, I don’t know, more thoughtful.”

“So, how did Grenelle avoid being caught?”

“Partly because of my husband. Bernard is a carpenter, like his father. Before they kidnapped Duquette, they had arranged another safe house as a fallback. A place on the south shore. Bernard built a false wall inside a closet. That was the extent of their escape plan. It seems pitiful, in retrospect, but you see, they never intended to kill anyone, so they never planned an elaborate escape.”

“That’s not what the communiqués said. They threatened to execute Duquette from the first day.”

“They were negotiating. Using their hostage for leverage. You don’t believe me, but it’s true—thirty years later I have no reason to lie. They were astounded by how the government reacted. Suspending civil rights. Calling out the army. Nobody saw that coming. Bernard and Daniel thought they had a pretty good chance of getting a couple of the political prisoners released. Nobody thought the government would let the hostages die. At worst, they figured they themselves would get transport to Cuba or Algeria or somewhere.”

“You would have gone to Cuba with your husband?”

“Yes, of course. Algeria. Anywhere.” Mrs. Theroux shrugged. “I was young.”

“And you never believed they would kill anyone. Even when they kidnapped a provincial cabinet minister like Duquette?”

“No. It never occurred to me. Not for one second.” She stood up and went to look out the window. Delorme thought it was only so she could turn away. “The taxi is taking a long time.”

“Yes. If they don’t come in a few minutes, I’ll call again.”

The door opened and a little girl came in, her face the image of tragedy. “Sasha spilled paint all over my picture.”

“Well, that’s a shame, Monique.” Mrs. Theroux leaned forward and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

“He did! Sasha’s mean!”

“Well, you go back and talk to Gabrielle about it. You can always draw another one, you know.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Well, you talk to Gabrielle about it.”

Mrs. Theroux held the door open for her and a gust of children’s racket blew in from the other room. She sat across from Delorme again and stirred her coffee till Delorme thought it would evaporate.

“It never occurred to me that Bernard would be involved with a murder. I know my husband. I know him now, I knew him then. Blowing up statues, yes. Attacking corporations, yes—in the middle of the night, with no one around and a warning given. But to kill someone in cold blood, never. It’s just not in him.” She frowned and rubbed her forehead as if she could wipe away the memories.

“After four or five days, the pressure was really on. Army and police everywhere. The three men are trying to decide what to do. Grenelle, the big talker, is all for killing Duquette, but Lemoyne and Bernard need time to think. They go to a friend’s place, someone in the support network, to discuss what to do, just the two of them, leaving Grenelle to keep watch over the minister. After a long hard debate they decide there is nothing to be gained by killing their hostage. The army was everywhere, the government was refusing to negotiate, it looked like the entire thing was lost, you understand? They decided not to kill Raoul Duquette.

“They go back to the house to tell Grenelle of their decision. They come in, they find him in the kitchen, staring out the window, not saying a word—which was unusual for him, such a bigmouth he was. Now he was sitting there staring out the window, Bernard told me, like he’d been hit on the head with a hammer.

“They tell him they’ve decided not to kill Duquette. They tell him the reasons. They go over the pros and cons. They tell him it was a hard decision but they believe it’s the right one. All this time Grenelle is saying nothing. Not one word. He just keeps staring out that window.

“Finally, he turns to them. Looks them both up and down and shakes his head, disappointed.

“‘What?’ they say. ‘What’s the matter? If you don’t agree, say so. Just don’t keep staring at nothing like a dumb ox. Say what’s on your mind.’

“‘You’re too late,’ he tells them.

“‘Too late,’ they say. ‘What do you mean, “too late”?’

“‘I killed him,’ Grenelle says, and then he bursts into tears. This big strong guy, Mr. Action, crying like a little baby. Bernard and Lemoyne run into the next room and find it’s true. Duquette is lying in a heap near the window—no breath, no pulse, and around his neck this terrible bruise. The window is broken and there’s a mess like there was a struggle.

“They go back into the kitchen, where Grenelle is still crying. Eventually they get him to calm down.

“‘Tell us what happened,’ Bernard says. ‘He tried to escape?’

“Grenelle tells them Duquette somehow got his ropes off. Grenelle’s in the kitchen, listening to the news. Suddenly he hears a crash. He runs into the bedroom, and there’s Duquette halfway out the window. Grenelle hauls him back in, but he fights like a wild man, hysterical. Grenelle shows them his eye where it’s starting to turn black. Anyway, he and Duquette fight, and eventually Grenelle gets him down on his stomach and pulls like hell on his sweater. All he wants to do is calm him down, knock him out. He lets go, and Duquette starts fighting again. So again he pulls back on the sweater. This time he’s determined to knock the guy out, so he leans back with all his weight, pulling the collar tight against his throat. That was it. Duquette goes unconscious, Grenelle grabs the rope and ties his wrists together. Only problem is, Duquette’s not unconscious—he’s dead.

“Grenelle tells them all this and starts crying again. The tough-guy revolutionary, suddenly he’s a mama’s boy. The other two are extremely upset, but also they understand how it could happen. They have a whole new set of decisions to make.”

“That’s for sure,” Delorme said. “Do they claim Duquette’s death as an accident, in which case they look clumsy and amateurish? Or do they claim it as an execution, in which case they look ruthless—cruel, but revolutionaries?”

“Exactly. They decided to look like revolutionaries. They would stick to the original plan. The whole cell will claim collective responsibility, no matter who gets caught or who gets away. They will say it was a group action.

“So they put the body in the trunk of the car and drive to the St-Hubert airport. They tell the media where to find it. Then they go to their safe house on the south shore. Three weeks later the police find the house, and all three manage to squeeze into the false back of the closet. They were in there the whole time the police were searching the place, listening to everything they said. When finally the police left, they waited another twelve hours and then took off in the middle of the night. The police had no one guarding the place, and they just slipped out the back.

“Bernard and Lemoyne were caught within a week, hiding in a barn like a couple of hoboes. Grenelle got away.” Mrs. Theroux sighed heavily and bit her lip. “The only one who got away.”

Delorme spoke softly. “Why have you never told anyone before?”

“In the first place, there was the oath of loyalty. And Bernard didn’t want to tell anyone. He wanted to leave history the way it was.” Sounds of toddler outrage issued from the next room. “Not so noisy in there, Sasha! Others are trying to talk!”

“Did it ever occur to anyone that Grenelle was lying? That maybe he sensed his brothers-in-arms were vacillating—weakening, in his view—and to save the revolution he went ahead and killed Duquette on his own initiative?”

“Oh, yes. It occurred to everyone, despite all his tears. Grenelle was always the hottest head. The one who wanted more action, bigger explosions, more press. I even raised it with Bernard during the trial. At first he didn’t want to consider it, and later, in prison, he felt it made no difference. Remember, my husband was only convicted of kidnapping, not murder.”

“Something else bothers me,” Delorme said. “If Grenelle was such a hothead, such a revolutionary, why didn’t he take credit for the killing? Why call it an accident? After all, in his view, it’s an act of war, no? Isn’t he a hero?”

“Oh, yes. He was always bragging about his exploits with the bombs and so on. He was always quick to take credit for any violent action the cell took. I mean, he usually instigated it, so why not?”

“But instead of bragging about killing Duquette, he bursts into tears. From what you tell me, it’s out of character.”

Mrs. Theroux shrugged. “Perhaps that’s how one reacts. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never killed anyone.”

Delorme had. A serial murderer named Edie Soames. And it had left her depressed and tearful for weeks.

“This taxi of yours—I’m beginning to think you didn’t really call one.”

“It’s okay, I think the rain is letting up. Thank you for the coffee.” Delorme put on her coat. “You say your husband didn’t want to consider that Grenelle had killed Duquette on purpose. Why do you suppose that is? I would have thought it would help preserve his self-image as a revolutionary.”

Mrs. Theroux had stood up with Delorme. Now she turned away slightly and gathered her apron into her hands. She looked out the window with its fringe of dripping icicles.

“Did he never speak of any other possibilities to you?”

Mrs. Theroux shook her head tightly.

“Did he never, for example—I don’t know—did he never mention anything about the scene? The bedroom, when he and Lemoyne returned and found Duquette dead? Did he never mention anything about how it looked? About whether it fit with what Grenelle was telling them about an escape attempt, the broken window, the struggle?”

“My husband was nineteen years old. A carpenter, not a forensic expert.”

“Yes, but given the gravity of the situation, the effect on their personal lives—not to mention history—they would want to be sure of what was true and what wasn’t. After all, Lemoyne and your husband went to prison for twelve years. If it hadn’t been for Grenelle, they might well have got off with a trip to Cuba and a couple of years in jail on their return. So what I’m asking is, do you know whether there was anything at the scene that might have made your husband wonder whether Grenelle was something other than what he appeared to be?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. I think it’s been on your mind for thirty years.”

“You’d better go. Bernard was right, we’ve nothing to gain by talking to cops, and everything to lose.”

“Why did Miles Shackley call here, Mrs. Theroux? Less than a month before he was murdered.”

“I told you: I don’t know any Miles Shackley. But someone did call here a month ago. A stranger. He identified himself as Yves Grenelle’s cousin from Trois-Rivières. Bernard says it’s true Grenelle was from Trois-Rivières, though whether he had any cousins or not, who knows? Anyway, this ‘cousin’ says his father has died and part of the estate is supposed to go to Yves, do we know where to find him. We were even suspicious, but who would be looking for him at this point? The RCMP? They never even knew he existed.”

“What did you tell him, this stranger who was looking for Grenelle?”

“It was Bernard who got the call. He told him he’d never heard of any Yves Grenelle.”

Delorme looked around at the kitchen, the children’s drawings, taking in the air of harmless domesticity. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“My husband will never speak to you, and now I’ve told you everything I know. You won’t come back, I hope.”

“No. That shouldn’t be necessary.”

Mrs. Theroux, summoned by a delegation of three toddlers to fulfill her duties as reader-in-chief at Beau Soleil Daycare Centre, disappeared into the other room. Delorme let herself out the front door.

Outside, the rain had abated, and the streets of Montreal looked clean and new.